The Problem of Evil

The Problem of Evil

New Philosophical Directions

Edited by Benjamin W. McCraw

and Robert Arp

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The Problem of Evil : New Philosophical Directions / Edited by Benjamin W. McCraw and
Robert Arp.
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 Contents

Introduction 1
Robert Arp and Benjamin W. McCraw

1 Is Pure Evil Possible? 23

Hugo Strandberg
2 The Problem of Evil in the Speculative Mysticism of Meister
Eckhart 35
Gregory S. Moss
3 Evil by Nobodies 51
Jennifer Mei Sze ANG
4 Pursuing Pankalia: The Aesthetic Theodicy of St. Augustine 69
A.G. Holdier
5 On the Impossibility of Omnimalevolence: Plantinga on
Tooley’s New Evidential Argument from Evil 85
Edward N. Martin
6 Epistemic Evil, Divine Hiddenness, and Soul-Making 109
Benjamin W. McCraw
7 What the Hell Is God Up To?: God’s Evils and the
Theodicies Holding God Responsible 127
John R. Shook
8 Mystic Terror and Metaphysical Rebels: Active Evil and
Active Love in Schelling and Dostoevsky 141
James M. McLachlan
9 Redemptive Suffering 161
Neal Judisch
10 Predatory Goodness in the Discourse on Evil among Anglo-
American Philosophers of Religion 177
Nathan Loewen

Index 191
About the Contributors 197

v
 Introduction
Robert Arp and Benjamin W. McCraw

THE NATURE OF EVIL

Evil has been, remains, and surely will continue to be, a fruitful and
important topic for philosophical analysis and thought. This collection is
composed of new essays centering on philosophical examinations of the
existence, nature, and problem of evil. The chapters draw upon a wide
variety of philosophical methodologies and positions, offering a diverse
set of aims, views, and approaches. But what exactly is evil?
With cognates in the German übel and the Dutch evel, the English
noun evil is derived from the Old English yfele, meaning “harm,” “misfor-
tune,” “damage,” “disease,” “ill,” “malice,” “misery,” as well as that
which is “defective,” “cruel,” “wretched,” “wicked,” and “bad” (Mackay
1877, 158; Hall 1894, 366; Onions 1966, 332). The Oxford English Diction-
ary defines the noun evil as “profound immorality, wickedness, and de-
pravity” and “something that is harmful or undesirable” (http://
www.oxforddictionaries.com/us/definition/american_english/evil), while
the Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines it as that which is “sinful,”
“wicked,” “offensive,” “undesirable,” and “pernicious” (http://
www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/evil). English speakers will look
at these definitions and, at first blush, likely agree with them as resonat-
ing with their experience.
The term’s etymology and modern-day definition(s) notwithstanding,
evil and its opposite, good, are probably among the most vague and
ambiguous terms in the English language (van Inwagen 2006, 4). We can
distinguish evil from the mere bad, but it is far from obvious just how
much commonality we find in the term’s usage, even amongst philoso-
phers and other thinkers who have spilt much ink over it throughout
human history. There are more than 25 different senses of the term used
in the Bhagavad Gita, for example, which have been noted, discussed, and
debated by scholars (Palshikar 2014). As Aristotle famously affirms of the
notion of being in his Metaphysics, we might say that evil is “said in many
ways.” Indeed, it seems as though we can only get as clear as something
really bad as a rough and ready description of evil in general.

1
2 Introduction

Philosophers usually say more about the nature of evil than it has to
do with something really bad. Especially within the analytic tradition of
philosophical theology—specifically concerning the so-called problem of
evil, discussed below—the focus has been limited to instances of suffering
or pain, including physical, emotional, psychological, and so forth. 1
Nevertheless, this move identifying evil with pain is usually accompa-
nied by a proviso that such an identification is only made for the sake of
space, to limit the problem for discussion, or some other move clarifying
that evil is taken, strictly speaking, to extend beyond suffering or pain
alone (see van Inwagen, 2006).
In the history of Western philosophy and philosophical theology, two
broad theoretical approaches to the nature of evil have been developed,
what we will call nothing evil and something evil. Christian philosophers
such as St. Augustine, St. Anselm, and St. Thomas Aquinas have advocat-
ed nothing evil. 2 Aquinas, for example, does not think evil is a physical
or metaphysical thing at all, but rather is “simply a privation of some-
thing which a subject is entitled by its origin to possess and which it
ought to have . . . it is a negation in a substance. Therefore, evil is not an
essence in things” (Aquinas 1924, 3.7.2; also 2003, I.1.3; 1948, I.49.2–3). In
The City of God, Augustine tells us, “Evil has no positive nature; but the
loss of good has received the name ‘evil’” (2003, XI.9), and in his Confes-
sions: “Things that exist are good” (1961, VII.12). In the Summa Theologica
at I.14.10, Aquinas affirms what Augustine claims in his Confessions at
III.7, namely, “evil is the privation of good,” rather than a positive entity
or substance in its own right. On this approach, the nature of evil is
compared to silence or darkness; there is silence only insofar as it is a lack
of sound, and darkness exists only as a lack of light. We speak of there
being or existing darkness or silence only in a loose way since they have
no substantial existence themselves—there is no thing or entity out there
called silence or darkness. 3
Evil is like a metaphysical “nothing thing”—to paraphrase Aquinas
(1948, I.48.3)—that results when goodness or existence is removed, like a
moral or metaphysical hole; thus, our choice of the name, nothing evil. To
say that something is evil is another way of saying it either lacks good-
ness or being, or is a lower order of goodness or being than what should
have been or should be. In Davies’ (2001) words, evil “signifies any kind
of failure or shortcoming, anything we might think of as less than good”
(14; also Davies 2006). 4 So, for example, life and limb are good things that
are supposed to exist for embodied organisms; taking them (through
human action, morally) or missing them (naturally, through disease or
being born that way) is evil in that there is now a lacking and the entity is
deprived of them. Further, to reach their fullest potential as rational beings
(and not mere animals), humans are supposed to be virtuous (self-con-
trolled, just, prudent, caring, knowledgeable), so any vice (self-indul-
gence, injustice, foolishness, wickedness, ignorance) is evil because it is a
 Introduction 3

lack of virtue—that is, something one ought to have according to one’s

nature. Also, any kind of bad state of affairs, or pain, suffering, destruc-
tion, corruption, or deterioration is a lack of good or appropriate exis-
tence—ideally, organisms should live cancer-free, for example, and can-
cer is the evil which deprives the organism of its normal physiological
parts and processes. The example of evil as a privation that Aquinas uses
in several works is blindness: a person should be born with sight, and
this is a straightforwardly good thing for a person, so the lack of sight is
an evil for that person (see 1927, II.10–11; 1948, I.5.5, I–II.18.1; Davies
2001, 20–1).
To define evil in this nothing or negative way probably strikes the
contemporary ear as strange since we normally think of evil as a meta-
physically “positive,” something like a state of affairs that results in phys-
ical or psychological pain, suffering, distress, destruction, corruption,
and/or deterioration of some kind. States like this, others suggest, really
are elements of reality. We call this positive kind of evil something evil.
Whereas negative, nothing evil can be thought of as a moral or metaphys-
ical hole in reality, positive, something evil can be thought of as a moral or
metaphysical blotch on reality.
In addition to the twofold distinction between nothing and something
accounts regarding the nature of evil, philosophers commonly distin-
guish two types of evil; namely, natural or physical evil and moral or hu-
man-made evil. Standard cases of natural evil are natural disasters like
tornadoes, floods, and earthquakes but include any phenomena that we
don’t take to come about via humans’ agency, like cancer or the actions of
non-human animals (assuming they are not moral agents). Think of all of
the humans and other beings capable of suffering who lose life and limb
as a result of a disease, prenatal condition, genetic disposition, tornado,
hurricane, earthquake, tsunami, or simply “being in the wrong place at
the wrong time” during a natural disaster—these we consider evil that
results from the world’s natural physical, chemical, and/or biological pro-
cesses.
Moral evils are perpetuated by human beings with minds and wills (or
any moral agent in general). The high-school bully seeks out, humiliates,
and punches the weak kid in the class; hooligans destroy the newly con-
structed playground at the day care center “just for the fun of it” on a
Friday night; a scammer takes what is left of an elderly person’s life
savings; thieves steal the single mother’s car from her driveway over-
night during the work week; college seniors drug someone at a party and
rape her; the gang member feels insulted and shoots the offender dead in
front of the convenient store; all of these are examples of moral evil. The
intuitive distinction here between natural and moral evil regards its lo-
cus: does it reside in a free moral agent’s choice or not?
But perhaps the basic distinction between natural and moral evil is
not as clear as it appears to be. There is some reason to think that climate
4 Introduction

change causes or contributes to the cause of certain natural evils im-

pacted by meteorology (Hoyois and Sapir 2012; Stocker et al. 2013). Sup-
pose this is true: how do we assess the impact of a hurricane, for instance,
if part of the cause of that impact is humanity’s action? Or the ambiguity
might be subtler. And we have good evidence of a number of human-
produced causes of cancer (American Cancer Society 2003; Jemal et al.
2015). Many other diseases do not seem to have any causal input from the
actions of moral agents, but it is unclear how likely this “seeming” is to
hold up under future medical research. But, while it seems difficult to
draw philosophically principled, neat lines between moral and natural
evils in all or even many cases, the distinction between moral and natural
evil in general seems clear and intuitive enough to function.
In addition to these standard types of moral evil, philosophers have
looked at other sub-types of moral evil. For instance, Ted Poston (2014)
has recently argued for what he calls social evil, which occurs when collec-
tions of even individually blameless and well-intentioned agents act in
such a way as to bring about evil on a larger scale. Using his example,
suppose that a location is under severe drought and, thus, water restric-
tions are needed (as we write this, all of California is experiencing a
drought with 50 percent of the state in what is called exceptional drought,
the worst kind). Knowing that drought can be alleviated if only most
people adhere to the restrictions, you can reason that your single usage of
water as usual will not cause any disastrous water shortage—”My indi-
vidual actions aren’t causing the water shortage,” you think to yourself.
But if everyone reasons accordingly, disaster will strike. Thus, Poston de-
fines social evil as “an instance of pain or suffering that results from the
game-theoretic interactions of many individuals” (210).
Another important analysis of the nature of moral evil comes from
Hannah Arendt (2006) in the twentieth century. Taking the actions of
Adolf Eichmann in promoting the genocidal horrors of the Holocaust as
her model, Arendt argues that his evil does not come from some grand
monstrosity or privation of the good, but simply that it stems from
thoughtlessness and “doing his duty” as one of those blindly following
the crowd. Eichmann’s evil is the evil of a bureaucrat passively and unre-
flectively doing his work without any consideration as to what that work
actually is, or whether that work is good to do. Famously, she argues that
great evil is banal, arising coming from simple, unassuming, and thought-
less persons rather than great, super-villain-types of moral monsters. 5
Other approaches to evil focus on the role(s) the Christian God might
play. Notably, one major instance of evil would be eternal damnation in
the so-called fires of Hell, an obviously horrible state of affairs for one’s
soul. 6 In Divine Hiddenness and Human Reason J. L. Schellenberg (2006)
argues that a loving God would not allow instances of unbelief. Unbelief,
he argues, comes from God’s not making His existence open or obvious
to everyone, referring to this lack of obviousness as divine hiddenness. This
 Introduction 5

divine hiddenness, in Schellenberg’s thought, becomes a kind of evil

upon which he builds an argument against the existence of God. 7
In addition, Daniel Kodaj (2014) has argued for a particular class of
moral evils done by those claiming to do them in the name of God. Clear
instances of what Kodaj calls religious evil include the crusades and witch
hunts (426–7), but we can add to the list the Spanish Inquisition, the
events of 9/11, the bombing of abortion clinics and killing of abortion
doctors, and the mass beheadings those people considered to be against
Allah taking place right now in Iraq, Syria, and other parts of the world
by members of the Islamic State of Syria/Levant. Thus, we can find in the
literature types of evils that purport direct agency from God (damnation),
indirectly agency from God not doing something (divine hiddenness), or
even actions done by humans merely in the name of God (religious evil).
But we can add to the taxonomy of evil. Not only can we say that
different types of evils occur but we can also distinguish the extent or
depth of evils. Suppose we associate evil (in general) as suffering. It’s
obvious that “suffering” comes in degrees running from minor inconven-
ience to life-destroying atrocity. Thus, we may pick out an extent of evil
that Marilyn McCord Adams (1989; 1999) terms “horrendous”—evils that
are so bad that they seem to make life not worth living. 8 Horrendous evils
add degrees to the taxonomy of the kind of evil discussed previously.
Consider, for instance, natural evils. Some thinkers have distinguished a
subset of natural evils that are particularly dreadful, appalling, senseless,
gratuitous, and inducing of hopelessness (Rowe 1979; Hasker 1988; Mar-
tin 1990, 412; Chrzan 1994). Consider that seven million Chinese people
died in floods and landslides between 1887 and 1975, around one million
Indian people died in various cyclones in the past few hundred years,
and millions and millions more in earthquakes throughout the world in
the past 1,500 years. No doubt a historian would consider the Black
Plague a dreadfully evil, even diabolical, thing, while no one on the plan-
et would quarrel with the claim, “Cancer is a blight on humanity.” (Caw-
thorne 2006; Guiberson 2010; Withington 2010). These are horrendous
natural evils.
But, clearly, there are horrendous moral evils. Adams (1989) offers a
“list of paradigmatic horrors”—horrendous evils that are identical to
what we consider to be morally despicable:
the rape of a woman and axing off of her arms, psychophysical torture
whose ultimate goal is the disintegration of personality, betrayal of
one’s deepest loyalties, cannibalizing one’s own offspring, child abuse
of the sort described by Ivan Karamazov, child pornography, parental
incest, slow death by starvation, participation in the Nazi death camps,
the explosion of nuclear bombs over populated areas, having to choose
which of one’s children shall live and which will be executed by terror-
ists, being the accidental and/or unwitting agent of the disfigurement
or death of those one loves best. (297–8)
6 Introduction

Unfortunately, we can easily add to Adams’ list: the art museum or histo-
ry museum located in any major city of the world (New York, Chicago,
Los Angeles, London, Paris, Barcelona, and many others) will likely have
a collection of implements used to torture and kill some 32,000 “infidels”
during the Spanish Inquisition; countless millions of people (Jews, as well
as Poles, Romani, Africans, homosexuals, Russian POWs, the mentally
and physically handicapped, the old and infirmed) were murdered in
Nazi Germany and other places in Europe during the reign of the Third
Reich; some 78 million Chinese people were murdered during Mao Ze-
dong’s reign from 1949 to 1976 (not to mention the 100 million more who
were murdered as a result of mass genocides all throughout Chinese
history since the 2nd Century CE); more than 60 million were murdered
or unjustly killed between 1917 and 1953 in the Soviet Union; and some
40 million were murdered in their homelands during the Mongol con-
quests of the thirteenth and fourteenth Centuries (Hewitt 2004; Guiber-
son 2010). This kind of morally despicable evil is utterly unimaginable to
most people. “How could a human being do such a thing to another
human being?” we ask in disbelief. In fact, we often equate the morally
despicable evil done with the morally despicable evildoer, saying things
such as, “Hitler was evil,” “Jack the Ripper was diabolical,” “John Wayne
Gacy was a monster,” or “The Unabomber, Ted Kaczynski, is an evil son
of a bitch”—as has been noted in countless Internet blogs since 1996.
When all is said and done, even if the concept of evil remains vague
and/or ambiguous, there is no shortage of analyses and discussions of its
nature in the philosophical literature. The nature of evil, as reflected in
the first part of this volume, remains a topic that encourages significant
philosophical work.

THE PROBLEM OF EVIL

A significant portion of philosophical discussion of evil concerns the

problem of evil qua specific problem (or, better, a group of specific prob-
lems under the same general heading) within philosophical theology.
The problem of evil in this sense spawns a huge literature in philosophical
scholarship, a large amount of class discussion in philosophy courses,
and general philosophical attention. The so-called problem is this: If it is
true that there exists a God who is all-good, all-powerful, and all-know-
ing—as is the belief of the standard Christian, Jewish, or Muslim person
coming from traditional Western theism—then one would think that
such a being so defined would prevent evil, especially evil of the kind
that could be considered appalling, diabolical, horrendous, and/or unnec-
essary. And, as intimated in the previous paragraphs, there is no dearth
of evils in this world. A standard version of the deductive argument
against the existence of a God so defined that can be traced back (in the
 Introduction 7

West) in some form through Lactantius and Cicero to Epicurus may be

laid out as follows:
1. If God exists, then He is all-good, all-powerful, and all-knowing.
2. If God is all-good, then He desires to eliminate evil altogether.
3. If God is all-powerful, then He has the ability to eliminate evil
altogether.
4. If God is all-knowing, then He is aware of evil and knows when it
exists so as to eliminate it altogether.
5. Yet, evil exists.
6. Thus, if evil exists, then either God doesn’t have the desire to elimi-
nate evil altogether, or He doesn’t have the power/ability to elimi-
nate evil altogether, or He isn’t aware of evil so as to eliminate it
altogether. (From 2, 3, and 4)
7. Thus, either God doesn’t have the desire to eliminate evil altogeth-
er, or He doesn’t have the power/ability to eliminate evil altogeth-
er, or He isn’t aware of evil so as to eliminate it altogether. (From 5
and 6)
8. Therefore, God does not exist. (From 1 and 7)
In Part X of his Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, David Hume echoes
part of the above argument: “Epicurus’s old questions are yet unan-
swered. Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able? Then is he impotent?
Is he able, but not willing? Then is he malevolent? Is he both able and
willing? Whence then is evil?” (Hume 1998). And numerous thinkers
throughout history have considered the problem of evil as well as offered
solutions and theodicies regarding a God with these superlative qualities
(see McBrayer and Howard-Snyder 2013; Evans 2013; Frances 2013;
Stump 2010; van Inwagen 2006; Howard-Snyder 2008; Davies 2006; Arp
2000; Swinburne 1998; Adams 1989, 1999; Plantinga 1974; Hick 1966).
In The Cross of Christ (1986), John Stott has correctly stated that the
“fact of suffering undoubtedly constitutes the single greatest challenge to
the Christian faith, and has been in every generation” (303). Perhaps the
primary reason why atheists and hard agnostics remain unconvinced
that a God so defined exists has to do with the fact that people think this
being is supposed to act just like a good and loving father or parental
figure to all of humanity—especially the innocent, weak, and downtrod-
den—and a parent that knowingly and willingly allows her/his child to
be raped, tortured, murdered, dismembered, and eaten by some serial
killer like Jeffrey Dahmer, for example, either is not really a good and
loving parental figure or simply does not exist. Recall Jesus’ words from
the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew 6:26: “Behold the birds of the
heaven, that they sow not; neither do they reap, nor gather into barns.
And yet, your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are not you of much more
value than they?” Or his words from John 3:16: “For God so loved the
world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not
8 Introduction

perish but have eternal life.” The Magisterium of the Catholic Church
throughout its existence has also affirmed that God is a Father who loves
and cares for His earthly children—Christians universally pray “Our
Father” in the Lord’s Prayer. In paragraphs 218–221 under the section
“God is Love” in the Catechism of the Catholic Church (Libreria Editrice
Vaticana 1994), we are told about the “sheer gratuitous love” that God
has for people which is “compared to a father’s love for his son. His love
for his people is stronger than a mother’s for her children. God loves his
people more than a bridegroom his beloved; his love will be victorious
over even the worst infidelities and will extend to his most precious gift:
‘God so loved the world that he gave his only Son.’”
Thus, at its most general level, the problem of evil in various ways
urges some kind of justification or defense of religious belief or theism (in
general). Of course, such a claim is so vague as to border on being unin-
formative and empty of any interesting philosophical content. But, given
this general framework, how evil poses a problem for theism via argument
leads to the standard way of characterizing the various instances of the
problem. That is, just how the logic of the argument from evil works in the
specific problem of evil at hand helps categorize it. Analytic philosophers
of religion almost always divide the problem into two camps: the logical
(deductive) and evidential (probabilistic, inductive) version of the prob-
lem of evil.
The logical problem of evil works deductively by trying to establish that
the existence of evil and the truth of classical Western theism generates,
in some fashion or other, a straightforward logical contradiction. 9 The
locus classicus for the logical variant of the problem of evil is J. L. Mackie’s
(1955) “Evil and Omnipotence.” There, he argues that one can show “not
that religious beliefs lack rational support, but that they are positively
irrational, that several parts of the essential theological doctrine are in-
consistent with one another” (200). In particular, he (and other propo-
nents of this version of the problem) argues that propositions asserting
that God exists and possesses the various divine attributes part and par-
cel of classical Western them (including omniscience, omnipotence, and
omnibenevolence most crucially), in conjunction with a proposition as-
serting the existence of evil, leads to a formal contradiction.
On the other hand, one might argue not that the existence of evil
forms a strict logical contradiction in conjunction with (classical Western)
theism but, instead, serves to decrease the probability or likelihood that
theism is true. 10 Call this the evidential problem of evil (since evil serves as
evidence making theism unlikely). 11 Whereas the logical problem of evil is
deductive, this argument (type) is inductive: even if the premises in any
given evidential argument are true, they only contribute to the likelihood
that theism is false. William L. Rowe (1979) provides what’s probably the
most cited and influential evidential version of the problem, arguing that
“it does seem that we have rational support for atheism, that it is reason-
 Introduction 9

able for us to believe that the theistic God does not exist” (338; his empha-
sis). Note that Rowe only claims that atheism is rational/reasonable: not
that atheism is true. Accordingly, the point is not that theism is false (full
stop) but only that theism is not rational/reasonable. In short, evil provides
strong, reasonable evidence that the probability of theism is low or, at
least, lower than that of atheism.
There are two important points to note following this distinction.
First, as noted by Plantinga (1974, 27–9), whether one gives a logical or
evidential version of the problem of evil determines what kind or
strength of a response is adequate. Since the logical version attempts to
show that a formal contradiction occurs with the conjunction of proposi-
tions describing theism and the existence of evil, what’s needed is not to
show that these propositions are actually true but only that they could be
true (together). That is, one only needs to show that theism and evil are
consistent (i.e., not-inconsistent) to rebut the logical problem of evil, and
this can occur even if they are, in fact, false. In Plantinga’s language,
defeating the logical problem of evil requires only showing that there’s a
possible world where God and exist coexist (are both actualized or in-
stantiated) even if the actual world is not it. Considerations like this lead
him to distinguish a theodicy from a defense. A theodicy, on his view, is a
response to the problem of evil showing the reason why God does in fact
permit evil. That is, the theodicies gives a true proposition (or set of
propositions) showing that theism and evil are consistent. A defense,
though, is weaker: showing only that theism and evil could be true (to-
gether). Giving a defense requires only a possibly true proposition imply-
ing the consistency of theism and evil, but it’s crucial to note that this
position need not actually be true. Whether one aims to give a defense or
a theodicy alters what kind and strength of evidence one needs in making
one’s argument, and the strength of the evidence needed can often deter-
mine the adequacy of the argument given for that evidence.
The second point concerns how the argument in question uses evil to
generate the problem for theism. In particular, the question concerns
whether one appeals to abstract/general or concrete/local evil. 12 When
arguments use evil without any specification, they give an abstract for-
mulation. Abstract usages of evil tend to occur in logical arguments from
evil. Consider Mackie’s argument: his proposition leveled at theism as-
serts only that “evil exists” (200). Now, he might specify in more detail
what he means by “evil exists” but this abstract/general formulation is all
that his logical version of the argument needs. As one might expect,
concrete usages of evil focus on specific instances of evil: particular peo-
ple doing particular things or particular events happening to particular
people/groups. Concrete usages tend to fit in evidential arguments from
evil. Rowe’s (1979) article famously imagines a fawn dying a gruesome
and painful death and from that specification of evil—not just “evil ex-
ists”—goes on to generate his argument against theism.
10 Introduction

Considerations like this form the general landscape into which argu-
ments from evil and the responses to them occur. What type of argument
from evil one gives or considers can impact its adequacy as well as how
the interlocutor may respond. It is by understanding this landscape that
one can see how the problem of evil in general works in the literature and
also how the responses to this problem relate. And it is these responses to
which we turn in the next section.

RESPONSES TO THE PROBLEM OF EVIL

So, let us suppose we have some version of the problem of evil on the
table (leaving the logical/evidential and abstract/concrete particularities
aside). What sorts of responses are available? In the previous section, we
explored the landscape of the arguments from evil and this section con-
cerns the terrain of the major responses to such arguments. As one would
expect, such a survey will be general and not exhaustive: the aim is sim-
ply to examine a few of the more frequent, influential, or persistent re-
sponses.
One can respond to the problem of evil either from within or outside
traditional Western theism. We will begin with the latter sort of response.
On this route, the problem of evil gives good reason to reject traditional
Western theism in some fashion. Two obvious candidates here might be
general religious skepticism (=agnosticism) or the rejection of all religious
traditions or belief systems (=atheism). In either case one would reject
belief in theism overall. Yet, one might reject classical or traditional Western
theism without rejecting theism simpliciter. Many options lie along this
path: we mention only a few. Certain non-Western religious traditions
would be options here. For instance, certain non-theistic strands of Bud-
dhism would resist the problem of evil as stated. If the Divine Reality is
not a person or agent, then it is hard to see how a problem involving
personal properties (such as knowledge or goodness) can get off the
ground. Another possible option would be to adopt a dualist approach:
accepting a second, potentially evil/bad, (element of) Divine Reality. 13
Also, one might keep to a Western tradition but reject classical or tradi-
tional theism. For instance, one might reject one (or more) of the divine
attributes in order to preserve the rest. John Stuart Mill, for example,
denies omnipotence in response to the problem of evil in order to main-
tain God’s goodness (see Raeder 2002, 193–8). Limiting God’s power,
then, keeps Mill in the Western religious tradition but only by rejecting
the classical version of theism. Others, instead of flatly rejecting the classi-
cal model might alter it. A neo-classical or process theology, arising out
of the thought of Alfred North Whitehead and Charles Hartshorne, af-
firms with the classical theist that God is perfect but differs in ways from
how God’s perfection is understood. For instance, some process philoso-
 Introduction 11

phers have argued that God has as much power as possible for any being
to possess but this level falls short of the all-powerful attribute of classical
theism (where only logical contradictions limit the scope of God’s pow-
er). That is, one might accept that God has maximal power but still deny
that “God has the power to unilaterally bring about any logically possible
creaturely state of affairs” (Keller 2007, 117). David R. Griffin (1981) sug-
gests that, on the process view in question, “there has always been a
plurality of actualities having some power of their own” such that “the
power possessed by the non-divine actualities is inherent to them and
hence cannot be cancelled out or overridden by God” (105). On Griffin’s
view, then, God lacks unilateral, coercive power; instead, “divine creative
power is necessarily persuasive” (105). Process or neo-classical theists
like Keller and Griffin, therefore accept the notion of God’s having maxi-
mal power (pace Mill) but reject the classical conception of God’s power as
entirely unlimited, coercive, and unilaterally efficacious.
So, we have discussed a few of the many potential options one might
have in responding to the problem of evil from outside traditional West-
ern theism. But, of course, there is no shortage of responses from within
that tradition: views claim that one can rationally square the existence of
evil with a Perfect Being. Let us now turn to a few of them, again, making
no claims to exhaust all potential theistic replies to the argument from
evil. 14
First, consider a couple of views that get very little attention from
philosophers because they tend to strike us as tremendously counterin-
tuitive. One might, as with Spinoza, deny that there really is evil in the
world. This is not the privation account from Section 1: for them, evil is a
(quasi) real element of the world—it is just not a substantial entity in its
own right because it exists only as a parasite on some good, substantial
entity of which it is a privation, lack, or what have you. Instead, Spinoza
(and adherents to this sort of view) argue that evil really is not real at all
when viewed properly. What we think as evil really is not. Evils are only
goods that we misperceive to be bad. Call this view Spinozism. Or one
might affirm, with Leibniz, that we live in the best of all possible worlds.
There really is evil and it really is bad (to varying degrees) but there just
is not any world possible of containing less of them or evils with less
intensity. Things may be and frequently are genuinely evil/bad but every
other possible way things could have happened is worse. Call this view
Optimism. The problem most people have with Spinozism and Optimism
is the same: they both just strike resoundingly against our intuitive pic-
ture of the world. There really does seem to be real evil in the world (pace
Spinozism) and it seems that we could imagine some way things turned
out that’s better than the actual state of the world (pace Optimism). So, let
us take these intuitions for granted if only for the sake of argument.
One important response to the argument from evil from within (tradi-
tional Western) theism emphasizes our free will as a way to rebut the
12 Introduction

problem. Suppose, for instance, that we make free choices and are there-
by morally responsible for our actions. Without this freedom and respon-
sibility, we think, our actions would be far less valuable. An automatic or
robotic act of charity wouldn’t be as good as a freely chosen act for which
we can bear responsibility. Along this line of response, one can see this
value as a way to reject the argument from evil: so long as we are really
free moral agents, God cannot (on pain of contradiction) force us to do (or
refrain from doing) anything. With the possession of free will, it is sug-
gested, there is always at least the possibility of misusing it to do evil. The
free will response here can take one of two forms corresponding to a
defense or a theodicy (discussed in Section 2). A free will defense, as
typified in Plantinga (1974), uses free will to show that there is no contra-
diction arising between the existence of a Perfect Being and evil. A world
containing free moral agents that misuse their freedom to do evil is a
possibility that would make consistent God’s perfection and evil existing
(or, at least, so Plantinga and philosophers giving similar defenses
argue). However, a free will theodicy, an important example of which
being Swinburne’s (1998) Providence and the Problem of Evil, would try to
show that free will actually does provide an adequate reason why God
does permit evil. 15
But, as with any interesting philosophical position, important objec-
tions arise that we can only mention. First, a free will response might
assume that compatibilism is false—which would presuppose a signifi-
cant philosophical thesis in a live and rigorous debate. If compatibilism is
true and one can freely choose an action that is also fully determined, it
seems as though God could have created a world where every agent is
determined to act for the good and still do such actions freely. Also, one
(see Schellenberg 2004) might argue that free will is not so valuable as to
sanction God’s permission of evil. Another popular route of criticism has
to been to note that a free will maneuver seems designed to explain moral
evils but natural evils seems to be left out of the theory.
A key objection to the free will maneuver would likely focus on con-
crete formulations of evil. One might agree that in general free will might
justify the existence of evil: this is the abstract formulation. However, one
might consider an instance of what’s come to be called gratuitous evil. The
term gratuitous has been used to describe evils following Rowe’s (1979)
description: “instances of intense suffering which an omnipotent, omni-
scient being could have prevented without thereby losing some greater
good or permitting some evil equally bad or worse” (336). Indeed,
Rowe’s evidential argument there focuses on a concrete/local example of
evil—a fawn’s slow, painful suffering death—to emphasize that it is gra-
tuitous (i.e., we can’t see any good to be got from the suffering of Bambi
or any worse evil that such suffering could have prevented). The shift
from the abstract good of free will to a concrete instance of gratuitous
suffering, it is suggested by these objectors, is either a lacuna (best case)
 Introduction 13

or defeater (worst case) for the free will theory. But, as with the objections
to the free will maneuver, its adherents have no shortage of replies.
Another important response from the theist to the argument evil
arises, in its modern guise, from the work of John Hick (1966). His Evil
and the God of Love provides a different value than free will that, he
argues, defends God from the argument from evil. On his view, it’s the
value of soul-making or, alternatively, as character development that
drives his theodicy. God allows (much of) the evil we experience so that
we can develop our souls or character for the better. It is through suffer-
ing ourselves or our connections to the suffering of others that we can
develop virtues like kindness, courage, generosity, and so forth. Having
to develop kindness makes no sense in a world devoid of suffering and
there would be little to cause fear and, thus, the need to overcome it in
bravery without evil. Hick’s soul making theodicy doesn’t deny the real-
ity and the genuine badness of evil; it only claims that God has good
reason—via development of the soul or character—to allow suffering or
evil to occur.
As with the free will maneuver, many philosophers take issue with
the soul making response. One particularly compelling objection picks
out plausible cases where evil does not make the soul but rather breaks it.
Take, for instance, the infamous case of “Sue” so named by Alston (1991)
derived from Bruce Russell’s (1988) “The Persistent Problem of Evil.”
Russell examines the case of Sue, a five-year-old girl who was raped,
tortured, and finally murdered. It is hard to see just how Sue’s soul is
made after only five years of life, especially when ended in such a ter-
rible, atrocious fashion. Augustine (1993, Bk III) suggests that God may
permit (or perhaps even cause) the death of children to improve their
parents, friends, and family; which would fall into Hick’s general line of
thought. But, as with Spinozism and Optimism above, many will find
this inadequate, in the best case, and positively callous in the worst. At
any rate, we can easily imagine instances where someone’s life is not
made better by suffering but rather positively crushed by the experience
of evil. Recall from Section 1 that we may call instances of evil like this
“horrendous” evils following Marilyn McCord Adams. For her, horren-
dous evils are “evils the participation in which (that is, the doing or
suffering of which) constitutes prima facie reason to doubt whether the
participant’s life could… be a great good to him/her on the whole” (1999,
26). In effect, Adams’ horrendous evils are Rowe’s gratuitous evils dis-
tilled to the worst possible extent: implying one’s whole life is/was prima
facie not worth living. If there are such horrendous evils, then they seem
to cut against the soul-making theodicy for evil. 16
Another important response to the argument from evil comes from
skeptical theism. A skeptical theist affirms that God exists and evil exists
but denies that the latter counts decisively against rational belief in the
former. Why? Well, the skeptical theist rejects the problem of evil by
14 Introduction

denying knowledge of something that the argument from evil requires.

Some (e.g., Wykstra 1984) argue against the unrestricted inference from
“we can’t see any reason that God would permit some evil” to “there is,
in fact, no reason why God would permit some evil.” Only sometimes
does lack of evidence for X become evidence against X, and proponents
of this view argue that we would not have knowledge of the goods or
motives a Perfect Being would have to permit evil. Thus, even if we can-
not see the reason for some evil, that will not be good evidence that there
is no such reason. Others, like William Alston (1991), argue that we have
general cognitive limitations about, for instance, values that God would
have. Thus, we should not be confident in our general assessments that
no values exist that justify any given evil. Peter van Inwagen (1991 and
2006) urges a skeptical stance regarding our modal intuitions, that is, our
intuitions about what must be or could be the case. If our modal intui-
tions are not trustworthy, then we can’t say with any certainty what sorts
of goods God would or would not have to justify some evil. In all cases,
though, the theist in question rejects the argument from evil based on
skepticism of something crucial to that argument: namely whether we
have good reason to think that there are no goods God would have that
are weighty enough to balance out the evils we experience. If we do not
know that there are no such goods, then they claim that we are not
justified in thinking that there are not any. And, hence, we won’t be
justified in affirming that there really are gratuitous evils: for all we know,
all evils might, in fact, have counterbalancing goods. A healthy dose of
skepticism, on the view here, goes a long way in preserving the rational-
ity of theistic belief in spite of the argument from evil.
As popular as skeptical theism is and has recently become, there has
also been popularity in the objections leveled against it. Rowe (1996), for
instance, rejects the skeptical point: arguing that “we are justified in con-
cluding 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 suffer-
ing are quite likely to be beyond our ken” (279). Others, however, argue
that skeptical theism actually opens itself to really worrisome skepti-
cisms. Sometimes the argument is that skeptical theism them has proble-
matic implications for moral knowledge (see Tooley 1991) or moral living
(see Jordan 2006 and Almeida & Oppy 2003). Others (like Dougherty
2008) urge that the skeptical theist must also be skeptical of much in
commonsense epistemology, that one’s knowledge of God is threatened
(see Rowe 2006), or that skeptical theism undermines one’s faithful rela-
tionship to God (see Gale 1996). In various ways, then, the objection is
that skeptical theism is just too skeptical: that is, accepting the skepticism
at work in responding to the problem of evil leads to a much higher dose
or kind of skepticism than, intuitively, one is willing to accept.
As with every other response to the argument from evil, there’s no
dearth of objections to skeptical theism that an adherent of the view
 Introduction 15

should consider. But, also, there’s no scarcity of replies to these objec-

tions, either. Like any interesting philosophical problem or discussion,
the dialogue on the problem of evil and the various responses to it has
seen much ink spilled in response and will surely see more in the future.
This is why we have the basis for a collection of new direction: to engage
the past and present debate as well as lead it into the future.

THE META-PROBLEM OF EVIL

In Sections 2 and 3, we have focused on the problem of evil and the

response to it. But the response in section 3 takes the problem of evil as a
philosophical or theoretical to be addressed, resolved, or examined with
more philosophical or theoretical responses developed from within the
framework of that problem itself. In this section, we discuss some re-
sponses taking on the problem of evil qua philosophical problem or as a
theoretical field of inquiry. Let us say that responses of this sort concern the
meta-problem of evil. In some fashion, meta-responses will object or ex-
amine the “game” of the problem of evil as it’s played in contemporary
(or historical), usually analytic, philosophy.
First, one may take the standard problem of evil qua problem and
thereby shift away from that “problem” sort of mindset or “game.” For
instance, D. Z. Phillips (2004) proposes a Wittgensteinian reexamination
of the problem of evil. In particular, Phillips uses the standard problem of
evil as a way to reorient much of the theistic talk away from traditional
discussions of omnipotence, problematic assumptions of consequentialist
reasons for permitting evil, denying that God is a moral agent (or in a
moral community with us), and others. Instead of rejecting theism or
trying to make these traditional elements consistent or rational with evil,
Phillips argues that we should shift the “grammar of God” (as he likes to
say) away from the standard confines of the problem of evil debate,
game, and so forth. As an example, Phillips challenges the standard no-
tion of omnipotence as “having all (logically consistent) power” or “able
to do anything (logically possible).” The notion of power or able to here
applying to God shouldn’t and cannot fit the mundane notion of power
we commonly predicate of limited human beings. By rejecting an overly
anthropomorphic conception of God (as Phillips sees things) in the prob-
lem of evil debate, he tries to reorient the “grammar of God” beyond the
back-and-forth war of attrition in the philosophical landscape of the ar-
gument from evil. One must not conflate the “grammar” of Divine Power
with that of creaturely power (also Davies 2006, 88–93). And it is this
conflation in the philosophical problem of evil to which Phillips objects.
Similar considerations appeal to the grammar of “goodness” or being a
“moral agent” that, in various ways, give the problem of evil its theoreti-
cal shape. Andrew Gleeson (2012), in a similar approach, suggests that
16 Introduction

the problem of evil, in good (later) Wittgensteinian fashion, engages with

one’s form of life or living in the world. In either sort of approach, Phil-
lips and Gleeson give meta-responses (derived from Wittgenstein) to the
problem of evil: arguing that it works within a limited or faulty grammar
or that it fails to engage with one’s form of life.
Additionally, one may suggest a distinctively religious approach to the
problem of evil. Even one of the major contributors to the standard prob-
lem of evil “game,” Alvin Plantinga, argues (2004) for a response to the
problem of evil from a distinctively Christian perspective. We have a
plausible justifying reason for permitting evil, he argues, in making pos-
sible the great goods of the Incarnation and Atonement crucial to Chris-
tianity. Without evil, there would be no need for the Incarnation as the
path to atonement. Marilyn McCord Adams (1999), too, provides a Chris-
tian response to the argument from evil. God’s redemptive plan, through
the Incarnation, involves the divine (in some fashion) suffering as humans
suffer. 17 Her point is that “horrendous evils require defeat by nothing
less than the goodness of God” by identifying “ways that created partici-
pation in horrors can be integrated into the participants’ relation to God,
where God is understood to be the incommensurate Good” (155). Suffer-
ing—by us and by God—in light of the Incarnation, draws us closer to
the Good and, thus, provides the only kind of value (the Good itself) that
can adequately answer the argument from evil (also see Arp 2000). While
both kinds of responses engage the problem of evil, they neglect address-
ing it on purely philosophical grounds uninformed by specific religious
commitments. As such, they offer a different kind of response.
But one may appeal to religious rejoinders in a different way. One
may reject the problem of evil as a principally theoretical problem; instead
viewing it as a religious or existential problem. 18 Amidst Plantinga’s wa-
tershed work on the logical problem of evil and the free will defense, we
find him concluding that, for the person going through personal tragedy,
s/he may not see evil as a theoretical problem needing a theoretical answer
but rather that “[s]uch a problem calls, not for philosophical enlighten-
ment, but for pastoral care” (1974, 63–4). Adopting this sort of response
would be to give up on the “problem of evil” as a discussion for philoso-
phers or theologians for but a pastor or even psychologist: dealing with
living with or through evil rather than trying to understand it intellectual-
ly.
One might also accept the force of the argument from evil but refuse
to give up or modify (classical Western) theism. An instance of this ap-
proach would be a “protest theodicy.” On this view, one remains com-
mitted (intellectually, morally, religiously, etc.) to a theistic God but also
sees God as bearing responsibility for the evil encountered in the world.
David Blumenthal (1993) explicitly links a theodicy of protest against the
“abuses” of God with a limitation on God’s goodness by suggesting that
God is not essentially omnibenevolent and, in fact, God does evil (at least
 Introduction 17

on occasion). A protesting theodicy, according to John Roth (1981), finds

theodicies absolving an omnipotent being wanting: “Nobody is OK. Oth-
erwise the slaughter-bench [of history] would not be so drenched [with
blood]. And when one says ‘nobody,’ God is included as well as human-
ity” (11). But Roth’s protest does not entail outright rebellion or even
atheism: “it remains possible to be for God by being against God, and the
way we do so best is by giving life in care and compassion for others.
Then there is reason for hope on earth and perhaps beyond” (19, empha-
sis added). Finally, Roth sees this “protest with hope” message at the core
of Christianity: “Jesus brings signs of what good can be. . . . But the world
does not yield, then or now, and Jesus himself ends up crucified, God-
forsaken. . . . Promises, glimpses, and failure, waste—taken together, as
they must be, those realities make the New Testament a source of protest-
ing faith as well” (21; author’s emphasis). Effectively, a protest theodicy
seems to look at the “game” involved in the problem of evil and simply
overturns the playing board: affirming both theism and God’s respon-
sibility for evil.
Finally, one may (meta-)respond to the problem of evil by rejecting
the various practice of theodicy outright. 19 Emmanuel Levinas (1998) fa-
mously claims that all possible theodicy ends at Auschwitz. And Holo-
caust survivor Primo Levi is famous for having summed up the senti-
ment of countless Jews and others regarding the Nazi death camps:
“There is Auschwitz, and so there cannot be God” (Camon 1989, 44). Yet
the Holocaust does not function as some “evil” trump card to be played
in the argument from evil: “Levinas’ point is not that theodicy still re-
mains possible but merely appears impossible, but rather that it was
always impossible, and should have been seen as such” (Sachs 2010, 280).
Still, a further objection arises: theodicy isn’t merely impossible or hope-
less—it’s positively evil in itself. Thus, Terrence Tilley: “theodicy as a
discourse practice must be abandoned because the practice of theodicy
does not resolve the problems of evil and does create evils (1991, 5, empha-
sis added) and D. Z. Phillips (2004): any given theodicy provides “a clear
instance where . . . in the language it employs, actually adds to the evil it
seeks to justify” (100, emphasis added). Theodicy, thus, is not merely a
theoretical failure but actively contributes qua evil to the very problem it
attempts to resolve. One must object to theodicy, then, not on theoretical-
ly grounds but on moral ones: to participate in the problem of evil “game”
or discourse is to actively promote the bad.
As with the responses to the problem of evil in Section 3, we only
intend this section as a partial but non-exhaustive list of the various
meta-responses to the argument from evil one might give. And, also with
Sections 2 and 3, our purpose here is to clarify and describe the landscape
of philosophical (or religious, theological, etc.) thought about evil: we
have no intent to weigh into any of the debates therein. The goal is purely
descriptive and, like the other three sections, simply meant to lay out the
18 Introduction

landscape of some philosophical discussion of evil from which the chap-

ters in this book may launch.
As you read the chapters of this book, much of what we have commu-
nicated here in this introduction will be reiterated. But there are many
more fascinating arguments and insights that the authors have put for-
ward. We leave you with this quotation from Albert Camus’ The Plague
(1991), which surely is appropriate given the nature of this book: “The
evil that is in the world always comes of ignorance. . . . There can be no
true goodness, nor true love, without the utmost clear-sightedness” (131).

NOTES

1. There’s no shortage of philosophers of religion explicitly taking pain or suffer-

ing as the paradigmatic or easiest instance of pain. See, for only a very short list,
Swinburne (2004); Alston (1991); Draper (1989); Adams (1989); van Inwagen (1991);
Wykstra (1984); Rowe (1979); Tooley (1991); and Pike (1963). And there’s no necessary
focus on human suffering: see Rowe (1979), Murray (2008), Ferré (1986), and Draper
(1989) among others.
2. Others may term “nothing” approaches like these as privation theories since, on
them, evil is merely a privation of the good (privatio boni).
3. For more on evil and non-being, see Moss and Holdier’s chapters in this vol-
ume.
4. More recent thinkers have similar conceptions of evil. Reichberg (2002) puts
forward a notion of evil as imperfection, Adams (1999, 2) sees evil as a “resistance to
order,” and, like Augustine (On Free Choice of the Will, III), Calder (2007) seriously
considers whether evil is a flaw in, or corruption of, nature or the order of things.
5. See Ang’s chapter in this volume for more on banal evil.
6. See John Shook’s paper in this volume for a version of the problem of evil
modeled on Hell.
7. For more on Schellenberg’s analysis of divine hiddenness and the problem of
evil, see McCraw in this volume.
8. More on Adams’ “horrendous” evils in Section 3.
9. Classical or traditional Western theism affirms the existence of some perfect, all-
knowing, all-powerful, all-good Being who created the Earth and is, somehow, in-
volved in its operation. Such a description should locate the main strand of theism in
the philosophical literature but leave enough room to include many specific religious
traditions under it as well. We make no claim about the adequacy of this model in the
literature: there are many other non-Western or non-classical/traditional models of
them that might plausibly and reasonably serve for philosophical discussion here.
10. For more on the evidential argument from evil, see Martin’s chapter in this
volume.
11. However, the terminological use of “evidential” isn’t standard (though we sus-
pect this is, by far, the most common way of describing this argument type). Philoso-
phers refer to this type of argument as inductive (see Alston 1991), probabilistic (see
Draper 1992 and Plantinga 1979), abductive (McBrayer 2010, 621n5), and epistemic
(Draper 1989). Though there may be subtle differences among these arguments that
may call of different usage, the general point we’re making here doesn’t require any
difference among them. Thus, our purpose here takes all of these usages as equivalent.
12. The abstract/concrete usage comes from Tooley (1991) and Adams (1999) where-
as van Inwagen (2006) uses the general/local description.
13. For more on dualism, see the chapter by Strandberg in this volume.
14. We present the following responses separately because they are distinct. How-
ever, it’s possible to present an overall response to evil as a hybrid of two or more (or
 Introduction 19

all, for that matter) of these theories (insofar as they can be combined without contra-
diction, of course). For a mention of such a hybrid or cumulative case against the
argument from evil see McCraw’s chapter in this work (chapter 6) or Dumsday (2014,
302).
15. A. G. Holdier’s chapter in this volume discusses Augustine’s free will theodicy
at length.
16. One important note here is that Hick anticipates this sort of objection and sug-
gests that, in response, we need to affirm some kind of postmortem existence to devel-
op one’s soul after a life containing horrendous evils. This might be reincarnation
(where one lives multiple lives to develop one’s soul) or a kind of purgatory (wherein
one goes through some process after death by which one develops the virtues one
didn’t in life). For Hick’s hypothesis of a reincarnation approach see (1994, 408) or his
views regarding a purgatorial sort of response (1978, 347–8). Importantly, though, this
response requires adding a lot of conceptual machinery to theism (by adding reincar-
nation, purgatory, etc.) and such addition will add to the burden of proof one needs to
satisfy in order to give an adequate response to the argument from evil overall.
17. For more on redemptive suffering, see Neal Judisch’s chapter in this volume.
18. Again, Gleeson’s (2012) approach making one’s form of life crucial to the argu-
ment from evil would be relevant here.
19. For a similar approach see Nathan Loewen’s chapter in the current work.

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22 Introduction

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Religion 16: 73–93.
 ONE
Is Pure Evil Possible?
Hugo Strandberg

In Die Religion innerhalb der Grenzen der bloßen Vernunft, Kant writes:
there is thus no comprehensible ground for us from which the moral
evil in us could first have come.—This incomprehensibility, adding a
more detailed determination of the wickedness of our species, the
Scriptures express in the historical narrative by projecting evil certainly
in the beginning of the world but not yet in man, but in a spirit of an
originally sublime destiny: thereby the first beginning of absolutely all
evil is thus presented as incomprehensible to us (for whence the evil in
that spirit?), man however as fallen into evil only through temptation,
thus not fundamentally corrupted (not even as regards the first predis-
position to the good), but as still capable of improvement, in contrast to
a tempting spirit, i.e. such a being whom the temptation of the flesh
cannot be accounted as mitigation of his guilt. (1968, 693–4; my transla-
tion)
When Kant here discusses the ground from which the moral evil in us
has come, he is discussing the origin of evil in mankind. But a similar
question can also be asked about the origin of evil in the individual,
either as a question about his or her first sin or as a question about how
each and every sin originates. An account similar to the above, but relat-
ed to the latter question, is often found in comic books, when people are
depicted with an angel over one shoulder and a devil over the other,
speaking for virtue and vice respectively. 1 Accounts of these kinds are
not only used to give temporal descriptions but also to describe the logic
of evil. Freud (1973b) writes:
About the evil demon we know that he is thought as opponent of God
and is yet very close to his nature. [ . . . ] Not much analytical acuteness
23
24 Chapter 1

is needed to guess that God and the Devil were originally identical, one
single character, which was later divided into two with opposite qual-
ities. [ . . . ] This is the process, familiar to us, in which a notion with
contradictory—ambivalent—content is divided into two sharply
contrasting opposites. The contradictions in the original nature of God
are however a reflection of the ambivalence that governs the relation of
the individual to his personal father. (300–1; my translation)
Referring to ambivalence is not to say anything about how my relation to
my father has acquired the form it has; it is to say something about the
logic of my way of relating to him, that it cannot be accounted for by
reference to one single term but should be understood in terms of a
tension between two principles (good and evil, love and hatred, “the
spirit of God” and “the spirit of the Devil”).
As we have seen, Kant points out a problem to accounts of this kind:
whence the evil in that spirit? This does not mean that Kant rejects them.
On the contrary, his own account of the origin of evil differs from the
above primarily only in his attempt to express it in what he sees as ration-
al, in contrast to mythological, terms. The incomprehensibility, and hence
the above problem but only in another form, is still there: evil as we know
it presupposes that the person who succumbs to it is susceptible to temp-
tation, but since being susceptible to temptation is already having suc-
cumbed to evil, that first fall cannot be understood in those terms but is,
Kant says, incomprehensible (1968, 667–8; 671–2; 690–7). There is much
confusion in the way Kant expresses the point, but the problem he high-
lights is there also when this confusion has been cleared up. As to the
confusion: That I succumb to a temptation does not mean that the suscep-
tibility to this temptation must already have been there. On the contrary,
I might become tempted to do something the possibility of which had
never struck me before someone pointed it out to me. If I worry over
economical problems I have, I need not have given a single thought to the
possibility of solving them by means of a swindle before an acquaintance
of mine asked me if I would like to join him in a swindle; in fact, the
economical problems would not have been as worrying and, if I am
tempted, the offer he gives me not as tempting (in contrast to just being a
great opportunity), had such a swindle been an option for me all along. Is
it not merely to insist on a philosophical a priori claim to assert that there
must still have been some susceptibility in me already before this—if not
to such a swindle, then to swindles in general, if not to swindles in gener-
al, then to being dishonest—that there must be some more general de-
scription under which what I am now tempted to do falls, designating a
susceptibility which is already there? Kant’s point should then not, I
believe, be understood in temporal terms, but in this way: someone does
not become tempted to do something just because you try to tempt him,
that is, saying that I see something as a tempting possibility just because
someone else said it is, is a very bad attempt at exculpating myself. In
 Is Pure Evil Possible? 25

other words, I can feel remorse not only for what I have done, but also for
what I have seen as possible to do, and although it may sometimes be
important to be clear about who came up with the idea, the remorse I feel
need not be affected just because I know that the idea was not mine
originally. This means that all attempts to account for the origin of evil in
me by referring to someone else tempting me still leaves questions unan-
swered: he tries to tempt me, that is right, but why am I tempted by what
he says? Answering this question by saying that the possibility of being
tempted is simply given is also a very bad attempt at exculpating oneself;
in remorse, I worry about it and do consequently not see it as something
that should simply be accepted. In this sense there is something to saying
that the origin of evil is incomprehensible, even though one should be
open to the possibility that there is something wrong with the question
here said not to have an answer.
This was the incomprehensibility of evil as Kant sees it, now to the
problem he highlights. The problem is that an infinite regress arises:
whence the evil in that spirit? The same question can, in slightly different
forms, also be asked with regard to my other two examples. If the evil
things I do are the result of me yielding to temptations the devil who sits
on one of my shoulders whispers in my ear, are the evil things this devil
does—tempting me—to be described in the same terms or not? If in the
same, we get an infinite chain of creatures sitting on one of the shoulders
of the previous one; if not, we get a very different kind of evil, which then
must be described in very different terms. And if my relation to my father
is one of ambivalence, does this mean that I vacillate between two ways
of relating to him, each of which is non-ambivalent and hence must be
described in very different terms than the ambivalent relations we in fact
know of? Or goes the ambivalence all the way down, so that it is not
possible to remove the ambivalence by isolating one of its alleged sides,
hatred (evil, “the spirit of the Devil”) being essentially ambivalent?
That these questions are possible to ask does not mean that the ac-
counts they are directed to must be rejected. As long as the accounts shed
some light on what they are supposed to shed some light on they are of
significance, even if that light is dim and restricted. In answering the
questions, however, there seems to be two ways to go. Either one could
break off the regress and try to give an account of pure evil, an evil which
hence must be described in very different terms than the evil we started
out from. Or one could accept that the impurity goes all the way down,
that is, that any process of analysis will end up with elements as impure
as the ones started out from.
In this chapter I will not try to answer these questions. What I will do
is point out some problems you run into if you try to answer the ques-
tions in the first way. In other words, I will not try to show that pure evil
is impossible, only that the idea of that kind of purity is more problematic
than one might be inclined to believe. My discussion has three parts. In
26 Chapter 1

the first one, I will present some examples in which an impurity of evil
goes all the way down. In the second one, I will discuss some alleged
examples of pure evil and show that they are not as pure as they might
seem to be. In the third one, I will point out that it is possible to direct
moral criticism to the very idea of pure evil. And lastly I will give some
concluding remarks on the possibility of discussing evil philosophically.
Speaking in terms of the Devil, what I will do is investigate the
psychology of the Devil, one might say. If pure evil is possible, the Devil,
understood as a personification of evil, will be evil through and through;
if pure evil is not possible, such a personification will be as full of ten-
sions as the concept personified.

EXAMPLES IN WHICH AN IMPURITY OF EVIL

GOES ALL THE WAY DOWN

A clear example of impure evil is evil done by someone who takes it to be

for the sake of the good. Like so many other bad cops in movie history,
Hank Quinlan, in Orson Welles’s Touch of Evil, is spreading that infection
he takes himself to be fighting. Whenever he is convinced that someone is
guilty, he takes all measures in order to frame them: planting evidence on
them and murdering people standing in his way. This evil is impure, for
a thorough description of it will include the fact that he takes it to be for
the sake of the good. That what he does is in fact evil is not due to an
intellectual mistake, to be sure, as if he mistook his measures for good
ones, but that it is for the sake of the good is not just a lie he tells others,
as if he did not at all care for the justice he says he works for. Here a
concept such as self-deception is apt, and it highlights the impurity of the
evil he does.
Quinlan’s actions are a reaction to the murder of his wife, and things
similar to the above could be said about evil in the form of punishment,
revenge, and retaliation generally. A description of the evil I do in such a
case must include the fact that I do it as a reaction to something that I take
to have happened and make what I do called for. What I do would not be
revenge if I did not do it as a response to something. It would not be
revenge if there were no moral relations between us.
Retaliation need not only be direct but also has indirect forms (and
this is certainly the form it takes in Quinlan’s case). This should make one
attentive to the possibility that also forms of evil that do not at first seem
to be instances of retaliation could in fact be. I may feel generally mis-
treated and humiliated—by “life”—and therefore relate to others in a
spirit of vicarious retaliation. The vicarious character of the retaliation is
here not necessarily a substitution of one subject for another—as in well
known chains where the boss fires the worker, the worker beats his wife,
the wife spanks their child, and the child kicks the dog—but since the
 Is Pure Evil Possible? 27

injustice I feel that I am constantly subjected to is so undetermined, any-

one is just as much to blame as anyone else, so the person I mistreat need
not be understood as a stand-in for someone I am unable to reach. The
vicarious subject of my retaliation may also be myself, retaliation not
only being a means of inflicting pain to the one it is directed at but also a
way of securing my own power and control in executing it. In fact, how-
ever, the moral relations between us mean that it is not possible to distin-
guish clearly between the subjects of my retaliation and those not sub-
jected to it. I may punish my parents by hurting myself, for example.
However that may be, in all these cases the evil is impure: a detailed
description of it will include the fact that it is a reaction to something, that
the one doing it is taking this situation to make it called for and that there
thus is a reason for doing it which is distinct from the fact of its being evil,
and that the features of the evil done presuppose moral relations between
us. A process of distillation aiming at removing impurities from the phe-
nomenon analyzed will here end up mischaracterizing it, since what is
then left out of account is an integral part of it. The possibility that what
the one doing evil is telling herself can be brushed off as being superficial
and misleading does not change this, for what she tells herself neverthe-
less belongs to the characterization of what she here does.
When I retaliate, I am as it were telling others that there are things that
should not have happened, things on account of which I now do what I
do. (What is told need not be external to the telling, however; someone
might be punished for being contemptible and the proof of his being
contemptible simply that he is not able to defend himself against the
punishment.) That retaliation bears such a message means that it presup-
poses moral relations between us. But also the things here referred to
may do this. To the extent I describe the injury someone inflicts upon me
as physical, to that extent I take the injury to be possible to understand
without taking the relation between me and the one inflicting it upon me
into account, and in such a case it is primarily in the very act of retaliation
that other dimensions of our relation come to the fore (that she takes it to
be possible to tell me that I should not have done this and that, for
example). But if I retaliate when someone has taken advantage of my
trust in her, the moral relations between us are a central dimension to the
characterization also of the injury, and the understanding of my retalia-
tion will have to take them into account two times over. And if I here
retaliate in the literal sense of the word—take advantage of her trust in
me since she has taken advantage of my trust in her—those moral rela-
tions will be central to the understanding of what I do in yet another
respect. Furthermore, the things for which I retaliate can have several
moral layers also in the sense that I may punish someone for the bad
conscience I have for having hurt her before. The evil I do now thus here
refers to the evil I have done previously, and this not only goes for cases
when it is the same person I relate to: one way of trying to silence one’s
28 Chapter 1

conscience is to commit all the more and all the more horrendous crimes,
in that way trying to hide each one of them amongst the rest and burn all
bridges that lead away from evil.
Additional entanglements are there when what the issue concerns are
questions of prestige and status. Retaliation is then obviously relational:
promoting myself means demoting the other and vice versa. In that sense
it is not strange that I could take something merely destructive to be a
positive thing—to the extent prestige were not a morally strange thing,
that is. This also means that the thing which has happened for which I
retaliate need not be there to be seen in any straightforward sense. The
impression that what someone does diminishes one’s prestige and that
there thus is a need for elevating oneself by humiliating her can be intan-
gible for everyone but the person having it. (It is in cases such as this that
the conflict really becomes unlimited, for to the extent what we are fight-
ing over is something neither the possession of which nor the point of
possessing it presuppose the relation between us, there will be a natural
end to the fight, namely when I have acquired that which I fought over,
but in cases such as this there is no such end.) And that promoting and
demoting can be done using moral terms makes all this even more entan-
gled: presenting oneself as a victim and throwing the blame upon the one
whose position I want to make precarious is one way of playing this
game. One form of such moralization is touched upon by Freud (1973a)
when he claims that “the Devil is certainly nothing but a personification
of the repressed, unconscious life of drives” (28–9). Mind the racist who
runs down those who live lives he secretly wants to live but for some
reason or other does not—”the wild and irresponsible Gypsies,” “the
woman-hating Muslims”—and hides his envy in contempt.
What I have said here—about evil in the form of punishment, revenge
and retaliation—has been an attempt of showing how manifold the con-
nections between evil acts and other things often are and that an under-
standing of what doing evil is here about cannot abstract from this very
complicated context. And the more complicated we realize that such situ-
ations are, the more difficult it will be for us to clearly delimit them,
which means that even though I have only given a few examples, it will
not be a straightforward task to give examples of evil which undeniably
have nothing in common with them.
That these complications are not always paid attention to is obvious in
one of those doctrines that portray the world as ruled by two principles,
strictly opposed and with equal primordiality: Manichaeism. When the
evil principle that opposes the good one is here substantiated, it is de-
scribed in terms of bitterness, envy, hate, and resentment. 2 But these are
of reactive characters, presuppose moral relations between, say, the envi-
ous one and the one she is envious of, and are not without connections to
questions of prestige. In Christian theology, on the other hand, evil is
understood as having a secondary character: “evil [ . . . ] even if this is a
 Is Pure Evil Possible? 29

strange way of speaking, has its being in non-being” (Gregory of Nyssa

1863, 93; my translation), “evil [ . . . ] is not a substance” (Augustine 1991,
138), “Everything which exists, so far as it exists and has a particular
nature, tends naturally towards some good” (Aquinas 1981, 314–5). 3 And
it is therefore consistent that the concept of envy is there often used to
describe this secondary character. Thomas Aquinas (1981), for example,
portrays the Devil as, after his fall “it cannot be said that the devil was
wicked in the first instant of his creation” (315–6)), an essentially prideful
and envious character: “Under envy and pride, as found in the demons,
are comprised all other sins derived from them” (313). And the same
terms are found in John Milton: “Th’ infernal Serpent; he it was, whose
guile / Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived / The mother of man-
kind, what time his pride / Had cast him out from Heav’n” (1998, 121).

SOME ALLEGED EXAMPLES OF PURE EVIL

In Die beiden Grundprobleme der Ethik, Schopenhauer (1860) writes: “Ego-

ism can lead to all kinds of crimes and misdeeds, but the injury and pain
of others it thereby causes is only means for it, not an end, thus occurs
here only accidentally. To wickedness and cruelty, however, the suffer-
ings and pains of others are an end in itself and attaining it pleasure”
(200; my translation). 4 This would be an example of pure evil; whereas
egoism is not such an example, wickedness and cruelty is, if Schopen-
hauer is to be believed. (Schopenhauer’s description of egoism is un-
doubtedly too simplified; what he forgets is that egoism not only causes
pain, a result which could certainly be said to be accidental, but that the
disregard of others egoism is, is as such a pain and hence no accident. But
pure cruelty may still be possible, and this is our question here.) But even
if there is such a distinction and it is only the latter which possibly is an
example of pure evil, we do not yet know what kind of real cases fall
under that description. Montaigne (1952) gives such a possible example:
I could hardly persuade myself, before I saw it with my eyes, that there
could be found souls so cruel and fell, who, for the sole pleasure of
murder, would commit it; would hack and lop off the limbs of others;
sharpen their wits to invent unusual torments and new kinds of death,
without hatred, without profit, and for no other end but only to enjoy
the pleasant spectacle of the gestures and motions, the lamentable
groans and cries of a man dying in anguish. (206)
But it is not clear how we should understand what Montaigne is here
talking about. How is it possible to determine that not anything of that
which I described in the last section is involved here? Are there really no
connections between what these people do and what they do in other
situations? If there are, the act is only purely evil if the one committing it
is evil through and through; if there are not, the evil is something that
30 Chapter 1

infects someone from without and takes control over her, and even
though there is something to such a description—one might be fright-
ened by one’s feelings of rancour towards someone who has wounded
one—its alien character may very well be illusory, for the discomfort
which is the reason for describing it as alien is also the reason why one
keeps away from those situations which may excite it. Furthermore, note
another respect in which what Montaigne describes is not as clear as it
might appear to be. On the one hand, it sounds as if the people Mon-
taigne is talking about are doing what they are doing just for the kick of
it. But if we took that suggestion literally, this would mean that what we
here have examples of is Schopenhauer’s egoism: the suffering and pain
of others would then only be an unfortunate secondary result. But on the
other hand, the suffering and pain of others are said not to be possible to
isolate from the kick which causing them brings about; they belong to its
content, as it were. But how is this internal relation between them to be
understood? If we could take recourse to the concepts we made use of in
the first section—revenge, for example—there would be a clear answer to
this question. But if we want an example of pure evil, that road cannot be
taken. This not only means that it is not yet clear what we are talking
about when we are talking about pure evil, it also means that the kind of
purity which however is not hard to imagine—a fit of mine, causing
suffering and pain to others—is pure, or rather does not necessarily pre-
suppose any moral relations between us, to the detriment of its being an
evil action on my part.
A somewhat similar point is made by Anscombe (1963) in Intention.
She writes:
“Evil be thou my good” is often thought to be senseless in some way.
Now all that concerns us here is that “What’s the point of it?” is some-
thing that can be asked until a desirability characterisation has been
reached and made intelligible. If then the answer to this question at
some stage is “The good of it is that it’s bad,” this need not be unintelli-
gible; one can go on to say “And what is the good of its being bad?” to
which the answer might be condemnation of good as impotent, slavish,
and inglorious. Then the good of making evil my good is my intact
liberty in the unsubmissiveness of my will. Bonum est multiplex: good is
multiform, and all that is required for our concept of ‘wanting’ is that a
man should see what he wants under the aspect of some good. A col-
lection of bits of bone three inches long, if it is a man’s object, is some-
thing we want to hear the praise of before we understand it as an
object; it would be affectation to say “One can want anything and I
happen to want this.” (75)
“Wanting x” is not a function that can take any argument; is “to commit
murder for the sole pleasure of it” one of them? If we, like Anscombe,
would refer to something more than this pleasure—”condemnation of
good as impotent, slavish, and inglorious […] my intact liberty in the
 Is Pure Evil Possible? 31

unsubmissiveness of my will”—we would be on our way to one answer

to that question, but the purity would then be lost, for we would then be
back in the previous section. In other words, to the extent I do not see
anything in the murders someone commits and the only thing I have to
go by is his saying that he simply happens to want to murder, to that
extent the whole thing is so strange that I do not know what to say about
it, neither that it is evil.
But are things as simple as that? That I used the first person pronoun
is not an accident, for seeing something as intelligible is one thing for
which I may feel remorse. This means that Anscombe’s suggestions—
”condemnation of good as impotent, slavish, and inglorious [ . . . ] my
intact liberty in the unsubmissiveness of my will”—are not as self-evi-
dent as they might appear to be. I wish I did not understand them, and I
hope that not everyone does. The upshot of all this is then that a condi-
tion for being able to describe some case as an example of pure evil is that
one finds pure evil to be intelligible, that is, that one sees that as an
intelligible “desirability characterisation.” Whether that condition is ful-
filled or not is in the end a question of moral self-examination. As regards
Montaigne’s example, there are other possible ways of relating to the
events he is talking about than describing them (one might be dumb-
founded by them, or one might not want to say anything about them)
and describing them in his terms (one might describe them in terms
conveying one’s concern about the corruption that cruelty expresses and
thus not understand the evil to be pure, and this is just one possibility).

MORAL CRITICISM OF THE VERY IDEA OF PURE EVIL

All this brings us to the last part of our discussion, dealing with the moral
criticism it is possible to direct to the very idea of pure evil. If the idea of
pure evil has a possible application, it is applied to others or to oneself.
The last alternative is hard to get one’s head around, and I will drop it.
But what about applying it to others? Applying it is a way of relating to
the people it is applied to, and as there are moral concerns that can be
brought to bear on these relations, these moral concerns can be brought
to bear on the concepts I apply to them. Since the discussion about the
possibility of pure evil runs the risk of degenerating into psychological
speculation, this is especially important to point out.
In Enten—Eller, Kierkegaard (1962) writes: “That I point out the reality
of remorse also shows that I do not presume a radical evil; for remorse is
certainly an expression of reconciliation, but also an absolutely irreconcil-
able expression” (2:165; my translation). 5 The possibility of remorse
means that the evil someone has done does not permeate her as a whole,
in which case there would be no way from evil to goodness, in which case
goodness would only appear by leaving everything that has been behind
32 Chapter 1

and the sense in which she feels remorse for something she has done
would be obscure. Saying that someone is purely evil is to say that re-
morse is not within the horizon of her possibilities, and the problem with
saying this is not only that it is far from clear how one can claim to know
that this is so, but first and foremost that saying this is to give up hope
about her: she will never come to even an inkling of moral understanding
of what she has done. And this not only concerns my relation to her;
speculating about such a possibility risks making one’s own conscience
turbid. This would be the moral criticism it is possible to direct to the
very idea of pure evil.
This criticism could be said to be present also when it is not explicitly
stated. If my reaction to the evil I am confronted with is one of perplex-
ity—”how was it possible for him to do it, how could he do it?”– I am not
taking what he has done as a matter of course, that is, not as something
that were only to be expected (given his psychological make-up, say).
This perplexity need not be of the kind that aims at being disentangled,
and if it is not of that kind, the above criticism is implicitly present. In
that sense, the chain of devilish creatures sitting on one of the shoulders
of the previous one is really infinite, someone might say, for the question
“how could he do it?” can be asked again and again and will never be
given an answer that settles everything.

CONCLUDING REMARKS

The one who claims that pure evil is possible runs into problems, as we
have seen, and the problems in the second and third sections are the most
important ones I believe: it is not possible to show that pure evil is pos-
sible by presenting an example of such purity from real life, for the ques-
tion concerns how that which is presented should be understood and
concerns how I should relate morally to those it concerns, and my way of
understanding it thus says as much about me as about those people, for a
relation has more than one term. In order for it to be possible to say that
pure evil is, or is not, possible, moral clear-sightedness is hence needed,
and that clear-sightedness is not given by the case alone.
The possibility of discussing evil philosophically is consequently beset
with difficulties, and by way of conclusion I would like to say a few
words about them. One of those situations in which it is most difficulty to
be morally clear-sighted is precisely when being confronted by real evil:
here questions about rancour, resignation, bitterness, corruption, and en-
chantment, to name but a few possibilities, become topical. Discussing
evil philosophically in the context of such real situations is, if it is at all
possible, consequently no guarantee for the lucidity of what one says, on
the contrary. Discussing evil philosophically without contact with such
real situations, on the other hand, risks trivializing it. So how is evil to be
 Is Pure Evil Possible? 33

discussed? To this problem there is no other solution than taking serious-

ly the need of that moral clear-sightedness which my discussion of the
possibility of pure evil ended up in, clear-sightedness also concerning the
grave dangers that beset the choice and phrasing of the situations to be
discussed, dangers of corruption and trivialization.
But this is not all. It is typical of the experience of grave evil that it
involves changes with respect to what one holds to be meaningful, and
those experiences cannot be anticipated, in which case they would not be
as momentous as they often are. Ways of speaking which I now do not
find anything in might in such situations prove to be to the point and
expressions I now hold to be substantial I might then see as void. Above
all, the fact that there are things we do not know what to say about, and
the fact that there are situations in which whatever one would like to
say—also that they are meaningless—rings more or less hollow, should
not be seen as a lack which it is the task of philosophy to fill, but as a
positive characterization of them, even though one should keep the fact I
pointed to above in mind, the fact that one of those situations in which it
is most difficulty to be morally clear-sighted is when being confronted by
real evil, which means that my dumbness and the change with respect to
what I hold to be meaningful could be the result of the destructiveness of
evil. In any case, does the fact that these experiences are not possible to
anticipate mean that evil is after all not possible to discuss philosophical-
ly, if whatever one says about it could come to be seen as devoid of
sense? No, not necessarily, for the moral clear-sightedness which my
discussion of the possibility of pure evil ended up in pointing out the
need of also concerns being attentive to everyday situations and the char-
acter of them. For example, the talking that goes on in the academic
context in which philosophical texts are most often written could be more
full of spite, and of a less trivial kind, than I have taken it to be. Even
though other experiences, not possible to anticipate, would make great
differences, that does not make it less important to examine those experi-
ences of evil one actually has, as if all our experiences of something were
merely approximations of the real thing, close to its heart or of superficial
aspects of it. As I intimated, the experiences of evil one actually has might
be more numerous, and there might be much more to them, than one is
clear about, and aiming at such clarity is in the end one thing that dis-
cussing evil philosophically is about.

NOTES

1. The earliest instance of this picture I have run into is found in The Shepherd of
Hermas, (2007) second century CE, even though there is not much detail to it there
which means that it can be read in many ways: “there are two angels with the human
being, one of righteousness and one of wickedness” (36.1; my translation).
34 Chapter 1

2. See Jonas (2001, 210–15). One way of understanding this is that Manichaeism is
in fact not as dualistic as it is often described, also by Jonas himself.
3. Ideas in some respects similar to these are to be found in Stoicism (see Epictetus
1916, Enchiridion 27) and in Plotinus (1964–82, 1.8.3.2–7).
4. For a similar distinction, see Schopenhauer (1998, 1:433).
5. That it is Kierkegaard who writes this is only true in a sense, the publisher of
Enten—Eller being “Victor Eremita” and the author of the above quote “Judge Wil-
helm.”

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Anscombe, G. E. M. 1963. Intention. 2nd ed. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.

Aquinas, Thomas. 1981. Summa Theologica. Translated by Fathers of the English Do-
minican Province. Notre Dame: Ave Maria Press.
Augustine. 1991. Confessions. Translated by Henry Chadwick. Oxford: Oxford Univer-
sity Press.
Epictetus. 1916. Dissertationes. Edited by Heinrich Schenkl. Leipzig: Teubner.
Freud, Sigmund. 1973a. “Character und Analerotik.” In Zwang, Paranoia und Perver-
sion. Studienausgabe, edited by Alexander Mitscherlich, Angela Richards, and
James Strachey, 7:25–30. Frankfurt am Main: S. Fischer Verlag.
Freud, Sigmund. 1973b. “Eine Teufelsneurose im siebzehnten Jahrhundert.” In Zwang,
Paranoia und Perversion. Studienausgabe, edited by Alexander Mitscherlich, Angela
Richards, and James Strachey, 7:287–319. Frankfurt am Main: S. Fischer Verlag.
Gregory of Nyssa. 1863. De anima et resurrectione. In vol. 46 of Patrologia Graeca, 11–159.
Paris: Migne.
Jonas, Hans. 2001. The Gnostic Religion: The Message of the Alien God and the Beginnings of
Christianity. 3rd ed. Boston: Beacon Press.
Kant, Immanuel. 1968. Die Religion innerhalb der Grenzen der bloßen Vernunft. In Schriften
zur Ethik und Religionsphilosophie. Werkausgabe, edited by Wilhelm Weischedel,
7–8:645–879. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp.
Kierkegaard, Søren. 1962. Enten – Eller. 2 vols. Samlede Værker 2-3. Copenhagen:
Gyldendal.
Milton, John. 1998. Paradise Lost. In The Complete Poems, edited by John Leonard,
119–406. London: Penguin.
Montaigne, Michel Eyquem de. 1952. The Essays. Translated by Charles Cotton. Chica-
go: Encyclopædia Britannica.
Plotinus. 1964–82. Plotini opera. Edited by Paul Henry and Hans-Rudolf Schwyzer. 3
vols. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Schopenhauer, Arthur. 1860. Die beiden Grundprobleme der Ethik. 2nd ed. Leipzig:
Brockhaus.
Schopenhauer, Arthur. 1998. Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung. 2 vols. Edited by Lud-
ger Lütkehaus. Munich: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag.
The Shepherd of Hermas. 2007. In The Apostolic Fathers, 3rd ed., edited by Michael W.
Holmes, 454–684. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic.
 TWO
The Problem of Evil in the Speculative
Mysticism of Meister Eckhart
Gregory S. Moss

BEING IS UNIVOCAL

One of the heretical claims in the philosophical corpus of the great Catho-
lic mystic Meister Eckhart is the proposition that “God is neither good
nor better, nor best; hence I speak as incorrectly when I call God good as
if I were to call white black” (1981b, 88). In the first section of this chapter,
I demonstrate why Eckhart must be committed to the truth of this claim
given his commitment to the thesis that Being is necessarily indivisible
and God is Being. 1 Eckhart’s insistence on the univocity of Being engen-
ders the identification of Being with Nothingness. 2 In the second section,
I reflect on how Eckhart’s identification of Being with Nothingness ap-
pears to generate a special paradox concerning the existence of evil. 3 It is
important to note that the paradoxical nature of Eckhart’s conception of
evil has been recognized since Eckhart’s own lifetime, both by his inquisi-
tors and scholars alike. 4 Nonetheless, I offer my own reading of this
paradox, and argue that the paradox concerning evil is a logical conse-
quence of Eckhart’s speculative mysticism, not an aberration or lack of
attentiveness on Eckhart’s part. 5 In the third section, I suggest that the
dialectical relationship of God to the Godhead in Eckhart’s treatment of
Being accounts for why the special paradox of evil is present in Eckhart’s
work. 6
Unlike the Aristotelians who claim that Being is said in many ways, 7
Eckhart advances the thesis that Being is univocal. Eckhart posits that God
is Being, and Being as such is undifferentiated. Since God is Being, and

35
36 Chapter 2

Being is undifferentiated, God is undifferentiated. What is inherently un-

differentiated is necessarily indivisible. Since unity, in its most primary
and primitive sense, is indivisibility, Being is simply one. Given that Being
is indivisible, Eckhart infers that no predicate can be attributed to God
without differentiating God, and thereby rendering God multiple. He
writes:
So if I say: “God is good” that is not true. I am good, but God is not
good. […] But since God is not good, he cannot become better. And
since he cannot become better, he cannot be best of all. For these three
degrees are alien to God: “good,” “better,” “best,” for he is superior to
them all. (1981i, 207)
If God were to admit of “good,” “better,” or “best” he would necessarily
admit of plurality and degree, which is impossible, since God is indivis-
ible. Naturally, it does not follow that “God is evil” Just as much as God
is neither good, better, nor best, God is neither bad, worse nor worst. In
fact, nothing can be said of God. Eckhart teaches us that God cannot be
understood and is beyond the reach of language (1981i, 207). Eckhart says
more:
I say that God is neither being nor rational, and that he does not know
all things. Whoever will be poor in spirit must be poor of all his knowl-
edge. So that he knows nothing, not God or created things or himself.
(1981h, 201)
If God is Being and thereby indivisible, we cannot even say of God that
God is Being. Since Being has no differences at all, Being as such is noth-
ing. Why is Being nothing? Being as such cannot be differentiated from
nothing because Being is undifferentiated. Being, as the undifferentiated,
fails to be differentiated from Nothingness. Thus, Being cannot be held
apart from Nothingness. Eckhart will at times speak of God as nothing.
Indeed, we may say that Being is not a being. If it were a being then it
would have a difference by which it would be differentiated from other
beings. In this case, it would not be Being. According to Eckhart, only
those who are nothing are equal to God because “The divine being is equal
to nothing” (1981g, 187; my emphasis).
For Eckhart, one becomes equal to God only through act of detaching
oneself from contingent beings. Eckhart proceeds further to identify God
with detachment, and describes such absolute detachment as nothing at
all. 8 As Eckhart states:
. . . God has it from his immovable detachment that he is God and it is
from his detachment that he is God, and his simplicity and his un-
changeability. (1981f, 287)
. . . But to wish to be this thing or that, this it does not want. . . .
Detachment wants to be nothing at all. (1981f, 291)
 The Problem of Evil in the Speculative Mysticism of Meister Eckhart 37

When we approach Being with our intellect and attempt to grasp that
which differentiates Being from nothing, we find that the difference by
which Being is differentiated from nothing cannot, in principle, be dis-
covered. The simple reason for this is that there is no difference. Or, if we
follow the common logic, we presume that no category can differentiate
itself. Accordingly, if Being behaves similarly, Being as such cannot dif-
ferentiate itself. Thus, what differentiates Being into differences must
have its origin outside of Being. Since only Nothing is outside Being, it is
only Nothing that can differentiate Being. Thus, any distinction in Being
is ultimately no distinction at all. If any distinction in Being is no distinc-
tion at all, there cannot even be a distinction between Being and Nothing-
ness. 9
Eckhart has the tendency to identify contingent beings, beings that do
not necessarily exist, but could or could not exist, as nothing “in them-
selves.” They only have being in Being itself or as Being itself. Since Being
is in itself undifferentiated, no being has any Being that is separate from
Being itself. The being of every particular being is Being itself. Insofar as
they are differentiated, they are differentiated from Being, and are noth-
ing. Eckhart is not equivocal about the radical equality of all beings: “All
things possess existence immediately and equally from God alone”
(1981c, 89–90). Having freed ourselves from an understanding of “God”
as a being differentiated from others, Eckhart implores us to pursue de-
tachment through which we may experience the radical equality of all
entities in the God: “So let us pray to God that we may be free of “God,”
and that we may apprehend and rejoice in that everlasting truth in which
the highest angel and the fly and the soul are equal . . .” (1981h, 200; my
emphasis).
Upon initially encountering Meister Eckhart, one might wonder why
the problem of evil is not one of his major preoccupations. Eckhart schol-
ars such as Elizabeth Brient have pointed out that if one has recognized
what is essential for salvation in Meister Eckhart, (namely detachment)
one should see that the problem of evil is an issue with which one ought
not be primarily concerned (Brient, pers. comm.). Since the one who is
detached is unified with the God, and in God there is no good or evil
whatever, the detached one is beyond good and evil. For this reason, the
detached one would have no concern for evil. Because tranquility and
security are the fruits of detachment, the enlightened mystic is not dis-
turbed by the problem of evil. In a discussion of willing and suffering,
Eckhart invokes Seneca, the great Stoic philosopher and endorses the
view that the best consolation for a person in a time of trouble is for one
to embrace whatever happens as if one had asked for it oneself with the
understanding that everything that happens only occurs by an act of
divine willing (1981a, 215). Through his affirmation of Seneca’s consola-
tion, it appears that it is improper to prefer some happening over another.
In other places, Eckhart is clear that the life of prayer ought to preclude
38 Chapter 2

preference when he claims that one ought not pray that one acquire some
virtue or obtain some way of living, but only to pray that God does
whatever God wills to do, without qualification regarding what that may
be (1981e, 248).
This indifference towards evil in the detachment of God may by itself
constitute a moral objection to Meister Eckhart, for one may claim with
great plausibility that it is immoral to be indifferent to evil. 10 Though this is
a serious moral objection that deserves consideration, there is also a fun-
damental ontological problem concerning the existence of evil that must
be addressed in advance of the moral consideration. 11

THE EXISTENCE OF EVIL

Thus far we have shown how Eckhart’s insistence on the univocity of

Being entails the identification of Being with Nothingness. The identity of
Being and Nothingness in Eckhart’s conception of God generates a spe-
cial paradox of evil that threatens to undermine the coherency of his
mystical theology. 12 On the one hand, in his Commentary on John Eckhart
(1981d) seems to casually endorse Augustine’s solution to the problem of
evil in On Free Will in which evil is whatever does not have God as its
source (140).
In his discussion of Verse 3 of the Gospel of John, “all things were made
through the word,” he makes it clear that evil does not exist:
. . . Sin and evil in general are not things that exist, so they are not made
through him but without him. This is the meaning of what follows:
“Without him was made nothing,” that is, sin or evil, as Augustine
says. Here it says that all things were made through him, but evil
things do not exist and are not made because they are not produced as
effects, but as defects of some act of existence. (1981d, 140)
On the other hand, in his Commentary on Genesis, Eckhart (1981c) appar-
ently reverses course and claims that evil must exist:
Seventh, “He created the heavens and the earth,” that is, good and
evil—“Creating evil and making peace” (Is. 45:7). The existence of evil is
required by the perfection of the universe, and evil exists in what is good
and is ordered to the good of the universe. (90) 13
Whether we accept that evil does exist, is made without him, and is
necessary for the good of the universe, or that evil does not exist, and is
only a defect of some act of existence, we seem to encounter an aporia. If
we hold to the thesis that Being is nothing, it seems impossible to hold
that evil is a defect of existence. If there is no Being except for God, evil is
nothing, and God is nothing, then it would appear that identifying God
with Nothingness would at least imply that God could be evil. Because it
is impossible for God to be evil, it is problematic to claim that evil is
nothing. To avoid this result, we may deny that evil does not exist, and
 The Problem of Evil in the Speculative Mysticism of Meister Eckhart 39

hold instead that evil exists. Since Eckhart holds that there is no Being
except for God, or what is the same, that all beings are equal insofar as
they have the same Being, it would follow that if evil were to possess any
Being whatever, then God would necessarily be evil. In conclusion, it
appears that Meister Eckhart’s identification of Being with nothing gener-
ates a special paradox of evil such that either it is possible for God to be
evil or God must necessarily be evil. Neither are attractive options. Given
that Eckhart appears to be committed to the necessary non-existence of
evil in God (as well as the necessary non-existence of the good), 14 it may
appear that Eckhart ought not accept either of these conclusions. None-
theless, in order to remain philosophically coherent, Eckhart’s philosoph-
ical mysticism must ultimately force Eckhart to admit that, at least in
some sense, God is evil. In what follows, I work out, in some detail, the
sense in which God is evil in Eckhart’s mysticism.

THE DIALECTIC OF “GOD” AND GODHEAD

If we follow the dialectical aspect of the univocity of Being, we may at least

begin to better understand how Eckhart falls into this paradox, and begin
to unravel it. Central to Eckhart’s dialectic of Being is the distinction
between “God” and Godhead. 15
On the one hand, the Godhead is Being in its total lack of differentia-
tion or its emptiness. The Godhead is empty of everything, and is thereby
absolute Nothingness. The Godhead is what God is ‘in himself’ as we
spoke of him in the first section of this chapter. Naturally, the Godhead is
not a being, but simply Being itself. On the other hand, “God” exists as a
being distinct from creatures, and is thereby a being differentiated from
others. As a being distinct from other beings, “God” is not God as God is
‘in himself’ and by himself. “God” is not mere Being, but God is ‘in the
creatures’ or God understood in relation to creatures. The fundamental
distinction between Godhead and God is that the Godhead is undifferen-
tiated and by itself, while “God” is a differentiated being in relation to
other differentiated beings. As Nishitani (1983) points out, it is not the
Godhead but “God” to which we attribute personal attributes, since the
Godhead is nothing and nothing can be attributed to it: “The originality
of Eckhart’s thinking strikes us on a number of counts. First, he locates
the “essence” of God at a point beyond the personal God who stands
over against created beings. Second, this essence of God, or godhead, is
seen as an absolute nothingness, . . .” (63).
Accordingly, the univocity of God which we discussed in the first
section is more properly the univocity of the Godhead. As Eckhart indi-
cates, it is out of the univocity of the Godhead as undifferentiated Being,
that “God” arises. In order to grasp this, one must attend to the specula-
tive aspect of Eckhart’s mysticism, namely the dialectical activity of Be-
40 Chapter 2

ing. Being is nothing insofar as it is undifferentiated. Or what is the same,

insofar as Being must be, it must have some difference. Since Being is
undifferentiated, it is not only nothing, but it is, in itself, differentiated
from differentiated being. Insofar as the undifferentiated must be differ-
entiated from differentiated beings, it must be a differentiated being that
exists in contrast to other differentiated beings. Thus, Being as such must
be a being. If Being is Being, then Being is a being. 16 The Godhead, upon
being differentiated, becomes “God.”
Being, as undifferentiated unity, is not differentiated, and is thereby
set apart from all differentiated beings. Insofar as it is set apart from all
differentiated beings, it transcends all differentiated beings. Accordingly,
we must infer that Being, as the transcendent, undifferentiated unity is
distinct from all differentiated beings. 17 Nonetheless, insofar as Being is
differentiated from differentiated beings, it is itself differentiated. Thus, at
the same time, it is also undifferentiated from differentiated beings. 18
Being is that in virtue of which the undifferentiated becomes differen-
tiated, or that in virtue of which Being empties itself of its own nothing-
ness and gives beings. God’s creation of everything out of nothing is noth-
ing different from God’s creation of everything out of himself. In this
sense, every being is just the self-emptying, the self-negation of the undif-
ferentiated Being as such. Thus, the withdrawal of Being into the nothing
and the giving of beings out of the nothing is the infinite revelation of
Being.
Since the Godhead, as the undifferentiated Being, is now set into oppo-
sition with the world of differentiated beings which He has created, a
hierarchy of beings is established in which “God” is the principle of the
Being of all contingent, created beings. Now “God,” as the undifferentiat-
ed being, stands in contrast to, not in equality with, differentiated beings.
Having begun the dialectical analysis, we may apply these initial re-
sults to the question of evil. If we return to the passage in which Eckhart
claims that evil exists, he notes that evil is created, exists in the creation,
and that it is necessary for the good of the universe. Not unlike other
philosophers of religion, Eckhart distinguishes between natural and mo-
ral evil. Let us begin our analysis with natural evil. Eckhart appears to
identify the natural evil, that is, evil that is in the creation with plurality
or multitude. Eckhart (1981d) writes:
. . . Multitude, the opponent and adversary of the One, is always a sin,
either of nature or morality. . . . Every sin in itself is “many,” even if it
happens only once, because the many is a fall from the One and there-
fore from the Good, which is interchangeable with it. (166–7) 19
Although the Godhead is the ordering principle in virtue of which all
beings exist, the act by which the Godhead gives rise to beings also
makes God into a distinct, individual being. For this reason, God is also
just another differentiated being. Accordingly, in the act of creation the
 The Problem of Evil in the Speculative Mysticism of Meister Eckhart 41

Godhead not only establishes order, and establishes himself as the princi-
ple of that order, but also undermines that order by absolutely negating
himself: there is nothing but mere multitude. Because undifferentiated
Being cannot be differentiated from differentiated beings, undifferentiat-
ed being is just another differentiated being among the multitude. Being
gives rise to the multitude of beings out of itself, and the multitude of
beings is the absence of undifferentiated Being. In the passage above, the
Good is identified with the One, and the many, insofar as they constitute
a fall from the Good, are evil. The good and perfection of the creatures is
in the Good, the One. Insofar as evil is the multitude, and the multitude is
created, evil exists and is created, as Eckhart states. Though evil exists as
the multitude, it is also the absence of Being, for insofar as it is a multitude
it is the absence of the indivisible unity, or to use the language Eckhart
invokes, it is a defect of the indivisible unity of Being. Evil is the self-
negation of God into mere multitude, the complete self-abandonment of
God. Accordingly, evil is also the defect of absolute nothingness. 20 Viewed
this way, evil is created, but only as the absence of Being.
We now have the resources to begin to unpack the meaning of the
apparently contradictory claims in Eckhart’s text, 21 namely his assertion
that evil does not exist, and his assertion that evil exists. As Eckhart
states, evil is made, since it comes to be from the creation, but it is only
made “without him” and exists “without him,” for its existence as the
self-negation of God is just that which is “without him.” In sum, it ap-
pears that it is differentiated being that is initially posited as natural evil, as
the defect of Being. For this reason, it is not mere Nothingness that is
opposed to Being but differentiated being. Indeed, it is only from this
position of multiplicity from which the journey back to God in the prac-
tice of religious mysticism may begin.
In the creation there are various kinds of beings, and not all of the
kinds of beings are capable of moral evil. Only those living, intelligent
beings capable of willing and affirming the multitude are capable of moral
evil. 22 For Eckhart, moral evil is not simply willing the multitude, but
willing the separation of the multitude from Being, or what is the same,
willing the separation of the multitude from God. One wills the separation
of the multitude from God, whenever one wills oneself to be a creature
separated from God, or intentionally attaches oneself to any characteristic
of the creature. When one wills the separation of the multitude from God,
one wills the separation of oneself from God. In contrast, he who has a
good will wills nothing but God alone and strives for detachment. In “The
Book of ‘Benedictus’: The Book of Divine Consolation” Eckhart (1981a)
claims that God possess all of the properties of Goodness in his very
essence, and that a truly good person possess all of these properties (217).
In this passage we encounter another conflict in Eckhart’s text. Here,
Eckhart claims that God has all the properties of goodness in itself, while
in other passages, Eckhart exclaims that God is not good (see 1981b, 80).
42 Chapter 2

Again, in his discussion of consolation, Eckhart emphasizes that the good

person exercises detachment and to this person everything that is created
is worthless (1981a, 217). Detachment is privileged over other virtues
such as humility, love, and mercy because it has no regard for creatures
(1981f, 285). The good person strives to embody the order of the world in
himself through detachment in which “God” is the principle of the multi-
tude. According to Eckhart, this order is a unity and is good and evil
cannot exist where order exists. 23 Regarding the goodness of God, the
upshot is this: in the Godhead, or indivisible Being, there is no good or
evil, for there is no differentiation. Accordingly, “good” and “evil” are
only terms that apply where there is differentiation. Nonetheless, when
“God” differentiates himself from his creatures, and is their principle, he
is the principle of order in virtue of which they have any unity and
Being. 24 Accordingly, it is possible to say of the “God” (the principle of the
creatures) that stands in opposition to creatures, that he is “good.” 25 Like-
wise, since the creatures fail to be “God,” and thereby fail to be one and
are plural to some degree, they are evil. The good person orders her soul
in such a way that “God” (the principle of the creatures) is the goal of her
moral life. The evil person wills the separation of the creatures from their
source, that is, rejects “God” (the principle of the creatures). This is why,
by my lights, Eckhart thinks that he can say that “God” (as the principle
of the creatures) is good, while God (as the Godhead) is neither good nor
evil.
Still, we have not yet reached the end of the dialectical story. The
dialectical development necessitates that “God” is just as much evil as he
is good. As that which is differentiated from differentiated beings, Being
as such has the same determination as that from which it is differentiated.
As undifferentiated, Being cannot be differentiated from differentiated
Being. Thus, only differentiated being exists. Since differentiated being is
absolute, differentiated being is itself not differentiated from anything else.
Hence, differentiated being stands in contrast to no other difference, and
is itself indivisible. 26 Accordingly, Being is what it is, undifferentiated
unity, only in virtue of differentiating itself from itself. It is only in differen-
tiating itself from itself that it can be undifferentiated. The undifferentiated qua
undifferentiated becomes differentiated, and it is in virtue of its differentiation
that it is truly undifferentiated. 27 Having lost itself, it returns to itself in and
through its self-loss. 28
As Eckhart states, evil cannot exist where order exists. On the one
hand, it only makes sense to speak of evil in a context in which there is
order. For there can only be a lack of order in a context in which there is
some order to negate. Accordingly, following Augustine and Plato, when
one privileges the creature over “God” in the context of differentiated
beings, this is evil because it inverts the proper order of creation. In the
Godhead there is no differentiation, and thus no order. For this reason, it
is not possible to attribute “good” or “evil” to the Godhead. No inversion
 The Problem of Evil in the Speculative Mysticism of Meister Eckhart 43

is possible where there is no plurality. Since in the detached Godhead

neither good nor evil apply, the soul that is fully detached from creatures,
and thereby fully one with God is also neither good nor evil. The de-
tached soul, like the Godhead, is “beyond good and evil.” Though we
may say of the person who strives after “God” that she is “good,” “bet-
ter,” or “best” in relation to others, we cannot say the same of the de-
tached soul.
If we take a moment to reflect on the paradox in the second section of
this chapter, it becomes evident how the dialectical aspect of Eckhart’s
treatment of the univocity of Being helps to clarify the paradoxical posi-
tion Eckhart takes on evil. Insofar as God becomes separated from himself
as the multitude, evil exists as God “without God.” Insofar as God is not
separated from himself and differentiated being is integrated into undif-
ferentiated Being, God is not evil. For this reason, Eckhart must flatly
reject the claim that generated the paradox, namely the premise that God
is not evil. 29 What is more, in order for God to be complete, God must be
evil in some sense. Indeed, it is only through the self-separation of God
from himself, or what is the same, through the fall of the differentiated
plurality from the undifferentiated One, that God fully becomes himself
as undifferentiated Being. As the Godhead, God is neither good nor evil.
As “God” God is both “good and “evil.” The contradiction in the special
paradox of evil is a reflection of the contradiction in the dialectics of the
univocity of Being.
Let us first consider the necessity of natural evil for the good, and
thereafter consider the necessity of moral evil for the good. Because it is
only through the fall of the differentiated plurality from the One, that is,
through evil, that the undifferentiated God is fully undifferentiated, Eck-
hart can claim that evil, or the differentiated multitude, is necessary for
the good, or the indivisible, and does not exist independently of the good
(1981c, 90). Eckhart claims that darkness and light are not mutually exclu-
sive opposites, but are contained within one another (1981d, 152).
If we reflect upon the dialectical process, it becomes evident that the
hierarchical structure that obtains between God and creatures is relative,
for it is derivative from the absolute Godhead. As we described above, in
this hierarchy “God” appears as the good of the creatures to which he is
opposed. From the perspective of the hierarchy, God transcends the crea-
tures. Nonetheless, insofar as “God” is a differentiated being, God is one
of the multitude. As one of the multitude, there is no longer an ordering
principle, and the ordered whole is inverted. What is more, it is in virtue
of God’s activity that the order is undermined, and gives way to the abso-
lute anarchy of differentiated being. Since evil is constituted by this
undermining of order, “God,” as a differentiated being, is “evil” and its
source. Accordingly, the hierarchical positing of God as “good” disinte-
grates into the positing of God as “evil.”
44 Chapter 2

Upon seeing that the hierarchical view of God is doomed to identify

“God” with evil, the practitioner must empty her conception of “God”
from any multitude in order to recover God as the Godhead, a God
beyond good and evil. 30 The practitioner of detachment realizes that the
desire for “God” is evil; indeed, to be free of evil is to be free of “God,”
who is himself a fall from the One, a differentiated God. Thus, to be free
of “God” the practitioner must cease to attempt to strive after “God” and
must instead practice true “poverty of spirit,” namely utter detachment
from “God.”
Out of the incompleteness and self-negation of hierarchy a radical
new equality arises, in which the radical immanence and equality of all
beings in the Godhead is recovered and realized in the soul of the practi-
tioner. Upon recovering the Godhead from “God,” the practitioner unites
her own differentiated being with the undifferentiated Godhead, thereby
“giving birth to Christ in the soul” as the Meister was fond of saying.
Although the practitioner begins with a perspective of God as the merely
transcendent principle, at the close of her journey she finds God existing
immanently as Christ in the soul. As the Godhead, God is by himself, and
he is neither transcendent nor immanent. As “God,” God transcends the
creatures. As Christ in the soul, God is immanent in the creatures as a
unity of undifferentiated and differentiated Being. The achievement of
unity with the Godhead out of differentiated being is indeed a return to
undifferentiated being with which the dialectic began, but it is now no
longer undifferentiated being that is opposed to differentiated being.
Now, undifferentiated being cannot even be differentiated from differen-
tiated being, and only in this oneness with its opposite is undifferentiated
being truly itself: undifferentiated. Accordingly, Christ in the soul is the
“all encompassing Christ.” As is evident, the identification of “God” with
evil is absolutely central to eschatological aspects of Eckhart’s speculative
mysticism. 31
What we have described is creation ex nihilo: beings come to be from
nothing at all. God reaches into his own Nothingness, and thereby creates a
world. Upon creating the world, God returns to himself out of that world.
As Eckhart (1981h) claims: “Therefore, God is free of all things, and there-
fore he is all things” (201).
The nothing is not separate from God’s Being. Since every being exists
only in God’s Being, the world itself must be divine. 32 As Rumi (1997)
says, the fool cries out in the ocean of God “there is no God!” (82). Or, as
Meister Eckhart (1981c) makes clear, everything that is created exists
within God and there is nothing outside of God (89).
One who understands the truth of Being, the most universal category,
descends back to the most mundane givenness, moved by the necessary
force of Being and with great joy. 33 One is called therefore, as the Sufis
say, to proclaim that “only God is,” and “to worship God as if you see
him” (see Chittick 1998, xii).
 The Problem of Evil in the Speculative Mysticism of Meister Eckhart 45

When we contemplate Being once more, we find that all beings have
their Being in Being. Nothing escapes Being. Insofar as anything is, it is
God. When Meister Eckhart claims that contingent beings are essentially
nothing, and God as the Godhead is essentially nothing, he is simultane-
ously claiming that contingent beings are essentially divine. When the
philosopher comes to see that everything is God, he has a new sense of
his proper dwelling place. 34 Christ’s proper dwelling place is with every-
one:
Then Jesus’ mother and brothers arrived. Standing outside, they sent
someone in to call him. A crowd was sitting around him, and they told
him “your mother and brother are outside looking for you.” “Who are
my mother and my brothers” he asked? Then he looked at those seated
in a circle around him and said: “Here are my mother and my brothers!
Whoever does God’s will is my brother and sister and mother.” (Mark
3: 31–4; NIV)
The universal dwelling of God in beings is succinctly expressed in Ebe-
rhardt Arnold’s (2011) contention that Christ’s redemption is not “from
nature” but “the redemption of nature” (80). 35 Accordingly, the natural
state of the human being is that of divinity, and the goal of the religious
life is to rediscover that inner divinity out of one’s fallenness. Upon
achieving detachment, the self re-discovers its finitude as an expression
of the infinite God, as a unity of the indivisible and the differentiated, and
thereby undergoes the same process as that of God or Being. 36
In order to achieve Christhood, and to “redeem nature,” evil is neces-
sary. According to Eckhart, God permits human beings to sin in order
that they might recognize the mercy of God, and in order to incite them
to do great things (1981e, 262). Upon recognizing the necessity of evil for
the good, Eckhart claims that if one desires to achieve perfection, then it
is necessary to will sin. 37 In defense of the charge of heresy, Eckhart
insists that the perfect man wills that he has sinned: “A perfect man,
knowing that God has willed and wills him to have sinned, in loving
God’s honor wills that he had sinned, but ought not will sin for the sake
of anything that is beneath God” (quoted in McGinn 1981, 44). 38
McGinn (1981, 44) claims that this is a weak response to the charges of
heresy, though once we recognize the dialectical aspect of Eckhart’s ac-
count of Being, we are able to recognize why Eckhart thinks that sin is
necessary for the development of detachment. On the whole, evil is the
separation of the differentiated being from the whole unity of differentiated
and undifferentiated being. The separation of differentiated being from
the whole unity of differentiated and undifferentiated being may be of a
natural or moral type. Only through the fall of differentiated being from
the undifferentiated Godhead may the undifferentiated be united again
with the differentiations. Likewise, it is only through sin, through going
astray, that one recognizes one’s own desire and need for detachment. As
46 Chapter 2

Eckhart claims, one only wills sin in loving God’s honor, that is, insofar as it
has been instrumental for turning the soul back to God. Sin ought not be
willed insofar as it is for the sake of anything that is “beneath God,” for in
this case, one does not will the reconciliation of the soul with God, but
wills the separation of God from the soul and the inversion of the proper
order of the cosmos (McGinn 1981, 44).
In sum, for Meister Eckhart the indivisibility of God entails that God is
nothing. This leads to the problem that God must be conceived as evil. By
heeding the dialectical aspects of Eckhart’s account, it becomes clear how
the dialectical relationship of “God” to the Godhead reveals how Eck-
hart’s thesis on evil is endemic to his speculative mysticism. Though this
discussion certainly does not answer all our questions regarding evil in
Meister Eckhart, it may at least begin to shed some light on how the
special paradox of evil follows from the univocity of Being and why the
Meister choose to defend himself by insisting that perfection requires the
practitioner to will sin.

NOTES

1. As Bernand McGinn (1981) points out, for Eckhart unity is connected with the
concept of the “indistinct,” because everything that is indistinct is also one, while
everything that is distinct is at least two or greater (from McGinn 1981, 34). Further,
McGinn rightfully notes that for Eckhart, Being and God are identified with “one” in
this sense of “indistinct.” Being (ens) is what is held in common by beings and is
differentiated by its own lack of difference or distinction. In addition, God is differen-
tiated by his lack of difference (from McGinn 1981, 35).
2. One may rightly be skeptical that Eckhart’s heretical claims (as well as many of
the apparently contradictory claims between various texts) cannot be adequately ad-
dressed without attending to the political context of Eckhart’s writing. Though I am
sympathetic to this concern, my main concern is to inquire into whether Eckhart’s
texts maintain a conceptual coherency and plausibility on their own accord. For a
comparative analysis of mystical and non-mystical theology in providing a coherent
theodicy, see Stoeber (1992).
3. The main concern motivating my inquiry into Meister Eckhart’s ontological
account of evil is a broader concern regarding the coherency of philosophical mysti-
cism. In particular, there is a profound question about whether philosophical mysti-
cism can provide a coherent account of evil. Instead of tackling this issue all at once in a
very general fashion, this paper investigates the coherency of Meister Eckhart’s philo-
sophical mysticism in respect to the question of the ontology of evil. By thinking
through particular philosophical mystics, we avoid equivocating on various forms of
mysticism. On the whole, I offer this analysis as a case study.
4. Eckhart’s inquisitors condemned Articles Fourteen and Fifteen. Article Fourteen
claims that a good man should not will that he had not sinned, and that God wills for
him to have sinned (1981b, 79). Article Fifteen also claims that a man ought not will
that he had not committed sins (1981b, 79).
5. Some scholars have indicated that Eckhart’s defense of his view of evil is weak,
and fails to properly address the heretical nature of his claims. I suggest that his
dialectical treatment of Being motivates the way Eckhart’s response to the charge of
heresy, and thereby brings us into closer proximity to the spirit of Eckhart’s work.
6. A concept is “dialectical” if it is unified with its opposite in virtue of what it is.
Though Eckhart advances the thesis that Being is meant univocally, it is in virtue of the
 The Problem of Evil in the Speculative Mysticism of Meister Eckhart 47

univocity of Being that different senses of Being arise, namely Being as God and God-
head. Because different senses of Being develop out of the univocity of Being, the
meaning of Being in Eckhart is “dialectical.”
7. See Aristotle (1979, 54).
8. See 1981f, 288.
9. Of course, the claim that “Being is Nothingness” is a contradiction. Eckhart
claims that “reason” is a lower faculty, and it is with “intellectual” understanding that
such truths may be grasped. With intellectual understanding, one perceives Christ
“without images” and “without a medium,” that is, one perceives Christ directly. As a
mystic, Eckhart argues that God cannot be grasped in a mediated way via concepts,
but directly. Likewise, as philosophers we fail to grasp the meaning of such sentences
as long as we are beholden to reason and have not yet understood “intellectually.”
Naturally, this appears to require that Eckhart must reject his own claims if he is going
to accept them. But this is not a surprising feature of Eckhart’s account or unique to his
philosophy, since it is a basic feature of much philosophical mysticism from Nagarju-
na to Wittgenstein. See (1981i, 207–8).
10. Though this problem deserves more attention that I can afford to give it here, I
think that Eckhart provides us the resources to answer the objection. Given the inte-
gration of differentiated beings into the indivisible unity of God, self-love cannot be
contrasted with the love of others. Because the mystic seeker begins by loving herself
enough to seek God through detachment, and in detachment she recognizes that all
beings have the same Being in the Godhead, she comes to see that her self-love cannot
be distinguished from the love of others. As Bernard McGinn (1981) points out, when
one loves God over everything else only then does one come to love oneself and all
other things in an egalitarian fashion. By becoming indistinct in God, one’s love ceases
to differentiate among entities (58). So naturally, one practiced in the mystic life comes
to obey Christ’s commands quite naturally as a result of the practice: to “love others as
oneself” and “to love God.” As it turns out, the love of others is also the love of God,
and the love of God nothing other than the love of others. Since God is love, one
becomes the vehicle of God’s self-love in which all otherness is included. For this
reason, in detachment the mystic is not at all indifferent to beings or to evil. Quite to
the contrary, the mystic resists evil through unconditional love.
11. For more on the question concerning the moral consequences of mysticism, see
Jones (1984).
12. Bernard McGinn (1981) notes that Eckhart’s Neo-platonic optimism led him to a
paradoxical position on evil (44). I am not sure that the optimism is exactly what is
relevant here. More exactly, it is Eckhart’s Neo-Platonic mysticism that is of greatest
relevance. Once we think through the consequences of Eckhart’s assumption concern-
ing the oneness of Being, we see that it is the dialectical nature of his reasoning that not
only (1) leads to the paradox in the first place, but also (2) provides a way to overcome
the problem.
13. Though this passage appears consistent with a Thomistic perspective on evil, it
appears quite problematic when placed in conjunction with his other claims.
14. As will become evident, this claim must be qualified. In particular, God under-
stood as the Godhead could neither be good nor evil.
15. Eckhart draws the distinction in many places. In (1981h, 200) Eckhart distin-
guishes between the Godhead as an absolute emptiness from “God” who is a being
distinguished from creatures.
16. Much of the third section of this chapter is reproduced from my discussion of
Eckhart and Heidegger (see 2014; chapter 5).
17. Bernand McGinn is spot on when he notes that “since indistinction is the distin-
guishing mark of unum, what sets it off from everything else, to conceive of God as
unum, or Absolute Unity, is to conceive of him as simultaneously distinct and indis-
tinct, indeed, the more distinct insofar as he is indistinct” (1981, 34; my emphasis).
18. For more on the dialectic of Being and one in Eckhart see Kertz (1959, 342n53
and 351–3).
48 Chapter 2

19. I want to thank Elizabeth Brient for referring me to the Commentary on John as a
source for Eckhart’s perspective on evil.
20. Often it is supposed that “something” is merely opposed to “nothing.” But for
Eckhart “something” is defect of absolute nothingness, which is indistinguishable
from absolute Being. Accordingly, “something” is opposed not only to “nothing” but
also to “Being.”
21. The apparently contradictory texts are “Commentary on John” (1981d) and
“Commentary on Genesis” (1981c). Although to say of God that he is “goodness” is
not the same to say that he is “good,” if nothing can be said of God, then it cannot be
said of God that he is “goodness.” Naturally, this raises questions concerning the
relation of the universal to the particular. Is “goodness” itself “good”? On the one
hand, if it were a good, then it would be a particular good, and would assume “good-
ness” itself as its antecedent, which would be problematic, since God is goodness,
according to the passage. Yet, it seems that “goodness” is good—for it is the good
integral to goodness in virtue of which anything is good.
22. As Eckhart points out, it is not the inherent disposition to sin that is sin, but it is
wanting to sin that is sin (1981e, 256).
23. See 1981c, 109.
24. God is the One and the Good, the principle of order from which the many fall
(1981d, 166–7).
25. I by no means pretend to have justified attributing “good” to God here, only
that upon removing the lack of differentiation, a necessary condition for attributing the
usual theological predicates to “God” (such as “goodness”) is fulfilled. Again, see
(1981d, 166–7).
26. As Bernand McGinn points out, if we correlate indistinction with immanence
and distinction with transcendence, one is in possession of a way of talking about God
as transcendent just insofar as he is immanent in creatures (1981, 34).
27. In the formulation of God as the unity of undifferentiated and differentiated
being lies Eckhart’s formulation of the Trinity. God as the merely undifferentiated
Being is the Father. The Son is God the father, undifferentiated Being, in his differen-
tiated Form, or the word become flesh. The Holy Spirit is the return of God to himself
through the Father and the Son. Or what is the same: the Undifferentiated Being
returns to itself out of differentiation through the integration of differentiation into his
own undifferentiated Being. Each of these persons of the trinity are inseparable from
the others. As is evident, Meister Eckhart appears to clothe his Neo-Platonic theology
in Trinitarian terminology. One of the concerns that arises when the Neo-Platonic
theology is clothed in Trinitarian terminology is whether Eckhart has equivocated on
the acts of creating and begetting. According to the Nicene Creed Jesus is begotten not
created, yet here it is unclear whether a clear distinction between these two can be
properly maintained. This is a problem endemic to Neo-Platonist theologies and is not
specific to Eckhart.
28. Three senses of infinity correspond to the three moments of undifferentiated
Being: (1) The undifferentiated Being is indeterminate, insofar as there is no differen-
tiated being with which it stands in contrast. (2) Undifferentiated Being falls into
contrast with differentiated being, and an infinite regress of differentiated beings en-
sues. The infinite multitude of differentiated beings constitutes the second sense of the
infinite as a quantitative series, in which there is an infinite multiplicity of beings. This
is the sense of “the bad infinite” in Hegel’s terms. It is also the infinite as the fall from
the One, and thus as evil. (3) Undifferentiated Being is infinite as perfection. It is
perfect because it lacks nothing. This sense of the infinite contains the previous two.
29. As is evident, this reading of Eckhart makes his theology plainly heretical. I
think any attempt to render his theology consistent with Catholic teaching on this
point will fail to appreciate why Eckhart falls into this paradox concerning evil.
30. As Eckhart states, one must desire to be “free of God” (1981h, 200).
 The Problem of Evil in the Speculative Mysticism of Meister Eckhart 49

31. Of course, if the eschatological aspect of Eckhart’s mysticism requires positing

that “God” is evil, then we must come to terms with the fact that Eckhart’s speculative
mysticism is inherently heretical.
32. In the Godhead there is neither good nor evil. But since nothing exists outside of
God, and evil exists, it must also exist in God. For this reason, Eckhart cannot unequiv-
ocally claim that God is not evil.
33. Here we may remember Plato’s cave analogy. Whereas there the philosopher is
forced to go back down into the cave, the mystic returns with joy, because he must
never really leave. The cave is the dwelling place of the divine.
34. Seeing God as merely transcendent is idolatry—in such a case one is not yet free
from images of God. Indeed, the incapacity to see God as immanent is, ironically, to
reduce him to one differentiated being among others, and to thereby fail to see God
the father that He is, namely as the undifferentiated Godhead.
35. In his own words, he states the following: “Nature needs to be redeemed. This
does not mean we should be redeemed from nature, in the sense of becoming de-
tached from nature, but that nature itself must be redeemed” (Arnold 2011, 80).
36. Because the self’s own finite nature is redeemed through detachment, Eckhart
goes so far as to identify himself with God among us, Christ, the only begotten Son of
God (1981g, 188).
37. If we remember that to will to sin is sin, then it appears that to will that one has
sinned appears to be a sin as well. But in this case, we are not willing that we may be
separate from God, but we will that we were separated from God in order that we
might toward him in detachment. In this case, willing that we have sinned is not a will
to be separate from God, but instead wills the unity of God with the human being.
38. And again, Eckhart makes it clear that the quickest way to perfection is through
suffering (1981f, 294).

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 THREE
Evil by Nobodies
Jennifer Mei Sze ANG

Atrocities in our human history revealed one fact—that ordinary human

beings are capable of great evil by creating a living hell. From Hannah
Arendt’s observations in Eichmann in Jerusalem, evil did not come from
monsters, but stemmed from banal and thoughtless individuals. The new
crime of the authors of these monstrous deeds, she explains, is their in-
ability to tell right from wrong, take a larger view of their context, and
think about the meaning of their actions. The fact that they were “terribly
and terrifyingly normal individuals” without any diabolical or demonic
profundity makes them a new type of evil-doers (Arendt 2006, 276). On
the other hand, Jean-Paul Sartre showed us that what is ordinary evil is
how Manichean mindsets dominate concrete relationships to create a liv-
ing hell. In Anti-Semite and the Jew, Sartre (1995) paints a portrait of anti-
Semites in bad faith—anti-Semites need the construct of “the Jew” to
perpetuate their own existence, and yet, their single purpose was to pre-
pare for “the death of the Jew,” as sanctified evildoers who do “evil for
the sake of the Good” in order to create a better world without Jewish
people (50). Thus, Sartre tells us, Hell does not require instruments of
torture for “Hell is other people” who offer us no reprieve.
This chapter examines the works of both thinkers and sketches an
alternative understanding of how ordinary individuals are capable of
committing evil deeds on a gigantic scale, and in this case, genocides. It
argues that it takes more than thoughtlessness, the obedience to author-
ity, and an ideology for ordinary individuals to perpetuate what Arendt
described as dehumanizing totalitarianism. But instead of subscribing to
Arendt’s banality-of-evil thesis, I argue that the annihilation of a popula-
tion can only be conceptualized and brought about by individuals who
51
52 Chapter 3

are morally vacuous, do not conceive of a present-world-being-with-oth-

ers, and do not reflect on their relation to their community. This re-imagi-
nation of evil carried out by ordinary individuals in our modern age
offers a new understanding to Sartre’s concept of bad faith and Arendt’s
banality of evil, and brings together their concerns for individual respon-
sibility and guilt.

THE OBEDIENCE OF CORPSES

Arendt tells us that a new phenomenon of evil can be found in the ex-
traordinary shallowness of thoughtless individuals like Adolf Eichmann.
Eichmann sincerely believed that he was innocent because he had never
killed anyone or given an order to kill anyone. And because his actions
did not arise from base motives but from his determination to perform
his utmost in carrying out the orders and law of the Third Reich, he did
not want to deny or regret his actions. He believed he was not a moral
monster but a victim of history.
Eichmann’s case clearly shows us that not all evildoers are monstrous
or have evil propensities. Psychologically, Eichmann was tested normal;
he did not have any malevolent tendencies, did not take pleasure in the
suffering of others, and had no intention to make others suffer. In fact, he
found the Final Solution to be “one of the greatest crimes in the history of
Humanity” (Arendt 2006, 22). How then do sound ordinary people be-
come evildoers? Some psychological tests seem to suggest that when or-
dinary and normally decent people are put into dichotomized groups,
they can descend mindlessly into brutality. For instance, well-adjusted
individuals willingly followed instructions to deliver electric shocks to
strangers in Stanley Milgram’s obedience test and student participants
actively performed their roles and even creatively adopted their tasks as
prison wardens in Philip Zimbardo’s Stanford Prison Experiment. Like
Eichmann, Milgram’s obedient test subjects followed the instructions
from someone in authority, and like Eichmann, student participants in
Zimbardo’s basement prison carried out what was expected of them sim-
ply by belonging to a group.
But this “blindless obedience” theory has its limits in explaining the
actions of all ordinary people in a group. The experimenters were not
exactly regarded an authority figure in Milgram’s tests, and the partici-
pants were clearly struggling to follow orders, appearing distraught and
visibly upset. And in Zimbardo’s experiments, not all guards embraced
the oppressive role even when they were encouraged. In other words, not
all ordinary people mindlessly succumb to acts of brutality because of
authority or social pressure. Instead, what these experiments reveal is
that some ordinary people choose to identify themselves with a perspec-
tive or ideology that considered brutal means to be necessary for bring-
 Evil by Nobodies 53

ing about what they considered a right order or consequence. They are
thus a self-selected lot rather than mere ordinary people.
In fact, social psychologists such as Alexander Haslam and Stephen
Reicher (2007) have questioned the idea that ordinary people can commit
atrocities without awareness, care, or choice, and had instead shown in
recent studies that these participants in violence have acted thoughtfully,
creatively, and with conviction. 1 They have also shown that individuals
will only move towards tyranny when they identified with their roles,
developed and shared their identification with others in the in-group,
and when the interests associated with this identity is being advanced by
leaders of the group. Indeed, from Arendt’s documentation of Eichmann,
we also observed the conviction and pride he had when he performed his
role in the SS machinery, and carried out his duties creatively and zeal-
ously to achieve the vision of the Reich.
Eichmann’s motivations in joining the SS were also clear. As a failure
in his family and in his social class, Eichmann was eager to be part of an
organization where he could draw an identity from, achieve recognition,
and advance his ambitions. He made efforts to creatively adapt to his
situation, overcame challenges and took initiatives, and even went
against the changing tide of the moderate wing by sabotaging Himmler’s
orders as much as he could. His choices were made freely and not
coerced, and his actions were deliberate, not accidental. In short, he was
not an automaton who happened to be at the wrong place and at the
wrong time, but an opportunistic individual who purposefully made the
best of his situation. His evildoing was not the result of malice, coercion,
or circumstances, but the absoluteness of his motive to promote his per-
sonal ambitions at the cost of causing excessive harm to others; exactly
the same reason why Franz Stangl accepted the top post at Treblinka. As
Wolfgang Bialas (2014) puts it, when we examine their motivations, it
was as if “below the surface of cultural domestication and moral safe-
guards, man had been lying in wait for opportunities to become once
more that beast he had always been despite his guise as a civilised being”
(15).
Eichmann was also in a position which gave him visibility over the
consequences of his actions and not someone who was removed from
reality, shielded by “self-deception, lies and stupidity” as Arendt (2005)
suggests in Responsibility and Judgement (54). Initially in charge of Evacua-
tion and Emigration, Eichmann was put in charge of Jewish Affairs
(Evacuation) by March 1941 where he had learnt about the killings car-
ried out by the Einsatzgruppen and also made several trips to the different
types of camps and saw enough to be fully informed of the atrocities. Yet,
the only times he suffered a crisis of conscience was when he realized
German Jews were also murdered and when his job to make the Reich
judenrien was compromised. According to Arendt (2006), because Eich-
mann had wrongly believed that he was no longer able to change any-
54 Chapter 3

thing and no longer the “master of his own deeds,” he thought he needed
to blindly follow the Führer’s order like “obedient corpses” (135). He
believed that his duty to the Führer was so absolute that when he could
choose between profiteering from Jews who could pay to save their own
lives and carrying out Hitler’s orders, he would choose to follow orders
than take part in the corruption.
Thus to Arendt, his inability to tell right from wrong by hiding behind
Nazi clichés and not taking a larger perspective of the implication of his
actions was indicative of his thoughtlessness. Her solution for his banal
evil is found in Responsibility and Judgement. “Thinking,” which involves
the shattering of idols, opens our learned or innate rules to examination
and questioning, and in this way, unfreezes what we thought we know
so that we can judge anew (2005, 103). It is when we shield people from
thinking that they get used to “never making up their minds” and contin-
ue to “hold fast to whatever the prescribed rules of conduct” are at a
given time, in a given society (2005, 178). Hence, she praised the doubters
and the skeptics, and found them more reliable because they examine
things and make up their own minds. Those who did not participate in
the crimes, she argues, “were the only ones who dared judge by them-
selves” and did not allow their conscience to function in an “automatic
way” by applying fixed learned or innate rules to situations (2005, 44). In
other words, it is better to find a monster than a machine like Eichmann
on Arendt’s terms, as Terry Eagleton (2010) suggests.
But Eichmann was not a machine lacking in judgement, according to
Barry Clarke (1980). Eichmann was heteronomously evil because he “sur-
rendered only his autonomy and not his spontaneity and at each moment
[in] time he could presumably have resumed exercising his judgement
and reason and used his freedom of will to recommence choosing for
himself” (Clarke 1980, 438). Therefore, having freely chosen to defer to
some external judgment rather than autonomously initiate significant ac-
tion, Clarke argues that the rightness or wrongness of Eichmann’s action
depended on the rightness or wrongness of the Nazi laws to which he
deferred. Furthermore, Eichmann’s evildoing was not as banal as Arendt
made it to be, that is, ordinary individuals thoughtlessly applying fixed
moral categories simply because their normal moral standards have col-
lapsed into a mere set of mores to be changed at will (Arendt 2006, 54).
What Arendt failed to realize, as Clarke points out, was that Eichmann
could not judge because he lacked an independent moral standard to
judge from.
Thus, if we have to identify a feature of Eichmann that can explain his
deliberate choices and failed judgement, it would be that he did not have
a conscience—an independent standard of right and wrong—to begin
with. Being a morally vacuous individual also explains why he was not
in a moral struggle when he took on the role of a “desk murderer” and
why he can be easily seduced by the opportunity to be part of what he
 Evil by Nobodies 55

considered grandiose and historic. It hence becomes obvious that

Arendt’s solution will not help a morally bankrupt individual know what
is right or wrong since all thinking does is to “unfreeze” and dissolve
accepted rules of conduct without putting in place a general standard
from which to judge from. In fact, Arendt (2005) herself reminded us that
our conscience “does not create values,” nor does it confirm or find out
what “the good” is (188). Her solution for us then is to refer to Socrates,
Plato, and Kant as models of virtue, but for a morally bankrupt Eich-
mann, not only did he not have models of virtue to start with, he was also
unable to find one in a society where Nazi conscience meant that he had
to do everything in the interest of the superior Aryan race. Therefore, if
Eichmann is a monster, he is a different type of monster—one who is
morally bankrupt and hence, incapable of making any judgements re-
garding the standards he adopts. But we would also need to examine the
Nazi conscience that morally vacuous individuals adopted in order to
fully understand the nature of this new type of evil-doer.

THE CONSCIENCE OF FACELESS EVIL

In Roots of Evil, John Kekes (2007) explains that the Enlightenment ap-
proach to evil is to see that reason helps us realize our propensity for
good (6). Thus, the more reasonable we are, the better human life is
supposed to become. In the Platonic sense, with reason, we will not carry
out evil out of ignorance or out of false beliefs concerning what is good.
But when we turn to Nazi ideology, the system of false beliefs has a
certain reasoning of its own. Sartre’s phenomenological analysis of anti-
Semitism, for example, gives us an idea of the false beliefs about the Jews
and demonstrates how their bad faith is perpetuated through the Nazi
ideology.
In Anti-Semite and the Jew, Sartre (1995) discusses how the idea of “the
Jew” does not rest on a set of biological, physiological, geographical,
religious, historical or political characteristics, nor did it arise from the
actual encounters with the Jewish people. The “Jew” is an idea invented
by the anti-Semite to explain their socio-economic experiences based on
their irrational passion of fear and hate. Passion, Sartre explains, is irra-
tional because it precedes the fact, seeks to nourish itself upon these facts,
and interprets facts in a way that is offensive (1995, 17). In other words, it
is unprovoked unlike how ordinary hate and anger work. And as a meta-
physical concept, “the Jew” arose from a Manichean world-view which
understood History as a struggle between the irreconcilable “principle of
Good with the principle of Evil” in which Evil is the Being of the Jew and
in them is a metaphysical principle that drove them to do evil such that
they are only free to do evil (40–1). In this way, anti-Semitism attributed
all Evil in the world to “the Jew,” and used this metaphysical principle to
56 Chapter 3

explain their socio-economic experiences: the Jew used their intelligence

to rob from the Aryans, and hid “behind the governments, breathing
discord,” created war among nations, and seduced workers into commu-
nism and created class struggles (40). Thus, the anti-Semite’s conclusion
was that the Jew is completely evil because he is Jew such that even “[h]is
virtues, if he has any, turn to vices by reason of the fact that they are his”
(33). Built on this irrational passion of hate and fear, the Nazi future is to
bring about this metaphysical inevitability: the complete destruction of
every structure and fabric of the Jew as a human race.
According to this reasoning, the anti-Semites do “good” by destroying
“evil.” They are “mediocre,” but superior to the Jewish people who are
“inferior and pernicious.” In fact, many of the anti-Semites were from the
lower middle class of the towns, and chose to think of themselves as
victims re-establishing their status as possessors (25). This perception
rests on the idea they have of themselves—as elite by birth and hence, a
fact that cannot be denied. Their status as possessors as such is a given
right rather than merit. In this way, the Manichean ideas of the “Evil-
ness” of the Jew and the “Goodness” of the anti-Semites occupied an
ontological status, and gave justification to the anti-Semite’s retaliation
against the Jew. But we need to also turn to studies in Nazi ideology as
Sartre’s phenomenological account of anti-Semitism could not give us
sufficient insight into the complex genocidal agenda of the Nazis. More
importantly, Sartre’s analysis makes the assumption that all perpetrators
of this crime are necessarily racist when it need not be the case (and I will
return to this in the final section of this chapter).
In SS Thinking and the Holocaust, André Mineau (2014) outlines a Nazi
ideology that justifies the superior ontological, biological, and moral stat-
us of the master race. Here, we find that the argument of biological neces-
sity is pivotal in creating the first steps for morally bankrupt ordinary
persons to become knowing individuals that took part in the Final Solu-
tion. According to Nazi ideology, Volk or race based on blood line repre-
sents “the real locus of ontological value as compared to the individual”
because its flow comes from eternity and leads to eternity (Mineau 2014,
38). Inherent in this concept is a feeling of biological superiority and a
scientific and ethical mission to preserve the purity of blood in order to
guarantee the Volk’s eternity. To actualize this biological necessity, the
Nazis argued that it is ethically justified to euthanize Germany’s weak
and conquer more areas in the East that were occupied by the Slavic
peoples who are lower on the biological hierarchy. In fact, Hitler believed
that Germany would have won WWI had it shed all respect for life and
the laws of war.
To this end, SS ideology subverted the foundations of traditional mo-
rality and replaced it with the moral form of Nazi ideology (Mineau 2014,
2). Mineau outlines three particular dimensions to the moralization of
this ideology founded on biological necessity: a treatise on virtues such as
 Evil by Nobodies 57

faithfulness and truthfulness to members of the Aryan race in order to

actualize Nazi ideology; the moral justification of the consequences of
Nazi ideology so as to enable individuals to overcome psychological dif-
ficulties for the sake of Nazi morality; and the categorical imperative of
this duty each has towards the Aryan race (Mineau 2014, 58). For Bialas
(2014), the new man Nazi ideology aims to create is one who will “liberate
himself from the fetters of moral obligations to the weak and needy and
to subordinate his life to racial imperatives instead of following outdated
(Christian) precepts of unconditional humanity and charity” (23). In the
same vein, Gunner Heinsohn (2000) argues that the Holocaust is unique
because of the destruction of the Jewish invention of the idea of “con-
science” in order to “reintroduce the archaic rights” to infanticide and
genocide (426).
Evil, as we now see, is comprehensible and has certain reasoning of its
own. Understanding its reasoning does not require us to sympathize
with evildoers, but allows us to see how Nazi racial policy is able to
provide morally bankrupt individuals a pseudoscientific framework to
rationalize and moralize the means they employ by using “arguments
concerning history, natural laws, race, population policy, national hy-
giene, and biology” (Bialas 2014, 18). What thus seems to be horrifyingly
evil to some in this new pseudoscientific and moral framework is the idea
of human sacrifice. Yet, we find that justifying mass murder as necessary
towards some greater good based on an ontological account of struggle is
not entirely unfamiliar in an era marred by atrocities on similar gigantic
scales such as Stalin’s collectivism, Mao’s Cultural Revolution, and Pol
Pot’s communism. We are also reminded of similar levels of brutality in
cases of ethnic cleansing and genocides like those in Turkey, Bosnia, and
Rwanda. And even though they differ by methods, they share common
features such as methods of collective humiliation and the objective of
mass destruction. 2 Thus to others, Arendt’s conclusion that nobodies—
banal thoughtless individuals—are capable of such inhumane destruc-
tion on a gigantic scale is what presents a terrifying truth of our moder-
nity, and also the new form of evil.
Arendt argued that banal evil is when ordinary people extinguished
their private conscience. As Eichmann watched the elite of the Civil Ser-
vice attempting to outdo each other to take the lead in the Final Solution,
he thought to himself—Who was he to judge? Who was he to have his
own thoughts in this matter (Arendt 2006, 114)? He embraced the logic of
the Nazi ideology to help him rationalize the Holocaust as an ontological
and historical necessity, and also rationalize that his actions were not
personal acts of malice but a moral right and duty. And in deferring his
judgment to the Nazi conscience this way, Eichmann said that he sensed
a kind of Pontius Pilate feeling for he felt free of all guilt. In fact, Arendt
maintained that this self-extinguishing of private conscience was perva-
sive in the entire Nazi machinery even before the horrors of war struck
58 Chapter 3

Germany. This has to be the case because the enormous difficulties of

operationalizing the Final Solution in the whole of Europe required more
than tacit acceptance from the Reich’s state apparatus and mere compli-
ance from the Ministries and Civil Service. Operationalization required a
series of complicated legal processes and procedures to be put in place
regarding the treatment of Jews, concrete proposals on various methods
of killing, and logistical and manpower considerations when coordinat-
ing the effort between different parties and across borders. The fact that
only when Germany was going to lose the war did defections from the
higher SS ranks occur shows that private conscience has already been
self-extinguished, and even then, Arendt (2006) argues that they were
inspired not by conscience but by corruption (116).
But such massive tasks at hand will call for more than a suspension of
one’s conscience as suggested by Arendt, and would instead, require
one’s active participation and coordination with others to build a com-
mon conscience. Furthermore, if conscience is meant to be an inner judge
that guides one’s beliefs and actions, it is necessary that it performs the
role of an independent standard from which we judge public conscience
and morals. As such, it is not a matter of replacing the command ‘Thou
shalt not kill’ as Arendt thinks, but rather, it must be the case that Eich-
mann was morally bankrupt for him to adopt and not judge Nazi moral-
ity correctly.
What I have thus clearly shown is that Eichmann belongs to a particu-
lar kind of nobodies who exercised their judgment, but failed to make
ethical judgments because they are morally bankrupt. Being morally vac-
uous made them truly convinced that exterminating their enemies for the
world to be saved is rational and also moral, because their false beliefs
were justified by an ideology, institutions, and state leadership. It is thus
the fact that someone like Eichmann did not have an inner voice that
judged public morality, and not what Arendt suggests—that he is able to
soothe his own conscience because he could see that no one was actually
against the Final Solution. In fact, Arendt’s version of Eichmann leaves
the question of his individual responsibility open: he could have contin-
ued to suspend his conscience, and in a completely different world, his
action could have been morally praise-worthy. By leaving Eichmann to
his circumstantial luck means that Arendt is unfair to treat him as an
object of moral judgment and hold him morally responsible for factors
outside of his control. How then do we judge these individuals who
believed in their clear conscience that their enemies are non-humans that
need to be exterminated?
 Evil by Nobodies 59

NO-THINGNESS, NO-BODIES, AND ANNIHILATION

David Livingston Smith (2011) argues in Less than Human that through
methods of dehumanization, one group of human beings treats another
group as though they were sub-human creatures by seeing not just what
they lack but also seeing them as creatures that are less than human (26).
In so doing, they convince themselves that they have no moral rights and
obligations towards this group of sub-human creatures. In fact, the dehu-
manization of the enemy is necessary for soldiers in combat precisely
because they tend to still see their enemies as human beings like them-
selves. And for this reason, each group uses an us-versus-them paradigm
to describe their enemies in animalistic terms. But we must first distin-
guish Smith’s idea of “dehumanization” from the other uses of dehuman-
ization such as dehumanization to mean the taking away of individuality
(for example, an administrator seeing himself as a cog in a bureaucracy)
and dehumanization as a process of objectification where one is treated
as mere means.
For Arendt, the lack of individuality characterizes the mass of ato-
mized individuals in our modern era, and the Nazi movement filled their
need for a sense of identity. The identity for atomized individuals like
Eichmann is built on his race, and with that, the moral duty to maintain
the purity of the Volk by exterminating sub-human creatures. In her judg-
ment of Eichmann’s crimes, she described crimes against humanity as the
extermination of whole groups of people and endangerment of mankind
in its entirety by seeing them as sub-humans:
And just as you supported and carried out a policy of not wanting to
share the earth with the Jewish people and the people of a number of
other nations—as though you and your superiors had any right to
determine who should and who should not inhabit the world—we find
that no one, that is, no member of the human race, can be expected to
want to share the earth with you. This is the reason, and the only
reason, you must hang. (2006, 279)
While Arendt pointed out that what formed this new crime was the pro-
cess of reducing humans into sub-humans, Sartre’s “look phenomenon”
in Being and Nothingness was able to explain the element of racism in anti-
Semitism further, that is, how the anti-Semite came to objectify the Jew as
the Other through Manichean lenses. Sartre tells us that in our encounters
with others, we reveal the object-ness of our being as being-for-other as
we encounter their subjectivity. We experience a loss of control over how
the Other comprehends our being that we are nonetheless responsible
for, and this causes us to desire the recovery of our being and we achieve
this by reducing the Other’s freedom. The Other is thus experienced as a
subject that needs to be reduced to its object-ness. But we will realize that
this is a futile attempt because in trying to absorb the subjectivity of the
60 Chapter 3

Other, we need to ensure that the Other is intact since “the Other is the
foundation of [our] being” (Sartre 1956, 475–6). The bad faith of the anti-
Semites therefore resides in this very fact: they require the construct of
“the Jew” for them to destroy, and yet have a vital need for this enemy
because the anti-Semite can only exist through the construct of “the Jew,”
with rights to recover and a “good” to reinstate (Sartre 1995, 28).
We must also understand that for Sartre (1965), it is not always the
case that “our relations with others are always rotten or illicit” because
Hell is the Other only when “our relations with others are twisted or
corrupted” (98). Our concrete relations with others depend on the atti-
tude we assume towards our “being-for-other”—whether we envisaged
it within the perspective of conflict by fleeing from our object-ness and
reducing the Other as object, or whether we identify with our freedom
and recognize the Other as freedom that is fundamental to our being-for-
other and seek to integrate with the Other’s freedom by sharing their
projects. And even when we find that our attempts at unifying with the
Other unrealizable, we can still choose to continue in our attempts to
unify with them by not acting on their freedom. Clearly then, the anti-
Semite is morally at fault for choosing an attitude of hostility towards the
Jew instead of authenticity, and this also puts him in bad faith as he
reduces the Jews’ freedom to their mere object-ness and sees them as sub-
humans under Manichean lenses.
Bad faith explains why soldiers after the war often report that they
would not have been able to commit these acts if they had not seen their
enemies as sub-humans. They admit responsibility for their actions, and
continue to carry with them feelings of guilt towards their victims. Dur-
ing the war, these soldiers had lifted themselves into pure freedom and
reduced their victims to their pure object-ness, and for some of them who
chose to see themselves as objects-for-the-leaders, they have chosen to
deny their freedom to disobey orders and hence devolved themselves
from any personal responsibility for their actions. But after the war, those
who experienced guilt towards their victims are those who acknowl-
edged their bad faith, and thus, expressed regret at not having assumed
their freedom to resist superior orders.
It is however unclear if the tension described between subjects-and-
subjects in a typical us-versus-them structure fully explains the case of
Eichmann. This is because Eichmann did not need to find anything objec-
tionable about the Jews to be able to carry out these crimes. In us-versus-
them paradigms, the perpetrator first sees the Other as consciousness
that needs to be subdued and invents an ideology that justifies structural
and procedural oppression. But Eichmann encounters the Jews as non-
humans. And because of this difference, he did not need to be a racist to
believe that their annihilation must be made an objective fact in order for
the Aryans to negate the present-world and usher in the new Nazi future.
Furthermore, because Eichmann did not see them as humans, he did not
 Evil by Nobodies 61

feel any remorse for having done what he did since he did not act against
sub-humans who share some characteristics of human-ness. 3 Unlike the
racist in bad faith who deceived himself about the subjectivity of the
other by encountering the other through irrational fear and hate, Eich-
mann did not experience his encounters through these emotions and car-
ried out his duties in “cold rationality” for which he claimed to be his
Kantian duty.
Hence, it may be the case that those in an us-versus-them paradigm
employed dehumanization and humiliation tactics for the purpose of
making their victims sub-humans but this is because they see their vic-
tims as humans in the first place. But for those like Eichmann who sees
others as non-humans, they do not see the need to dehumanize them, but
instead, adopted tactics that they think were simply treatment befitting
for non-humans. Eichmann was therefore not in bad faith and did not
feel guilty, and this is also the reason why to him and others like him on
trial think that no crimes were committed against the Jews because
crimes can only be committed against humans. And what this means is
that both a racist and Eichmann-like perpetrator could commit the same
act and be held culpable for the same crime, but their perception and
attitude they adopt were fundamentally different.
What can we therefore deduce about the structure of consciousness of
one who grasps other human subjects as non-humans and conceives of
their complete annihilation? Sartre’s phenomenological account of con-
sciousness may offer us some explanation and we start with Sartre’s ap-
plication of Husserl’s basic theory of consciousness: that consciousness is
always consciousness of something because the being of consciousness is
itself empty. “Nothing” on the other hand, is a revelation of an absence in
the world and is also introduced as negation into the world by conscious-
ness. In the first instance, “no-thingness” is revealed as an absent fact in
the world by an “expectation” of a presence in the world. In Sartre’s
(1956) example, it is with an expectation of seeing Pierre in the café that I
experience his absence. His absence is thus understood in relation to the
café that served as the condition or the ground in which Pierre’s absence
is experienced as “nothingness” (42). 4 Put in another way, absence or
“no-thingness” is not “something” residing in the world or a thought, but
a disclosure of an objective fact situated in the world based on a judg-
ment made in light of some human expectation. For the Nazi new man,
the absence that is revealed in the present world is the necessary condi-
tion of a unified Aryan race to bring forth the future Nazi Germany they
desire.
In the second instance, “no-thingness” is introduced into the world as
negation. As beings-in-itself-for-itself, we are free to negate the given and
posit an alternative state of affairs, and we can also create and destroy
our own possibilities at will, even though in the same moment, we appre-
hend that these motives for negating the given are not sufficiently effec-
62 Chapter 3

tive (Sartre 1956, 67–8). 5 We can thus transcend our current condition
through negation and create the possibility of it being-what-it-is-not. In
the same way, we can also introduce the possibility of negating our past
and our future. What therefore seemed to be positive freedom and liber-
ating in Sartre’s account also explains how the Nazi “new man” liberates
himself by exterminating the present conditions that were seen as obsta-
cles to the future that Nazi Germany wants to create.
In addition, Eichmann negated himself. Arendt observed this “nega-
tion of self” in her idea of banal evil when she described Eichmann as
“nobody.” Accordingly, nobodies are people who had no higher mean-
ing in their lives but instead found purpose in a movement they thought
was historical, grandiose, and unique. And because they were neither
monsters nor bureaucrats, they refused to be somebody in the machinery,
unable to grasp the meaning of their acts to the community and deny
their responsibility towards them. Hence, in responding to the judgement
of Eichmann, she returns the responsibility to the individual—the perpe-
trator of crimes against humanity:
We heard the protestations of the defense that Eichmann was after all
only a “tiny cog” in the machinery of the Final Solution . . . in its
judgement the court naturally conceded that such a crime could be
committed only by a giant bureaucracy using the resources of the
government. But insofar as it remains a crime—and that, of course, is
the premise for a trial—all the cogs in the machinery, no matter how
insignificant, are in court forthwith transformed back into perpetrators,
that is to say, into human beings. (2006, 289)
Hence, to Arendt, Eichmann was a textbook case of an unrepentant crimi-
nal, deceiving himself by using self-fabricated stock phrases even after
these cliché lines were no longer issued from above. It is also clear for
Sartre that this question of whether anyone can claim to be nobody and
deny individual responsibility was never an issue. In fact, he discussed
the bad faith of the anti-Semites at length.
First, Sartre described anguish as our experience of our ontological
freedom where we become conscious that we are not free to choose not to
be free. We experience freedom through anguish because it is a realiza-
tion that we alone are responsible for all our choices and actions with a
separation between our present ontological for-itself and our past and
future in-itself. Flight emerges as a reaction against anguish before the
dreadful freedom we have. In a project of flight, we attempt to flee from
our transcendence as for-itself by pursuing being in-itself. But flight is a
futile attempt to escape from anguish because we are attempting to flee in
order not to know but we cannot avoid knowing that we are fleeing. This
is what Sartre described as bad faith—a project of flight of self-deceit
aimed at reducing being-for-itself-in-itself to pure facticity (in-itself) or
absolute freedom (for-itself). And it is a state of faith because it is a belief
 Evil by Nobodies 63

that is not true of human reality, and requires one who is in possession of
the truth to alter the truth and persuade themselves of it (1956, 89). In
other words, there is only a single consciousness at work because the
deceived and the deceiver are one and the same person, not infected by
an external situation or a situation that one encounters, but what reflec-
tive consciousness creates.
Deception works by choosing to turn oneself into a mere thing that is
compelled to act in a certain manner determined by external forces. The
“I” which emerges upon reflection is a free being, and it is this very “I”
that one in bad faith wishes to deny. Another way to live a life of bad
faith is to assume complete freedom by disengaging oneself from the
surrounding and one’s present, and even one’s past and future. In short,
the “I” which emerges is one that is situated in facticity that one in bad
faith wishes to disregard. Living a life of bad faith thus means that one
puts into place a set of mental and behavioral mechanisms to escape from
anguish.
Eichmann, however, is not always in bad faith because he as the de-
ceiver in him does not exist. Eichmann negates his “I” by being unreflec-
tive so that his “I” does not even emerge. Sartre explains that conscious-
ness is consciousness of something, but in this same moment where it
intends a transcendental object, it is also aware of itself. This is what
Sartre referred to as first-degree consciousness. The “I,” however,
emerges only through a second-degree consciousness, that is, a reflection
on the first-degree consciousness. Here, “the Self itself apprehends itself”
where the “I” emerges as a state of self-consciousness (Sartre 1956, 319). 6
But what we can observe from the example of Eichmann is that the nega-
tion of self can occur from a failure to reflect. Eichmann’s first-degree
consciousness is intended towards the world—his negation of Jewish
subjectivity based on the Nazi ideology and conscience he differed to, his
annihilation of the present world, and annihilation of “non-humans” for
a future only for Aryans. He is fully immersed in the experience of his
transcendental first-degree consciousness, and in failing to reflect on his
first-degree consciousness, the “I” that needs to emerge for judgment to
take place does not appear. 7 As a consequence, Eichmann will not realize
that he is morally vacuous, nor see that he needed to overcome the Nazi
lies he adopted as truth, or be able to grasp himself as being-in-the-world
with other beings like himself. 8 And because he is unreflective, he failed
to constitute his own object-ness in a world with others, ascribe values
and meanings to his choices and actions, and be a judge of himself. In
order to do so, reflection is necessary, and hence, also more fundamental
than the thinking and judging that Arendt argued for. 9
What Eichmann is therefore morally blameworthy for is his failure to
reflect in order for him to be able to assume his being as a moral agent.
And what we can conclude is that for Eichmann and those along with
him who argued that their actions were not criminal but “acts of states,”
64 Chapter 3

they need to not only see others as “somebody” and not non-humans, but
also for them to see themselves as somebody and not nobody. Only when
“I” emerges upon reflection would the notion of moral responsibility
make sense—for one to judge oneself for one’s choice of beliefs and ac-
tions, and for feelings of shame and guilt to surface, and for one to as-
sume personal responsibility. And only then can we return ethics to the
individual; individuals as members of the human race. For Sartre and
Arendt, this is both a collective and personal moral responsibility we
have in forming moral judgements about our responses and our conduct.
The revision made in military law immediately before the Nuremberg
trial also appears to be the right step in this direction by reinstating the
responsibility to the individual (regardless of whether one is combatant
or non-combatant) where crimes against humanity are concerned. The
United Nations War Crimes Commission revised the Charter of the Inter-
national Military Tribunal before the trial in order to prevent the Ger-
mans and Japanese standing for trial on crimes against humanity to ap-
peal to the plea of superior orders by restating Article 8 as follows:
The fact that the Defendant acted pursuant to order of his Government
or of a superior shall not free him from responsibility but may be con-
sidered in mitigation of punishment if the Tribunal determines that
justice so requires. (quoted in Lewy 1970, 118) 10
In addition, the court of Nuremberg removed the plea of head of state
immunity as a defense or mitigation of punishment by ruling that
a person in a position of superior authority should be held individually
responsible for giving the unlawful order to commit a crime, and he
should also be held responsible for failure to deter the unlawful behavi-
our of subordinates if he knew they had committed or were about to
commit crime yet failed to take the necessary and reasonable steps to
prevent their commissions or to punish those who had committed
them. (Robertson 2002, 222)

CONCLUDING REMARKS

The new crime I have presented in this chapter is the act of annihilating
groups of people that were considered to be evil non-humans. The new
criminal I have described is one who is ordinary, psychologically sound,
and bears no malice to specific groups of people, but because he is moral-
ly bankrupt and unreflective, he chose to adopt an ideology that justifies
annihilation as his response to the world. Unreflective individuals like
Eichmann negated the emergence of an “I” for which they can judge
themselves as moral agents situated in a world with responsibilities to
others like themselves, and because they are morally bankrupt, they
failed in their judgment in distinguishing what is morally reprehensible,
and what is morally good. It is these nobodies—individuals who do not
 Evil by Nobodies 65

regard themselves as moral agents and assume moral responsibilities—

who are the new evildoers responsible for genocides, not banal individu-
als.
What we can thus make of Arendt’s observation is that for us to grasp
the essence of this new evildoer, we must seek to understand them holis-
tically—from the ideology that provided acceptable reasons to justify the
plan and the new methods of extermination that were used, to their
phenomenological structure of consciousness. This requires us to begin
from the phenomenological description of the experience of this evildoer
before we can arrive at what is new about the structure of his conscious-
ness to explain his attitude and choice of beliefs and actions. Sartre pro-
vides us with the tools to do so, yet, only by probing the limits of his
categories were we able to construct a more likely profile of the new
evildoer that is capable of mass annihilation without any feeling of mal-
ice and remorse after the deed, rather than a banal individual in bad faith.

NOTES

1. See also Haslam and Reicher (2012).

2. It is interesting to note that Margalit and Motzkin (1996) argue that the Holo-
caust is unique because of its particular fusion of collective humiliation and mass
destruction. In its ideology, the Nazi sought both humiliation and death, and in its
execution, it seeks to inflict humiliation or death.
3. The common use of sub-human refers to a lower order of being than humans,
and by inference, a racist does not consider “sub-human” as a being that is not worthy
of being treated as human beings. But it is exactly because sub-humans continue to
share some characteristics of humankind (which differentiate them from other beings
such as God, animals or machines) the racist finds that they must be dehumanized.
This is similar to how Smith conceives of “sub-humans” as species that are human-
looking, but are not really people. Hence, to him, dehumanization made carnage pos-
sible. On the other hand, to differentiate the racist from Eichmann-like perpetrator, I
have used the term “non-human” to refer to a species that do not share any character-
istic of humankind. This better explains why Eichmann did not need to dehumanize
them to justify extermination.
4. This example also illustrates Sartre’s objection to Husserl’s view that non-being
is found in consciousness.
5. Quoting Sartre to demonstrate this concept of freedom: “No external cause will
remove them, I alone am the permanent source of their non-being, I engage myself in
them in order to cause my possibility to appear, I posit the other possibilities so as to
nihilate them.”
6. To use an example from Sartre relating the act of counting a box of matchsticks:
while counting matches, I am aware that I am counting them. The matches are the
transcendent object of my consciousness and I am aware of my intentional conscious-
ness of counting. When I reflect on my action of counting, I reveal an “I” who was
counting. It is in this second-degree or reflected consciousness that the “I” emerges.
7. Sartre gave the example of an un-reflective person: one who is fully involved in
reading a book such that one is no longer reflecting on the very fact of one’s reading as
a personal act, or that one is doing the reading (“I who was reading”).
8. Sartre (1957) also explained in greater detail how “hatred” is a transcendent
object (62–4).
66 Chapter 3

9. A comparison between Arendt’s thinking and judging with Sartre’s reflection

can be found in Ang (2009).
10. Following the Nuremberg trials, both United States and Britain made adjust-
ments to their army regulations to tighten the recourse for using superior orders as a
plea in 1956 and 1958, respectively. This was a far cry from their original position prior
to WWII when both nations argued that soldiers have an “unconditional obedience
and with absolute non-liability for violations of international law when under superi-
or orders.” The change in the military laws in United States and Britain a year before
the Nuremberg trial has also raised criticism that it is a “victor’s justice” and a
retrospective application of the law.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Ang, Jennifer Mei Sze. 2009. “Thinking and Ignoring Conscience” Philosophy Today 53:
203–11.
Arendt, Hannah. 2005. Responsibility and Judgment. New York: Schocken Books.
Arendt, Hannah. 2006. Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil. New
York: Penguin Books.
Augustine. 1953. Augustine: Earlier Writings. Edited and translated by J. H. S. Bur-
leigh. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press.
Bialas, Wolfgang. 2014. “Nazi Ethics and Morality: Ideas, Problems and Unanswered
Questions.” In Nazi Ideology and Ethics, edited by Wolfgang Bialas and Lothar Fritze,
15–56. New Castle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing.
Clarke, Barry. 1980. “The Banality of Evil” British Journal of Political Science 10: 417–39.
Eagleton, Terry. 2010. On Evil. New Haven: Yale University Press.
Haslam, Alexander S., and Stephen Reicher. 2007. “Beyond the Banality of Evil: Three
Dynamics of an Interactionist Social Psychology of Tyranny” Personality and Social
Psychology 33: 615–22, accessed 3 March 2015, doi: 10.1177/0146467206298570.
Haslam, Alexander S., and Stephen Reicher. 2012. “When Prisoners Take Over the
Prison: A Social Psychology of Resistance” Personality and Social Psychology Review
16: 154–79, accessed 3 March 2015, doi: 10.1177/1088868311419864.
Heinsohn, Gunnar. 2000. “What Makes the Holocaust a Uniquely Unique Genocide?”
Journal of Genocide Research 2: 411–30.
Kekes, John. 2007. Roots of Evil. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
King, Peter. 2010. Introduction to On the Free Choice of the Will, by Augustine, ix–xxxii.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Lewy, Guenter. 1970. “Superior Orders, Nuclear Warfare, and the Dictates of Con-
science.” In War and Morality, edited by Richard A. Wasserstrom. Belmont: Wads-
worth.
Margalit, Avishai, and Gabriel Motzkin. 1996. “The Uniqueness of the Holocaust”
Philosophy and Public Affairs 25: 65–83
Mineau, Andre. 2014. SS Thinking and the Holocaust. Leiden: Editions Rodopi B.V.
Robertson, Geoffrey QC. 2002. Crimes against Humanity: The Struggle for Global Justice
2nd ed. London: Penguin Books.
Sartre, Jean-Paul. 1956. Being and Nothingness. Translated by Hazel Barnes. New York:
Washington Square Press.
Sartre, Jean-Paul. 1957. The Transcendence of the Ego: An Existentialist Theory of Con-
sciousness. Translated by Forest Williams and Robert Kirkpatrick. New York: The
Noonday Press.
Sartre, Jean-Paul. 1965. “Sartre gives the keys to Hell is Other People” Le Figaro litté-
raire, Jan 7–13. Cited in Michel Contat and Michel Rybalka, eds. and Richard C.
McCleary, trans. The Writings of Jean-Paul Sartre Vol.1 (Evanston: Northwestern Uni-
versity Press, 1974).
Sartre, Jean-Paul. 1992. Notebooks for an Ethics. Translated by David Pallauer. Chicago:
The University of Chicago Press.
 Evil by Nobodies 67

Sartre, Jean-Paul.1995. Anti-Semite and Jew. New York: Schocken Books.

Smith, David Livingston. 2011. Less than Human. New York: St. Martin’s Press.
 FOUR
Pursuing Pankalia
The Aesthetic Theodicy of St. Augustine

A.G. Holdier

In a field filled with out of control trolley cars, brains-in-vats, and at least
one color-blind neuroscientist, philosophers often find ourselves return-
ing to the same illustrations to express our ideas; in the library of such
thought experiments, somewhere between one of Theseus’ ships and a
room holding a Chinese writer, lies a dog-eared copy of Dostoevsky’s The
Brothers Karamazov with a long line of theodicists waiting for their turn to
read it. Amidst the classic story of a struggling Russian family, one con-
versation between Alyosha and his brother Ivan has stood out as a fa-
mous study of what academics have dubbed “The Problem of Evil.”
If God truly exists, Alyosha’s brother demands, then why does He not
prevent the tragedies that fill our world? After cataloging a series of such
profane abuses, primarily of children, Ivan laughs at the suggestion that
such evils could all be ultimately used for some “greater good,” some-
how woven together into an ultimately beautiful tapestry, and proclaims
that even if some Deity exists, that method of operation should disqualify
such a god from being worthy of any worship. “I don’t want harmony,”
Ivan cries, “From love for humanity I don’t want it. . . . Besides, too high a
price is asked for harmony; it’s beyond our means to pay so much to
enter on it” (Dostoyevsky 1966, 222). Instead, Ivan tells a story of a bitter
humanist who has secretly rejected God for the sake of caring for God’s
people; by painting himself the color of his own Grand Inquisitor, Ivan
seeks to embody his commitment to holding God accountable for the
many who are damned.

69
70 Chapter 4

Ivan is disgusted by evil, by God, and by the ugliness of life; a faithful

reply to him, then, must respond to three separate points: (1) something
metaphysical, (2) something theological, and finally (3) something aes-
thetic; it is precisely at the intersection of these three fields where the
theodicy of St. Augustine of Hippo can be found. Writing roughly fifteen
centuries before Dostoevsky, Augustine shared many of the concerns of
Ivan Karamazov, but his thoughtful contextualization of evil into a prop-
erly Christian worldview gave the neo-Platonic philosopher far more
powerful resources for reconciling God and the reality of evil. Augustine
offers (1) a metaphysical definition of evil that allows for (2) a theological
conception of damning free will that is fashioned by God into (3) pankalia,
or “universal beauty.” By seeing evil as a void rather than a substance,
Augustine is able to recognize evil actions as freely chosen sins of human
agents—sins that, though evil, still function aesthetically to display the
harmony of God’s creation.
To answer Ivan, each of these three Augustinian points shall be con-
sidered in turn: the definition of evil as a privation, the damnable power
of free agents, and finally, the ultimate design for the pankalia of God’s
Creation as centering on poetic justice. Though Augustine’s position may
not be fully satisfactory, it lays a strong foundation for further study.

SOMETHING METAPHYSICAL: PRIVATION

The most foundational element of Augustine’s answer to Ivan’s Problem

lies in his definition of evil as the privatio boni or “the removal of good”
and not as a proper substance in its own right (1999, 41). Even at first
glance the power of such a definition is clear, for one need not defend a
God for creating evil if evil is not a thing that can be created. Instead,
Augustinian evil is similar to physical phenomena like coldness or dark-
ness, except that rather than “existing” as the absence or diminishment of
either heat or light, evil is simply the absence of goodness—that is, the
absence of God.
As the young Augustine came to reject the bitheistic Manicheanism of
his youth, with its purely good deity existing eternally opposite a purely
evil one, his philosophical answer to Ivan Karamazov’s question began to
take shape. The Manichean model had required Augustine to admit the
eternality of evil, something his newfound Christianity was loathe to
affirm. Eventually, under the tutelage of St. Ambrose of Milan, Augustine
came to recognize God as the sole supranatural ontological grounding in
which all other beings find their foundation:
[I]t is the one true God who is active and operative in all those things
[the entirety of Creation], but always acting as God, that is, present
everywhere in his totality, free from all spatial confinement, completely
untrammeled, absolutely indivisible, utterly unchangeable, and filling
 Pursuing Pankalia 71

heaven and earth with his ubiquitous power which is independent of

anything in the natural order. (2003, 292) 1
Consequently, with God as the metaphysical standard for existence in the
universe, Augustine easily adopted into his worldview the Neoplatonic
Great Chain of Being that fashioned the entire cosmos into a hierarchical
structure; 2 Augustine simply placed the Christian God at the top of the
ladder of existence, recognizing that “He is before all things and in Him
all things hold together” (Colossians 1:17, NASB). 3
On this view, however, existence of any form constitutes at least some
form of participation in the good reality of the Divine Being who defines
the nature of perfect existence; 4 because of this, Augustine needed Ploti-
nus’ definition of evil in the Enneads 5 to truly make headway with his
theology. By defining evil simply as “non-being,” Augustine was able to
make sense of how the Chain of Being that emanates from a perfect God
could be comprised of less-than-perfect creatures while simultaneously
denying a spot on that chain for ramified “Evil” itself; as he says “[t]here
is no such entity in nature as ‘evil’; ‘evil’ is merely the name for the
privation of good. There is a scale of value stretching from earthly to
heavenly realities, from the visible to the invisible; and the inequality
between these goods makes possible the existence of them all” (2003,
454). If everything that exists was perfectly good, then “everything”
would be identical to the perfect God; the gradation of existence is actual-
ly made possible by privation.
However, because all existence is ultimately of and from a good God,
existence qua existence must be good—a fact compounded by recogniz-
ing God as an intentional, good Creator. But if Augustine is correct that
God designs creatures to be what He intends them to be, then it is only by
corruption that something becomes anything less (see 2010a, 99; 2003,
471–3). In the words of Phillip Tallon (2012), the practice of evil is “to
become less than what one was created to be; to become, not the good
thing that God made, but something else, a perverted thing of our own
doing” (104). Entities are called evil, then, when they either come to lack a
property that they should possess or, conversely, they gain a property
God did not intend them to have.
This analysis of privation applies not only to intrinsic properties that
reside solely within the beings themselves, but to the relational proper-
ties of those beings to their surroundings as well. When those relational
properties are properly ordered per God’s design, then it is good; when
the relationship is inappropriate, even if it is internally consistent, that
disruption of propriety is what Rowan Williams has dubbed a “gram-
mar” of evil, as Tallon summarizes how
there may be a disjunctive quality between subject, verb, and object.
The phrases “Philip worshipped God” and “Philip played tennis” both
consist of only positive terms. Yet these phrases, consisting of exactly
72 Chapter 4

the same terms, “Philip played God” and “Philip worshipped tennis,”
indicate a state of affairs that, because they are disordered, are evil and
therefore degrade the subject, verb, and object through their disjunc-
ture. (104)
Again, even without intrinsic change, Philip’s shift in relational proper-
ties is equally dubbed “evil.”
By way of example, consider a compassionless brute attacking a help-
less victim: because the attacker exists, he must lie somewhere on the
Great Chain of Being, but his lack of compassion (a property that, as a
human being, he should possess) means that he is lacking an intrinsic
property that would make him more good or more God-like—this lack of
goodness is evil. However, this brute is also choosing to attack an inno-
cent person, an event that should not take place, so he is also disrupting
the proper ordering of the universe; this lack of order is also evil. 6
Yet, because some level of variation in goodness is necessary for the
variety in Creation to exist and because God is “the best Maker of all
natures, the One Who oversees them with the greatest justice” (2010a, 98)
then Augustine is confident that a good God will successfully weave both
intrinsic and relational evils together into something ultimately worth-
while. This shall be addressed further in the third section of this chapter.
In the meantime, Augustine’s definition of evil as the privatio boni
effectively eliminates much of the apparent evil in the world under the
guise of a preeminent God’s just and loving care of the Creation He
fashions as good, the inner workings of which are not always clear to its
inhabitants:
Divine providence thus warns us not to indulge in silly complaints
about the state of affairs, but to take pains to inquire what useful pur-
poses are served by things. And when we fail to find the answer . . . we
should believe that the purpose is hidden from us. . . . There is a useful
purpose in the obscurity of the purpose; it may serve to exercise our
humility or to undermine our pride. (2003, 453–4)
For those examples of evil that are identifiable as such, however, Augus-
tine is still loathe to attribute them to a perfect God—it is to finite crea-
tures that the blame for evil must fall.

SOMETHING THEOLOGICAL: THE POWER OF FREEDOM

In what has been called “the most famous and central aspect” of his
theodicy (Tallon 2012, 114), Augustine deploys legal language of guilt
and blame to recognize the depravity of evil while attempting to absolve
the Creator God of responsibility for the chosen evil actions of free
agents. Although Augustine’s overall conception of freedom takes some
unpacking, it never completely diverges, not even in his developed
 Pursuing Pankalia 73

thoughts later in life, from the sentiment expressed early on in his Chris-
tian writings that “evils have their being by the voluntary sin of the soul,
to which God gave free will” (1890, 131).
To equate evil with sin, a chosen action contrary to the perfect will of
God, allows Augustine to shift much of the problem of evil squarely onto
the backs of free moral agents and away from the shoulders of the perfect
Divine. Following from the understanding of evil as the privatio boni, evil
as sin is any chosen action that fails to meet God’s expected standards of
behavior and therefore lacks the goodness that it should possess. If
agents truly are free to choose either right or wrong actions (in the way
that we naturally assume them to be blameworthy), then it is not only the
case that evil becomes a logically necessary possibility under genuine free
will, but it is also true that God is not to blame when a genuinely free
agent abuses their free will and sinfully actualizes something evil. By this
definition, a free evil act becomes a sin, an act that God would not will
and does not, Himself, choose—to blame God for an action He neither
wills nor controls is hardly appropriate.
This libertarian understanding of free will does assume that an action
must be voluntary and intentional in order to be blameworthy: a woman
who sneezes and drops a kitchen knife out her window might be faulted
for carelessness, but even if that knife happens to fall on and kill a passer-
by on the street below, the woman could not be properly blamed as a
murderer—she neither chose to kill nor intended it to happen. 7 But if
blameworthiness for moral evil is based in intention, so too is praisewor-
thiness for moral goodness, therefore the necessity of a genuine choice
between right and wrong—what Plantinga (1998) has come to call a mo-
rally significant choice—becomes central to a free-will theodicy. As Plan-
tinga, a foremost contemporary free will defender, puts it:
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. . . .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. (1998, 27)
Much like how if God desires to create a two-dimensional, three-sided
geometric figure, then He is bound by logic to make a triangle, God is in a
similar bind if He desires to create potentially good free agents: to get the
possibility of good, He must simultaneously create the possibility of evil.
This is precisely Augustine’s position. He begins On the Free Choice of
the Will III by having Evodius agree that “no blame can be attached
where nature and necessity predominate” (2010a, 72) before contrasting
human actions with a falling stone to point out that “the movement of the
74 Chapter 4

stone is natural, but the movement of the mind is voluntary” and while
we would not charge the stone with a sin, “we charge the mind with sin
when we find it guilty of abandoning higher goods to put lower goods
first for its enjoyment” (2010a, 74). To put this description of evil into
terms already used in this chapter: we charge the mind with sin when it
willfully tries to replace God at the pinnacle of the Great Chain of Being
and pursues something of lesser importance. This reordering of one’s
desires is a disruption of one’s intrinsic properties (and is therefore evil);
by acting on those corrupted desires, the agent chooses a course of action
that differs from God’s perfect will, thereby disrupting the relational
properties of the agent (which is also evil), as well as damaging both
intrinsic and relational properties of other objects in the universe. As
Augustine reiterates elsewhere, because evil is only the privatio boni,
“There is no evil in the universe, but in individuals there is evil due to
their own fault” (1953, 246).
One might fairly ask, though, why God would care to create free
agents at all, if freedom truly is such a dangerous tool to be wielded—
would it not be better for God to create morally neutral automata if it
meant that no evil would result? To this, Augustine replies that freedom
allows for greater goods to exist than if freedom were absent. However,
he firstly chastises anyone who would imagine their own creative ability
to surpass God’s perfect skill and argues that it is petulant to complain
that lesser things exist (sinful agents) when greater things can be ima-
gined (non-sinful agents) (2010a, 82). 8 Simply because greater things can
exist on the Chain of Being does not mean that God is to be blamed for
allowing gradation along that chain; as Augustine says, “it is like some-
one who, grasping perfect roundness in his mind, become upset that he
does not find it in a nut, never having seen any round object except fruits
of this sort” (2010a, 83). God allows freedom because a being who freely
displays love and devotion to God is greater than one who does so mind-
lessly or un-freely; 9 criticizing freedom itself on the basis of its abuse at
the hands of free agents is, again, quite missing Augustine’s point.
To be fair, not all philosophers affirm libertarian free well and com-
patibilists would have no problem with a free agent being unable to act
otherwise than she does in a given scenario. Particularly in the case of
Augustine, it would be a significant oversight to ignore compatibilist
notions of freedom for the sake of focusing entirely on the above libertar-
ian presentation. Later in life, Augustine’s apologetics for the doctrine of
original sin colored his definition of freedom sufficiently such that many
readers now identify a shift in his thinking from his earlier writings to his
later ones. 10 If Augustine did come to embrace a different definition of
freedom that would allow for God to fully determine an agent’s free
choices, then everything in his theodicy as it has been presented thus far
would crumble—a consequence that Augustine himself never seemed to
admit. Although space does not permit a full response to the charge of
 Pursuing Pankalia 75

Augustinian inconsistency on a definition of freedom, two points should

be briefly considered by way of rebuttal.
Firstly, the shift in Augustine’s writings in relation to the Pelagian
controversy later in his life likely had more to do with his rhetoric than
his logic. Whereas his earlier comments on freedom that sound particu-
larly libertarian were responding to an unorthodox group concerned
with God’s goodness (Manicheans), Augustine emphasized at that point
the elements of his theology that were ignored by his then-opponents:
God’s singular blamelessness and humanity’s graceful ability to choose
rightly or wrongly. Later in his life, recognizing the extent to which his
comments had been twisted by new, previously unforeseen enemies (Pe-
lagians), Augustine attempted to adjust the swing of the heterodox pen-
dulum by emphasizing different elements of his thought: the sinfulness
of humanity and our need of God’s assistance for ultimate success. 11 This
would not necessarily require that he reject libertarianism for compatibil-
ism, but given the disparate contexts of his comments, it should not be
surprising that different themes rise to the surface at different times,
particularly when it can be shown that all of these themes are present
throughout the Augustinian corpus.
That is the second point: the theme of human depravity and our need
for God to empower our free choices is something that appears in Augus-
tine earliest writings, not simply those written after his alleged position-
shift. Those who would claim that Augustine moves from a libertarian
understanding of free will to affirm a compatibilistic framework tend to
do so because of his later increased emphasis on the sovereignty of God
and the necessity of His grace for human agency to function; this sounds
quite similar to Augustine’s call in his early On the Free Choice of the Will
that “our freedom is this: to submit to this truth, which is our God Who
set us free from death—that is, from the state of sin” (2010a, 59). When
“the Early” Augustine (2010a, 58) references a verse like Psalm 37:4 (“De-
light yourself in the LORD; And He will give you the desires of your
heart”), he is making the point that a human agent must choose to bow
the knee to the God who satisfies all desires, but it is only by God’s grace
that those desires are at all satisfied. 12 On this reading, Augustine is
championing a God granting grace to humans, while also recognizing
that the onus is on the human to receive the gift, or, as King (2010) puts it,
“what is shared from a metaphysical point of view might yet be chalked
up to individual responsibility from a moral point of view” (xxix). And,
in the other direction, libertarian free choices and some of the philosophi-
cal grounding difficulties that such open options create, appear even in
Augustine’s later works, for example predominating his discussion of the
efficient cause of evil in The City of God XII (2003, 477–81). 13
However, regardless of whether Augustine can easily be identified as
affirming either libertarian or compatibilistic free will, he recognizes
God’s grace shown to somehow-free agents, thereby giving them the
76 Chapter 4

opportunity to be great by loving God, even though they have the ability
to sin. This serves Augustine’s model primarily by underlining the penal
character of evil, whether or not moral blameworthiness is compatible
with determinism. This is simply to say that although both the libertarian
and the compatibilist will understand the metaphysical situation differ-
ently, their moral assessment of a sinful agent’s depraved condition will
ultimately agree, meaning that one more facet of evil on Augustine’s
view should be recognized: its function as a tool for righteous punish-
ment of sin.
The possible retributive function of evil follows a line of thinking
exemplified well by Augustine’s recognition of a certain element of beau-
ty in death; in The City of God XIII, Augustine explains why sin leads to
death for all people, even those who are forgiven of their sins and jus-
tified in God’s sight: in light of Christ’s victory over death, “it is not that
death has turned into a good thing . . . [but] . . . that God has granted to
faith so great a gift of grace that death, which all agree to be the contrary
to life, has become the means by which men pass into life” (2003, 514).
This is why examples of so-called “natural” evils are nothing of the sort
to Augustine; actions or events such as tsunamis, earthquakes, and dis-
ease are not attributable to the sinful choice of a human agent, but stem
directly from the perfect God who may use their evilness for a variety of
good reasons, including as a means to administer the “just deserts” for
freely chosen sins. This means that either, as mentioned in the previous
section, we may not know the reasons why God would allow such devas-
tation (but must rest in the comfort of His perfect love and goodness), or
we can recognize God’s victory over even life’s greatest enemy to bring
the beauty of justice to His Creation—that second option, to Augustine at
least, “precisely because it follows from and gives expression to the di-
vine justice, needs no theodicy” (Babcock 1988, 31).
Without question, a free will approach to theodicy, grounded in the
definition of evil as a privation, has been one of the most historically
influential elements of Augustine’s model. 14 It is a powerful one: many of
Ivan Karamazov’s complaints can find a response in blaming the free
human agents who chose to create such evils. Consequently, many read-
ers of Augustine discover his privation + free-will theodicy to be suffi-
cient enough for their apologetic purposes and simply stop reading,
thereby failing to discover the final, and most important, piece of Augus-
tine’s theodicy—the element that allows Augustine to consistently main-
tain that “God, who is supremely good in his creation of natures that are
good, is also completely just in his employment of evil choices in his
design, so that whereas such evil choices make a wrong use of good
natures, God turns evil choices to good use” (2003, 448–9).
 Pursuing Pankalia 77

SOMETHING AESTHETIC: THE POETIC JUSTICE OF PANKALIA

If the goal of the theodicist is simply to give God a sliver of logical

possibility within which He might feasibly coexist with evil then the
above elements of Augustine’s framework will be sufficient: no one
creates evil for it is a privation and evil actions are brought about by free,
evil actors—not by God. But Augustine, like Ivan Karamazov, was not
satisfied with this anemic description of God’s goodness and endeavored
instead to explain not merely the origin of evil, but why a good God
would allow such evil to continue to exist after the fact. Whereas some
thinkers have suggested that God is required to assume such a posture
for the sake of respecting free will, Adams (1999) quite rightly criticizes
the idolatry of such a notion, sarcastically decrying the idea that “person-
al agency [is] sacrosanct, holy ground on which not even God may tread
uninvited without violation” (33). Instead, Augustine ties his famous
free-will defense up in a bow of aesthetic themes that, much like holiday
wrapping paper, are often ignored for the sake of the prize inside.
This ignorance is unsurprising, for the aesthetic notion in Augustine’s
theodicy is difficult for post-Enlightenment thinkers to affirm, committed
as many are to a Humean fact/value dichotomy. Augustine, however,
writing as he was during the period when what has been called “the
unity of transcendentals” reigned supreme, saw the true head of the
Great Chain of Being as the unification of every property worth possess-
ing. To say that God is the pinnacle of Creation, in Augustine’s mind, is
to affirm that God is, metaphysically speaking, the limit of each superla-
tive quality that subsequently applies to all other categories of exis-
tence—God is, in an ontologically definitive way, all goodness, all truth,
and all beauty; these are “instantiated in a primary and privileged way in
God, and instantiated in a derivative way in God’s creation” (Goris and
Aertsen 2013). When the Neoplatonic concept of plenitude 15 that recog-
nizes Creation as good in virtue of its fullness and variety is added to this
framework—the variety made possible by the graded variance of exis-
tence—Augustine is then primed to make his case against Ivan Karama-
zov that, all things considered, the world is genuinely beautiful.
As was common in Late Antiquity, Augustine demonstrated a
marked appreciation for symmetry and the contra-position of opposites
that led him to champion a definition of beauty as that which integrative-
ly weaves good and bad elements together into a harmonious symphony
that is not beautiful in spite of its dark strokes, but because of them (1953
252–3; 2003, 449; see also Slotkin 2004). In much the same way that Rem-
brandt’s paintings, Bartok’s études, or Cantonese cuisine combines disso-
nant elements to synergistically create something beautiful, Augustine’s
understanding of beauty was focused on contrast, but one that can only
be appreciated from the proper, distanced perspective; as he says, “A
picture may be beautiful when it has touches of black in the appropriate
78 Chapter 4

places; in the same way the whole universe is beautiful, if one could see it
as a whole, even with its sinners, though their ugliness is disgusting
when they are viewed in themselves” (2003, 455–6). To myopically view a
chiaroscuro painting from mere inches away would trivialize a given
brushstroke’s contribution to the overall aesthetic effect of the interplay
between light and dark; in much the same way, to focus on the experi-
ence of a given fraction of the universe—however bad it may appear—
limits one from appreciating the derivative beauty that suffuses all of the
Beatific God’s Creation. 16
Finite creatures such as ourselves, however, often cannot help but
focus on the given fraction of Creation that appears most readily to us—
particularly when the visceral pain of ourselves or others demands our
attention. This is certainly Ivan Karamazov’s complaint: his inability to
rationalize the immense suffering of an apparently innocent child leaves
him hamstrung to approach any God who could allow such a thing. At
this point, Augustine can be fairly criticized for failing to meet such exis-
tential questions; as Tallon (2012) points out, Augustine’s hope of “per-
fect harmony evades our vision and fails to connect with much of how
we experience the world” (131–2). However, Augustine would likely
point out not only that logically consistent answers are not always per-
sonally satisfying, but that a single actor in Creation should not selfishly
expect to understand all of the Grand Design. 17
However, Augustine’s aesthetic theodicy does grant him more ex-
planatory power than some contemporary theodicists who wish to stark-
ly divide a “logical” sphere of explanation for evil from an “emotional”
one. 18 Not only does Augustine’s answer simultaneously touch, however
briefly, on both spheres, but it does so in a manner that allows him to
easily fold in one final concern: the moment-by-moment aesthetic tri-
umph of righteous judgment for sin. Given that sin is not merely an
offense against God’s law, but is a degrading perversion of one’s self
further down the Great Chain of Being, 19 Augustine’s understanding of
justice becomes something more than a mere penal debt and instead
offers an opportunity for Creation to poetically display a darker brush-
stroke, automatically redeeming, at least in part, even the worst life has to
offer. With a definition of beauty as the harmony of opposites, Augus-
tine’s theodicy allows God to easily “send rain on the just and the un-
just,” condemning sinners to floods, famines, and plagues, and to still
genuinely work all things for good; His ultimate, transcendental purpose
is always meant to be something harmonious. Whether free creatures
provide depraved elements of Creation for the Grand Artist at the top of
the Chain to paint with (thereby absolving the Artist for the blame of
those evil acts) or whether the Artist himself is structuring painful experi-
ences as moment-by-moment “just deserts” for those free choices, the
ultimate product is something beautiful.
 Pursuing Pankalia 79

Consequently, Augustine’s aesthetic themes of contrast and harmony

allow him to recognize the frequent painfulness of the human experience
alongside its happier moments in a manner that some Pollyannaish fide-
ism cannot accomplish. Augustine’s is the God who says to the prophet
Isaiah “I form light and create darkness / I make well-being and create
calamity / I am the LORD who does all of these things,” (45: 7, ESV) not
denying that calamity exists, but instead recontextualizing such suffering
to highlight God’s ability to effect a glorious triumph out of even those
darkest moments. Genuine pankalia (“universal beauty”) proclaims God
not simply as an Artist of Evil, but as its Conqueror, negating whatever
destructive power it possesses by His subjugation of it to His will. As
David Bentley Hart (2005, 163) wrote in a response worth quoting at
length to the deadly 2004 tsunami in India and Southeast Asia:
To say that God elects to fashion rational creatures in his image, and so
grants them the freedom to bind themselves and the greater physical
order to another master—to say that he who sealed up the doors of the
sea might permit them to be opened again by another, more reckless
hand—is not to say that God’s ultimate design for his creatures can be
thwarted. It is to acknowledge, however, that his will can be resisted by
a real and (by his grace) autonomous force of defiance, or can be hid-
den from us by the history of cosmic corruption, and that the final
realization of the good he intends in all things has the form (not simply
as a dramatic fiction, for our edification or his glory, nor simply as a
paedagogical device on his part, but in truth) of a divine victory. (63)
This is precisely why Augustine would argue that God “judged it better
to bring good out of evil than to allow nothing evil to exist” (1999, 60).
And, to adapt a phrase from Marilyn Adams (1999), to say of this beauti-
ful victory that it “trivializes” the worst that this world has to offer would
seem, to Augustine, to reflect an insufficient appreciation of what “beau-
tiful” really means (189).

SOMETHING PROBLEMATIC

This is not to say, however, that Augustine reached some unassailable

position with his theodicy that renders it immune to criticism. As already
mentioned, Ivan Karamazov’s angst over the phenomenology of suffer-
ing may not be existentially satisfied (even though it is logically an-
swered) by Augustine’s appeal to God’s overall goal of pankalia. In the
short space remaining, two other important criticisms to Augustine’s po-
sition shall be considered: its prima facie inability to respond to Marilyn
Adams’ concern for horrendous evils and its apparent incompatibility
with the Augustinian affirmation of a sinner’s eternal conscious torment
in Hell.
80 Chapter 4

Firstly, Augustine’s perspectival shift away from a given person’s life

experiences to the overall beauty of the universe as a whole does grate
against Adams’ concern for life-ruining experiences of individual agents
(what she dubs “horrendous evils”); as she argues in reference to Augus-
tine’s Great Chain of Being, “What participants in horrors are suggesting
is that horrendous evil so caricatures Godlikeness at the top level as to
defeat the positive value of the bottom level, indeed provides weighty
reason for them to wish that their lives—prima facie so ruined and/or
ruinous to others—had never occurred” (1999, 42). Although some of her
concerns about the cumulative, rather than the atomistic, effect of harms
is blunted by a fuller appreciation of God’s omniscience (40), 20 her pri-
mary concern for the individual is, admittedly, not a question that Au-
gustine was seeking to answer. Had Augustine been responding, like
many later theodicists, to a particular event rather than a worldview like
Manicheanism, he may well have tuned his attention in the more person-
al direction with which Adams is concerned. Understandably, this sug-
gestion does more to contextualize than excuse Augustine’s oversight
and the apparent force of Adams’ point here is sufficient for her to simply
lay claim to this beachhead and move on in her argument. And while
Augustine’s universal perspective would certainly not require God to
“return horror for horror” to individuals as Adams suggests (41), 21 her
conclusion that God must achieve victory over evil “or at least evils of
horrendous proportions within the context of each individual’s life”
makes sense (43).
Augustinian soteriology, however, is certainly far from universalistic;
Augustine spends many a page in a variety of works describing how
“perpetual death of the damned which is separation from the life of God
will last forever and will be the same for all, whatever views people may
have because of their human feelings concerning varieties of punishment
or alleviation or interruption of suffering” (1999, 134; see also 2003,
964–1021). Hohyun Sohn (2007) brings Augustine’s aesthetic concerns
into conversation with John Hick’s classic work on the subject to con-
clude that “whatever gain there may be in Augustine’s aesthetic theodicy
of harmony is outweighed by the idea of hell as a permanent feature of
the universe,” on the grounds that an infinite amount of suffering could
never equally counterbalance even a full and unbroken lifetime of sin
(53). While this charge once again is operating on a more personal level
than where Augustine was focused, it still deserves a response.
Regarding the notion that an individual’s eternal consignment to Hell
could never equally offset his finite collection of sins, the traditional posi-
tion has argued that “the reprobate continue to sin in hell and thus accrue
guilt that warrants further punishment” (Bawulski 2010, 70). Unsatisfied
with this self-perpetuating view of hellbound sinners, Andy Saville
(2005) has argued for the eventual “reconciliation and the glorification of
God by the damned” insofar as they “come to recognize the justice, and
 Pursuing Pankalia 81

true awfulness, of their state” (257; see also Blocher 1993, 310). Although
it does not quite reach the level of individual balance that either Sohn or
Adams is seeking, Augustine would likely gravitate towards this latter
view, perhaps allowing us to once again blunt the force of Sohn’s criti-
cism while still recognizing the point being made. 22

ALYOSHA’S RESPONSE

For better and for worse, St. Augustine’s theodicy has been firmly ce-
mented for centuries as a wellspring for Christian theodicy. His defini-
tion of evil as the privatio boni is often assumed in scholarly conversations
about the topic and his free-will defense of sinful evil (as well as God’s
justified punishment of said sins) has become standard fare both inside
and outside of the academy. Notably, his aesthetic themes, though not
given the same level of consideration, are equally important to a consis-
tent reading of his project: God’s pursuit of pankalia is the only thing that
rationally undergirds his allowance of freely chosen evil actions.
Ultimately, this means that Augustine’s final answer to Ivan Karama-
zov looks remarkably similar to the response actually given by Ivan’s
brother Alyosha in the pages of The Brothers Karamazov: after a heated
conversation with his brother culminates in a powerfully poetic meta-
phor (Dostoevsky’s famous parable of the “Grand Inquisitor”), Alyosha’s
final argument is not a sentence, but an action: he kisses his brother in a
tender display of love and affection. Whatever criticisms may be brought
fairly against Augustine’s system, his goal is undoubtedly to devotedly
proclaim and intellectually defend the God to whom he prayed “Belated-
ly I loved thee, O Beauty so ancient and so new, belatedly I loved thee”
(1955, 224).
So, although Ivan’s rebellion sparked a famous debate, one need not
assume the role of his Grand Inquisitor in the face of the world’s evil.
Instead, we might paint ourselves into the position of Dostoevsky’s
Prince Myshkin, whose childlike faith mirrors the young Augustine’s
own journey into Christianity. And when The Idiot’s prince is said to have
proclaimed that “Beauty would save the world” (Dostoyevsky 2003, 382)
the bishop of Hippo would simply smile and nod.

NOTES

1. See also (1955, 32–3).

2. For more on the Great Chain of Being see Lovejoy (1976).
3. See also Augustine (1955, 148).
4. As Adams (1999) says, “For Christian Platonists (such as Augustine, Anselm,
and Bonaventure), God is Goodness Itself, once again, the perfect integration of Jus-
tice, Truth, and Beauty. For everything else, to be is to be somehow Godlike, to partici-
pate in, to imitate or reflect Beauty itself” (140).
82 Chapter 4

5. Specifically, see Plotinus (1930, 165).

6. As in Lee (2007) “there will be bad things and bad acts, but to call them ‘bad’
will mean either that they have a privation in them, or that they cause privation” (488).
7. Conversely, if the woman had been hypnotized, brainwashed, or controlled in
some other way such that she was forced by another to stab her victim, then the
woman would still not be guilty of murder.
8. See also Sontag (1967, 301).
9. As in (2010a): “For just as a wandering horse is better than a stone that does not
wander off because it has no perception or movement of its own, so too a creature that
sins through free will is more excellent than one that does not sin because it does not
have free will” (84).
10. See Couenhoven (2007) for one excellent presentation of this perceived shift.
11. See (2010b, 127–33).
12. See also (2010a): “But since we cannot rise of our own accord as we fell of it, let
us hold on with firm faith to the right hand of God stretched out to us from above,
namely our Lord Jesus Christ” (71).
13. In particular, see Augustine’s consideration of two men of identical dispositions
who freely respond differently to the beauty of a woman’s body (2003, 478–9).
14. Adams (1999, 32–55) gives an excellent overview of how this concept can be
traced through the thinking of such powerhouses as Alvin Plantinga, Richard Swin-
burne, Jerry Walls, Eleonore Stump, and (by way of opposition) John Hick.
15. The classic definition of plenitude found in Lovejoy (1976) is helpful here: “The
thesis that the universe is a plenum formarum in which the range of conceivable diver-
sity of kinds of living things is exhaustingly exemplified . . . that no genuine potential-
ity of being can remain unfulfilled, that the extent and the abundance of the creation
must be as great as the possibility of existence and commensurate with the productive
capacity of a ‘perfect’ and inexhaustible Source, and that the world is the better the
more things it contains” (52).
16. As in (1953): “All have their offices and limits laid down so as to ensure the
beauty of the universe. That which we abhor in any part of it gives us the greatest
pleasure when we consider the universe as a whole” (264). Augustine points out that
judging a building based on a single angle or the beauty of a person based solely on
their hair would be fruitless—he deigns to apply the same logic to Creation in all its
fullness.
17. See, once again (2003, 453–4).
18. Of the sort that Adams (1999, 14) rightly criticizes under the abstract/concrete
distinction.
19. Concerning sin as a reorientation of one’s priorities, see Babcock (1988): “It is an
act of self-deprivation because, in turning from God to self, the will deprives itself of
the divine light in which it could see and understand and abandon(s) the fire of the
divine love with which it could love its supreme good, the true source and goal of its
fulfilment” (42).
20. Which is simply to say that her concerns over imprecision in the just retribution
for cumulative harms should not be problematic for an omniscient being.
21. From a universal perspective, there is no necessary requirement for all individu-
al wrongs to be proportionally repaid in kind provided that those wrongs contribute
to pankalia.
22. I say this following Blocher (1993, 291), given that Augustine clearly affirms
eternal punishment for the damned.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Adams, Marilyn McCord. 1999. Horrendous Evils and the Goodness of God. Ithaca: Cor-
nell University Press.
 Pursuing Pankalia 83

Augustine. 1890. “Acts or Disputation Against Fortunatus the Manichaean.” In Augus-

tin: The Writings of the Manichaeans and Against the Donatists, translated by Alfred H.
Newman. Grand Rapids: Christian Literature Publishing Company.
Augustine. 1953. Of True Religion. In Augustine: Earlier Writings, translated by John H.
S. Burleigh. Philadelphia: Westminster Press.
Augustine. 1955. Confessions. In Confessions and Enchiridion, translated and edited by
Albert Outler. Philadelphia: Westminster Press.
Augustine. 1999. The Augustine Catechism: The Enchiridion on Faith, Hope, and Charity.
Translated by Bruce Harbert. Hyde Park: New City Press.
Augustine. 2003. City of God. Translated by Henry Bettenson. New York: Penguin.
Augustine. 2010a. On the Free Choice of the Will. In On the Free Choice of the Will, On
Grace and Free Choice, and Other Writings, translated and edited by Peter King. Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press.
Augustine. 2010b. “Retractions.” In On the Free Choice of the Will, On Grace and Free
Choice, and Other Writings, translated and edited by Peter King. Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press
Babcock, William S. 1988. “Augustine on Sin and Moral Agency” Journal of Religious
Ethics 16(1): 28–55.
Bawulski, Shawn. 2010. “Annihilationism, Traditionalism, and the Problem of Hell.”
Philosophia Christi 12, no. 1: 61–79.
Blocher, Henri. 1993. “Everlasting Punishment and the Problem of Hell.” In Universal-
ism and the Doctrine of Hell, edited by Nigel M. de S. Cameron, 283–312. Grand
Rapids: Paternoster.
Couenhoven, Jesse. 2007. “Augustine’s Rejection of the Free-Will Defence: An Over-
view of Late Augustine’s Theodicy” Religious Studies 43(3): 278–298.
Dostoyevsky, Fyodor. 1966. The Brothers Karamazov. New York: Airmont Publishing.
Dostoyevsky, Fyodor. 2003. The Idiot. Translated by Richard Pevear and Larrisa Volok-
honsky. New York: Vintage.
Goris, Wouter and Jan Aertsen. 2013. “Medieval Theories of Transcendentals.” The
Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, edited by Edward N. Zalta. http://plato.stanford.
edu/archives/sum2013/entries/transcendentals-medieval
Hart, David Bentley. 2005. The Doors of the Sea: Where Was God in the Tsunami? Grand
Rapids: W.B. Eerdmans.
Lee, Patrick. 2007. “Evil as Such is a Privation: A Reply to John Crosby” American
Catholic Philosophical Quarterly 81(3): 469–488.
Lovejoy, Arthur O. 1976. The Great Chain of Being: A Study of the History of an Idea.
Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
Plantinga, Alvin. 1998. “The Free Will Defense.” In The Analytic Theist: An Alvin Plan-
tinga Reader, edited by James F. Sennett. Grand Rapids: W.B. Eerdmans.
Plotinus. 1930. The Enneads. Translated by Stephen MacKenna. London: Faber and
Faber, Ltd.
Saville, Andy. 2005. “Hell without Sin—A Renewed View of a Disputed Doctrine”
Churchman 119(3): 243–261.
Slotkin, Joel. 2004. “Poetic Justice: Divine Punishment and Chiaroscuro in Paradise
Lost” Milton Quarterly 38(2): 100–127.
Sohn, Hohyun. 2007. “The Beauty of Hell?: Augustine’s Aesthetic Theodicy and Its
Critics” Theology Today 64: 47–57.
Sontag, Frederick. 1967. “Augustine’s Metaphysics and Free Will.” Harvard Theological
Review 60: 297–306.
Tallon, Philip. 2012. The Poetics of Evil: Toward an Aesthetic Theodicy. Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
 FIVE
On the Impossibility of
Omnimalevolence
Plantinga on Tooley’s New Evidential
Argument from Evil

Edward N. Martin

In the recently published book Knowledge of God, co-authors Michael Too-

ley and Alvin Plantinga (2008) are something more than mere sparring
partners as they attempt to sort out the questions, “How can we know
about God?,” and “Can we know, or justifiedly have grounds for, the
non-existence of God?” After surveying many of the traditional reasons
drawn from analytic philosophy of religion for thinking that God doesn’t
exist, including the claim that the concept of God is incoherent, unsur-
prisingly Tooley offers an evidential argument from evil. And it is a
doozy: of Tooley’s positive presentation for the justification of the belief
in the non-existence of God, Tooley’s new evidential argument from evil
takes up about 53–54 pages (97–150 or so). Perhaps this is a sort of touché
to Plantinga’s (1979) “The Probabilistic Argument from Evil,” weighing
in at about 53 pages (1–53). Nonetheless, Tooley (1991) had developed the
first iteration of this argument in “The Argument from Evil,” and now he
presents a more advanced version of the argument from evil that hinges
much more explicitly upon a certain interpretation of inductive logic.
Tooley declares that William Rowe’s (1991) modified non-Bayesian ver-
sion of the evidential argument from evil is not successful, and he tries to
show why he thinks that, as well as to give his own version that suppos-
edly goes beyond Rowe’s and corrects it or avoids some of its pitfalls.

85
86 Chapter 5

There simply are too many points in Tooley’s main presentation

(stretching over some 70 pages) of his atheological arguments to lay out
and critique here. So, I will focus on Tooley’s new evidential argument
from evil, and especially on a central key aspect of it. One main compo-
nent of Tooley’s multi-layered, complex argument is his reliance upon a
principle he calls the Symmetry Principle with Respect to Unknown, Right-
making and Wrongmaking Properties (2008, 129). I intend to summarize
Tooley’s argument, showing that Plantinga’s (2008, 173) quickly dis-
patched “agnostic” probability assignment to Tooley’s principle is prob-
ably sufficient to dispel Tooley’s argument. However, I go further here to
offer two (brief) critiques against Tooley’s argument. Tooley speaks of
rightmaking and wrongmaking properties counterbalancing each other.
This argument seems to ignore the conclusion that Chisholm taught us
long ago, viz., that the issue of how good, evil or neutral states of affairs
might come together to justify God’s allowance of some evil is a matter of
defeat, that is, that the total value of an organic whole is not necessarily
equal to the sum of the value of the constitutive parts in the whole. I will
try to develop this and show why this insight from G. E. Moore is so
valuable here. Second, there is no reason to accept Tooley’s (132) premise
(a), that there are always opposing principles of good and evil that could
counterbalance each other. This doesn’t follow at all for the theist because
it is reasonable to believe that it is impossible that there be an omnipo-
tent, omnimalevolent being and, because, I shall argue, of the conception
of God as a good, and omnipotent, being.

ASSUMPTIONS

It is important to lay out a number of assumptions as we begin. When

Tooley speaks of God in the context of his evidential argument from evil,
he intends to limit his conception of the classical God to mean a being
who has the classic three omni-properties, viz., a being who is omnipo-
tent, omniscient, and morally perfect (OOMP). It is common here to men-
tion as well that God has the property of being “creator of the world.” It
may be that Tooley thinks that some theists will perhaps say that God is
not the creator of the world (perhaps he has Deists like Antony Flew in
mind here, but even in Deism, God is still creator of the world but simply
not the providential power within the history of the world). More likely Too-
ley is reasoning that the Pr (OOMP/Evil in the world) is going to be
higher than any other top-heavy theoretical elements you build in, since
whatever one builds in, there is going to be less than a probability of 1
that that property is had by God. So, Pr (OOMP/Evil) > Pr (OOMP&C
[where C=Creator of the world]/Evil).
But there is another basic, often thought to be essential property of the
classical Theistic concept of God that Tooley doesn’t mention—but Plan-
 On the Impossibility of Omnimalevolence 87

tinga surely does. This property is that God enjoys necessary existence, that
is, that God exists at all possible worlds. In other words, God is not
contingent, but God is a necessary being: this means that God is not just a
being who happens to exist in a few worlds, and we happen to be at a
world in which God also exists. Rather, it’s the notion that God couldn’t
so much as not exist; His non-existence is impossible. But if God exists
necessarily, this will likely have a vast affect on the way in which we
view probabilities since the logical probability that God exists would either
be Pr=1 or Pr=0. As we will see in Tooley’s new evidential argument from
evil, God’s being necessarily existent would throw a wrinkle into things,
because if God were necessarily existent, then God would be necessarily
existent and necessarily good, since if God had essential properties in all
worlds, then it seems to follow that to be God (the same referent in all
worlds), God would have to have all those properties in each world. I
rather gather from Tooley’s examples that he conceives of the concept
and being of God in some fundamentally different ways from the Theist.
For example, when Tooley treats the so-called Paradox of Omnipotence,
he describes why he thinks ultimately the paradox dissolves (2008, 87).
He envisages the omnipotent being, O, as acting at some moment of time
(call it time-1) to create a stone that no one will be able to lift it once it’s
created (say, at time-2), not even O. Employing the widely accepted Hu-
mean principle that a cause and its effect cannot happen simultaneously,
Tooley says that O, who can perform the action of making a very heavy
stone that no one can lift, must be said either to commit deicide, or to
continue to exist but cease to be (presumably at about time-2 or so) om-
nipotent. Tooley quickly notes that an omnigood being is likely not to act
in such a way so as to destroy himself or cause his own non-existence, but
nonetheless Tooley sees no contradiction in this possible act description.
Thus, he thinks, the Paradox of Omnipotence disappears. But surely this
line of reasoning, this method of saving the phenomena regarding this
famous paradox of all-potency, would constitute a Pyrrhic victory that
the theist would avoid like the plague. The theist may of course accept
the Humean causal principle that Tooley keenly utilizes; however, there
is an easier way here for the theist viz., just argue that the act description
of the omnipotent being bringing about a stone that no one can in turn lift
is in fact a contradictory state of affairs, and since we don’t hold it against
an omnipotent being for not being able to perform the logically impos-
sible, there again (but for better reasons, I think) there is no Paradox of
Omnipotence. At any rate, the point to see is that the Theist isn’t going to
buy Tooley’s line of reasoning; the Theist will prefer to bank on the idea
that it is logically impossible for an essentially necessarily existent, om-
nipotent person to commit deicide. Let us merely bear some of these
points in mind as we proceed, for they will help us understand some of
our criticisms of Tooley’s objective probability later on.
88 Chapter 5

TOOLEY’S PROPADEUTIC: AN A PRIORI ARGUMENT

AGAINST THEISM?

In this section, I discuss Tooley’s evidential argument from evil, which

takes up a big bulk of his 70-page section of his first presentation, as I
have mentioned. Before the argument, however, Tooley tries to give an
argument to establish that atheism is the default position, and thus that any
Theist has to give some positive grounds for believing in theism. He
argues in this fashion. The following three propositions are all equally
likely:
a. an all-powerful, all-knowing, and perfectly good being exists;
b. an all-powerful, all-knowing, and perfectly evil being exists;
c. an all-powerful, all-knowing, and morally neutral being exists.
Tooley realizes that there would be a continuum of shading of levels of
goodness and evilness from fully good to indifferent to fully evil. But
Tooley thinks that these other concepts are more theoretically top-heavy
and thus would have a significantly lower prior probability. He thus
thinks these three [(a)-(c)] big possibilities are the three to really look at.
But of course, he reasons, two out of three of them entail that the all-
perfectly beneficent being does not exist. This means that the a priori
likelihood of God existing is thus no more than 1/3. Thus, even before we
reach out for any positive reasons for believing in theism, we have good
reason to believe that theism is false. “Atheism is,” Tooley thus con-
cludes, “the default position” (2008, 90). There are many lines of response
we may pursue here, including wondering about the particular (and par-
ticularly strange and wonderful) concept of a priori probability that Too-
ley is pursuing here. Tooley makes it clear in this book, with ample illus-
trations, that he is using the inductive logical apparatus of Rudolf Carnap
(see Carnap 1962). As well, Tooley’s inference that since theism (in his
framing of the problem here) has a prior probability of 1/3, the probabil-
ity of atheism is thus at least 2/3, is faulty, since the state of being non-
theistic does not entail that that state is in fact atheistic. That is, there are
several other worldviews besides just theism and atheism, so that it
would not necessarily be the case that Pr (atheism) = 1—Pr (no atheism);
Tooley’s first step here regarding a priori probabilities seems unaccept-
able as is. But deeper issues loom large here. For consider: let us examine
whether (b) is even logically possible, for that matter, whether (c) is even
logically possible. First on (b): What does Tooley mean by his saying that
it is possible for there to be an all-powerful, all-knowing, perfectly evil
being?
As to what Tooley means by a perfectly evil person, he says that he
doesn’t mean a person who has a full manifestation of all the vices as
traditional virtue ethicists identify them, for example, one full of shirking
cowardice, complete abandonment of any sense of moral or spiritual pro-
 On the Impossibility of Omnimalevolence 89

priety, and extreme laziness. Rather, he has something like a Lex Luthor
type of person in mind, but with the qualities infinitized as it were in
excelsis: The perfectly evil person is one who is perfectly malevolent. And
concerning this concept, Tooley reports that it seems to him that the
concept of a perfectly malevolent person is neither more nor less proble-
matic than its counterpart here, viz., the concept of a morally perfect
being endowed with all goodness (2008, 90).
But I disagree with Tooley here. I do believe that the concept of a
perfectly evil being, interpreted as a perfectly malevolent person, is logi-
cally incoherent, because it appears to my lights that if being B were per-
fectly evil, He would be bent on destroying all things, including himself.
If he had all-power, he would in fact, when measured from any particular
time, t1, in the space of time surrounding this being’s life history, have
already destroyed himself. If he were perfectly evil and had all knowl-
edge and all power, then He would have destroyed himself as close to his
beginning as one wishes: in fact, it appears that such a being would have
destroyed himself from eternity past (if he is eternal), or in the first mo-
ment at his existence (if he is everlasting or comes into being). For if the
being destroyed himself only after x number of years, then I can imagine
an even more evil being, who destroys himself even more quickly than
that. And, importantly, given Tooley’s argument for the coherence of the
notion of ‘omnipotence,’ cited above, he seems to think it is coherent that
a perfectly evil person could in fact bring about his own destruction
(even though, as omnipotent, one might pause to affirm that this is really
a live possibility). Thus, the concept seems to fall in upon itself, so that it
becomes impossible for an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly evil being to
exist at all, or, at least, for anything but one insignificant, temporal mo-
ment. We should keep in mind here—and this is a not insignificant point
against Tooley’s prior probability argument we are now criticizing—that
if a being is to be truly “omnipotent,” it means that that being must have
direct access to the things or events or persons that exist at all times. If to
be omnipotent, in other words, is (in Aquinas’s terminology, with slight-
ly implicit things made explicit) for a being to be able to do all things that
are logically possibly able to be done, and that are not inconsistent with
other essential attributes, then one could not be omnipotent without hav-
ing access to such metaphysical states, substances, persons, or events at
all times unless one exists either at all times, or, in an eternal now that had
access to all times from one’s atemporal standpoint. So, if this line of reasoning
is right, then for any being to be omnipotent, it follows that being must be
omnitemporal, or everlasting, or atemporally eternal (or some best con-
ceivable mixture of these temporal/eternal options).
Thus, if the old saying that “Power corrupts, and absolutely power
corrupts absolutely” is correct and applies to omnipotent, omniscient,
non-morally perfect beings—covering Tooley’s omnipotent perfectly evil
being as well as his omnipotent morally neutral being—, it seems to follow
90 Chapter 5

that in any state in which one did not have a steady, morally perfect
reason for not ending one’s own existence, sooner or later there would be
a sufficient reason for ending one’s existence. In the case of a morally
perfectly evil being, this being would be bent on destruction, including of
one’s own being, and thus would use one’s omnipotent power to destroy
oneself (and would do so immediately—in at most a split second after
one’s existence). In the case of a morally neutral being one wonders if a
non-morally perfect being wouldn’t again enter into a path of moral re-
gression that would inevitably lead one into the moral and in turn the
ontological destruction of oneself. For a morally neutral being, this might
result from not having an omnipotent, morally perfect means and will to
remain morally steadfast and non-destructive, or, it could simply mean
that such a being would not see the intrinsic good of surviving, the worth
of surviving—which could lead to the destruction of that being, since the
being would not have a sufficient reason to exist, but would have suffi-
cient power to bring about its own non-existence. Here a modal distinc-
tion may be enough to prove the point, since (supposing such a concept
to be logically coherent for the moment) a morally neutral omnipotent
being would at least have the possibility of bringing about its non-exis-
tence. But it seems that we can strengthen our reasoning above. For an
omnipotent being would not only have to exist at all times to be omnipo-
tent, but it would, arguably, also have necessarily to exist at all times (or
over all times in an eternal now). For, if it did not have this modally
necessary qualitatively rich property of necessary omnipotence, then it
would lack some power, and thus not be omnipotent, viz., it would lack
the power of having power over (which minimally is being translated as
having metaphysical “reach” to, or access to) all actual and possible per-
sons, states of affairs, events, and times, and thus would fall short, in
essence, in omnipotent power.
This means that we now have a reductio argument against Tooley’s a
priori argument which tries to show that atheism is the default position.
For on the assumption that any omnipotent being would in fact necessar-
ily exist at all times (or over all times), it follows that no necessarily
omnipotent being can be less than morally perfect. What follows from all
of this?
The point to see is that Tooley’s reasoning that God’s existence has an
overall logical probability of no more than 1/3 seems questionable at least
and downright logically incoherent at worst. Tooley himself is bent on
trying to establish that atheism is therefore the default position as a result
of his a priori logical probability argument. But we must ask: where is the
rule that says that one’s default position is not to be based on one’s total
background knowledge, and is only to consult one’s use of a priori logical
possibilities, rather than one’s propositional evidence, as well as non-
propositional cognitively-related evidence (such as the productions of the
sensus divinitatis) for belief in one’s starting point? No reasons are given
 On the Impossibility of Omnimalevolence 91

for this, and I don’t think Tooley can provide any reasons, besides what
are imposed by the rules he derives from his particular version of Carna-
pian logical probability. But why should we think that that version of
logical probability should be the dominant one we accept? I see no reason
why—and no compelling reason given by Tooley at all why—this should
be the version of probability that we use. But suppose we play along with
Tooley, and allow him his view of Carnap’s logical probability and then
wonder about the a priori probability of the existence of an omnipotent,
omniscient, morally perfect being. I would be warranted to say, in light of
my objections so far, that God’s prior probability is 1, since it seems (as
I’ve just argued above) that (a) the logical probability of a hypothesis that
is logically incoherent and thus logically impossible is 0, and (b) the prior
probability of an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly malevolent being must
therefore be 0, since the concept is incoherent and it is impossible for such
a being to exist (or to exist for more than a certain very brief moment of
time). Since any omnipotent being O must exist at all times, and the only
way for this to occur is for O to possess moral perfection at all times of its
existence, it therefore follows that Tooley’s claim that atheism is the de-
fault position is wrong. Actually, it appears that theism, in contrast to
Tooley’s bold claim, is the default position, and that it is in fact incoher-
ent to think that it is even logically possible for any omnipotent being to
be less than morally perfect, and to be so at all times (or through all
times) of its existence.
This means that there are already significant trouble brewing for Too-
ley’s treatment of theism and atheism and the attempt Tooley makes to
establish a pivotal step in his propaedeutic for his evidential argument
from evil. Already the timbers are threatened; the lineaments of the struc-
ture seem already in danger of collapse. At any rate, Tooley’s initial argu-
ment that atheism is the default position is way off base, relying on two
incoherent hypotheses, and thus is faulty.

AN INTERLUDE ON TOOLEY’S ETHICAL FRAMEWORK

In Tooley’s new formulation of a now-popular type of argument, Tooley

distinguishes between abstract and concrete formulations of the eviden-
tial argument from evil (now “EAE”), and says he favors the concrete
formulations. He says this is something that William Rowe (1979) con-
tributed to the history of the presentation of the EAE, and he also says
that he doesn’t like that Plantinga dwells too much on the abstract pres-
entations of the EAE. Plantinga’s own conviction is that whenever one
has concrete evils in one’s life that one considers, that that is issue is not a
rational issue, but rather a matter for the existential or ‘religious’ problem
of evil, calling not for philosophical arguments or reason, but rather for
pastoral counseling.
92 Chapter 5

Tooley’s formulation of the EAE is concrete, inductive, and deontolog-

ical (2008, 98). It is concrete in that he elects to look not at evil, or the
amount of evil, taken generally, which would be only an abstract consid-
eration of evil in any possible world, but rather to point out that a single
instance of an evil that appears to us is such that if God exists, God would
not allow the evil to occur. Yet, the evil occurs, and therefore—what are
we to conclude from that? In the 1950s and 1960s, the conclusion was that
of a deductively valid argument: If God exists, then there is no evil. But
there is evil. Therefore, God does not exist. But Plantinga showed in the
1970s in his famous Free Will Defense that the logical or deductive argu-
ment from evil fails: you cannot deduce from one single evil (e.g., one
prideful glance or a nick on one’s skin while shaving) that it is impossible
for God to exist. However, Tooley, following Rowe, argues that given
some particularly horrendous evil, it is likely that God does not exist.
Tooley will follow William Rowe in several points, and this is another
point of imitation: One presents the EAE as a deductively valid argu-
ment, but then one realizes that in order to justify at least one of the
premises, there must be a “factual premise,” and there will be an induc-
tive move in trying to show that it is reasonable to believe that, based on
things known and unknown to us, there does not exist a Theistic God
since God did not intervene to stop this particular (concrete) evil action or
event or state of affairs. Finally, Tooley’s argument is deontological. Too-
ley intends to show that some action or event or state of affairs has an
“oughtness” about it, namely, that it is an action or event that, all things
considered, an all-good God ought not permit to happen if He exists and
is all-good. Again, by making the argument deontological, Tooley hopes
to diminish the theist’s retort to the EAE that God may have reasons,
unbeknownst to us, as to why He had to allow, for example, the Lisbon
earthquake to happen. For consider. Suppose the theist is committed
ahead of time to certain moral principles that state when a moral agent
ought to, and ought not to, intervene in the affairs of others. How would
this principle apply to God? This fact would help Tooley, perhaps, to
force the Theist to acknowledge that if these basic moral principles were
true, then this would severely limit the ways in which God could be
justified in allowing certain evils.
Tooley (1991) started this “deontological” argument in “The Argu-
ment from Evil.” In his (2008) presentation in Knowledge of God, he re-
shapes it and has obviously tried to reformulate the idea significantly in
the intervening 18 years or so. Tooley in effect is trying to use what the
theist says he is committed to—what we are committed to morally—in
order to limit the possibilities of God’s having good reasons unknown to
us that are sufficient to justify the allowance of the concrete evil. Then, by
using logical probability, Tooley will maintain that is it a priori improb-
able that there is some unknown rightmaking properties so attached to
 On the Impossibility of Omnimalevolence 93

the evil at hand that God would have been justified in allowing that evil
to transpire.
In the past, many proponents of the evidential argument from evil,
including Rowe, each of which gave what he calls an “axiological” for-
mulation of the argument, failed because such an argument is lacking in
some central tenet, according to Tooley. He claims that these axiological
formulations usually fail in making explicit the manner in which not bring-
ing about an intrinsically good state of affairs or eliminating an intrinsi-
cally evil state of affairs implies that one has fallen short in one’s moral
action, thus placing one in a morally reprehensible state (2008, 105). Then,
Tooley declares, the issue becomes that one such as Rowe must at that
point refer to questionable moral principles or claims, and the Theist can
simply beg off at that point and claim that the principle is false, or ma-
neuver around the principle.
So, Tooley’s insight is to build right into the relevant act descriptions
of God’s allowing a certain evil act (without intervening to stop it from
occurring) that since the action itself has known wrongmaking qualities,
then this sets the action already on a trajectory against the moral perfec-
tion of God. Now Rowe and others have all acknowledged that God’s
allowance of any particular evil act, if the Theist believes, for example, in
a traditional “greater-good” approach to God’s allowance of evils, will
always be matched up with some God-justifying reason—perhaps un-
known to us—as to why God allowed that evil to occur.
Tooley sees that if he builds in the wrongmaking quality of an action,
then he can avoid getting waylaid by the theist who might stop to talk
about abstract notions of ethical goodness or conceptions of intrinsic evil
and intrinsic goodness and never get back onto the main particular evils
again. The argument might get derailed in this fashion, Tooley thinks. He
intends to impose the wrongmaking quality of the action, deontological-
ly, from the get-go, so that no matter what moral theory the Theist holds,
Tooley will be saying that God ought to prevent any action with known
wrongmaking properties, unless there are outweighing unknown right-
making properties that might justify God in permitting the evil in ques-
tion. Tooley also holds that the occurrence of an earthquake, presumably
one that takes innocent human lives, is one that has a wrongmaking
property attached to it, which means that God would be (Tooley seems to
be contending) prima facie morally wrong to allow such an event to occur
(2008, 116).
But is this approach much of an advance over what he claims is
William Rowe’s formulation(s) of the evidential argument from evil?
Tooley claims it is; I think there is merely a repackaging of the moral
elements of the background and foreground elements in presentations of
the evidential argument, such as we see in Rowe’s classic version. I fear
that in both Rowe and Tooley, there is an attempt to ignore or sidestep
the important properties of what G. E. Moore calls “organic unities,” or
94 Chapter 5

organic wholes, which bear on how the intrinsic value of wholes are made
up of parts of the whole, a complete value of which is known only by a
mind sensitive and intelligent enough to comprehend all of the physical,
psychological, social, relational, inter-personal, historical, spiritual, and
moral dimensions of the states of affairs involved in the organic whole,
which is a set of states of affairs taken together, and whose value, Moore
states, is not necessarily equal to the (mere) summing up of the value of
the parts of the whole (Moore 1971, 26). And which wholes are the ones
that God would aim at? Where do these wholes stop, that is, what are the
outer boundaries of the part-to-whole properties of wholes, such that the
summing up of values of parts to whole stops there? Are there evils so
bad that an omnipotent, omniscient, omnigood being cannot permit them
simpliciter, evils which cannot be combined with any other possible ar-
rangement of states of affairs such that the value of the whole defeats, to
use Chisholm’s (1990) word, presumably at least for the person or the
animal who suffers, the badness of the bad they endure? Are there goods
which can remedy any allowed evil, in all of its multi-dimensional intrin-
sic, extrinsic and relational properties? Quite apropos to the case Tooley
presents—as well as Rowe and most other arguments from evil—Moore
comments lucidly:
Whenever, therefore, we ask “What ought we [or insert: God] to do?” or
“What ought we [or insert: God] to try to get?” we are asking questions
which involve a correct answer to two others, completely different in
kind from one another. We must know both what degree of intrinsic
value different things have, and how these different things may be
obtained. But the vast majority of questions which have actually been
discussed in Ethics—all practical questions, indeed—involve this dou-
ble knowledge; and they have been discussed without any clear separa-
tion of the two distinct questions involved. (26)
Moore goes on to state the principle of organic wholes or unities, that the
value of a whole is not necessarily equal to the sum of the values of the
parts of that whole. The portion of this discussion that seems to be miss-
ing in Tooley’s framework and analysis of his evidential argument from
evil, an exposition and evaluation of which follows, is in his distinction
between ‘known’ and ‘unknown’ wrongmaking and rightmaking proper-
ties. Tooley seems to treat such properties as essential, intrinsic proper-
ties of states of affairs. Again, perhaps this is right; however, the relation-
al, overall value of those parts within a larger whole of which the part is a
subset, is not necessarily equal to a mere summing up of, a counterbal-
ancing of, goodmaking and wrongmaking properties, if Moore is right.
So, while Tooley claims that his formulation of the evidential argument is
“concrete,” “inductive,” and “deontological,” I think each of these claims
needs to be assessed in view of the wider ethical framework of defeat
(which the theist is more readily to adopt, it seems to me) versus the
 On the Impossibility of Omnimalevolence 95

language and conceptual analysis and usefulness of the counterbalancing

and counterposing of states of affairs in this way.
The warrant for this criticism may perhaps be sought by this state-
ment: it may well be that Tooley’s approach is both too concrete (at
places), and not concrete enough (at others). First, it seems his approach
is too concrete, when it comes to the manner in which he believes we
should envisage how states of affairs might simply interact with and
“counterbalance” each other. If Moore is right, the overall value of
wholes is not necessarily equal to the mere balancing and counterbalanc-
ing of values of goods and bads in a state of affairs. Tooley seems to
indicate that we can think of the rightmaking and wrongmaking proper-
ties that we know of, and those we don’t know of (as we’ll see, below), as
hermetically sealed properties intrinsic to the event, and that we may
view these events and properties in a (what appears to be merely) syn-
chronic fashion. But what of the diachronic properties involved with suf-
fering? Indeed, there may be wrongmaking properties attached to the
lasting damage or injury or permanent harm or psychological impair-
ment that the presence of such properties bring. But one thinks here of
Kant’s contention about the difficulty of framing a concept of “happi-
ness,” since often the affairs of our lives keep us from slipping into other
difficulties or immoral activities that good health or unimpairment might
have allowed to us. Only “omniscience,” Kant concludes, could properly
frame a concept of what would constitute our true “happiness” (1981, 28).
Note that Kant says this abstractly; a fortiori how much would it require
omniscience if (a) one had to consider the organic wholes involved here,
constituted by all the parts of the wholes, and (b) one had to think of the
individual happiness of each animal or person, taken individually, in a
way I indicate, just below. But second, Tooley’s approach for those peo-
ple or animals who suffer may not be concrete enough: we perhaps do
well to consider the manner in which God, if God exists, cares for each
animal or person who must endure suffering as a part of their lives in this
world, commensurate to achieving whatever telos is proper to each of
these species, in light of the depth of ingression of their awareness of
their lives as lived and as felt and as being of value to themselves, that is,
as a multidimensional function of a wide array of causes and effects,
states and conditions, both evaluated by God and by the individual ani-
mal or person who has them, with that depth of feeling and awareness
that is (again) commensurate with the actual equipment (cognitive, mo-
ral, spiritual, physical, etc.) each token individual possesses.
Consider this reason why Tooley’s analysis is not concrete enough: It
is quite likely we have all had some episodes of severe or intense suffer-
ing at one time or another in our lives. Interestingly enough, like Reid’s
counterexample to Locke’s continuity of memory or consciousness argu-
ment, there are instances of intense suffering we have had that (1) we
remember, at least to some degree of vividness, as having happened to
96 Chapter 5

us, as well as instances of intense suffering we have had that (2) we do

remember that occurred, but with no degree of vividness at all as having
happened to us. Take an instance of suffering that was both intense but
whose intensity is but, like Hume, “a pale copy” of the former “impres-
sion”—in fact, so pale so as to pale into insignificance. (In other words,
we may remember that we suffered, but suppose what is currently not
remembered by us is any trace of the vividness of the actual feeling of
suffering or awareness of any trouble or unease or lasting effects that
such suffering did or may have been feared to cause in us, etc.) The point
is: we, and our lives, are made up of organic wholes, the value of which is
not necessarily equal to the value of each of the parts of those wholes.
There are parts of our lives the experiential depth of which we can recall,
and parts of which we cannot. Take one of these instances in our very
lives taken individually, very concretely speaking (and more concretely
than Tooley has envisaged, I think). It seems that, given enough time, 1
any particular part of our life can become one that, in a later stage, we
cannot recall with any sort of vividness what we enjoyed or what we
suffered. We do have an enduring, strong sense, however, that we would
not be able to be where we are presently at in our lives if it were not for
the previous parts of our lives. Those parts are essential to us, they make
up who we, and our lives, are. They are, drawing on an insight of Robert
Adams (1987), part of our present identity. If they did not happen, we
would not be the people we presently are; thus, we cannot wish away our
previous pleasures or pains, since we would be wishing away our current
selves, as it were, which seems self-defeating. To think this scenario out
further, for example, beyond times in lives when an abrupt ending of
one’s life is part of one’s experience, would require a concept of post-
mortem life and experience. If theism is true, this does not pose a difficul-
ty, it seems; it is surely a possibility for an omnipotent being to obtain,
which is all we need here.
Here’s why I bring this up: according to Rowe’s account, this “good”
I’ve described—the good of coming to a point in one diachronic life dur-
ing which one declares that one’s life is a life worth living—is surely a
“good we know of.” So, would this be a good as well that Tooley would
call a known rightmaking property or an unknown rightmaking proper-
ty? (For a fuller treatment of this, see Tooley as well as the introduction of
these terms, below.) It’s not clear to me, and I think it’s not clear because
Tooley, as I have tried to show here, has not properly taken into account
the paradoxical (as Moore calls it) or transcending value of an organic
whole, viz., the organic whole of a person’s entire life, including future
experiences yet to be had (if theism is true), during which the finite per-
son will have a chance to see themselves wholly as a diachronic being
and to integrate past experiences, both remembered and not remem-
bered, into one’s present identity or condition. If I have succeeded in
anything in this section, it is to suggest some exploratory ways in which
 On the Impossibility of Omnimalevolence 97

Tooley’s particular approach that he signals is “concrete” is too concrete

in some facets, but far from concrete enough in other facets, as I’ve indi-
cated. As well, I think this criticism shows that the approach Tooley gives
us in his argument (just below) is focused on synchronic elements but
perhaps slim on diachronic evaluation—but that it is the later, diachronic
whole that forms a second level value, as it were, being spread over and
usually transcending the episodic, synchronic elements of our lives not
necessarily equal to the sum of the values of the parts of those synchronic
elements. Indeed, if this picture is right, the value of our lives seems to be
different not just in degree, but kind, from the mere balancing and
counterbalancing of values of the episodic parts of those lives. The limita-
tions of our memory regarding the vividness of our (actual) past experi-
ences provides good reason to believe that the value of our lives to our-
selves as an integrated whole is not equal to those parts (some or even
many of which may be episodically intrinsically evil). As well, it is rea-
sonable to think each of us can conceive of times (in the future, or per-
haps far in future) in a diachronic personal life, after significant suffer-
ings have occurred, during which we take our lives as remembered and
as known to be constituted by its earlier stages, and of this life say, that it
is of great value to me, and is valuable as it has been lived and as it is so
constituted, all things (as known to me) considered. 2 There would, of
course, still be the question about why God had to allow the evils that
were allowed; God has a good reason, given theism, for any evil God
allows. Evil is still, that is, something of a problem. However, this ap-
proach I briefly describe above may severely attenuate the problem of the
problem of evil, showing that there is a problem with the problem of
evil—and particularly for one like Tooley’s where a deontological, con-
crete, snapshot-approach to the evaluation of said evils is episodically
undertaken.

TOOLEY’S NEW EVIDENTIAL ARGUMENT FROM EVIL

In his concrete formula of the EAE, then, Tooley chooses to dwell on the
Lisbon earthquake of 1755 in which some 60,000 people—men, women,
and children—died. I will attempt to summarize elements of Tooley’s
long argument (consisting of 20 premises and a conclusion), lay out an
important principle of the symmetry of unknown values Tooley employs,
and examine some of the justification that is offered for these moves.
Tooley gives his evidential argument in two stages—not unlike
William Rowe’s famous article—one having a deductive part, and an-
other an inductive, probabilistic part. The first deductive stage is set up as
a conditional proof, pivoting on some 3–4 putative necessary truths about
God and God’s interventions in the world. The first general principle
Tooley states, like Rowe’s second premise in his famous EAE, says that if
98 Chapter 5

there is any action A the decision not to eliminate some condition C of

which is counted as morally repugnant, then, ultima facie, God would
never perform A. (Of course, given what I said above in the last section of
criticism of Tooley’s set up for his EAE, one wonders at which time in the
persons’ lives affected by some suffering they make these judgments about the
value of such experiences to their lives. Timing is everything!—or may be
quite crucially important here.)
Now, Tooley plugs in the Lisbon earthquake, in which some 60,000
people lost their lives, for C, stating that God should have eliminated C if
in fact not doing so would cause God to be morally repugnant, ultima
facie. But if, per history, the earthquake happened, then this implies (by
Tooley’s lights) that God, an omnipotent, omniscient, moral perfect being
did not exist at the beginning of the Lisbon earthquake, and of course,
then, at no other point as well. The logically necessary principles Tooley
uses are intended to tie together God with a being who is omnipotent,
omniscient and morally perfect, and with God having to intervene to
eliminate significant moral evils and whose non-elimination would im-
pugn God’s moral perfection.
In part two of his argument, Tooley gives us the probabilistic phase of
his new evidential argument from evil. He introduces the concept of
wrongmaking properties, the property brought about by (say) not elimi-
nating a condition (or state of affairs) that brings upon widespread death,
saying that it would give an agent the wrongmaking property of not
eliminating known evils the occurrence of which would bring about the
death of some 60,000 regular human beings. The fact that the earthquake
took place indicates clearly that God did not elect to eliminate this evil.
So, Tooley concludes that we do know this much: that there is in fact a
known wrongmaking property, other things being equal, to the allow-
ance of some state or condition that results in the death of about 60,000
regular human beings. The remaining probabilistic part of his argument,
which employs Carnapian objective inductive logical theory, then tries to
ferret out what the probabilities are that are known rightmaking proper-
ties, as well as unknown wrongmaking and unknown rightmaking prop-
erties of the case at hand. The action of not preventing an earthquake that
kills thousands of people, Tooley says, has a deep, ethically repugnant
property, not befitting a perfect being. At this stage, then, Tooley em-
ploys the different possibilities concerning known and unknown right-
and wrongmaking properties. He offers a claim about our ethical knowl-
edge and about this historical tragedy, saying, sounding like Rowe’s ar-
gument again, that no rightmaking properties we know of render us
justified in believing that not preventing the earthquake would have
brought those rightmaking properties about, and that the realization of
those rightmaking properties would be enough to “counterbalance” the
requisite wrongmaking property.
 On the Impossibility of Omnimalevolence 99

Tooley says we can say this premise more succinctly (preserving Too-
ley’s own numbering in what follows):
(15) Any action of choosing not to prevent the Lisbon earthquake has a
known wrongmaking property such that there are no rightmaking
properties that are known to be counterbalancing. (2008, 120)
One begins to sense that the end of the argument is drawing near, and at
this point Tooley introduces a very bold claim, that ultimately will re-
quire him to introduce his “symmetry” principle, introduced still later.
(16) For any action whatever, the logical probability that the total
wrongmaking properties of the action outweigh the total rightmaking
properties—including ones of which we have no knowledge—given
that the action has a wrongmaking property that we know of, and that
there are no rightmaking properties that are known to be counterbal-
ancing, is greater than one half. (120)
Next, Tooley says that it is a necessary truth that if the complete package
of wrongmaking properties of an action are stacked up against the com-
plete package of rightmaking properties—and the balance falls to the
wrongmaking side—then permitting or undertaking that action is ultima
facie morally repugnant, sub-par, base and not fitting certainly for a mo-
rally perfect being. Let me simply insert here that given what I said in the
last section, the idea of merely checking the balance of right and wrong in
this sort of case seems to approach the values of individual, episodic,
synchronic elements of one’s life experiences in a way that does not catch
the depth of what it might mean to judge and assess the value of a human
life diachronically, during which one makes sense of what one knows,
and also comes to later stages of one’s life during which what one knows
and remembers is different from earlier stages, and the organic value of
this life that emerges for the person can be vastly different from what one
would ever imagine given the synchronic evaluation of (say) a specific
tragedy in history—much too abstract still to be of ultimate value-intro-
spection and value-veridicality to the person who actually suffers.
Tooley then concludes that, given the machinery of Carnapian objec-
tive probability he adopts, which fuels his introduction of the idea of the
value of some likelihood being larger than 1/2 (see his premise 16, above),
that for any action, the likelihood that the action would objectively be
morally repugnant, ultima facie, given that there is some known bad-
making property so attached, and no known good-making properties
that would balance out the bad-making ones, has a probability figure of
greater than 1/2.
Finally, plugging in the specific action of God’s allowing the Lisbon
earthquake, the objective probability of such, given that there are known
bad-making characteristics of the earthquake, and no known good-mak-
100 Chapter 5

ing qualities for is that balance out the bad-making ones, has a probabil-
ity figure of greater than 1/2.
Tooley then concludes that it then follows from
(11) Its being the case that the Lisbon earthquake exists, and that any
action of choosing not to prevent the Lisbon earthquake is morally
wrong, all things considered, logically entails that God did not exist at
the very start of the Lisbon earthquake (119)
—the conclusion of the first part of his long argument—and from prem-
ises
(18) If the logical probability of q, given p, is greater than one half, and
if q logically entails r, then the logical probability of r, given p, is also
greater than one half (121)
and
(20) The logical probability that an action of choosing not to prevent the
Lisbon earthquake is morally wrong, all things considered, given that
choosing not to prevent the Lisbon earthquake has a wrongmaking
property that we know of, and that there are no rightmaking properties
known to be counterbalancing, is greater than one half (121)
the grand conclusion that:
(21) The logical probability that God did not exist at the time of the
Lisbon earthquake, given that choosing not to prevent the Lisbon
earthquake has a wrongmaking property we know of, and that there
are no rightmaking properties known to be counterbalancing, is greater
than one half (121).
The argument, Tooley claims, is valid, meaning that if all the premises are
true, then the conclusion must be true. However, Tooley then proceeds to
say that in order for his argument to go through, there is an assumption
of an ethical symmetry principle. In order to develop this, let us note
Tooley’s use of the terms “rightmaking” and “wrongmaking” as they
apply to the evaluation of his argument.
The justification for Tooley’s argument: in the second part of his ex-
tended EAE, Tooley employs the concept of logical probability. Tooley
seems to be eager to employ whatever means possible to say that God is
morally to be impugned for not having prevented the Lisbon earthquake,
and thus, by implication, that God does not exist. There is still, however,
the issue of the possibility of an unknown rightmaking property that
God’s action (his choosing not to intervene and stop the earthquake from
happening) of permitting the earthquake may have such that that right-
making property would be sufficiently robust to make the action of God’s
allowing the earthquake to occur overall a morally permissible action.
Here is where Tooley likes to employ his logical conception of probabil-
ity.
 On the Impossibility of Omnimalevolence 101

He claims that with respect to the Lisbon earthquake, this action of

God’s permitting the earthquake has known wrongmaking properties,
and no known rightmaking qualities. In his reply, Plantinga says that
there is, pace Tooley’s judgment, a very great rightmaking quality to the
Lisbon earthquake, and that is that of God’s having permitting the earth-
quake to happen. (170–1). The old saying seems very applicable here:
“One person’s modus ponens is another person’s modus tolens.” Plantinga’s
response brings out the main reason why Tooley was trying to argue that
atheism is the default position. By so arguing Tooley was attempting to
stop the Theist from employing theoretical elements within the theistic
view of things without first giving good reasons for thinking that theism is
true, or at least without first showing that one is justified in believing that
theism is true. One can also detect how Plantinga’s commitment to God
as a necessary being means that for any action A God performs (e.g., the
action of God’s permitting an earthquake to transpire), there must be
some rightmaking property p that makes God’s performing A overall
right, allowable, something the allowance of which will in no way objec-
tively impugn God’s goodness. (For it really would follow that if God
were to perform some action A by which, per impossibile, God would fail
to be morally perfect, this would mean that God would cease to be God,
or, more perspicuously, the person currently holding the office of God
(say, Yahweh) would at that point no longer hold the office of God. No
one would then hold that office, though Yahweh may continue to be,
albeit not as a morally perfect being.) So, as a generalization, for any evil
allowed to transpire in this world, there would be a known rightmaking
property, then, found in God’s permission of any action with known
wrongmaking properties attached to it, and there will likely be unknown
rightmaking properties, as well, enough of which would allow God, with
impunity, to choose to allow that evil to transpire.
Tooley’s deontological argument from evil, then, uses the notion of
logical probability at this point. By referring to the Lisbon earthquake,
Tooley says that there are known wrongmaking properties attached to
the action of allowing the earthquake to occur. Now, what are the pos-
sibilities with respect to what is unknown? There are four of them con-
cerning the earthquake:
a. the earthquake has known wrongmaking properties = KW of value
-k; and unknown rightmaking properties = UR of value +n, such
that -k is stronger negatively than UR n-value is positively. In this
scenario, then, the unknown rightmaking qualities were not
enough to make the action of allowing the earthquake overall a
morally permissible thing.
b. the earthquake has KW of value -k but a UR value of +n with n+
being more counterbalancing than -k, and driving the overall value
of the action into the realm of being a morally permissible action.
102 Chapter 5

c. the earthquake has KW of value -k, and the UR value is itself -n,
and thus the action is even worse off than our already negative
judgment of it.
d. the earthquake has a KW value of -k, but it turns out there are not
any relevant UR properties (or for that matter, UW properties). The
principle “What you see is what you get” would apply in this
possibility. So, in this case, the objective judgment would be that
God’s allowing the earthquake has an objective a priori probability
of 1/4. Therefore, granting all this machinery Tooley manipulates,
and the descriptions he gives, and given the truth of a symmetry
principle for his a priori probability fields to work out properly
(see just below), it would be overall improbable that God existed at
the time of the Lisbon earthquake, and thus, at any other time, as
well.
In order for this view of logical probability to have any grounding, Too-
ley realizes that a principle must be affirmed, and he calls this the Symme-
try Principle with Respect to Unknown, Rightmaking, and Wrongmaking Prop-
erties. It states:
[SP] Given what we know about rightmaking and wrongmaking prop-
erties in themselves, for any two numbers M and N, the probability of
there being an unknown rightmaking property with a moral weight
between M and N is equal to the probability of there being an un-
known wrongmaking property with a (negative) moral weight whose
absolute value is between M and N. (129)
What reasons are we given to accept SP?

PLANTINGA’S REPLIES TO TOOLEY

What does Plantinga say in reply to Tooley’s presentation of the EAE,

and especially of Tooley’s Symmetry Principle? Of the latter, Plantinga
says in rather short order, two things. First, of Tooley’s Symmetry Princi-
ple, that “it doesn’t seem particularly implausible. But of course that’s not
at all the same as its seeming plausible. I can’t see how we could have any
reason at all for thinking it true—or, for that matter, for thinking it false.
How would we know?” (2008, 173). Tooley’s conclusion, according to the
text, is housed in what Tooley eventually called his (C1), which is:
(C1) If A is an action that, judged by known rightmaking and wrong-
making properties, is prima facie very seriously wrong, then the prob-
ability that action A is morally wrong, all relevant rightmaking and
wrongmaking properties considered, both known and unknown, is
greater than one half. (Plantinga, 173; citing Tooley 2008, 130)
Of this Plantinga remarks, “The right answer, I think, is that (abstracting
from any evidence, inferential or noninferential, for G) C1 might be true
 On the Impossibility of Omnimalevolence 103

and it might be false; we don’t have any way of telling. The right attitude,
here, is abstention, withholding belief” (173). But this means, then, Plan-
tinga concludes, that Tooley’s EAE isn’t successful. “It doesn’t succeed in
showing that (abstracting from whatever justifying evidence there is for
G) the logical probability of G on the occurrence of the Lisbon earthquake
is less than 1/2” (173–4).

FURTHER CRITIQUES OF TOOLEY’S ARGUMENT

So, we see that Plantinga’s rejection of Tooley’s Symmetry Principle [SP]

comes down to Plantinga’s saying that while there is nothing in the prin-
ciple that seems particularly implausible, still that is a far cry from seeing
positive reasons for thinking Tooley’s SP is in fact plausible. This reason-
ing is probably enough to turn Tooley’s argument aside. I shall, however,
go considerably further, providing a counter-instance to Tooley’s SP that
I believe shows the principle to be false.
In essence, my reply here is that from the Theistic point of view, and
perhaps even to the lights of certain pre-Christian pagan authors such as
Plato and Aristotle, goodness is the primitive, and evil is the falling away
or the “privation” of good. Evil is always derivative: one cannot have evil
without good present, but one can have goodness without evil present.
This is yet another reason why an omnipotent, omniscient omni-good
person seems a perfectly coherent concept, while an omnipotent, omni-
scient omni-evil person seems, again, as above, incoherent. If it is a good
(and all camps seem to acknowledge this moral fact) for a person to
preserve their own lives, then an omni-evil person would as quickly as
possible end his own life. Being omnipotent, he’s have the ability to do it,
and being omniscient, he’s have the know-how to do it, as well. And so
for a theistically-charged world in which the eternal theistic God exists,
God is the originative good, and it is logically impossible that there
should be an “opposite” of God and His goodness. As Tooley himself
says, there cannot be two omnipotent beings, for that is logically impos-
sible. I take it that all probability conceptions worth their weight will
agree that if some hypothesis is logically impossible, and we have good
reason to think that it is, then the logical probability of that hypothesis is
Pr=0. (It doesn’t follow that the epistemic probability is = 0, or that every-
body agrees on the probability of such an hypothesis.)
But Tooley would say: Yes, but my symmetry principle is only refer-
ring to the deontological principle of a rightmaking property, and saying
that there is always an equal and opposite wrongmaking property in
each instance of a rightmaking property.
I challenge this, then, by saying there is a good we know of, a good we
can conceive of, namely, face to face fellowship with God, or, even better,
the Beatific Vision, and God’s permission of this action could have ex-
104 Chapter 5

traordinary rightmaking properties that, for all we know, would counter-

balance any wrongmaking action at all. And, of the Beatific Vision, we
know it is logically impossible that there be a sort of “Spiderman-Venom”,
counterpart evil and thus a counterpart, wrongmaking property of some
being’s allowing this counterpart evil to transpire. But perhaps I have
read the situation wrong here. Perhaps the issue is not whether there is a
Super-Duper-Good, G1, being in the Beatific Vision of God almighty,
which would counterbalance any conceivable evil and perhaps even any
conceivable string of evils that any one human (or possibly, any sentient
being whatsoever) might endure during whatever time duration (t1
through tn). Perhaps the issue is rather whether there is a very weighty
rightmaking property of God’s permitting the Beatific Vision to some
finite moral agent, and a counterpart wrongmaking property, not consist-
ing of God’s not allowing the Beatific Vision to some finite moral agent,
but God’s allowing the Beatific Vision to some maximally undeserving
agent? I will return to this case just below. First, however, let’s carefully
analyze Tooley’s SP. In the opening phrases of his SP, he states, “Given
what we know about rightmaking and wrongmaking properties them-
selves . . .” (129). The point I would like to make here goes back to a
similar devastating criticism that Paul Draper (1992) has made of William
Rowe’s evidential argument from evil: in response to Rowe’s statement
that “no goods we know of are such that they would justify God in allow-
ing E1” (say, some terrible instance of moral evil), Draper replies that not
only do we not know that our sampling of goods (i.e., “the goods we
know of”) is representative of all the goods there are, but in fact we know
that the sampling of goods we know of is not representative. In a similar
way, Tooley opens his SP by referring to “what we know about rightmak-
ing and wrongmaking properties themselves.” And so I ask: yes, and so
why would we think, based on the limited amount of rightmaking and
wrongmaking properties of which we are aware, that we have them all,
or that principles we construct regarding all such properties, based only on
“rightmaking and wrongmaking properties we know about,” would in fact be
representative of all the rightmaking and wrongmaking properties there
are simpliciter? Tooley seems to have overstepped his boundaries here.
Second, let’s return to my example of the Beatific Vision. I claim it
provides a potential rightmaking property with no corresponding
wrongmaking property, showing Tooley’s SP to be not true. But what of,
say, Kant’s (1981) point in the Grounding, that it would be wrong for an
undeserving agent—say, a perennially cruel and distastefully unhappy
person—, to be showered with good, and bounty, and blessings when
really he should receive bane and punishment. Do not our intuitions
agree with Kant 3 and say that it is possible for there to be a counterpart to
the rightmaking property of a deserving agent being in the Beatific Vision
of God, viz., there being an undeserving agent in the Beatific Vision of
God?
 On the Impossibility of Omnimalevolence 105

If one says that God reveals Himself to whomever He wills, and draw-
ing near to God would cause repentance and moral and spiritual cleans-
ing to the n-most level, then it would be logically impossible for God to
reveal Himself in the Beatific Vision to a person unprepared for the Beatific
Vision. All who experience God in such an intimate way are undeserving;
only God is essentially and originatively holy and necessarily so! (Any
other being, say a great angel, might be holy, but only because made so
by God through an act of fiat.) So, anyone who has an intimate Beatific
vision of God will be there solely on the merit of God’s grace and love and
other-directed alterity. “Against such things there is no law.” And once
again aid from an earlier point might be gotten. For, just as to be truly
omnipotent seems to entail being necessarily omnipotent, so also with
morally perfection: to be morally perfect, one cannot have some part of
one’s moral perfection that is willy-nilly accidentally the case: rather, to
be morally perfect entails that one is necessarily morally perfect: that is,
that one would have morally perfect intentions and thoughts, minimally,
in every conceivably possible way the world could have gone, that is, at
every possible world, that is, one has one’s moral perfection essentially,
and, has power over (in the sense of control over in such a way that it
would not cause the possessor of moral perfection to cease being morally
perfect) every possible person, event, state, condition, or time. 4 There-
fore, there is not, nor could there be, any logically corresponding oppo-
site state to the now-existing logically necessary conditions for a created
person to come into the Beatific Vision, to come into Union with God.
This follows, for, in effect, there is no opposite moral property that is the
logical counterpart of God’s grace. In effect, there is no other logically
possible way to come to behold God in the Beatific Vision except that God
actualizes all the necessary conditions. And, all those conditions turn on
God’s graciously allowing the created person to be transformed in order
to enjoy that Beatific Vision. However, there is only one set of conditions;
God must provide them to the created person to enjoy the Vision; and,
since God is necessarily morally perfect, He cannot allow the Beatific
Vision except by meeting the gracious conditions, and, being necessarily
omnipotent, He cannot be overpowered by any other being to allow the
vision on some other set of conditions. So, I feel that this counterexample
shows Tooley’s SP is not true. As I said above, if it were logically possible
that there be an all-powerful, all-evil Being, then perhaps such a being
could provide the greatest conceivably bad counterpart of the Beatific
Vision. However, such a being is impossible, for reasons I’ve stated,
above. Therefore, this counterexample seems successful to show that
Tooley’s SP is false. But, Tooley needed SP to be true in order for his EAE
as stated to be sound. Thus, I conclude that Tooley’s new EAE is un-
sound.
106 Chapter 5

CONCLUSION

We have seen that Tooley's new EAE hinges on his so-called “Symmetry
Principle” (SP). If we fail to have good reason to believe SP, then Tooley's
EAE, as he himself says, fails. I have tried to show the ways Plantinga
doubted this principle and to offer some reasons for doubting the princi-
ple as well. As Plantinga says, Tooley’s argument only has any chance of
getting off the ground by assuming that G (God) is contingent. But the
Theist, at least those of the Anselmian variety, holds that God is necessar-
ily existent. And, there can be no doubt that a corollary of God’s neces-
sary existence is that God is the delimiter of logical possibilities. God’s
modal status is the determiner of the modal status of certain other propo-
sitions, but Tooley doesn’t account for this Theistic theoretic point. The
point itself seems legitimate and is not something just ad hoc to avoid
Tooley’s logical probability argument. When one asks, what is the prob-
ability of God’s allowing the Lisbon earthquake given that God exists, it
is clear that the situation has substantially changed. For we know that
there is, solely by virtue of God’s allowing the earthquake to transpire, as
Plantinga says, a rightmaking property attached to that allowance. This
means in effect that God has some good reason for allowing this event to
take place, whether that good is a known or unknown rightmaking prop-
erty. By definition, God has a morally sufficient reason for any evil He
allows. According to theism, there is a belief—and a hope—that each of
our lives, taken diachronically and evaluated at some suitable stage, will
in fact allow us to see the great value of being and being us—having our
lives—and for having enjoyed ultima facie and been given so graciously
by the God who gave the imprimatur to create this world ab initio. Rowe’s
‘Sue’ case and Ivan Karamazov surely come to mind here: the hope I
mentioned that theism provides is that we will each individually come to
see our lives as constituted by the experiences we have been privileged to
experience—even the severe evils. Each of these past experiences are part
constituters of who we actually are at any later stage, and are necessary
conditions for continuing along life’s journey. It appears that we must
seriously reflect on the idea of giving permission to God and God’s plan
to allow said sufferings in our lives, since without those sufferings, if
Adams is tracking the truth here, we would not be able to be at that place
of evaluation looking back anyway. In other words, our sufferings may
well play an essential part in the very fabric of our lives, our very iden-
tities, as we find them. From the theistic point of view, giving God per-
mission to endorse God’s plan may well be a necessary condition of our
being in the best situation or condition by which to value the entire
organic whole of our lives without any negative factor that could serve as
an enduring defeater to that value.
 On the Impossibility of Omnimalevolence 107

NOTES

1. The passage of time here is only envisioned as a necessary condition for the
possibility of such a future state wherein one cannot recall a previous instance of
severe suffering that one himself endured in an earlier phase of one’s life. There are
surely other conditions that may be required: there may be choices or decisions, for those
who have free will and can exercise it to some not-insignificant degree with some modi-
cum at least of realization of knowledge and awareness, to free or keep oneself from
harboring an ongoing distrust, disbelief or bitterness due to one’s suffering toward
God or whatever divine powers one might believe in. These are deep waters; I merely
here signal toward the all-importance that willfulness and decision might play in the
larger, developed story here.
2. For a magisterial development of some of these themes, see Eleonore Stump
(2010).
3. In the opening bars of Kant’s (1981) “the sight of a being who is not graced by
any touch of a pure and good will but who yet enjoys an uninterrupted prosperity can
never delight a rational and impartial spectator” (7).
4. I leave it to the reader to see the connection between perfect moral goodness and
omniscience: they both seem to presuppose omnipotence. To have control over a
situation such that one was ensured that he would not go wrong necessarily seems to
imply a requisite omnipotence to stay on track morally without any possibility of
swerve. But this would not necessarily do away with the freedom of others, so long as
God knew with perfect clarity what people will freely do, and, in the spirit of the
doctrine of divine middle knowledge, in light of what I said above, viz. how the
property of omnibenevolence, when examined, is modally charged, also of what peo-
ple would freely do, that is, knowledge even of counterfactuals of creaturely freedom.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Adams, Robert. 1987. “Existence, Self-Interest, and the Problem of Evil.” In The Virtue
of Faith and Other Essays in Philosophical Theology, 65–76. New York: Oxford Univer-
sity Press.
Carnap, Rudolf. 1962. Logical Foundations of Probability, 2nd ed. Chicago: University of
Chicago Press.
Chisholm, Roderick. 1990. “The Defeat of God and Evil.” In The Problem of Evil, edited
by Robert Adams and Marilyn M. Adams, 53–68. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Draper, Paul. 1992. “Probabilistic Arguments from Evil” Religious Studies 28: 303–17.
Kant, Immanuel. 1981. Grounding for the Metaphysics of Morals, translated by James W.
Ellington. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company.
Moore, G. E. 1971. Principia Ethica. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Plantinga, Alvin. 1979. “The Probabilistic Argument from Evil” Philosophical Studies
35(1): 1–53.
Plantinga, Alvin, and Michael Tooley. 2008. Knowledge of God. Oxford: Wiley-Black-
well.
Rowe, William L. 1979. “The Problem of Evil and Some Varieties of Atheism”
American Philosophical Quarterly 16: 335–341.
Rowe, William L. 1991. “Ruminations About Evil” Philosophical Perspectives 5: 69–88.
Stump, Eleonore. 2010. Wandering in the Darkness: Narrative and the Problem of Suffering.
Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Tooley, Michael. 1991. “The Argument from Evil” Philosophical Perspectives 5: 89–134.
 SIX
Epistemic Evil, Divine Hiddenness,
and Soul-Making
Benjamin W. McCraw

The problem of divine hiddenness has become a hot topic in contempo-

rary philosophy of religion. J. L. Schellenberg’s Divine Hiddenness and
Human Reason defends an argument for the non-existence of God from
divine hiddenness. We can take “divine hiddenness” here to mean—
roughly—the state of affairs where God’s existence is not “obvious” or
“open” to all (epistemically speaking). As Schellenberg notes: “[t]he no-
tion of God’s hiddenness can be interpreted . . . as referring to the obscur-
ing of God’s existence” (2006, 4). But, so Schellenberg argues, God’s exis-
tence should not be hidden if God is all-loving, all-powerful, all-know-
ing, and so on and desiring a personal relationship with humans. Pre-
sumably, no one can have a personal relationship with X unless one has
some reason to think that X exists in the first place. So, in order to pro-
mote this great good of a personal relationship with God’s creation, God
must make reasonable nonbelief impossible. But that kind of nonbelief is
just what we come across in divine hiddenness. Call this the problem of
divine hiddenness.
In this chapter, I shall describe and defend an approach to the prob-
lem of divine hiddenness modeled on John Hick’s soul-making response
to the problem of evil. Specifically, I shall argue that the development of
faith in God can provide a good reason to think that God might be hid-
den even if God exists, is loving, desires a relationship with humans, and
so on. Because of the epistemic nature of Schellenberg’s argument, this
Hick-styled response requires a kind of epistemic soul-making grounded
in faith. Viewing divine hiddenness as a kind of epistemic badness or evil

109
110 Chapter 6

opens up the path to an epistemic version of Hick’s soul-making ap-

proach as a way to counter Schellenberg’s argument.
The first part of this chapter will clarify and expound Schellenberg’s
argument from divine hiddenness. Given the structure of the argument,
we can draw parallels from it to a standard, generic problem of evil in the
second part of the chapter. My intention there is to show that the problem
of divine hiddenness is an instance of the problem of evil in general:
focusing, in particular, on hiddenness as a kind of epistemic evil. With
this point in hand, we can turn to a few extant approaches to divine
hiddenness in the third part of the chapter. None, though, will suffice and
their shortcomings illuminate what would be necessary for a robust soul-
making approach to divine hiddenness. My eventual response to divine
hiddenness will be faith, which will be the crux of the fourth part of the
chapter. There I connect faith and trust with a brief sketch of the former
elucidating the latter. Given the discussion of faith, in the fifth part of the
chapter, I defend the view that such faith can provide a reason why God
would permit hiddenness. The final part concludes with some reflections
on this approach and its place in relation to the problems of evil and
hiddenness. Focusing on faith as a kind of trust-in someone allows a
Hick-styled theory to connect to the kinds of epistemic goods a soul-
making approach requires. Divine hiddenness can develop one’s charac-
ter in an epistemic way parallel to Hick’s moral theory of soul-making
through the development of faith in God. This claim, I suggest, gives a
significant response to the problem of divine hiddenness offered by
Schellenberg.

THE ARGUMENT FROM HIDDENNESS

Without any window dressing, Schellenberg offers the following argu-

ment from hiddenness:
1. If there is a God, he is perfectly loving.
2. If a perfectly loving God exists, reasonable nonbelief does not oc-
cur.
3. Reasonable nonbelief occurs.
4. No perfectly loving God exists.
5. There is no God. (2006, 83)
(2) and (3) yield (4) directly, which together with (1) implies (5). So, only
(1), (2), and (3) could be possible points of weakness for this argument.
Unsurprisingly, there’s been no serious debate on whether to accept (1).
To contest (1) would, I think, require a view outside of anything like
classical Western theism. 1 Keeping our discussion within those bounds,
then, would take (1) off the table in terms of responding to the hidden-
 Epistemic Evil, Divine Hiddenness, and Soul-Making 111

ness argument. So, the responses to Schellenberg’s argument have fo-

cused on (2) and (3). What shall we make of them?
Schellenberg himself devotes an entire chapter to the defense of (3)—
showing that there are cases of nonbelief where the person in question
isn’t resistant to God (or evidence for God’s existence), has no serious
disposition to reject God, and perhaps even tries to seek theistic evidence
and weigh it fairly and competently. Some have given reason to contest
(3) for different reasons. William J. Wainwright (1995, chapter 1; 2002)
suggests an answer from Jonathan Edwards claiming that knowledge of
God would be evident if everyone were properly attuned to the beauty of
the world and scripture. One’s moral development or correctly function-
ing passions hooks into the divine-sanctioned and divine evincing beauty
characteristic of a loving Creator. Similarly, C. Stephen Evans (2006)
claims that, for Kierkegaard, God’s existence really is evident but only to
persons who are morally or spiritually attuned to communion with God.
Thus, “God’s reality is or can be evident to human beings but not to
anyone and everyone” (243) because “[f]rom Kierkegaard’s perspective,
the knowledge of God is necessarily linked with spiritual development”
(244). On this view, God’s revelation must track along with God’s nature
and, therefore, God would reveal Godself only in ways that allow for
one’s moral development in response to an omnibenevolent Perfect Be-
ing. Thus, “linking the knowledge of God to personal [sc. moral] transfor-
mation guarantees that the process whereby this knowledge is gained is
one that will be personally upbuilding” (245). Like Wainwright/Edwards,
Kierkegaard/Evans makes a certain moral development or character a
necessary condition to seeing clearly the existence of God. Thus, in both
cases—while reading “reasonable” in (3) a bit loosely—it seems they give
one of the tools to claim that “reasonable nonbelief” may not be as obvi-
ous as one might assume prima facie based on moral grounds.
But not all of the grounds for rejecting (3) need to be moral in this
fashion. Paul K. Moser (2002), for example, tends to think that, like Wain-
wright/Edwards and Evans/Kierkegaard above, God’s existence really
isn’t hidden after all to those situated rightly. For him, though, the
grounds for such non-attenuation is what he calls “cognitive idolatry.” A
person fails to see God’s existence because of some intellectual “blind
spot,” as he calls it. These spots are symptoms of the sin of idolatry:
taking something or someone other than God to be religiously supreme.
Giving up one’s idols and reorienting oneself towards God removes these
blind spots and allows one to see what was evident all along. Hiddenness
then comes about as a symptom of one’s sin rather than God’s hiding.
Given these views, there are arguments available that make rejecting
(3) possible, but most of the attention devoted to the problem of divine
hiddenness and Schellenberg’s argument specifically let (3) pass and fo-
cus on (2). I shall follow this procedure: (2) is my main focus of criticism.
112 Chapter 6

Criticism of (2) is by far the most common target for those taking on
the argument. Schellenberg himself (rightly) assesses this premise as the
linchpin for the overall success of the argument. He notes that his argu-
ment “is rebutted if and only if (i) it is shown conclusively that an offsetting
good necessitating the permission of reasonable nonbelief exists, and/or
(ii) it is shown to be plausible that an outweighing good requiring the
permission of reasonable nonbelief exists” (2006, 87–8; emphases his).
Attacks on (2) then become the focus of a criticism of the overall argu-
ment once we leave aside worries about (3). My goal here is no different,
and a quick discussion of the hiddenness argument and the problem of
evil leads to the line of criticism I shall develop later. So, let me begin
there.

DIVINE HIDDENNESS AND THE PROBLEM OF EVIL

Consider a generic deductive argument from evil:

1. If there is a God, God is omniperfect (e.g., omniscient, omnibenev-
olent, omnipotent, and so on).
2. If an omniperfect God exists, evil does not occur.
3. Evil occurs.
4. No omniperfect God exists.
5. There is no God.
As should be clear, I’ve set up (6)–(10) to parallel (1)–(5) exactly. And I
take (6)–(10) as a perfectly adequate boilerplate argument from evil.
Without adding complexity to either argument, it should be clear that the
structure of the argument from evil and the argument from hiddenness
mirror each other. 2 Moreover, we can make the relationship tighter by
noting that we can modify each argument in precisely the same way. In
the post-Plantinga landscape of the problem of evil, the inductive, pro-
babilistic version of the argument takes the forefront. Instead of entail-
ments and statements of gratuitous evils that occur full stop, inductive
arguments couch themselves in probabilities. Instead of “evil occurs”
simpliciter, we might find:
(8’) Probably, (gratuitous) evil occurs.
We have a version of the hiddenness argument along inductive lines as
well. For instance, Schellenberg (2014) gives the “Analogy Argument,”
concluding that hiddenness would “very probably” not occur if a loving
God exists. Modifying his first hiddenness argument, we’ll have:
(3’) Probably, reasonable nonbelief occurs
to mirror (8’)—preserving the parallel structure in the hiddenness and
evil arguments. Thus, when we look at generic versions of arguments
 Epistemic Evil, Divine Hiddenness, and Soul-Making 113

from evil and hiddenness, we find the same structure whether we are
considering deductive (logical) or inductive (evidential) arguments.
But the connection goes beyond the same structure. (Or, perhaps, the
sameness of structure is merely a symptom of substantive connections.)
Consider what makes the argument from evil what it is. Most obviously,
evil does the work in (6)–(10). What is evil? Well, that’s nothing easy to
nail down and, given a tweak on a common Aristotelian phrase, evil is
said in many ways. We use “evil” to name so many things/events/people
and so many kinds of things/events/people, that it seems implausible to
think that some informative, single analysis fits all such uses. At best, we
can take “evil” here to mean the almost uninformatively vague and am-
biguous “bad stuff that happens.” At its most fundamental level, the
problem of evil states that there’s something bad that exists/occurs/ob-
tains such that we wouldn’t expect that bad thing’s existence/occurrence/
obtainment in a world where there exists a Perfect Being. Fill in the de-
tails however you like, but I submit that this description is about as
universal and nonspecific as one is bound to get regarding the argument
from evil.
If the foregoing is correct, we can see that the problem of divine hid-
denness fits neatly into the general framework of the problem of evil. If
God does, in fact, exist, then presumably ignorance (lack of knowledge)
of this fact is bad. That is, if there really is a Perfect Being, it would be
good to know this fact and bad to be ignorant of it. Therefore, we can say
that hiddenness is a bad thing. Accordingly, it seems to be one of those
things we classify as “evil” given the general “evil = bad stuff” formula
from above. Divine hiddenness, accordingly, is just a specific instance of
evil. That is, we should see (3)/(3’) simply as a more specific instance of
(8)/(8’). Hiddenness, then, is simply a kind of intellectual or epistemic
evil—a bad thing for the mind or one’s store of knowledge. Whereas
typical versions of the problem of evil focus on moral or natural evil, the
hiddenness argument picks out a kind of epistemic evil upon which to
model the argument. As many philosophers of religion note, the problem
of divine hiddenness is simply a particular variant, species, kind, or in-
stance of the generic problem of evil. 3 Herein lies the first key point for
the view I will defend later: the hiddenness problem is (no more or less
than) a particular instance of the problem of evil, albeit one emphasizing
an epistemic evil. It’s fair to characterize the problem of divine hiddenness
as the problem of epistemic evil.
Peter van Inwagen sees the force of this realization: “the two problems
[of hiddenness and evil in general] are similar in their logical structure,
and I recommend that, because of this similarity, theists who attempt to
solve the epistemic problem employ the same methods and techniques—
mutatis mutandis—that theists have generally employed in their attempts
to solve the problem of evil” (2002, 32). The arguments of the previous
paragraph just strengthen van Inwagen’s recommendation here: taking
114 Chapter 6

the mutatis mutandis clause seriously. Take the influential free will de-
fense, for instance. It has a distinctive variant suited to the problem of
divine hiddenness.
Known for this soul-making response to the problem of evil, John
Hick gave a free will type of defense against the epistemic evil of hidden-
ness early in his career. He argues that
the more ultimate reason [for divine hiddenness] is that the infinite
nature of the Deity requires him to veil himself from us if we are to
exist as autonomous persons in his presence. For to know God is not
simply to know one more being who inhabits this universe. It is to
know the One who is responsible for our existence and who determines
our destiny [ . . . ] and One whose commands come with the accent of
absolute and unconditional demand [ . . . ]. There is thus involved a
radical reordering of his outlook such as must be undergone willingly
if it is not to crush and even destroy the personality [ . . . ]. Only when
we ourselves voluntarily recognize God [ . . . ] can our knowledge of
him be compatible with our freedom [ . . . ] (2009, 133–4; emphasis his).
Thus, Hick argues that God hides because that is the only way to keep a
person’s response to God free. One could not, on Hick’s view, really grasp
the existence of a genuinely Perfect Being and not respond positively.
Since God is our ultimate end and felicity, rejecting God with full knowl-
edge would be akin to rejecting the good life if freely offered. To make
our acceptance of God voluntary and thus an act for which we can be
responsible, God must hide in order to avoid compulsion. Hick’s argu-
ment seems essentially identical to a standard free will defense. On this
view, even if God could have arranged the world so that no evil occurs,
this ordering would preclude morally significant, voluntary action on
humans’ part. Thus, in order to get the good of moral action, God permits
free yet potentially evil-producing agents. In an exactly similar way, Hick
views God’s hiddenness as God’s way of making cognitively free re-
sponses to God possible. In order to get the good of responsible religious
commitment, God permits the epistemic evil of hiddenness. Hick’s argu-
ment about hiddenness, accordingly, falls in line with van Inwagen’s
recommendation by taking up an identical solution to hiddenness that
we see in the free will response to evil (mutatis mutandis, of course).
Generally, then, we can interpret van Inwagen’s recommendation as a
program to examine the problem of divine hiddenness. And Hick’s (later)
soul-making theodicy is the inspiration for my own response to the epis-
temic evil of hiddenness.
I want to make a few points of clarification before we move to the
details of Hick’s theory and how I develop it to address divine hidden-
ness. First, I want to note and keep in mind a distinction that both Plan-
tinga and van Inwagen emphasize between a defense and a theodicy. The
stronger sort of approach, a theodicy, attempts to give a reason why God
 Epistemic Evil, Divine Hiddenness, and Soul-Making 115

does in fact permit evil or why evil must exist. To give a theodicy for evil
is to give the reason (or set of reasons) why God allows evil. But a defense
is weaker: it merely gives a possible story where God and evil co-exist.
The reason given for evil in a defense need only be possible rather than
decisively established as obtaining in fact (as with a theodicy). And oth-
ers (see Sennett, forthcoming) suggest a third option: a “robust” defense.
Where a theodicy attempts to give the actual reason(s) and a defense (a)
merely possible reason(s) God permits evil, a robust defense attempts to
give a plausible reason for God’s permitting some evil. We may construe
“plausible” as some probably north of .5 but shy of 1; leaving the details
of just how much greater than .5 one needs for plausibility undefined.
Those details needn’t bog us down for the purposes here.
Let’s take theodicy off the table right away: it’s too strong of a project
for my aims. But there’s still an important question: should we intend a
defense (simpliciter) or a robust defense? Recall Schellenberg’s assessment
(2): rebutting it works “if and only if (i) it is shown conclusively than an
offsetting good necessitating the permission of reasonable nonbelief exists,
and/or (ii) it is shown to be plausible that an outweighing good requiring
the permission of reasonable nonbelief exists.” He’s missing an option:
“(iii) it is shown that it’s possible that some outweighing good requiring
the permission of reasonably nonbelief exists.” A theodicy requires (i), a
robust defense (ii), and a theodicy only (iii). Which answer we give to the
problem of hiddenness or, put differently, how strong of a claim one
needs to make depends on the strength of (2). Does Schellenberg take (2)
to describe God’s love in relation to hiddenness across all worlds or just
ours (or perhaps ones close to ours)? That is, should we read the modal
status of (2)? If (2) is necessary, then merely a defense will suffice and,
thus, all that’s needed is (iii). Yet if (2) isn’t necessary, holding only for
some worlds but not others, then merely showing that (2) could be false—
that is, (iii)—isn’t strong enough. In this case, we’ll need a robust defense
arguing for the truth of (ii).
The modal status of (2), though, is unclear. Now, assuming that all
plausible claims are possible (as is obvious), arguing for (ii) will thereby
argue for (iii), since (ii) entails (iii). So, it’s wise to show (ii) in response to
(2) because this will cover a non-robust defense and (iii) as well. But, still
this requirement is fairly weak (even if stronger than a non-robust de-
fense). We need to recognize that, in giving a robust defense, we don’t
need to satisfy (i). So my aim is to describe and give some motivation for
a plausible reason (=a good one would want to obtain) that God might
permit hiddenness instead of a conclusive reason that necessitates hidden-
ness. This would be true for a theodicy but not a defense (of either sort).
Also, as I suggested above, I want to take the ambiguity of “evil” in
the problem of evil seriously. If evil really is “said in many ways,” it
strikes me as implausible that any single theory will or could “solve” it.
That’s because, with the ambiguity of “evil,” there is no single problem of
116 Chapter 6

evil—only problems of evil tracking the different kinds of “bad stuff” to

which one might appeal. So, in the defense I give below, I don’t take my
account to solve the problem of hiddenness insofar as it is an instance of
epistemic evil. Instead, I intend to give part of a response to the multiplic-
ity of problems that could attach to “it.” In the answer I give, faith serves
as a plausible reason for divine hiddenness. I do not claim that only
divine hiddenness can develop faith, but merely that this sort of hidden-
ness can inspire faith, and so forth. Instead, I’m content with the weaker
claim: the development of faith is a significant part of the overall defense
against the problem of divine hiddenness. With these provisos and clar-
ifications in mind, let’s turn to Hick’s soul making theory and how it
might be altered to fit the epistemic evil of hiddenness.

SOUL MAKING THEODICY AND DIVINE HIDDENNESS

In Evil and the God of Love, Hick argues that our evil-ridden world is one
of “soul-making.” That is, we encounter evil, and deal with it and its
effects on a near constant basis. Such “dealings” play a big role in how
our souls or characters come to be what they are. The evil we suffer, the
evil that we do, and how we interact with these evils over the course of
our lives helps generate our characters. We can become vicious in afflict-
ing evil or taking delight in seeing evil inflicted on others. Or we can
develop courage in overcoming evil, kindness in trying to counteract it,
and sympathy in attempting to help others through their difficulties. As-
suming that such traits as courage, kindness, and sympathy are good
traits of character, we can see that the evil in the world—while irredu-
cibly bad (i.e., having a negative value in itself)—can often promote cer-
tain goods in humans, or so Hick argues. Put in more straightforward
moral terms, evil can develop in human beings certain moral virtues and,
in doing so, can take on a role in bettering humans and make them more
like whatever religious exemplar one’s tradition sees as essential. It is my
contention here that we can extend Hick’s soul-making defense from the
standard problem of evil to a response to Schellenburg’s argument from
hiddenness qua problem of epistemic evil. Just as moral evil can promote
the development and expression of moral virtues, the intellectual evil of
God’s hiddenness can promote the development and expression of faith.
Later on, I shall argue that faith is a good that God has (would have)
reason to promote and that it involves character or soul development in
ways that link to Hick’s emphasis on the moral development of one’s
character in encountering evil. However, before we turn to Hick’s soul
making theory so as to understand the purpose of the epistemic evil of
hiddenness, let’s address a few other ways others have used a Hick-
styled response to Schellenberg’s argument.
 Epistemic Evil, Divine Hiddenness, and Soul-Making 117

Michael J. Murray (2002) has suggested a similar route arguing that

Hick’s soul-making response to the standard problem of evil can apply to
the hiddenness argument as well. Murray’s argument, though, falls clos-
er in line to Hick’s views in Faith and Knowledge than to the soul-making
approach in Evil and the God of Love. At bottom, Murray uses a soul-
making theory to contest (2). He claims that
[i]f God were to reveal Himself and His will in the way required to
eliminate reasonable nonbelief, any desire that we might have to be-
lieve or act in ways contrary to that which has been revealed would be
overwhelmed…But in doing this, God would have removed the ability
for self-determination…we would all be compelled to choose in accor-
dance with the divine will and would all thereby become conformed to
the divine image. (68)
Murray’s focus soon drifts into concerns about free will; he moves away
from talk of character or virtues or the like. Murray spends the vast
majority of his argument dealing with what sort of coercion divine open-
ness entails and how such openness leads a sort of practical compulsion
for agents to do good. We lose what counts as soul-making for talk of
compulsion, coercion, and how God’s open existence would threaten an
agent’s practical freedom in refraining from doing good. Like Hick’s ar-
gument in Faith and Knowledge, Murray’s account effectively becomes a
free-will defense as the soul-making aspect gives way to analyses regard-
ing how divine hiddenness preserves our freedom to do that which is
bad and avoid compulsion to do that which is good. Now, his line of
reasoning does make use soul/character development in some way by
Murray’s claim that “a character wrought in this fashion would not be
one for which we are responsible since it does not derive from morally
significant choosing” (68) but the mention of character immediately gives
way to talk of freedom of the will or choice. Thus, even when Murray
does talk about character development, it still hinges on moral freedom
and responsibility. So, I don’t find Murray’s approach very instructive for
a soul-making response to hiddenness. It fails to take seriously and pri-
marily the role of character development in divine hiddenness and in-
stead focuses chiefly on considerations based in free will, coercion, and
moral responsibility.
Other philosophers do emphasize a role hiddenness can or does play
in developing character. Daniel Howard-Snyder (1996) argues that, for all
we know, God’s hiddenness is a way to ensure that one’s motives remain
intellectually honest or pure in loving and communing with God. With
pure transparency and openness, we could (would?) accept God only to
obtain goods that relationship with God might provide or to avoid
harms—not for the intrinsic good of divine communion. God’s hidden-
ness, therefore, can function to make our motivational structure appro-
priate for the right kind of relationship to God. Similarly, Ted Poston and
118 Chapter 6

Trent Dougherty (2007) suggest that “[i]t may be that there are certain
goods of character formation that require some epistemic distance from
God” (195). Following the mystical tradition of St. John of the Cross,
Laura L. Garcia sees
God’s hiddenness [as] a result of His merciful love, which develops
love and perseverance in His disciples by withdrawing the signs of his
presence from time to time [ . . . ]. Suffering, including the suffering
brought about by God’s hiddenness, is necessary to effect [ . . . ] detach-
ment and to lead us to seek our good in Him and to receive everything
from Him. (2002, 92)
In each case, we find some kind of moral development that divine hid-
denness can promote or cultivate. This follows more closely with the
soul-making approach we see in Hick as applied to the problem of divine
hiddenness. If this line of reasoning holds, then we have a plausible
reason to reject (2). God hides in order to spur the moral development of
human creatures confronting a religiously ambiguous world.
But I have a concern with these types of approaches that applies to
Murray’s as well. It’s hard to see in their responses any distinctive epis-
temic solution to the problem of divine hiddenness. If hiddenness is, as
we’ve analyzed above, a kind of epistemic evil, then the response given
should track that epistemic focus. And I see none of that in Murray’s
view: the good to be gotten is morally significant free action and the bad
to be avoided is moral coercion. His view does nothing to address the
epistemic badness of divine hiddenness. Even if Murray’s view would
take the soul-making theory more seriously like those approaches above,
it would still seem to focus on only moral considerations. And in the
views of Howard-Snyder, Poston and Dougherty, and Garcia, we have a
soul-making sort of response (unlike Murray) but still there’s little sense
of seeing their positions having a decidedly epistemic focus. They argue
that divine hiddenness promotes moral goods of character—not epistemic
or intellectual ones. Recall van Inwagen’s recommendation that theorists
give parallel responses to the problem of hiddenness based on ap-
proaches to the problem of evil. Yet, the recommendation is couched in
the nearly perfunctory mutatis mutandis proviso; but, as I’ve argued here,
these approaches don’t “mutatis” enough. We need an epistemic-focused
response in order for the epistemic problem of hiddenness to fit ade-
quately.
My aim in this section is more than mere criticism of Murray and the
others. By seeing where their soul-making approaches lack, we can better
determine just how a successful soul-making defense against divine hid-
denness must work. We can draw two ‘big’ lessons from the previous
section’s criticism of other approaches.
A. An adequate response must focus on the development of a good
character
 Epistemic Evil, Divine Hiddenness, and Soul-Making 119

B. An adequate response must be epistemic-focused

(A) keeps the focus on soul-making and (B) takes seriously the mutatis
mutandis of van Inwagen’s recommendation that we tailor the response to
hiddenness to the specifically epistemic problem in question. We also
need to keep in mind the target of the response: (2). An adequate answer
will, given (A) and (B), give some plausible reason that God might hide
or permit hiddenness in order to get some (epistemic or intellectual)
good. A soul-making argument against (2) needs to make character for-
mation essential as a response to Schellenburg’s argument since it is the
development of the soul/character that provides a reason to think that a
perfect Being would (at least) tolerate evil. Such evil can promote the
development of an agent’s moral character. This is Hick’s lesson for moral
(and probably natural) evil. But, Schellenburg’s argument deals with
epistemic evil and therefore requires a response adequate for this differ-
ent sort of evil. Thus, we should turn to the epistemic development of the
agent involved. If we can find reason that divine hiddenness promotes
the development of one’s epistemic character/soul, then we have a robust
epistemic response to Schellenburg’s argument insofar as we have reason
to reject (2) on epistemic rather than purely moral grounds.

FAITH, TRUST, AND INTELLECTUAL CHARACTER

Faith, or more specifically a significant kind of faith, can satisfy the re-
quirements from the previous section, or so I argue in this section. As I
see it—and more on how I construe faith below—it’s an epistemic atti-
tude involving one’s character that a loving God interested in developing
personal relationships has good reasons to promote. Thus, this sort of
faith can serve as a response to (2): it’s plausibly not the case that if a
perfectly loving God exists, then reasonable nonbelief does not occur.
Before we can see how faith can give us a plausible reason to reject (2), we
need to become clearer about just the sort of faith I have in mind.
By “faith” I don’t mean an exclusively propositional attitude. 4 The
locution that better picks out my use is having faith in S rather than faith
that p where the latter but not the former simply reduces to propositional
belief that p. So, when I use the term “faith,” I mean something very
different from just believing or accepting some proposition. I mean a
much richer attitude, and the object of these attitudes differ. Faith-that, as
should be clear, has its object in a proposition. It concerns propositional
belief that some p is true. However, faith-in usually or paradigmatically
tracks a person (or something one treats as a person). Whereas we can see
faith-that as a species of belief-that, taking trust as our model most ade-
quately captures the richer faith-in. It’s the core of trust within faith (in)
that sets up this sort of faith as the response to (2) above.
120 Chapter 6

As I see it, we can think of trust of any sort—moral, practical, epistem-

ic, and so forth—as involving two key conceptual clusters or strands:
reliance and confidence. 5 We rely on people when we depend on them
for something we aren’t in a position to do or believe (know) ourselves.
And confidence, as I construe it, relates to seeing someone in a certain
way: as competent in some fashion relevant to the circumstances for the
trust. And remember that we need a distinctively epistemic response to
(2). This means that we should focus on the epistemic aspect of trust. This
epistemic trust (ET) takes the confidence and reliance elements of trust
simpliciter and adds a few components. First, one must come to accept a
proposition as a result of one’s trusting. Accepting that p means taking it
that p in one’s reasoning and/or practices and, while it can include believ-
ing that p, acceptance doesn’t strictly entail propositional belief. If you
think that ET should entail belief, one can replace ‘acceptance’ with ‘be-
lief’ without changing the essential structure of the concept or its role in
responding to the hiddenness argument. Also, the trust is grounded in
the communication (or perceived communication) from someone regard-
ing the content of the acceptance. We accept that p because we take some-
one (we trust) to communicate it. Thus, placing ET in someone, on the
view here, blends these four components: reliance, confidence, accep-
tance, and taking someone to communicate (the content of what’s ac-
cepted).
What does this account for ET in someone mean for our discussion of
hiddenness? A few points: first, my richer model of ET in someone means
that it won’t reduce to belief- or trust-that some proposition is true. And
that point leads to my second: namely, that the richer model of ET in I’m
providing makes for a richer model of faith I’m proposing. That richer
model of faith makes a difference for its role in one’s character. It’s easy
to think about faith as believing that God exists, but my view treats belief
as faith-in (God) rather than faith-that (God exists). Faith-in, on the other
hand, requires reliance and confidence: elements of one’s character that
can be developed in certain ways. We can learn to rely better and differ-
ently and we can come to see others as competent or epistemically well-
placed over time. These developments aren’t changes in beliefs but in the
dispositions of the person that lead to one’s beliefs. They are, therefore,
segments of one’s intellectual or epistemic character: the dispositions of a
person that ground one’s beliefs. Thus, viewing faith-in as I’m suggesting
makes character development key. And that’s one of the major require-
ments for a soul-making response to hiddenness.
So, I’ve argued that the richer faith-in, following ET-in, makes essen-
tial use of the character in developing the core elements of faith. And, as
should be clear from my emphasis on epistemic trust-in, the sort of faith
grounded in that kind of trust will be epistemic as well. The faith I’m
developing here will issue in acceptances and/or beliefs, and it will be the
sort of disposition whereby one sees the object of one’s faith (God, s
 Epistemic Evil, Divine Hiddenness, and Soul-Making 121

religious authority, writings, etc.) as communicating (religious) content

meant to be accepted or believed. We have what we need in faith: charac-
ter-development—relating to (A) above—and a distinctively epistemic
concept—(B). How does this relate to hiddenness, though?

FAITH AND DIVINE HIDDENNESS

In a world where God’s existence is not obvious, faith qua trust becomes
necessary. Faith has a core of dependence inherited from trust and such
dependence can easily come about by the obscurity of God’s existence,
aims, works, and so forth. If there is to be faith, then there must be
reliance and such dependence requires divine hiddenness. 6 If we lived in
a world where God’s existence, plans, and so forth were open to all, it
seems difficult to imagine a context in which one could really have
faith—there would be no real depth of epistemic dependence or reliance
necessary in such a world. And, furthermore, if faith is more than just
belief (that), it must be developed. Such development requires an under-
lying context—often a kind of religious-social community—where one
learns to depend on persons consistently and acquires the right kind and
level of confidence necessary for proper trust and, hence, faith. 7 So, di-
vine hiddenness promotes not only individual, discrete acts of faith in
particular instances (requiring reliance) but also in a general, extended
sense of making possible the acquisition of trust expressed as faith over
the course of a person’s life. Moral evils can make possible and promote
one’s moral development and the epistemic evil of hiddenness can make
possible and promote the growth of one’s intellectual character via faith.
But one might object: why, if this is the case, think that faith is so
valuable? If faith requires divine hiddenness, then so much the worse for
faith. The world would be better with divine openness since we would be
in a better epistemic position with respect to God in the first place. Even
if hiddenness promotes faith, why think faith is good enough to provide
a plausible reason that God might hide? This certainly seems to be the
impression that Schellenberg’s tone suggests.
I suppose that, if by “faith” one only means “belief that God exists,” I
would readily agree with this criticism and concede the point. But, by
“faith” (and, equivalently my use of “trust”) I don’t mean something as
thin as mere propositional belief. And I think this is where a large part of
Schellenberg’s project is not simply wrong but wrong-headed. If God’s
aims concern a personal relationship, as Schellenberg contends, then just
“belief that God exists” is a very small part of such a relationship. Even if
such propositional belief is necessary for a personal relationship, it
shouldn’t be the focus here. We are not simply talking about “evidence
sufficient to produce justified belief” but a significant segment of an
agent’s character and how that character relates one to God if we really
122 Chapter 6

focus on a personal relationship as God’s aim. The worry would be that

we pay only lip service to such a relationship as the overriding divine
target and instead slip into talking about only propositional belief. A
concern about reasonable propositional nonbelief skews and diverts the
self-admitted aim from the outset. Hiddenness—on Schellenberg’s own
theory—is not really about belief (that) but rather about a robust belief-in
relationship obtaining between God and some person. Focusing on the
“personal relationship” goal should weaken one’s focus on mere proposi-
tional belief but it is that “reasonable nonbelief” that remains the focus of
Schellenburg’s argument. What we need are not reasons God may have to
permit one to disbelieve that God exists but instead reasons that God
may have—through being hidden—to promote a relationship with a per-
son. If Schellenberg is right that God wants a personal relationship, then
he is going about the problem of hiddenness in the wrong way. Thus,
given the very same goods (of divine relationship) that Schellenberg
makes the focus, it seems as though hiddenness is a plausible way to
obtain those goods via development of faith. And that plausible reason to
permit or perhaps promote hiddenness is exactly what we need to con-
test (2).
The soul-making defense I offer here does not concern itself primarily
with belief that God exists but how hiddenness impacts the character of
the agent in question. Such development of character clearly cuts right to
the person involved. Faith—qua trust—just is a particular expression of a
segment of one’s character. Thus, if we ask why faith is so valuable, we
are not simply talking about beliefs or their manner of production, but
we must discuss the value of the person or, at the very least, some signifi-
cant part of that person’s moral and intellectual character. And, further-
more, we ask how that corresponds to the “personal relationship” Schel-
lenberg cites as God’s motive. In promoting faith God would not be
simply promoting belief (that). Instead, this involves the promotion of
that agent’s character, and a good character, I take it, has tremendous
value—moral, epistemic, or otherwise. And our characters deeply impact
all of our relationships. Divine hiddenness works to promote a certain
kind of epistemic character—reinforcing the Hick-inspired genesis of this
response.
But one might object that divine hiddenness does not appear necessary
to develop ET as faith. ET occurs throughout our lives and in many ways
and it seems possible that such non-religious ET can develop into relig-
ious beliefs held on faith over time. I think this is generally correct: faith
does not strictly require or make necessary divine hiddenness. However, I
deny that we need so strong a claim as this. Recall from Section 2 that my
view doesn’t “solve” the problem of hiddenness on its own. My response
in this section, I suggest here, fits into a more general approach to the
problem of evil on the whole. In short, it contributes a part of the general
response instead of providing the sole ‘solution’. The larger problem of
 Epistemic Evil, Divine Hiddenness, and Soul-Making 123

evil has many different responses: the free-will defense, Hicks’ moral
soul-making theodicy, skeptical theism, and so forth. And, as I argued in
Section 2 as well, each of these views has a parallel for the epistemic evil
of hiddenness. I see my view as dovetailing into these responses as an
overall answer to the problem of evil. And I suggest that we should expect
a dovetail here working into a convergent approach to evil. If we take
seriously that evil “is said in many ways,” we won’t find a single theory
adequate because the target for that theory would be an irreducibly di-
verse set of “bad stuff” to which the tag “evil” applies. So, just as there
are multiple kinds of evil—including the epistemic variants—we should
expect multiple facets responding to evil in different ways. Even if it’s not
necessary that hiddenness promotes faith, my faith-based response to (2)
can still fit part of the overall rejoinder to the problem of hiddenness in
particular and evil in general.

WHERE THIS LEAVES US

I take the response I’ve described and defended to have a general and
specific point. My specific point is to give a plausible reason to contest the
implication in (2)—a reason why God might be loving and still permit
instances of nonbelief. My rejoinder is that the good of developing robust
faith-in God makes divine hiding plausible since openness would seem
contrary to the development of significant trust in and reliance on God.
Emphasizing the role of character in developing, having, and expressing
trust/faith in God reorients our focus from mere reasonable belief or non-
belief that God exists towards centering on the character of the person
involved in a personal relationship that God would want to promote. So,
while my view takes Schellenberg’s argument on its own terms, I also
what to point out that the ultimate focus for the argument from hidden-
ness should remain on a personal relationship rather than resting with
“reasonable nonbelief.” To take Schellenberg seriously requires making
that goal, rather than simple disbelief in a certain proposition, as the real
target for a defense against the hiddenness problem. I take it as a benefit
that my faith-based response can speak to both kinds of emphases: the
propositional focus of (2) and the personal relationship point of the hid-
denness problem overall.
However, a level-headed assessment of my own response’s force
speaks to how we should think of the problem of evil overall and how we
should best respond to it. Noting that developing faith does not imply
hiddenness shows that we shouldn’t think of a “solution” to the problem
of evil in overly strict ways. Evil is ambiguous, and we should probably
expect a convergent overall response with many specific prongs that en-
gage the different kinds of evil one might examine and encounter. Given
this overall approach to addressing evil, we shouldn’t be disappointed in
124 Chapter 6

a view that can’t “solve” the problem (in a robust sense) with a single
theory because that’s to expect of a theory something no theory could
accomplish. So, I take my response for what it is: a partial and yet plau-
sible response to the problem of hiddenness rather than the “solution” to
epistemic evil. And though this may be more modest than one would
optimally wish, it seems to be as responsible of an answer to a multi-
faceted problem as one could reasonably give.

NOTES

1. Of course, nothing about that claim or any others I may state imply that one
must or should accept a classical, Western theistic approach or even a theistic approach
at all.
2. James A. Keller (1995) makes the same point about the identical structure of
both types of arguments.
3. For philosophers emphasizing the point that the argument from hiddenness is
simply a type of the argument from evil, see: Schellenberg (2006, 7) and several chap-
ters in Divine Hiddenness: New Essays from Peter van Inwagen, “What Is the Problem of
the Hiddenness of God?”; Jonathan L. Kvanvig, “Divine Hiddenness: What is the
Problem?”; and William J. Wainwright, “Jonathan Edwards and the Hiddenness of
God”.
4. For more on my views on the relation between faith and trust see McCraw
(2015).
5. For more on ET, see McCraw (forthcoming).
6. There’s a parallel Kierkegaardian point from his Concluding Unscientific Post-
script about the necessity of risk for faith. I see my point about dependence as includ-
ing a kind of intellectual risk, so I’m (more than) happy to accept the Kierkegaardian
point here regarding (the riskiness of) faith.
7. Crummett (2015) develops a role for one’s social community in responding to
the problem of divine hiddenness. Given that I see faith (in) as a kind of trust that is
developed over time, I think he’s exactly right to emphasize one’s community in light of
hiddenness (at least in part). In particular, he suggests that “[b]y doing good deeds
and building loving relationships with one another [in a community], we can transform
one another’s characters and make ourselves more receptive to God’s will” (50; my emphasis).
This point clearly links character development and living in a community, but his talk
of receptivity to God, as I read him, brings us closer regarding my view on faith as a
response to hiddenness. My focus remains on how a community can develop one’s
character—including one’s trust/faith—but Crummett also emphasizes (rightly, on my
view) that one also plays a role in this community in directing others: one is both
developed by and contributes to others’ development in a community. By living a in a
community, one can not only learn to trust well oneself but also, by virtue of member-
ship in that community, lead others to trust properly: either by direct mentorship/
teaching or indirectly as a kind of role model. My use of character development, then,
I suggest here dovetails with a response to divine hiddenness highlighting a commu-
nal or social element-based response as we see in Crummett’s piece.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Crummett, Dustin. 2015. “‘We are Here to Help Each Other’: Religious Community,
Divine Hiddenness, and the Responsibility Argument” Faith and Philosophy 32:
45–62.
 Epistemic Evil, Divine Hiddenness, and Soul-Making 125

Evans, C. Stephen. 2006 “Can God Be Hidden and Evident At the Same Time? Some
Kierkegaardian Reflections” Faith and Philosophy 23: 241–253.
Garcia, Laura L. 2002. “St. John of the Cross and the Necessity of Divine Hiddenness.”
In Divine Hiddenness: New Essays, edited by Daniel Howard-Snyder and Paul K.
Moser, 83-97. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Hick, John. 2009. Faith and Knowledge. Eugene: Wipf & Stock.
Howard-Snyder, Daniel. 1996. “The Argument from Divine Hiddenness” Canadian
Journal of Philosophy 26: 433–453.
Keller, James A. 1995. “The Hiddenness of God and the Problem of Evil” International
Journal for Philosophy of Religion 37: 13–24.
Kvanvig, Jonathan L. 2002. “Divine Hiddenness: What is the Problem?” In Divine
Hiddenness: New Essays, edited by Daniel Howard-Snyder and Paul K. Moser,
149–163. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
McCraw, Benjamin W. 2015. “Faith and Trust” International Journal for Philosophy of
Religion 77: 141–58.
McCraw, Benjamin W. Forthcoming. “The Nature of Epistemic Trust” Social Epistemol-
ogy.
Moser, Paul K. 2002 “Cognitive Idolatry and Divine Hiding.” In Divine Hiddenness:
New Essays, edited by Daniel Howard-Snyder and Paul K. Moser, 120–48. Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press.
Murray, Michael J. 2002. “Deus Absconditus.” In Divine Hiddenness: New Essays, edited
by Daniel Howard-Snyder and Paul K. Moser, 62–82. Cambridge: Cambridge Uni-
versity Press.
Poston, Ted and Trent Dougherty. 2007. “Divine Hiddenness and the Nature of Belief”
Religious Studies 48: 183–98.
Schellenberg, J. L. 2006. Divine Hiddenness and Human Reason. Ithaca: Cornell Univer-
sity Press.
Schellenberg, J. L. 2014. “Divine Hiddenness Justifies Atheism.” In Philosophy of Relig-
ion: An Anthology, edited by Michael Rea and Louis Pojman 7th ed., 288–97. Cen-
gage Publishing
Sennett, James F. Forthcoming. “‘Now, Who Could it Be?’: Satan and the Argument
from Natural Evil.” In Philosophical Approaches to the Devil, edited by Benjamin W.
McCraw and Robert Arp. New York: Routledge.
van Inwagen, Peter. 2002. “What is the Problem of the Hiddenness of God?” In Divine
Hiddenness: New Essays, edited by Daniel Howard-Snyder and Paul K. Moser, 24–32.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Wainwright, William J. 1995. Reason and the Heart: A Prolegomenon to a Critique of
Passional Reason. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
Wainwright, William J. 2002. “Jonathan Edwards and the Hiddenness of God.” In
Divine Hiddenness: New Essays, edited by Daniel Howard-Snyder and Paul K. Moser,
98–119. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
 SEVEN
What the Hell Is God Up To?
God’s Evils and the Theodicies Holding God Responsible

John R. Shook

Atheism has intelligently designed plenty of ways to raise the problem of

evil. Yet religions really aren’t so vulnerable, since they typically ac-
knowledge how being human brings a difficult life of struggle, suffering,
and death. This harsh yet realistic attitude about this life sparks the imag-
ination about a next life and opportunities to escape evils forever. Relig-
ions hold out hope for the better, and the eternal good, in the face of
horrible tragedy and inevitable destruction. Typical religious people
can’t understand why atheists prattle on about suffering and tragedy.
Surely religion proves its worth for all people here, since everyone must
suffer evils in their lives. The more atheists talk about evil, the more
religious people are glad to be religious and not atheists.
Theologies defending theism, not religious believers, are the proper
target for atheist criticism on the matter of God and the eternal good. As
the intellectual superstructures explaining and justifying core theistic
convictions, theologies make propositional claims about divine matters,
plans, and deeds. Atheism must pay due respect to theology’s systematic
tasks before imagining that it knows what it is talking about. Attending
to theology is more the job of atheology than atheism itself. Atheism
disbelieves the gods; reasonably justifying that disbelief is the task of
atheology, and it is atheology which inspects theology’s work for flaws
and fallacies. When a theology tries to explain God’s ways to humanity,
the type of atheology called ‘moral atheology’ is ready to scrutinize those
explanations and demand that morality be upheld. Letting “theodicy”

127
128 Chapter 7

refer to theological attempts to maintain such theistic explanations in the

face of evident injustices and evils, 1 it is therefore moral atheology’s re-
sponsibility to scrutinize theodicies for their evils.
Looking closely at these theodicies, moral atheology can determine
that they decisively convict God of participation in evil, no matter what
God is or does. Moral atheology need only point out, as this chapter does,
how theodicy accomplishes what atheism itself could never do: show
why God is essentially and culpably connected with cosmically supernat-
ural evil. Moral atheology therefore judges what any ethical person
should conclude: belief in God should be abandoned.

KNOW YOUR EVILS

Atheology’s confirmation of theodicy’s damning verdict against God is

well illustrated by theodicy’s efforts to deal with Hell. The destination of
Hell hardly exhausts the problem of evil, of course. Only some theodicies
are designed to deal with Hell, depending on broader theological agen-
das. Many religions have theologies lacking hellish designs. Some the-
isms never took perdition (eternal tormented damnation) seriously, be-
cause they are basically polytheistic, or they prefer reincarnation, or their
monotheistic deity doesn’t decide afterlife destinations, or perhaps be-
cause their monotheistic deity only utilizes temporary torment. Atheolo-
gy must deal with those theologies separately. Still, theodicies dealing
with Hell illustrate the central problems for any theodicy, and moral
atheology’s criticisms of hellish theodicies can be generalized to all theo-
dicies.
Theisms teaching that God made Hell and uses Hell for divine pur-
poses can hardly deny a relationship between God and Hell. Given that
close relationship, it is impossible to say that this hellish matter is acci-
dental or out of God’s hands. Using Hell as the illustrative example, both
theodicy and atheology can ask, Are there some kinds of true evils with
which God must be intrinsically connected, and if so, does that connec-
tion make God essentially responsible for evil?
For any alleged evil, it must be first asked if it is a genuine evil, or only
an apparent evil. Hell, no less than any other putative evil, must be in-
spected first. Is Hell a true evil? We need to apply some common sense
tests.
Most evils can be thoughtfully handled and rightly classified by wise
philosophy and clever theodicy. Many evils that humans personally suf-
fer may not be all that bad from a ‘big picture’ perspective, and many
evils that we observe around us may be aspects of greater goods, on the
whole. Scale and situation mustn’t be forgotten; context matters. Natura-
listic philosophies have long counseled against anxiety over the tragedies
that really make life as a whole more of a comedy, if one could acquire
 What the Hell Is God Up To? 129

some wisdom and practice a little stoicism. (It is said among the fools and
wits that comedy is simply tragedy plus time.) Theodicies basically ad-
vise the same counsels about due perspective to religious people without
having to talk specifics concerning God. If there is a deity, as theism
claims, it may be the case that what we label as “evils” are actually just
inconvenient events and privations, which must inevitably happen to
frail yet proud creatures like ourselves. Theism has no problem telling us
that we vainly expect too much from life. Naturalism’s wisdom sends the
same message: only seek what is good for your own nature, not extrava-
gances and excesses, to which you have no right. One’s evils of privation
are one’s own fault, as unjust demands go unmet. The world isn’t failing
to give you your due measure, if you’d empty your head of vanities. As
for the world, it cannot be what we’d wish it to be. Other sorts of evils are
evil from any perspective and really do deny us what would be naturally
good for us, but in some sense they are necessary for the world. Theism
prefers creationism to account for cosmic structure, but naturalism’s cos-
mology ends up making the same point without a divine designer: You
temporarily enjoy a habitable part of the universe while most of it is
uninhabitable and dangerous, and these two sides to the cosmos must
come as a balanced package or not at all. So far, naturalistic philosophy
and stern theodicy agree.
These three kinds of “evils,” the evils of perspective, privation, and
proportion, are certainly evils in every sense of the word. They are just as
regrettable and tragic as humanity takes them to be. Classifying evils
doesn’t dispel them or turn them into good, however much they may
relate to the good. Most aren’t really as bad as we suffer them to be, but
we can’t enjoy them or treat them as good no matter what the intellect
may say. Lesser evils are still evils. We must be wary of all evils and
warmly comfort each other as best we can, because what humanly counts
in the end is the suffering. Philosophical stoicism has its place in the
privacy of one’s temperament and domicile. Stoicism out among one’s
fellow sufferers is simply public indecency. Evils suffered do not call for
emotional indifference; evils encountered do not call for moral quietism.
Just as there has to be a cosmic balance of goods and evils, there has to be
a moral balance as well, for despising evil is necessary for pursuing good.
To let go of regrets over evils to keep one’s head only abandons morality
and chills the heart. Stoicism must be taken in moderation, too. Philo-
sophical naturalism will always have a place for the tragic and knowing
the difference between good and evil. Can theism say the same thing, in
all honesty?
Returning to our hotly contested subject, we ask, Is Hell a genuine
evil? For those doomed to Hell, it must be an evil, the Hell-friendly the-
isms all agree. Inhabitants unable to regard their hellish conditions as
unremittingly evil are just passing through (Jesus, Dante) or perhaps they
are entirely evil themselves (Satan, presumably). On the topic of Satan,
130 Chapter 7

however, theologies can disagree. Those who know the True Good the
best would be those most sensitive to its complete deprivation, right? So
Satan suffers Hell as evil more than anyone. On the other hand, True Evil
cannot regard the True Good as good, right? After all, if Satan could
acknowledge how God is more good than anything else, wouldn’t some-
thing in Satan still be oriented towards the good, so could Satan really be
completely evil? Theologies can’t agree on this devilishly tricky problem
because they don’t share the same theory of personal evil. We would
disagree among ourselves as well: Is being evil more about knowing the
good but choosing the bad, or is it more about lacking any sense of the
good in the first place? Psychologists crudely distinguish between two
kinds of cruel murderers: those who can’t understand the suffering they
cause as they kill, and those who kill because they can understand the
suffering and choose to cause it. Who is more evil? Perhaps both are
equally evil.
Dualistic theologies can go either way. In Zoroastrianism, the Evil god
is entirely evil by divine nature; no mindful choice was involved. Chris-
tian theology sometimes makes it sound like Satan made a knowing and
willful choice against the Good deity to become fully evil. (Which is more
than Judaism’s Adam in the Garden did—he ate of the apple without
knowing good and evil as he did it—Adam only knew of evil and sin
afterwards, unlike the serpent, thanks to ingesting the apple.) The most
arrogant jinn, known to Islamic theology as Iblis or Shayṭān, plays much
the same role, as the persuasive temptation to sin so that humans join in
rebellion against the Good deity. However much psychoanalysis is given
to the Evil One, as John Milton tried with fascinating results, the fact
remains that Hell isn’t supposed to be genuinely good for any of its
inhabitants. Hell is objectively evil. It’s not as if Hell is only evil from a
limited perspective, as if taking a bigger perspective would permit some-
one under its tortures to find them tolerable. (“Sure it’s plenty hot here,
but it’s a dry heat.”) Nor could Hell’s afflictions be due to exaggerated
expectations and unjust disappointments. People dying and finding
themselves in Hell may feel disappointed in themselves, but not in Hell
(“But I’d heard some nice things about Hell!”) Bottom line: Stoicism isn’t
supposed to work in Hell. Hell’s status as evil isn’t simply a subjective
matter. Only Dante’s Hell has a tedious first circle that’s tolerable for
those rare people, the philosophers, with the wisdom to tolerate it.
The objective status for Hell’s evil is clear, but that can imply that Hell
is objectively proportionate, as an inevitable feature of creation. To say
that Hell was objectively created along with the rest of creation isn’t the
same thing as saying that Hell’s evil is co-originally and con-substantially
real. Evil, even Hell’s evil, may still lack its own categorical reality, as if it
had its own essential and independent nature apart from the good and
God. To use an oft-used analogy, the unadulterated light in the presence
of structure can produce shadow, but “shadow” is just a deprivation of
 What the Hell Is God Up To? 131

light, and not its own kind of substantial reality. To be of shadow is to be

apart from light, but it isn’t to be “of” something other than light. The evil
of Hell is objective (not merely a matter of subjective perspective or atti-
tude) but not necessarily con-substantial with the good of creation or the
good of God.
Christian theology has repeatedly taken this approach to evil for
many reasons, too many to enumerate here. Alternative theistic theolo-
gies could better insulate the Good deity from participation in evil, by
placing responsibility for evil on a co-original Evil Deity or metaphysical
first principle, but those non-monotheistic theologies would be unable to
credit God for responsibility for everything that exists beside God. Abso-
lute dependence of everything objective upon God, directly or indirectly,
has been a theological agenda for Christian theism going back to its for-
mative eras. If some evil could objectively persist without God or God’s
creative work, then absolute dependence is not the relationship between
Evil and God, and theological dualism ensues. Strict monotheism instead
must insist that objective evils, such as Hell, depend on God and God’s
creation for their status and persistence.
It may seem odd to say that Hellish theology—the theistic theology
now under discussion which accepts objective Hell—ensures that Hell
has a dependency upon God. But there is no safe monotheistic alterna-
tive. If Hell is supposedly objectively real (people can’t make it far less
evil merely by changing perspectives or attitudes) and God has dealings
with Hell (people can be put in Hell or taken out of Hell, for example)
then Hell isn’t just a figment of the imagination, or a psychological ‘place’
one can fall into, like melancholy. Theologies (and atheism) which allow
Hell to have at most the subjective status of a state of mind aren’t under
discussion here, and they side-step the religious problem of hellish evil.
Hellish theologies must regard Hell as objectively real, and so long as
strict monotheism is upheld, then God is somehow sustaining Hell’s exis-
tence.
Atheists may think, “Well, that’s a closed case, because we’ve got God
trapped as the one responsible for evil.” Not so fast. Dependence rela-
tions aren’t all the same. God has ontological priority over evil and Hell
(God has the most fundamental and ultimate reality) and God has supre-
macy over evil and Hell (nether can make anything happen that God
doesn’t permit to happen). Evil and Hell couldn’t have any reality or
causality without God. But attributing responsibility for Hell’s evils are
another matter. You have to know your evils. A good God can still avoid
moral responsibility for an evil Hell, if a clever theodicy can succeed.
Theodicy had better be able to tell the difference between perdition and
paradise.
132 Chapter 7

PERDITION AND PARADISE

If Christianity had become fully dualistic (like Gnosticism) or fully

monotheistic (like Islam), it would have been similarly vulnerable to
straightforward atheological criticism. Dualistic theology admits that be-
lievers have to accept, as the Good God must, cosmic Evil as irredeem-
ably real. Monotheistic theology admits that believers have to regard God
as participating in evil as an instrument for its ends. The next section
deals more directly with simpler theodicies.
Christianity is a frequent target for the problem of evil as well, yet its
complex doctrines can supply plenty of insulation. Christianity relies on
the Old Testament’s tale about the Garden of Eden and the New Testa-
ment’s account of Jesus’s promises of an afterlife and his own death, to
preemptively offer resolutions to any problem of evil. Evil is a problem—
hence Jesus. There’s a reason why few Christians are stunned and dis-
mayed by the problem of evil. Answers are available. Life’s inevitable
sufferings can be appropriate tests of character and faith. We shouldn’t
lament earthly suffering so long as an afterlife paradise awaits the faith-
ful. The Fall of Adam and Eve from innocence is the reason why human-
ity must live in a difficult world instead of the Garden that God intended
for us, so we are only getting what we all deserve.
The Christianity that ascended to orthodoxy by the sixth century CE
developed a fourfold metaphysics of God-Jesus-Creation-Humanity,
crediting each component with fundamental creative and destructive
powers. Jesus didn’t establish Creation from nothing; God did, and God
can destroy Creation. God did not die on a cross; Jesus did die, at God’s
will. Creation didn’t create Humanity (but it can kill humans); God creat-
ed Humanity in the beginning. God didn’t make the world that Human-
ity lives in now; Humanity did. There are accordingly four different
modes of evil, corresponding to each metaphysical power. Because God
exists, anywhere that God isn’t fully present shares in evilG. Because Jesus
exists, the evilJ overcome through Jesus is defeated. Because Creation
exists, there are objectively evilC events occurring in nature. Finally, be-
cause Humanity used free will in Eden, human evilH now objectively
happens. Because there are four modes to evil in Christian theology,
problems of evil continue to proliferate and systematic theologies can’t
re-converge on resolutions.
These four modes of evil aren’t reducible to each other without dra-
matic creedal alterations to post-Latin Vulgate Christianity. For example,
suppose evilJ is actually identical to evilH so that every human evil is
taken care of by Jesus’s death. This view adopts the position of universal
salvation, which denies that only some people enter paradise and accord-
ingly rejects perdition. Alternatively, suppose that evilH is just a type of
evilC so that evil human deeds are no more surprising and appalling to
God than earthquakes. Testing an innocent humanity in a paradise right
 What the Hell Is God Up To? 133

after creating them, and treating a predictably poor choice as an evil sin,
is an unjustifiable and unethical exercise for an all-knowing God, so per-
dition must be dropped. As another example, suppose evilH is inevitably
part of evilG so that any sufficiently sentient God would understand how
all deeds by finite creatures must fall infinitely short of perfection no
matter what happens in Creation. Faulting those creatures for inevitable
defects is similarly unworthy of a Good deity, so this God had better
regret making Creation before entertaining any regrets over sending peo-
ple to perdition, and perdition must again be dropped. Similarly, if evilJ
is just part of evilG so that the whole point to Jesus is to render the
inevitably imperfect Creation and the invariably unworthy Humanity
somehow worthier in the eyes of God, eternal damnation for anybody is
out of the question, and perdition is irrelevant.
In order to reasonably maintain creedal conviction in perdition, hu-
man evil can’t be reduced to the other evils so that it isn’t foreseeably
necessary. This is the case, regardless of the view that a theodicy takes
concerning why some people should suffer eternal damnation, or why
some other people deserve eternal salvation. Whether the point of Hell is
punitive vengeance or retributive justice, or a metaphor for permanent
separation from God, or something else, the key point is that God can’t
morally use Hell in response to some human failure.
This hardly means that we deserve paradise either. The question is not
whether anybody deserves paradise; the question is whether anyone de-
serves perdition. Perhaps God would be ethically responsible for grant-
ing a pleasant afterlife to some while denying any afterlife to others. At
least that outcome isn’t as morally monstrous as leaving people in Hell. It
doesn’t appear that a good God can avoid moral responsibility for an evil
Hell.

RIGHTEOUSNESS VS. GOODNESS

A good God cannot morally use Hell in response to foreseeable and

predictable human failures. Hell can’t be real just because God upholds
morality. But perhaps Hell is real because God upholds justice. Expecting
God to promote the good and expecting God to uphold the right are
separable demands, at least in theory. Monotheisms generally, including
Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, appeal to God’s righteousness for the
purposes of exculpatory theodicy.
In the minds of most adherents of a monotheism, when God delivers
justice in the name of defending the right, God is by definition doing
good. And few adherents would find it easy to say that God could be any
less beneficent while delivering justice. Righteous authority delivering
terrible harms may even be regarded as an intrinsic good for most of the
faithful. How God could ever fail to be perfectly good while delivering
134 Chapter 7

justice can seem unthinkable. Theodicy does have some thinkable options
about cosmic justice violating the good, as far as atheology can tell. Here
is the run-down, from atheology’s standpoint.
A “privation” theodicy, for which evil in any Creation is a necessary
feature, reconciles God’s goodness with God’s justice by claiming that the
cosmic balance of good and evil in the world is providentially the best
possible. Plotinus, Aquinas, and Leibniz offered influential versions of
this theodicy. A “greater good” theodicy, by contrast, treats evil as inevi-
tably and foreseeably arising from a prioritized good (such as free will)
that God providentially included in the world, so that evil is justly right
in service to this higher Good. A “limited providence” theodicy takes
God to be perfectly righteous, but treats evil as inevitable due to God’s
less-than-supreme capacity to intervene in cosmic affairs after creation. A
fourth kind of theodicy, a “submission” theodicy, declares that all crea-
tures must submit to God’s authority regardless of the distribution of
good and evil in this world, because it is only right that we are piously
grateful for existing at all. 2
The privation theodicy, despite its association with the “best of all
possible worlds” label, suggests that God’s aim in creating the world
actually isn’t to ensure fine lives for us all, but only to give each of us a
fair opportunity at life despite inhabiting a difficult and troubled world.
If God had withdrawn less from creation to allow this world to be easy
and delightful, we’d never strive for anything, and never appreciate our
dependency on God along the way. God allows ‘evil’ to afflict humanity,
but those evils are just part of the overall balance of life and death in the
world. Besides, there’s salvation and a wonderful afterlife for the right-
eous. God is righteous and just, rather than reliably beneficent in any
simplistic way, and God surely isn’t in the never-ending business of res-
cuing us from our own hurtful decisions. God wants our salvation for our
own good, of course. But you can kill with kindness—it is wiser to let
people suffer so they know what they’d miss. Apparently there’s no bet-
ter way to guide people towards pious faith and righteousness. Even if
only some individuals are saved in the end, righteousness is preserved
forever by God in the face of chaos and extinction.
Atheology’s reaction to this privation theology is to ask a simple ques-
tion: “Why would God allow so many evils to afflict us, when persuading
us to follow God could be accomplished with less torturous means?” It is
easy to imagine a world with less evil and suffering but plenty of relig-
ious people. Proponents of privation theology must be convinced that a
short duration for life and a long list of afflicting evils is necessarily the
“best” way to bring people to their knees. However, this couldn’t be the
best way, for an all-powerful deity prioritizing goodness. Even if this
might look like a fair deal for adults, what about the terrible afflictions
and sufferings delivered to babies and small children before their prema-
ture deaths, who never get a chance to grow from suffering or reach a
 What the Hell Is God Up To? 135

soulful state of grace? And if dropping adults to their knees must be a

higher priority than preventing the suffering of innocents, how could a
Hell for those strong enough to take the suffering in stride make any
sense? The number of people kneeling in this life is more important than
the number of people released from suffering in the next life, apparently.
On this privation theodicy, hellish conditions are intrinsically valu-
able to God. No waiting for Hell, here—this world is already a torture
test to see who will submit before death comes. Taking this theodicy to its
logical extremes, as Calvinism does, leaves a great mystery about how
God decides which person is truly worthy of salvation. After all, visibly
good deeds are irrelevant; genuine submission is subjectively psychologi-
cal, and we are too frail to even have sufficient faith without God’s rescu-
ing aid. God’s delivery of sufficient grace for faith is deemed a Great
Good and proof of God’s love. However, God could easily deliver such
grace to all by divine fiat and leave Hell empty. No, torturing righteous-
ness out of us before we die, and then torturing us forever if God so
pleases, is far more important to God. This is not a scheme designed for
displaying God’s loving beneficence to all creatures, by any means.
The “greater good” theodicy in Christianity insists that God has prio-
ritized one good thing, free will, while remaining bound to the duty to
uphold righteousness in the face of sin. Supposing, as this theodicy must,
that it is impossible to freely choose doing the good without also freely
choosing some evils, then this theodicy effectively makes human sin a
lesser evil balanced by a greater good. This could almost make sense,
except Christianity also demands that we minimize committing sin be-
cause it is an absolute evil. Those deserving salvation, ironically enough,
aren’t people choosing sin once in a while in the course of choosing many
good deeds, but only people who are the least sinful among us. Paradoxi-
cally, the creatures who must deserve salvation the most would be those
who make the fewest choices at all, such as babies who die before choos-
ing any sin. Furthermore, divine omnipotence demands that God can
know all human deeds before we choose them, which is logically incom-
patible with free will. (This isn’t a claim about determinism, since God
neither determines nor causes human actions on this theodicy. Rather,
actual free will must be intrinsically unpredictable since it mustn’t have
any sufficient reasons/causes, divine or material, for free decisions.)
Atheology points out that what started out as sounding like some
common sense—those more likely to choose to do good instead of evil
are more likely in all fairness to get into paradise—easily warps into
nonsense under this theodicy. That is why Christianity couldn’t really
subscribe to a theodicy prioritizing free will, and this theodicy mutates
quickly into one of the alternatives. If original sin for all humanity is
conveniently added, then the amount of sin actually freely chosen during
one’s life doesn’t really count for much by comparison either way, and
only a God’s free and fickle will can save us or doom us. If theodicy does
136 Chapter 7

take human free will seriously, on the other hand, then this requires an
admission that God cannot maximize multiple important goods and can-
not control creatures exercising free will, lessening God’s effective pow-
ers.
The third theology, the “limited providence” theodicy, accordingly
admits that God really isn’t all-powerful after creating the world. Because
God designed the world with its own forces and laws, and created hu-
mans who follow their own (somewhat free) minds, this creator couldn’t
have made a perfectly good creation and cannot perform all of the world-
ly interventions otherwise expected from a perfectly good and righteous
deity. Evil tragedies and terrible holocausts are inevitable, because God
cannot prevent them all and might not be able to foresee all of them. As a
practical matter, God is effectively less than all-powerful and cannot
guarantee maximal providential guidance over the world. God did estab-
lish creation with some providential planning, wishes us well, and may
send extra help when possible, but little more should be expected from
God.
Because this “limited providence” theodicy surrenders that triad of
perfections (omnipotence, omniscience, and perfect goodness) which
arouses most problems concerning evil, atheology has far fewer objec-
tions here. For those religious spirits able to courageously accept these
harsh terms of existence and survival, life appears far more adventurous
and risky. Perhaps atheists themselves are just that courageous, willing to
take on life’s adventure since there are no gods anyways. Yet even athe-
ists can notice how this theodicy neglects weaker, timid, or broken spirits
unable to struggle on in a gamble for uncertain victory, and for whom life
appears to be pointless suffering or a cruel joke. Hell is out the question.
If a God of limited powers expects sinlessness from us and demands
eternal punishment for our inevitable failure, that God must be heartless
and evil.
The fourth theodicy awaits, after the other three have been found
severely wanting. This “submission” theodicy returns to the core idea
within “privation” theodicy and fully admits that perfect righteousness,
not beneficent providence, is truly the divine priority. This “perfect” God
just lets terrible sufferings happen in a far from perfect world, and the
truly innocent do sometimes suffer before tragic death. But the truly
innocent also get to go to a heavenly paradise (or at least purgatory
perhaps), while the sinners are bound for a hell. There must be some
genuine evil in the divine plan, it seems to this theodicy, to guarantee a
greater righteousness. But we shouldn’t get fixated on tragic evils that
had to happen in God’s righteous plan. All that matters is that provi-
dence is fine-tuned perfectly to allow God to demonstrate perfect right-
eousness in the face of inevitable sin. It really doesn’t matter what sort of
creation this God bothered to design—that mistake dooms the other theo-
dicies. Asking for beneficence is a distraction, since it keep us alert for
 What the Hell Is God Up To? 137

evils. The truth is that evils shouldn’t be any surprise to anyone. Evils are
no surprise to God, after all. We are busy noticing evils only when we are
forgetting to be grateful to god for existing anywhere at all, and grateful
for whatever natural home allowing us live as we do.
Atheology has no difficulty pointing out what is plainly obvious for
this fourth theodicy: God has no obligation to adjust the ratio of good to
evil in creation whatsoever. If evil must be a necessary feature anyways,
then standing up for righteousness in the face of evil is all that matters.
The more evil, the better! On this theodicy, God has a righteous duty to
create Hell and guarantee eternal torment as the just punishment for sin.
After all, what better way for God to ensure the sharpest possible contrast
between divine righteousness and evil sinfulness than to contrast the
infinitude of divine right against the infinitude of divine punishment? A
lenient policy of no punishment, or temporary punishment, wouldn’t do
the job. Who is more against sin: the one who eventually forgives, or the
one who never forgives? God can’t forgive, not ever.

GOOD GOD AND NECESSARY EVIL

Moral atheology’s complaints against religions using Hells comes down

to this: How can theologies justify multiplying evils throughout the cos-
mos and into the next world? It is here that the problem of evil hits these
hellish religions the hardest, without mercy. Any religion that threatens
an evil afterlife must attribute to its god(s) the ultimate responsibility for
creating and sustaining evil, one way or the other.
It’s not as if religions try to hide this. Many religions want everyone to
know all about their hells and how impressively evil they are, and how
crucial it is to avoid them and how much the god(s) deserve credit for
using them. Their theologies justify those hells with theodicies explaining
their necessary roles in the divine scheme of things. 3
Theologies justifying unnatural hells with pitiless logic don’t hold
anything back. Puritan Jonathan Edwards was one of the faithful who
explained God’s ways without restraint or regard for tender feelings. His
sermon “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God” describes, in agonizing
detail, not just what hell is like for those in it, but also how hell is viewed
by those in heaven:
That God will execute the fierceness of his anger, implies that he will
inflict wrath without any pity: when God beholds the ineffable extrem-
ity of your case, and sees your torment to be so vastly disproportioned
to your strength, and sees how your poor soul is crushed and sinks
down, as it were into an infinite gloom, he will have no compassion
upon you, he will not forbear the executions of his wrath, or in the least
lighten his hand; there shall be no moderation or mercy, nor will God
then at all stay his rough wind; he will have no regard to your welfare,
138 Chapter 7

nor be at all careful lest you should suffer too much, in any other sense
than only that you shall not suffer beyond what strict justice requires:
nothing shall be withheld, because it’s so hard for you to bear. . . .[Y]ou
shall be tormented in the presence of the holy angels, and in the pres-
ence of the Lamb; and when you shall be in this state of suffering, the
glorious inhabitants of heaven shall go forth and look on the awful
spectacle, that they may see what the wrath and fierceness of the Al-
mighty is, and when they have seen it, they will fall down and adore
that great power and majesty. (1995, 99–101)
Edwards exhaustingly explains how god’s plan for heaven would be less
than perfect unless the saved can view the damned suffering in hell.
Heaven truly is the happiest place, praise the Lord!
Edwards understood theodicy all too well. He knew better than to
place the blame for evil on Satan, the devilish creature ensuring that the
Christian God looks good by comparison. Theologians can comprehend
what ordinary believers are apt to overlook: Satan and the suffering he
causes must be just as much an essential part of God’s supreme plan as
anything else. Among the faithful, one is instead more likely to hear the
legacy of Persian Zoroastrianism in the dualistic Manichaeism of the 3rd
to 7th centuries CE rather than its cousin, monotheistic Christianity. Man-
ichaeism depicted a cosmic struggle between two co-eternal divine pow-
ers, one good and the other evil. Needless to say, both religions agree that
only a terrible fate awaits those on the wrong side of this cosmic contest.
A monotheistic religion like Christianity can’t shift evil around meta-
physically so easily. It must credit its God for creating all the conditions
for any demonic power, if one exists, and for allowing such a power to do
its evil deeds. Evils are still only redistributed around this simpler theo-
logical scheme, and never eliminated entirely. Religions constrained by
monotheistic principles have no other choice than to “resolve” the prob-
lem of evil by finally admitting that evil is a necessary and essential
component of the grand divine design. As Christian apologist Dinesh
D’Souza honestly admits, “hell is an essential part of the Christian
scheme” (2007, 271). 4

EVIL IS NECESSARY WITH GOD, OR, IS GOD NECESSARY EVIL?

The difficulty reconciling perdition with paradise is generalizable to a

tension between evil and God. So long as God and creation exists, objec-
tively real evil must also exist. The atheological analysis of primary theo-
dicies has exposed that deep relationship well enough. The only way to
deny supernatural evil is to deny God.
Theodicies have presumed that so long as God can’t be faulted for the
reality of evil, then God has been ethically cleared and nothing stains
God’s perfect goodness. That presumption in fact conveys theodicy, and
 What the Hell Is God Up To? 139

God, straight towards a well-deserved condemnation by atheology.

Leaving God faultless for evil requires the satisfaction of one of three
basic conditions: either God has no relationship with evil and cannot
eliminate evil; or God has a necessary relationship with evil (and hence
cannot eliminate it); or God has a contingent relationship with evil and
could eliminate evil but won’t. Three very different theologies emerge
from theodicy’s work.
The first theology about God and evil is the option of goodness-evil
dualism: both the supreme basis of goodness and the supreme basis of
evil are co-primeval and equally powerful. This theology abandons
monotheism and guarantees that evil is a permanent feature of natural
and supernatural realms. The second theology promises that so long as
God exists then evil exists, which is presumably a permanent condition.
This theology abandons the orthodox theistic view that God someday has
a victory over supernatural evil. The third theology is compatible with
monotheism, but such a God is evil, and evil is hence supernaturally
permanent again.
Theodicies and their theologies couldn’t be clearer: with a duo-theistic
or mono-theistic God comes plenty of supernatural and cosmic evil, guar-
anteed. Atheology needn’t care whether a believer can figure out how
absolve a praiseworthy God of responsibility for evil. Atheology aims at
explaining why atheism is more reasonable than god-belief. Assuming
that one doesn’t find the existence of cosmic evil intrinsically good, why
would one want to believe in God? If belief in God is let go, so is belief in
vast evil. Which is a more reasonable (and morally worthy) position to
take? That God and supernatural evil are real? Or that no god and noth-
ing so evil are real?
Put another way, which sort of metaphysical scheme of things would
an ethical person prefer? Choice one contains a Creator God of question-
able motives who can’t eliminate supernatural evils, evils that might be-
fall us humans in an afterlife. Choice two contains a natural world of
questionable fate that contains ordinary earthly evils but nothing super-
naturally evil is around, ever. Which choice selects the lesser of two evils?
Choosing God is choosing necessary evil. Surely the ethical choice for
anyone, all things considered, is the second choice. Don’t believe in God.

NOTES

1. Reliable surveys of issues and theories in theodicy include O’Connor (1998);

Rowe (2001); Søvik (2011); and Frances (2013). For a broader perspective, see Neiman
2004). Islam has produced creative theodices; see for example Inati (2000). On Hindu-
ism and Buddhism, see Herman (1993).
2. On the first kind of theodicy, see for example Davies (2011). On the second kind,
see Hick (1966); Plantinga (1974); and Swinburne (1998). As for the third kind, only a
limited god makes sense of both the world and our ethical standards, according to
James (1909). A recent example of this theodicy is the bestselling Kushner (1981).
140 Chapter 7

Regarding the fourth kind, one recent proponent is D’Souza (2012). Although Islam
also has emphasized dutiful submission to divine righteousness, Islamic thinkers have
pondered theodicies as complex as any Christian systems, and contributed to their
development. See a survey by Ormsby (1984).
3. See Kvanvig (1993) and Seymour (2000). Kronen and Reitan (2012) philosophi-
cally argue against any divine need for hell.
4. On Manichaeism, see Coyle (2009) and Baker-Brian (2011). On Satan, see For-
syth (1987). Popular Christianity can’t resist a grand conflict narrative among relative-
ly well-matched deities; see for example Boyd (2001), or the Left Behind book series
authored by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins. A sober diagnosis of such enthusiasm
for the “end times” is provided by Price (2007).

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Baker-Brian, Nicholas. 2011. Manichaeism: An Ancient Faith Rediscovered. London: Con-

tinuum.
Boyd, Gregory A. 2001. Satan and the Problem of Evil: Constructing a Trinitarian Warfare
Theodicy. Downers Grove: InterVarsity Press.
Coyle, John K. 2009. Manichaeism and Its Legacy. Leiden: Brill.
Davies, Brian. 2011. Thomas Aquinas on God and Evil. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
D’Souza, Dinesh. 2007. What's So Great About Christianity. Washington, DC: Regnery
Publishing.
D’Souza, Dinesh. 2012. God Forsaken: Bad Things Happen. Is There a God Who Cares? Yes.
Here’s Proof. Carol Stream: Tyndale House Publishers.
Edwards, Jonathan. 1995. A Jonathan Edwards Reader. Edited by John E. Smith, Harry S.
Stout, and Kenneth P. Minkema. New Haven: Yale University Press.
Forsyth, Neil. 1987. The Old Enemy: Satan and the Combat Myth. Princeton: Princeton
University Press.
Frances, Bryan. 2013. Gratuitous Suffering and the Problem of Evil: A Comprehensive Intro-
duction. New York: Routledge.
Herman, Arthur L. 1993. The Problem of Evil and Indian Thought. Delhi: Motilal Banarsi-
dass Publishers.
Hick, John. 1966. Evil and the God of Love. New York: Harper & Row.
Inati, Shams Constantine. 2000. The Problem of Evil: Ibn Sînâ’s Theodicy. Binghamton:
Global Academic Publishing.
James, William. 1909. A Pluralistic Universe. New York: Longmans, Green.
Kronen, John, and Eric Reitan. 2012. God’s Final Victory: A Comparative Philosophical
Case for Universalism. London: Continuum.
Kushner, Harold. 1981. Why Bad Things Happen to Good People. New York: Schocken
Books.
Kvanvig, Jonathan. 1993. The Problem of Hell. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Neiman, Susan. 2004. Evil in Modern Thought: An Alternative History of Philosophy.
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O’Connor, David. 1998. God and Inscrutable Evil: In Defense of Theism and Atheism.
Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield.
Ormsby, Eric L. 1984. Theodicy in Islamic Thought: The Dispute Over al-Ghazali’s “Best of
All Possible Worlds.” Princeton: Princeton University Press.
Plantinga, Alvin C. 1974. God, Freedom, and Evil. New York: Harper and Row.
Price, Robert M. 2007. The Paperback Apocalypse: How the Christian Church Was Left
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Rowe, William L. 2001. God and the Problem of Evil. Malden: Blackwell.
Seymour, Charles. 2000. A Theodicy of Hell. Dordrecht: Kluwer.
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Press.
 EIGHT
Mystic Terror and
Metaphysical Rebels
Active Evil and Active Love in Schelling and Dostoevsky

James M. McLachlan

METAPHYSICAL REBELS AND THE PROBLEM OF EVIL

The most well-known to introductory discussion of the problem of evil in

introduction to philosophy or philosophy of religion classes is the “Rebel-
lion” chapter of Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. Ivan Karamazov’s
rebellion is the most powerful example of a literary rebellion against God
that spans nineteenth and early twentieth century literature and is found
is such diverse places as Mellville’s Moby Dick, Twain’s Mysterious
Stranger, Hugo’s The End of Satan, Comte de Lautrement’s “Les Nuits de
Malador,” and Albert Camus’ The Plague among many many others. The
mistake philosophers make in introductory courses is to cite these literary
examples and then move to J.L. Mackie and H. J. McClousky on the
logical problem of evil and from there to Alvin Plantinga, William Hask-
er, and Peter Van Ingen’s able defenses of traditional theism against the
logical problem of evil. But the logical problem of evil is not really the
concern of any of these writers. Ivan Karamazov even says he accepts the
existence of God, even accepts the logical proof of his goodness, but still
wishes to return his ticket. Ahab rebels against God. In The Plague Dr.
Rieux only contends that in practice no one can believe in an omnipotent
God; he says if he believed in such a God
he would cease curing the sick and leave that to Him. But no one in the
world believed in a God of that sort; not even Paneloux, who believed
141
142 Chapter 8

that he believed in such a God. And this was proved by the fact that no
one ever threw himself on Providence completely. Anyhow, in this
respect Rieux believed himself to be on the right road in fighting
against creation as he found it. . . . Since the order of the world is
shaped by death, mightn’t it be better for God it we refuse to believe in
Him and struggle with all our might against death, without raising our
eyes toward the heaven where he sits in silence. (Camus 1991a,
116–118)
In The Rebel Camus explains Rieux’s position as “metaphysical rebellion.”
The metaphysical rebel is therefore not definitely an atheist, as one
might think him, but he is inevitably a blasphemer. Quite simply, he
blasphemes primarily in the name of order, denouncing God as the
father of death and as the supreme outrage. . . . If the metaphysical
rebel ranges himself against a power whose existence he simultaneous-
ly affirms, he only admits the existence of this power at the very instant
that he calls it into question. Then he involves this superior being in the
same humiliating adventure as mankind’s, its ineffectual power being the
equivalent of our ineffectual condition. (Camus 1991b, 100–103; author’s
emphasis)
Two points emerge here. The first is that we cannot live as though we are
unfree as though what we do is totally in the hands of either providence
or determinism. This supposes that we have power as real as God’s.
What appears in all these examples are not so much logical criticisms of
the traditional Judeo-Christian-Islamic theological conception of God as
pragmatic and ethical critique. For Ivan Karamazov and Dr. Rieux, for
Mark Twain, Victor Hugo, and Albert Camus the question is not whether
or not we can conceive of an omnipotent, omnipresent deity removed in
Its metaphysical perfection from all finite worldly cares, but why we
should want to conceive and whether there are moral reasons we
shouldn’t. It may be that creaturely suffering is but the dark speck, the
contrast that makes for the greater beauty of the whole, but to forsake the
suffering individuals for the beauty of the whole is a betrayal those who
must sit in that part of the picture. As Patrick Masterson wrote in 1971 in
Atheism and Alienation: A Study of the Philosophical Sources of Contemporary
Atheism:
Atheism of our day consists chiefly in asserting the impossibility of the
coexistence of finite and infinite being; it is maintained that the affirma-
tion of God as infinite being necessarily implies the devaluation of
finite being, and, in particular, the dehumanizing of man. (1971, 1)
Masterson’s characterization seems to me to be correct of the writers I
have mentioned. The concern among these is that traditional ideas of God
and the theodicies they generate are demeaning to the existential situa-
tion of suffering creatures. This is not only true among Camus’ “meta-
physical rebels” but even among some theists. Clearly this is also the case
 Mystic Terror and Metaphysical Rebels 143

for Schelling and Dostoevsky. Schelling shared with Dostoevsky the real-
ization the quest for reality forces one to philosophize from the point of
view of practical rather than theoretical reason.

INVOLVING GOD: UNGRUND, FREEDOM, AND EVIL

FROM BOEHME TO DOSTOEVSKY

The heterodox Lutheran mystic Jacob Boehme introduced ideas of radical

freedom, and the necessity of the possibility of evil in ways the Western
tradition that influenced a variety of heterodox thinkers searching for an
alternative to the privation theory of evil that reigned in the West since
Augustine. 1 Boehmeian theosophy was present in Russia from the late
seventeenth century and exerted an important influence on a wide range
of religious thinkers like 18th century monk Tikhon of Zadonsk. The
monk figures importantly in Dostoevsky’s thought on evil and was the
basis for an important character in the suppressed chapter of Devils
“Stavrogin’s Confession.” Hand-written manuscripts in Church Slavonic
and Old Russian were circulated in the towns and among the peasants,
especially in the Ukraine. The “Russian Socrates,” Gregory Skovoroda,
employed Boehmist concepts and symbols in talking about the soul’s
relation to God and the “divinization of man.” He is also presumed to
have authored several manuscript translations of Boehme he distributed
during his wanderings. But the main point of entry for Boehme’s theoso-
phy, that laid the basis for its later influence on Russian religious thought
in general, came through the Free-Masons. Here the imprint of Boehme is
obvious and his theosophy was the most important single intellectual
influence on Russian masonry. An understanding of Boehme was re-
quired of those initiates who would attain the highest degree in the
lodges. Through the Masons, Boehmian theosophy became widely read
among the educated classes. Boehme was also read outside of esoteric
groups. In 1815 the poet Dimitiev complained that booksellers no longer
imported any literature but “Boehme and the like.” However, in 1824 the
government suppressed the reading of Boehme (David 1962, 43–64). Ni-
colas Berdyaev claimed of the suppression of Boehme’s works: “But
Boehme’s memory was kept alive among the people where he was re-
garded as a saint” (1951, 165). Despite the suppression, Boehme was read
throughout the nineteenth century and not only by “the people.” The
influence of Schelling on the Russian romantic circles and the Slavophiles
leads back to Boehme. The Russians’ enthusiastic reception of F. W. J. von
Schelling during the 1830s was probably facilitated by the influence
Boehme had especially on Schelling’s later philosophy. Throughout the
century Boehme was read by diverse groups of Russian thinkers: both
Westernizers and Slavophiles, including Peter Chaadaev, Ivan Kireevsky,
and Alexander Herzen (a model for Stepon Verhovensky in Devils). In the
144 Chapter 8

late nineteenth century renaissance of Russian religious thought Vladimir

Solovyov’s ideal of the divine Sophia was profoundly influenced by his
reading Boehme. Boehme’s influence is also found in the writings of S. L.
Frank and Serge Bulgakov and especially Nicolas Berdyaev.
F. W. J. von Schelling’s thought thrived in Russia during the 1830s and
1840s influencing a wide variety of thinkers; including both the national-
ist Slavophiles and internationalist Westernizers. The Slavophiles in-
cluded the Lovers of Wisdom like the Kireevskii brothers and Aleksei
Khomiokov. The Westernizers of the Stankevich circle included the fa-
mous anarchist Mikhail Bakunin, Timofei Granovskii (another model for
Stepan Verhkevensky in Devils), Konstantin Asakov, and Vissarion Belin-
ski who studied Schelling in the 1830s before forsaking the romantic for
Hegel. The first prominent Westernizer, Peter Chaadaev was strongly
influenced by Schelling’s theory of history (Terras 1991, 184–90; 1998,
520–522). Dostoevsky’s teacher I. I. Davydov, with whom he had studied
literature in Moscow had helped introduce Schelling’s ideas to Russia in
the 1820s (Frank 1976, 96–97). Appollon Grirgorov, who was Dostoev-
sky’s ally in the 1860s against the nihilists and utilitarians like Cherny-
chevsky and Pisarev, was a proponent of Schelling’s Naturphilosophie
(Frank 1986, 46).

IRRATIONALISM, FREEDOM, AND EVIL

Joseph Frank argues Dostoevsky was inclined to a certain theoretical

irrationalism which saw art as the highest form through which eternal
truth could be attained. Frank indicates that the letters between Dostoev-
sky and his brother Mikhail show the influences of both Schellingian
irrationalism and Hegelian rationalism on the generation of the forties.
Schelling’s influence on Dostoevsky is a permanent part of his romantic
realism (Frank 1987, 51). This irrationalism grows from an idea of an
irrational source at the basis of reason. Boehme’s idea that figures most
importantly for the discussion of evil and freedom in both Schelling and
Dostoevsky is the Ungrund. This is envisioned as the undifferentiated
abyss of non-being and Being, the primordial realm of origination prior
to Being. It is the no-thing that is also everything, potentiality without
form or reason from which reason is born. Boehme also called it
“Wonne,” or bliss beyond the conflict that emerges with Being. But at a
deeper level the Ungrund is not or cannot be characterized at all, except as
the “ewiges kontrarium,” the source of all the contraries.
Using Boehme’s image of the Ungrund Schelling described this as the
irrational basis of reality, of being, in freedom. It is an “irreducible re-
mainder” that cannot be finally rationalized.
The world as we now behold it, is all rule, order and form but the
unruly lies ever in the depth as though it might again break through,
 Mystic Terror and Metaphysical Rebels 145

and order and form nowhere appear to have been original, but it seems
as though what had initially be unruly had been brought to order. This
is the incomprehensible basis of the reality of things, the irreducible
remainder which cannot be resolved into reason by the greatest exer-
tion but always remains in the depths. Out of this which is unreason-
able, reason in the true sense is born. (2003, 34)
Thus the basis of the world is not an eternal unchanging, untroubled God
nor Being but a chaos in need of order.
Joseph Frank claims Dostoevsky’s early novel The Insulted and the In-
jured contains many autobiographical details of Dostoevsky’s life in the
1840s. The narrator, a young and impoverished writer, speaks about be-
ing before reality as a kind of “mystic terror.”
Of something that I cannot define, something ungraspable and outside
the natural order of things, but which yet may take shape this very
minute, as though in mockery of all the conclusions of reason, and
come to and stand before me as undeniable fact, hideous, horrible and
relentless. (Frank 1987, 51)
This eternal is not the peaceful eternity of the traditional neo-platonic
One or the way Christian theologians regularly think about the perfection
and harmony of God beyond the struggles of existence. The mystic terror
is before a much more disturbing and yet also potentially creative reality;
freedom that makes possible good and evil, love and depravity. The
interpretation of freedom that Dostoevsky develops is related to a radical
concept of creativity at the heart of reality and the relations between
persons. This type of irrationalism remained a part of Dostoevsky’s art.
This ideal of groundless freedom, prior to both God and persons, as the
source of the good and beautiful he pits against the nihilists and material-
ists. This struggle begins to mature in Notes from the Underground and
extends through the great novels to The Brothers Karamazov.
Frank claims that Dostoevsky sees a division between reason and the
psychic irrational. The idea here is that there is something that ultimately
cannot be explained rationally. In Philosophical Inquires into the Nature of
Human Freedom and Related Matters (hereafter Of Human Freedom) Schell-
ing called this the irreducible remainder, the Ungrund, the abyss, free-
dom, chaos, will, creativity. But where philosophers like Arthur Schopen-
hauer, Friedrich Nietzsche, and Dostoevsky’s disciples Lev Shestov and
V.V. Rosanov are ultimately nihilistic irrationalists for whom reason and
human existence are ultimately in themselves meaningless, Schelling,
Dostoevsky and his disciple Nicolas Berdyaev argue for meaning based
on moral reason, creativity, relation, and, ultimately, love. For them the
negative moment of alienation from the whole is the assertion of the
individual autonomy freedom. But this is only the first movement, the
irony is that the assertion of egoistic autonomy is necessary to the second
movement of love and relation. A movement that must be freely taken by
146 Chapter 8

an autonomous individual. Berdyaev would later call these the first and
second freedoms. The first freedom is the assertion of the individual
breaking always from the pure potentiality of the groundless one. The
second freedom is a move back into unity through love and relation to
another (Berdyaev 1934, 69–72).

DOSTOEVSKY, BOEHME, SCHELLING

AND THE PROBLEM OF EVIL

Some time ago Emil Fackenheim noted that among Western philosophers
only Schelling really deals with the idea of radical evil (1982, 234). Schell-
ing’s most radical treatments of the problem of evil are located in his last
published book Of Human Freedom (1809), in the unpublished Stuttgart
Seminars, and the first two drafts of The Ages of the World in which he
locates the possibility of evil within the Absolute itself. The reason to read
Dostoevsky along with Schelling is that unlike Mellville, Lautrement,
Hugo, Twain, and Camus, Dostoevsky endeavors to give a new view of
the Christian God and Christ that responds to metaphysical rebellion. In
this Schelling and Dostoevsky to mutually illuminate one another.
Schelling’s solution to the problem of evil is to oppose “essence, in as
much as it exists to essence in so far as it is the principle (Grund) of
existence” (2003, 31). For Schelling, evil resides, not in any lack or priva-
tion of being, but in the radical reversal of God’s creative order—evil is
active. Evil is possible because freedom to create or to return to chaos is at
the foundation of Being and beings. This formulation seems obscure but
it’s central to Schelling’s consideration of the mystery of evil and free-
dom. Schelling sees indeterminate freedom as the essence or ground of
both God and creatures. God only becomes God through determining
her/himself through freedom. This is an anti-platonic understanding of
God and eternity. Time and finitude are an advance on a static eternity
with time as the creation of meaning through the creation of the possibil-
ity of dialogue with others. Schelling describes the God as the ideal per-
son, and human persons reflect the struggle within the divine life. For in
the divine life itself is an irrational, brute creativity that can never be
completely made transparent. This can only make sense for Schelling if
reality is interpreted as personal. A person contains within his/her being
possibility. By a person Schelling means a being that is in relation with
others and experiences growth and opposition. God is not complete at
the beginning but only becomes complete through relation to other per-
sons. Schelling sees cosmic history as the process of the personalization of
God: “[a]lready, then we can note that the entire process of the creation of
the world—which still live on the life process of nature and history—is in
effect nothing but the process of the complete coming-to-consciousness,
of the complete personalization of God” (1994, 206). This is opposed to
 Mystic Terror and Metaphysical Rebels 147

any notion of God as eternal, changeless, timeless, as not simply egotisti-

cal, but meaningless. This is not to say that God is in time but that God’s
self-creation and creation of others creates time. Time is the relation and
response to another. Time is inevitable and an advance on eternity.
Schelling’s notion of self-creation in God relates to self-creation in human
beings. Science, art, and morality are the raising to consciousness what
exists in us in dark unconscious form. The abyss of freedom is the abso-
lute indifference in which there is no direction, no focus. It is the whirling
rotary motion of the chaos of possibilities. One might say it is something
like pure thought thinking itself. Why does God move beyond this type
of navel gazing narcissism? God before relation is like the Underground
Man laying on his couch dreaming but never actualizing one of the whirl-
ing possibilities that dance in his head.
Schelling’s response to Leibniz’ famous question why are there beings
rather than nothing seems to be that there is no absolute reason for the
universe only perhaps an ethical one. Schelling writes that “God beholds
himself in his own image” (2003, 35). God can only see Him/Herself in a
representation. Humanity will be the image and mirror of God. God
comes to know Him/Herself in the mirror of the creation but primarily
humanity. One of the important themes in the freedom essay is the So-
cratic theme of self-knowledge. Except here this self-knowledge is related
to self-creating, to Freedom. Given what Schelling says about the impos-
sibility of eliminating freedom and chaos through the imposition of order
complete self-knowledge may be impossible for us though it seems to be
God’s object in creating the world. Slavoj Zizek claims that for Schelling
human persons, like God, have to disengage themselves from the primal
indifference. The universe begins with a choice.
Man’s act of decision, his step from the pure potentiality essentiality of
a will which wants nothing to an actual will, is therefore a repetition of
God’s act: in a primordial act, God Himself had to “choose Himself.”
His eternal character—to contract existence, to reveal Himself. In the
same sense in which history is man’s ordeal—the terrain in which hu-
manity has to probe its creativity, to actualize its potential—nature
itself is God’s ordeal, the terrain in which He has to disclose Himself, to
put His creativity to the test. (Zizek, 1996, 21)
In The Ages of the World, it is this act that creates time it also creates the
past and eternity. Before this action Schelling says that God is “a pure
nothingness which enjoys its non-being” (1996, 206). Infinite unity and
bliss is also infinite boredom and meaninglessness. The abyss of freedom
precedes the vortex of the real. It is the light of freedom that breaks the
chain of natural necessity, breaks out of the vicious circle of natural
drives and illuminates the obscure ground of being. It is only if necessity
is not the original fact of the universe that this is possible. Necessity
results from the contraction of the primordial abyss of freedom. Time
148 Chapter 8

begins with decision on the part of God to become a person. One can only
be a person in relation to other persons. Unlike traditional theists, Schell-
ing rejects creation as creation ex nilhilo because it separates God from
creation in a timeless eternity. The created world has added to God, and
in a significant way it has created God through God’s creation of the
world. The mistake arises in seeing the no-thing of creativity (Ungrund)
as nothing.
As a result of the misconstrual of this concept, the notion of a creation
ex nihilo could arise. All finite beings have been created out of nonbeing
yet not out of nothing. The ouk on is no more a nothing than the me
pheinomena of the New Testament; it is only the nonsubjective, the Non-
being, yet precisely therefore Being itself. (Schelling 1996, 209)
The finite is no longer a simple fall or descent from God but is seen as an
ascent toward personhood. It is the process through which God and hu-
manity finds Him/Herself in another. Thus the fall is not a fall but a
Beginning.
Part of the appeal of Dostoevsky's Underground Man is that he stands
out from his world. In fact he seeks emphatically to do so. His self-
assertion makes him standout from the world but it also is what threatens
his destruction. Egoism is the basis of the vortex in which the under-
ground man finds himself. He tells us at the beginning, “What does a
decent chap talk about with the greatest possible pleasure? . . . himself.
Very well, so I will talk about myself” (Dostoevsky 1968, 65). But the
underground man as an egoist, a man of intensified consciousness or
rather intensified self-consciousness, is cut off from the rest of the world.
He has retired into his hole in the floor, as a man of acute consciousness
must, becoming a complete egoist and moral solipsist. But the egoism of
the Underground Man leads to disintegration and chaos not to his full
development as a person.
The importance of humanity as the image of God permeates most
everything that Dostoevsky writes. Even his most humiliated, debased,
and unsympathetic characters have something lovable and divine about
them. The image of God is in all humans unless they destroy it them-
selves but in doing so they destroy themselves. The Underground Man
destroys himself when he rejects the love offered him by Lisa. He disinte-
grates into chaos as if he returns to the unground incapable of decision.
Raskolnikov in Crime and Punishment commits a murder in order to prove
he is an “exceptional” human being. He suffers because he has destroyed
another person in the image of God. He is saved by what he thinks is his
“weakness”: he feels guilt for having killed another. His name comes
from the Russian word “Raskol” that literally means split or dissenter.
He is split from humanity by his idea that he is superior to other persons,
and he is also split in his soul because he can’t make the final decision
between becoming a “superior” man who can kill without remorse when
 Mystic Terror and Metaphysical Rebels 149

necessary and a human being who feels sympathy for others. Raskolni-
kov thinks that it is only his weakness, his basic compassion that prevents
him from being the superior man. For Dostoevsky this “weakness” is his
salvation (Dostoevsky 2012, 11381 [Kindle]). Had he succeeded in his
plan he would be like the Underground Man or Nicolas Stavrogin in
Devils, who becomes a monster because he becomes completely self-suffi-
cient, completely indifferent to the world around him. He can do good or
evil acts with equal satisfaction and boredom. However this temptation
to egoism is necessary to real goodness.

THE GRAND INQUISITOR AND GOD’S CHOICE

In traditional theology Omni-benevolence is one of the metaphysical at-

tributes of God. God could not do evil. Both Schelling and Dostoevsky
seem differ from the tradition on this point. Goodness is ethical not meta-
physical. God is a person and God’s character is such that God would not
do evil. At first this does not sound like that big a distinction, but it
makes all the difference to Schelling and also to Dostoevsky. The power
of the Grand Inquisitor’s charge against Christ was that Christ could not
sin and so the temptations were not real. Schelling’s and Dostoevsky’s
contention is that Christ or God could sin but would not. What makes
Dostoevsky’s Grand Inquisitor so powerful is that the Grand Inquisitor
attacks Christ’s difference from us. Christ as God possesses a freedom
and power of will qualitatively different than humans so he turns down
the temptations of bread, power, and security: all actions that, the Grand
Inquisitor believes, no human is capable. It is God’s “holy will” that Ivan
attacks in the story. The Inquisitor asks Christ how can a God, for whom
temptation is hardly real because he is so strong, demand the free re-
sponse from humans who are not powerful enough to resist the tempta-
tions of bread, security, and power. If one is naturally good and has no
understanding, beyond an abstract one, of alienation, fear, and the temp-
tation to despair can we say that He/She really understands the other
person and can demand moral goodness of them. Eighty years later in
The Rebel Albert Camus returns to the same story asserting that Ivan was
right. Dostoevsky’s religious solution is a betrayal of solidarity with hu-
manity. He cites the fact that Dostoevsky was able to write “Pro and
Contra” that includes the famous chapters “Rebellion” and the “Grand
Inquisitor” in a few days they flowed from his pen in a torrent. It took
him weeks to try to come up with a response in “The Russian Monk.”
Camus thought that Dostoevsky had come up with such a compelling
character in Ivan Karamazov that he could not, try as he might, overcome
him (Camus 1991b, 56). Given the fact that the great majority of readers
meet Dostoevsky through “Rebellion” and “The Grand Inquisitor” we
might think Camus is right. Ivan argues against Augustine, Leibniz, and
150 Chapter 8

the whole theodical tradition that point of view of the eternity all may be
well but for the humiliated little girl in outhouse, shaking her fist at God
all is not well. We must remain with the suffering creatures in the dark
part of God’s beautiful painting; never surveying finite misery from the
point of view of infinite and eternal harmony. But it is to miss Dostoev-
sky’s point that against traditional theodicy Ivan is right. Future harmony
does not justify the suffering of billions of creatures, human and animal.
If God is to be good in any sense of the term that we can understand, God
has to have experienced temptation and despair and overcome them.
Goodness is a matter of will and not being. 2 For Ivan both the defenders
of God and the atheist dreamers of the future utopia are wrong. Both look
at the world from God’s point of view. The future utopians like Hegel,
Marx, Comte, and the Russian Nihilists seem to think that the future
happiness somehow affects the billions of dead victims who don’t get to
participate in it. 3 Both theists and atheist believers, changing beings in
inevitable process, view the world from of point of divine indifference.
Ivan returns this ticket as well: the world is not just if the future happi-
ness of billions is built on the unatoned misery of one tortured child.
For both Schelling and Dostoevsky, it is just this fact that Ivan can and
does rebel against God that indicates God’s greatness and humanity. God
has brought about a being free enough that it could rebel against God. “It
is the beholding itself in complete freedom, no longer the tool of the
universal will operating in nature, but above and outside nature” (Schell-
ing 2003, 40). We can say “no.” Later both Schelling and Dostoevsky will
talk about the possibility of saying “yes” (Schelling, 2003 40). It is this yes
that is ultimately creative. In God and humanity, desire and passion re-
late to freedom and selfhood. In the Freedom essay Schelling says that no
one claims that the instinct for self-preservation is something that was
added later to the already finished creature (Schelling 2003, 53). Schelling
claims that self-preservation is a basic characteristic of each individual.
His claims must be a basic principle of all natural science. This leads
eventually to selfhood and individuality. Schelling says that there are in
nature “premonitions of evil alongside pre-established moral relation-
ships” (2003, 43); he means that the will for survival, for self-preservation,
can overcome our relation to any other being. This will be the source of
evil. This is easy to see in people like the Underground Man who intellec-
tually sets himself apart from all other persons, but also in Father Karam-
azov who sees others as only means to satisfy his pleasure. But it is also in
Ivan’s story of “The Grand Inquisitor.” On the surface the Grand Inquisi-
tor seems to be acting out of love for humanity, yet he sees them as little
children at best and probably as pets at worst. He has isolated himself
from them, does not respect them as even potential equals, and kills them
when they get out of line, all for their happiness.
This dark desire that is at the source of our individuality is also the
ground of the possibility of egoism and evil. Jason Wirth notes this partic-
 Mystic Terror and Metaphysical Rebels 151

ular Schellingian notion is illustrated in Ivan’s remarks about “artistic

cruelty” in Brothers Karamazov (Wirth 2003, 176–176; Schelling 2003, 49).
The dark principle is indeed effective in animals but it has not come into
the light as it has in human beings. Animals do not really have the ability
to leave the unity this is only possible to consciousnesses who can freely
will to separate themselves from the unity, who can creatively will a false
unity of their own. Humans, like God, are creative and they can create
from the imagination a false unity, a world for their own amusement.
Indeed, people speak sometimes about the “animal” cruelty of man,
but this is terrible unjust and offensive to the animals, no animal could
ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel. A tiger simply
gnaws and tears, that is all he can do. It would never occur to him to
nail people by their ears overnight, even if he were able to do it. (Dos-
toevsky 1990, 238)

ACTIVE EVIL: FROM THE BESTIAL TO THE DEMONIC

This self-isolation from humanity is the great danger and distinguishes

Dostoevsky’s sinful and damaged characters from the demonic excep-
tional characters. Bestial characters like Father Karamazov and Dmitri in
The Brothers Karamazov. Persons possessed by insane ideas, like Shatov
and Kirilov in Devils and Ivan in The Brothers Karamazov and any of the
lesser bestial or possessed characters who inhabit Dostoevsky’s fiction,
are still sympathetic. They are still human and the possibility of salvation
is always there for them. Dmitri’s heart is good and, when he avoids
murdering his father through a miracle, his salvation begins. For the
more intelligent and resourceful characters the danger is greater. For
them rebellion leads to the possibility of the demonic. But there is also a
possibility of salvation. Some of Dostoevsky’s most interesting characters
fall into two types: those like Kirilov, Raskolnikov, and Ivan Karamazov
who are on the cusp of the decision whether to complete their rebellion
against God/humanity/creation and become demonic, and those like the
Underground Man and Nicolas Stavrogin who have completed the jour-
ney to the dark side. Again Schelling provides the theoretical tools for
understanding these Dostoevskian characters.
For Schelling the source of evil is a rebellion, a self-assertion. But this
is a fortunate fall because, as we have seen, it is only the will to the basis
that revelation and the higher unity are possible. Evil is raised to self-
consciousness only through the presence of its opposite, light. “This evil,
though it is entirely independent of freedom with respect to present em-
pirical life, was at its source man’s own deed and hence the only original
sin” (Schelling 2003, 66). But here we can make a distinction between the
“original sin” by which humanity becomes individual, and capable of
relation and love and demonic evil. Demonic evil is what Schelling has
152 Chapter 8

termed a disease: the contagion that spreads after the initial corruption.
Though Schelling does not use these terms, it might be possible to call
these evil1 and evil2. This seems to be at the basis of Ivan’s claim that we
are “artistically cruel.” We have a will to self-preservation and assertion,
but we can carry this so far as to create a fantasy world in with us at its
center. In The Brothers Karamazov we encounter this most clearly in Liza’s
temptation toward the demonic in Book XI, chapter 3, “A Little Demon.”
Liza says “I just don’t want to do good, I want to do evil, and illness has
nothing to do with it.” When Allyosha asks why she wants to do evil, She
replies: “So there will be nothing left anywhere, Ah, how good it would
be if there were nothing left” (Dostoevsky 1990, 582).
Thus the beginning of evil is going from true being to non-being, light
to darkness, truth to falsehood in order to become himself the creative
basis of his being and to rule over all things with himself as the center.
Even he who has moved out of the center retains within him the feeling
that he has been all things when in and with God. There is a desire to
return to this condition. This is the birth of the hunger of selfishness. As
one deserts the center, one becomes ever needier, ever hungrier to the
point of being ravenous and poisonous (Schelling 2003, 69–70). In evil
there is that contradiction which devours and always negates itself,
which just while striving to become creature destroys the nexus of crea-
tion and, in its ambition to be everything, falls into non-being. Moreover,
manifest sin, unlike mere weakness or impotence, does not fill us with
pity but with fear and horror, a feeling which can only be explained by
the fact that sin strives to break with the world, to touch the basis of
creation and profane the mystery. Schelling refers to this as a false imagi-
nation. The Underground Man and Raskolnikov imagine themselves ex-
ceptional men the masters of their worlds but this is a world of fancy.
Stavrogin becomes an exceptional man but he is a monster.

THE TWO WILLS AND THE IMAGE OF CHRIST

In his famous letter to Mme Fonvizina just after his being released from
prison camp Dostoevsky wrote, “If someone proved to me that Christ is
outside the truth, and that in reality the truth were outside of Christ, then
I should prefer to remain with Christ rather than with the truth”(Frank
1986, 298–299). Dostoevsky was not a fideist who would sacrifice all his
reason to fundamental doctrines, rather for him Christ represented “the
ideal of man in the flesh” (Frank 1986, 298), the freely loving individual.
In context the lines are written against the nihilists like N.G. Chernychev-
sky, the champion of enlightened self-interest. Dostoevsky asserts free-
dom, autonomy, and love are still more important than egoism even if it
can be shown that we always pursue our self-interest and the world is a
dark, cold, meaningless place where only the strong survive and only by
 Mystic Terror and Metaphysical Rebels 153

looking out for themselves. Dostoevsky is committed to the message of

love and self-sacrifice that Christ brought into the world. Christ’s signifi-
cance for Dostoevsky is as the divine annunciator of this morality. He is
the most human, the “ideal man in the flesh” (Frank 1986, 299).
In many ways The Idiot and Devils represent failed efforts by Dostoev-
sky to give us the figure of Christ. Not that the novels themselves are
failures but that the Christ figures in the novels fail as Christ figures.
Schelling and later Berdyaev talk about two wills or two freedoms that
are necessary to the person. The will of the basis is a will to self-assertion
and preservation, the will to love is to enter into community with others.
It is as if the Schellingian concepts of the two wills, the will to love and
the will of the basis were personified in the two characters: Prince Mysh-
kin and Nicolas Stavrogin. Each becomes one of the wills and each fails.
Stavrogin possesses all the characteristics of a great hero but he is the
great egoist and demon of the Dostoevskian corpus. On the other hand
Prince Myshkin, in The Idiot, through kindness and self-abnegation brings
about the disaster that befalls all the main characters at the end of the
novel. Neither being is complete. Goodness without selfhood is ineffec-
tive. Can we really say that someone is good who has never been
tempted? In the Grand Inquisitor’s reading of the story of the tempta-
tions, Jesus was not hungry when Satan offered him food, not tempted by
power, or by the desire to force the world to goodness. Could he have
been good without feeling the temptation toward egoism? Can someone
like that tell us that we should be good? For Dostoevsky Christ had the
possibility for egoism within him but chose against it. Schelling thinks it
is quite right to say dialectically that
Good and evil are the same, only regarded from different aspects; or
evil in itself, that is regarded at the root of its identity, is goodness; just
as goodness, on the other hand, regarded in its division or non-iden-
tity, is evil. For this reason the statement is also quite correct that
whoever has no material or force for evil in himself is also impotent for
good. (Schelling 2003, 80)
The “material or force for evil” is similar to what Dostoevsky calls the
sensual power of the Karamazovs. Dmitri sings a peon to the sticky green
leaf. Alyosha’s admits the Karamazov propensity for carnality and ego-
ism is also in him. The contrast between Alyosha and Myshkin is appar-
ent the Karamazov animality completes Alyosha’s goodness.
Schelling claims that God is only fully revealed in humanity because it
is only in humanity that the depths of freedom are plumbed. Human
beings contain both the darkness of self-will or egoism and the power to
love. Schelling says that the self-will and the universal will reflect the
duality of persons. In them are the deepest abyss and the highest heaven.
The desire for self-assertion, enjoyment, and individuality pull us into
ourselves; while the force of light, reason, and love pulls us toward rela-
154 Chapter 8

tion to others. This is the apparent paradox Dmitri speaks of to Alyosha

in “Confession of an Ardent Heart. In Verse” when he says human beings
contain both the ideal of Sodom and the ideal of the Madonna (Dostoev-
sky 1990, 107–8). Schelling describes both possibilities.
This elevation of the most abyssal center into light occurs in no crea-
tures visible to us except in man. In man there exists the whole power
of the principle of darkness and in him too, the whole force of light. In
him there are both centers—the deepest pit and the highest heaven.
Man’s will is the seed—concealed in eternal longing—of God, present
as yet only in the depths—the divine light of life locked in the deeps
which God divined when he determined to will nature. Only in him (in
man) did God love the world—and it was the very image of God which
was grasped in its center by longing when it opposed itself to light.
(Schelling 2003, 38)
But it is because of the possibility of rejection that love can happen. It is
only here to that the fullness of God can be revealed because God is love.
Human will is the seed that enclosed in the will of God, only in humanity
is the word, the will of God completely articulated. The unity, indissolu-
ble in God, between self-will or individuality and love of the unity, is
dissolvable in human persons. This idea is what makes possible of the
emergence of spirit. Spirit represents the creative movement toward or-
der. Spirit represents the living unity of both principles. In God, the prin-
ciples are held in harmony. If the identity of both principles were just as
indissoluble in man’s spirit as in God, then there would be no difference,
that is, God as spirit would not be revealed. The unity that is indivisible
in God must therefore be divisible in humanity—and this is the possibil-
ity of good and evil. Evil is possible in human beings because of the
conflict between self-will (will of the basis) and universal will (will to
love).
For Schelling and Dostoevsky, Spirit is above the light principle. The
unity or the dark (chaos, self will) and the light (order, morality) are more
important than the light principle of order alone. Myshkin and Stavrogin
are woefully unbalanced characters. The goodly Prince Myshkin is only
light as he lacks the power of an ego, of a body, while Stavrogin is pure
ego. Alyosha in The Brothers Karamazov comes closer to the unity of life
and order.
But such a unity is difficult arrive at. The more powerful the possibil-
ity for being in the image of God the more possibility for corrupting the
image Schelling repudiates the notion that evil is a lack of being it is a
corruption of the will. Evil is not simply privation, it is active and posi-
tive destruction. For example, Stavrogin like Milton’s Lucifer, is not one
of the most limited creatures but rather one of the most gifted. It is just
that he is so talented that makes him dangerous. Imperfection is not the
common character of evil. Evil is worse when it manifests itself in a
 Mystic Terror and Metaphysical Rebels 155

person of incredible gifts. This is akin to Immanuel Kant’s beginning to

The Groundwork of a Metaphysics of Morals. There is nothing that one can
call without qualification good except a good will. Talents and abilities
can always be considered evil if they belong to one with an evil will (Kant
2009, 55). In fact for that very reason the person is worse if his talents are
perverted by his evil will than if he had not had them. His evil will
perverts his talents. Stavrogin possesses the greatest talents but his will is
driven by his insatiable egoism. Characters like Stavrogin and the Under-
ground Man have no other, Raskolnikov sits and the point of the choice
between egoism and relation. But as the Underground Man rejects Lisa,
and Stavrogin everyone who reaches out to him, Raskolnikov finds,
through Sonya, the possibility of a way out of his egoism.
Love requires the self-hood of the other that it loves. This means that
what we love in the other person is not just their qualities like good looks,
intelligence, wit, but their personhood what makes them an individual;
their independence, their freedom. Thus love cannot overcome the will to
selfhood or it would cease to be love for the other—it would just be an
extension of the us or God. (It is often the case when we fall in love that
we fall in love with an image we have projected on the other person. To
really love is to love the other in their otherness as well as their sameness
to us.) Love requires distance and otherness, though, at the same time
and in another sense, love represents the overcoming of all otherness.
This is the miracle of love that two beings could become one thing and
yet remain two. What this means is that opposites depend on each other
for their being. Schelling writes:
For the basis [selfhood, independence, individuality] must function
that love may be, and must operate independently of love so that the
latter may exist in reality. Thus if love wished to break the will in the
depths, it would be in conflict with itself, it would be in disunion with
itself and would no longer be love. (Schelling, 2003, 52)
Schelling’s point is that love cannot be forced. He repeatedly calls the will
to the basis as the will for self-revelation. In concrete psychological terms
it is the human desire to create a space for itself, to express itself. This is
necessary to be a self but it carries with it its own temptations toward
egoism and self-isolation.
In The Brothers Karamazov Grushenka tells a Russian story about an
onion and how the peasant’s mother falls back into hell/chaos because
she refuses to allow the others in hell to be lifted out of Hell with “her”
onion. She refuses her relation to other and falls into hell which is the
eternal battle of each against all where each blames the others for her
being there (Dostoevsky, 1990).
Schelling continues explaining that both God and humanity only
come to know themselves through their relation to others, through love.
156 Chapter 8

The will to love and the will of the basis thus become one, just through
the fact that they are divided and that from the very beginning each
function for itself. Therefore the will of the basis excites the self-will of
the creature from the first creation, so that when the spirit then arises as
the will of love it may find an opponent in which it can realize itself.
(Schelling 2003, 52)
The best example of how all relationships degenerate into duels of power
through isolation caused fascination with the self occurs in what the
Underground Man calls “the man of intensified consciousness.” For such
a self all relations are power duels between separate egos. This shows up
in his affair with the prostitute Lisa. The Underground Man is infuriated
by her indifference for him when he first begins to speak with her, but
when his preaching finally arouses her interest and begins to strike at her
heart, the game changes and he begins to manipulate her. He leaves her
after expounding his noble ideas and actually touches her. She responds
by showing him a love letter from a medical student to show that she is
loved and is not merely an object. As he enters the street the Under-
ground Man is struck by the “terrible truth” of what he has been doing,
manipulating her as he has done in all his other relationships with hu-
man beings. Later, when she comes to see him, he treats her with con-
tempt and tells her that he only wished to humiliate and manipulate her.
But she sees through him, sensing the extreme pain of his isolation and
for a moment, by her love, breaks through the vortex. The Underground
Man’s heart fails him and forgetting his aims, begins to sob as he never
had before in his life. But when the Underground Man realizes that the
hysterical fit cannot go on forever, he feels ashamed and the thought
comes to him that their roles have been reversed. Lisa was now the hero-
ine; she was saving him, not he her.
All I know is that I was ashamed. It also occurred to me just then,
overwrought as I was, that our parts were now completely changed,
that she was the heroine now, while I was exactly the same crushed
and humiliated creature as she had appeared to be that night—four
days before. . . . I cannot live without feeling that I have someone
completely in my power, that I am free to tyrannize over some human
being. But--you can’t explain anything by reasoning and consequently
it is useless to reason. (Dostoevsky 1968, 372)
The Underground Man quickly recovers himself, falling back into the
vortex of his own intensified consciousness, his own egoism. He rejects
the love that she has offered him and insults her by using her as a prosti-
tute. After she leaves he runs after her, but this is only a pretense. He is
still acting as he had done when he first met her; he knows this and
knows he doesn’t really wish to find her. He then justifies the insult
because, as he tells us, an insult is a sort of purification, the most painful
sort of consciousness that will live with her the rest of her life. After a few
 Mystic Terror and Metaphysical Rebels 157

closing remarks the Underground Man continues his notes, Dostoevsky

tells us that he goes on and on though the novel stops here. The Under-
ground Man must go on because he is trapped in the vortex of his own
acute consciousness and he cannot make an end because he must con-
stantly contradict what he has just said.
The Underground Man represents the madness of hyperconscious-
ness that will be seen again in characters like Ivan Karamazov, Svidriga-
lov, Raskolnikov, and its demonic affirmation of the abyss in Nicolai
Stavrogin. But Dostoevsky leaves to his other novels developing the al-
ternative to madness: love. In a letter to his brother, Michael, Dostoevsky
complained that the tenth chapter of The Notes was mutilated by the
censor. Dostoevsky indicated that the censor had cut out a statement by
the Underground Man that the only chance to be freed from the vortex of
acute consciousness was through faith in Christ (Motchoulski 1963, 213).
In the novel this is intimated in the final scene with Lisa.

FROM ACTIVE EVIL TO ACTIVE LOVE: CHRIST

What Christ represents for Dostoevsky is the second movement from the
egoism of autonomy to the loving relation with the other. He does not see
Christ in terms of any of the traditional theories of atonement but as the
“ideal man in the flesh.” Christ represents for Dostoevsky the movement
from the egoism of autonomy to the loving relation with the other, but
this paradoxically does not simply dissolve the ego instead affirming it in
the highest sense. One becomes truly oneself through loving the other.
Christ alone could love man as himself, but Christ was a perpetual
eternal ideal to which man strives and, according to the law of nature
should strive. Meanwhile, since the appearance of Christ as the ideal of
man in the flesh, it has become as clear as day that the highest final
development of the personality must arrive at this (at the very end of
the development, the final attainment of the goal): that man finds,
knows, and is convinced, with the full force of nature, that the highest
use a man can make of his personality, of the full development of his
Ego– is, as it were, to annihilate that Ego, to give it totally and to every-
one undividedly and unselfishly. In this way, the law of the Ego fuses
with the law of humanism, and in this fusion both the Ego and the all
(apparently two extreme opposites) mutually annihilate themselves
one for the other, and at the same time each attains separately and to
the highest degree, their own individual development. (Quoted in
Frank 1986, 298–299)
This ideal is once again close to Schelling. Love can only exist where there
is some passion, some relation to another, some need of one person for
another. The unity of love is not the loss of individuality but rather its
158 Chapter 8

preservation in a higher unity. Not a unity of being but an ethical, willed

unity between persons. This is how one becomes a full person.
For there is love neither in indifference nor where antitheses are com-
bined which require the combination in order to be but rather (to re-
peat a word which has already been spoken) this is the secret of love, that
it unites such beings as could each exist in itself and nonetheless neither is nor
can be without the other. (Schelling 2003, 89; author’s emphasis)
In Crime and Punishment Raskolnikov is called out of his egoism and back
into humanity by the love of the saintly prostitute Sonya. In The Brothers
Karamazov Dmitri is saved by love for another fallen angel, the somewhat
less saintly Grushenka. He overcomes his bestial egoism and becomes
human in relation to her but he is first drawn to her for other reasons. He
tells Alyosha in “A Hymn and a Secret” about Grushenka.
I revere her, Alexei, I revere her. . . . Before was nothing! Before it was
just her infernal curves that fretted me, but now I’ve taken her whole
soul into my soul, and through her I’ve become a man. (Dostoevsky
1990, 588)
He has moved past the purely egoistic desire for her body to really loving
her. Now life has finally become serious because of relation to another
person. For Schelling this really happens with God as well. Since there is
a tendency working against the revelation there must be a predominance
of love and goodness in order for there to be a revelation. “[A]nd it is this
decision which alone really completes the concept of revelation as a con-
scious and morally free act”(Schelling 2003, 76). God and humanity over-
come evil through a conscious decision toward communication, revela-
tion and creation as opposed to the will of darkness and closure. This is a
movement from madness to relation. It is in relation to another in love
that we really become persons.

NOTES

1. Although opinions vary on Boehme’s importance and place in the history of

Western thought, he earned the acclaim of some of his most important successors.
Hegel claimed he was the founder of German Idealism (1955, 188). In his study on
Boehme, Alexandre Koyré also calls attention to his influence on Fichte, Schelling, and
Hegel as well as the second philosophy of Schelling and Boehme’s disciple Franz von
Baader (1968, 506-508). Koyré also points out that Boehme was read by such divergent
minds as Newton, Comenius, Milton, Leibniz, Oetinger, and Blake. See also Jones
(2009) and Bailey (1964). Nicholas Berdyaev points to the importance of Boehme’s
influence (via Schelling) on the Slavophiles and says that the metaphor of sophia is
found in the second generation of Russian philosophers beginning with Soloviev and
including Bulgakov, Frank, the Symbolist poets Blok, Beyli, and Ivanov. He also ac-
knowledges his own debt to Boehme (Berdyaev 1945, 39).
2. Hegel saw this in his critique of Kant’s idea of a holy will. It is neither holy nor a
will. In a “perfect” being that is untroubled by bodily impulses the moral struggle
vanishes and with it all real goodness. Hegel like Schelling introduces potential for
 Mystic Terror and Metaphysical Rebels 159

evil into the absolute itself. But unfortunately, like Spinoza and the theodicists, Hegel
still likes to take the “long view of things” and from Ivan’s view still misses one of the
main points that future harmony does not compensate present misery.

The pure moral being, on the other hand, because it is above struggle with
Nature and sense, does not stand in a negative relation to them. . . But a
pure morality that was completely separated from reality, and so likewise
was without any positive relation to it, would be an unconscious, unreal
abstraction in which the concept of morality, which involves thinking of
pure duty, willing, and doing it, would be done away with. Such a purely
moral being is therefore again a dissemblance of the facts, and has to be
given up. (Hegel 1977, 383)

3. This became an important issue for many Russian thinkers. Dostoevsky’s young
friend Vladimir Solovyov emphasized the resurrection as the only possible solution to
the problem of evil. Nicolai Feodorov and later the Bolshevik Lunacharsky both also
argued for the moral necessity of resurrection as the great human project though these
later were not theists.

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ature. New York: W. W. Norton.
Bailey, M. L. 1964. Milton and Jacob Boehme: A Study in German Mysticism in XVII
Century England. New York: Haskell House.
Berdyaev, Nicolas. 1934. Dostoevsky: An Interpretation. Translated by Donald Attwater.
New York: Sheed and Ward.
Berdyaev, Nicolas. 1945. “Deux études sur Jacob Boehme.” In Jacob Boehme, Mystér-
ium Magnum, Tome I. Paris: Aubier.
Berdyaev, Nicolas. 1951. Dream and Reality: An Essay in Autobiography. New York:
Macmillan.
Camus, Albert. 1991a. The Plague. New York: Random House.
Camus, Albert. 1991b. The Rebel: An Essay on Man in Revolt. New York: Random
House.
Chernychevsky, N. G. 1960. What Is to Be Done? New York: Vintage Books.
Chernychevsky, N. G. 1965. “The Anthropological Principle in Philosophy.” In Russian
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Chicago: Quadrangle Books.
David, Zdenek V. 1962. “The Influence of Jacob Boehme on Russian Religious
Thought” Slavic Review 21: 43–64.
Dostoevsky, Feodor. 1968. “Notes From the Underground.” In Great Short Works of
Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnett, 261–378. New York: Harper
and Row.
Dostoevsky, Feodor. 1990. The Brothers Karamazov. Translated by Richard Pevear and
Larissa Volokhonsky. New York: Vintage.
Dostoevsky, Feodor. 1992. Devils. Translated by Michael Katz. Oxford: Oxford Univer-
sity Press.
Dostoevsky, Feodor. 2012. Crime and Punishment (Kindle Edition). Translated by Rich-
ard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. New York: Vintage.
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Frank, Joseph. 1986. Dostoevsky: The Stir of Liberation, 1860–1865. Princeton: Princeton
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Haldane. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul.
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London: Verso.
 NINE
Redemptive Suffering
Neal Judisch

A religion worth its salt illuminates suffering and death—it gives an

understanding of these things, and also a way of preparing for and sol-
diering through them. I don’t intend this as a bold or a profound state-
ment, still less as an “analysis” of religion. It is an observation. This is
something religions do, and something they need to do. Religions pro-
vide for us a framework in which sense can be made of suffering and
death, and in which hope or serenity might persist in their presence.
This is uncontroversially true of the Christian religion, in which Jesus’
suffering and death (along with His resurrection) are central to all else.
On a Christian interpretive scheme, these events give meaning and pur-
pose to our own suffering and death, as well as grounds for our own
hope.
How? Christ’s suffering, death and resurrection were not pointless
but redemptive. And because of this, death has “lost its sting” and suffer-
ing is (or can be) salutary, even occasion for joy. Again, how? Because: our
own suffering and death is (or can be) somehow linked to the passion,
death and resurrection of Jesus, so as to render them not pointless but
redemptive as well.
This answer is given by wide swaths of philosophers and theologians
within the Christian tradition, and it raises questions. Among them, and
central to my discussion here, is the nature of the “link” between our
suffering and death and those of Christ, and the manner in which this
link invests our suffering and death with redemptive value.
Attempting to categorize and explain ways in which we might thus
participate in Christ’s redemptive suffering is not an exercise in theodicy
as such, because it need not have theistic defense or any “justification of
161
162 Chapter 9

God” in its sights; soteriological or Christological questions may moti-

vate the try instead. But the problems of evil and the aims of theodicy can
serve as useful touchstones in any analysis of redemptive suffering, and
it is evident that renewed interest in this topic amongst Christian philoso-
phers has been fueled by its perceived theodical payoffs. In particular,
the theme of redemptive suffering stands front-and-center within the
contemporary Christian Understanding (or Christian Explanation) pro-
jects, which began in earnest a few decades ago and have steadily picked
up steam since.
By “Christian Understanding (or Explanation) projects” I mean those
approaches to the problem of evil that plumb the depths of Christian
theological tradition specifically, and which are written by Christians for
Christians—as opposed to approaches the resources and theoretical pa-
rameters of which are set by an in-common Abrahamic vision of God, or
by a philosophical theism more general than that. 1 This isn’t to say Chris-
tians (on this approach) cannot avail themselves of any God-justifying
explanation of evil non-Christians could as well endorse, nor that re-
demptive suffering may be experienced by professing Christians only. It is
to underscore that those engaged in Christian Understanding projects
view the distinctly Christian shape of their contributions as satisfying
something between a criterion of adequacy and a strong presumptive
desideratum. If the “Christ Event” is foundational to Christianity, and if
this event constitutes God’s last and clearest word to humanity, then we
should expect that—to the extent human sin, suffering and death can be
made intelligible at all—Christ’s passion and death are key to under-
standing how. “Through Christ and in Christ, light is shed on the riddle
of sorrow and death. Apart from His Gospel, it overwhelms us” (Gau-
dium et Spes 1965, §22).
With this in mind, I want to consider some recent Christian medita-
tions on redemptive suffering, focusing principally on the analyses given
by Alvin Plantinga and Marilyn McCord Adams. My evaluation of their
accounts takes as read their intention to deliver theodicies or explana-
tions fit for consumption by Christian theists, who wish to understand
the purpose of suffering and death from a Christian point of view. 2 I shall
argue that their presentations, though suggestive and helpful, fall short
of that objective. In the final section I will outline the work remaining to
be done in order to fill out a Christian theory of redemptive suffering. I
begin with a few brief remarks on suffering and redemption to aid in
what follows.

SUFFERING AND REDEMPTIVE SUFFERING—PRELIMINARIES

Forgoing any serious treatment of redemption as a religious category, or

of its role within Christian theology, we can at least say redemption is a
 Redemptive Suffering 163

process whereby some person, group or thing is raised from a sub-opti-

mal condition to an optimal or better one. 3 The locus of redemption for
Christians is of course Christ’s atoning work “for us men and for our
salvation,” by which the rescue of His people (from their sin) and the
world (from its curse) is gained. “Redemption” in this tradition therefore
frequently names an outward-focused soteriological act, enacted by a
redeemer on behalf of others. However, it refers as well to the effect of
this act on its recipients, just as the allied concept of atonement desig-
nates variously the act of offering atonement or the state of at-one-ment it
brings. But here it is important to mark that the “active” and “passive”
(or cause/effect) senses of “redemption” should not be rigidly dichoto-
mized. It was, for example, through Christ’s redemptive efforts for us
that He Himself “learned obedience through what He suffered” (Heb 5.8)
and was “made perfect through suffering” (Heb 2.10). So an act of re-
demption, alongside its outward looking purpose, may also produce
changes in the agent of redemption. (The changes or improvements in
Christ—learning obedience, being perfected—do not imply an anterior
sinful defect on His part according to tradition. But this just means re-
demptive activity need not in all its dimensions involve change from a
categorically bad condition to a state of relative sinless purity.)
Now, two upshots: if we too may suffer redemptively, by actively
participating in Christ’s work, then this suffering redounds to our salvific
benefit. Moreover, our participatory redemptive suffering (like Christ’s
suffering) may be both inwardly and outwardly directed. That is, if we
participate in Christ’s suffering there is conceptual space for the vener-
able idea that even our own suffering can work to the benefit of others,
by “filling up what is lacking in the afflictions of Christ” for their sake
(Col 1.24). I’ll return to these points below.
Turn now to suffering. This is a wide category, inclusive of physical
and mental anguish, of death or dying, and also of sinfulness. With re-
spect to the last, I agree with Eleonore Stump (2010) that a person might
suffer objectively (by dint of disorder in mind, heart or will) without
subjectively experiencing his disorder as an instance of suffering (ch. 1). It
is however difficult to see how suffering-as-sinfulness could be of re-
demptive value—in contrast (say) to battling through the temptation or
despair such disorder brings in its wake. 4 Rather, sin or sinfulness is
something from and for which we need redemption, whereas suffering of
other kinds may be (necessary) means to it.
Suffering sans an experiential or broadly epistemic component is
therefore not how I wish to view it here. On the other hand, I do not wish
to strengthen the experiential/epistemic component to such a pitch that
all suffering is in Adams’ (1999) sense “horrific,” or as providing prima
facie reason to believe that one’s life could not be a great good to one on
the whole. For one thing, I am unsure how prima facie reasons function in
this context—Job, Judas and Jesus each in their own ways participated in
164 Chapter 9

horrors; that they might have evaluated the apparent worth or integrity
of their lives similarly, in light of these events, seems questionable. More
to the point, room must give way to lower-grade forms of suffering as
potentially redemptive, and this Adams would not wish to deny.
So for the present, let’s say (a) suffering of potentially redemptive
value excludes the “objective suffering” that just is sinfulness or moral
disorder—though these things do give occasion to redemptive suffer-
ing—and (b) it includes suffering not severe enough even prima facie to
void one’s life of positive meaning, as well as including Adams’ “hor-
rors.” This is a vague description, but it will serve. My aim in this paper is
to understand how our suffering (so described) can stand in a participa-
tory relation to Christ’s, so that it is geared toward a salvific end or
endowed with redemptive significance.

REDEMPTIVE SUFFERING IN PLANTINGA’S

FELIX CULPA THEODICY

In “Supralapsarianism, or ‘O Felix Culpa’,” Alvin Plantinga (2004) reha-

bilitates and defends an explanation of evil that he commends as a “suc-
cessful theodicy,” one that at least approximates to the actual reasons for
which God ordained the patterns of sin, suffering and death exhibited
through history (12). In outline, his theodicy says that the divine decree
to save (some of) us through the atoning death of Christ, the Incarnate
Son, logically precedes God’s ordination of the Fall and its consequences.
The latter are directed toward God’s prior intention to redeem (some of)
us, in that they provide the intelligible grounds for incarnation and
atonement—goods of such enormous value that all actual evil and suffer-
ing, sin and death, is outbalanced by them and worth their cost.
Plantinga’s theodicy has been searchingly critiqued by others; here I
review just two aspects of it, both related to his portrayal of redemptive
suffering. The first of these is that Plantinga treats incarnation and atone-
ment as a unit, or as a kind of singular extended event. The second is that
the value he assigns this event is so overwhelming that it swamps the
collective disvalue of all actual evil and suffering, without regard to its
effects. Take the second point first.
According to Plantinga, the incarnation and atonement is an unri-
valed and indeed unsurpassable display of divine goodness and love. In
His condescending assumption of human nature, in His willingness to
suffer excruciating pain and sorrow—even to the death—God sets forth
His glory and loving-kindness to the fullest possible extent. To be sure,
God’s character is what it is irrespective of His contingent choice to create
a world in which He thus reveals it, so the divine reality is no more
valuable in fact than it would have been had He created nothing at all.
But the expression of His goodness in creation, incarnation and atonement
 Redemptive Suffering 165

magnifies and reflects His glory, which is itself a magnificent good. Plan-
tinga therefore maintains that worlds including incarnation and atone-
ment are better, more valuable, than any possible world absent this fea-
ture.
I believe this value assignment flows primarily from the religiously
commendable impulse to give all glory, laud and honor to God. But it has
the unfortunate effect of sidelining what may have moved a loving God
to secure our redemption, and this in a couple ways.
Consider a world in which God forges a path to salvation and beatific
intimacy via incarnation and atonement, but in which no one takes up the
offer. If the manifestation of divinity through incarnation and atonement
is of such value as to render the good of its influence on creatures nigh on
negligible, then there is a straightforward sense in which such a world is
just as valuable as ours. 5 And that seems wrong. Kevin Diller (2008)
makes vivid the oddness of this result when he notes, “the traditional
interpretation of the atonement is that it is the means to accomplish the
end of our redemption,” whereas Plantinga’s theodicy reverses the end
and the means:
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 ac-
tion. . . . 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 relation-
ship 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. (92–3)
Whether Plantinga ignores the (secondary?) value of restored or aug-
mented relationship will be addressed below, but it is fair to say the
language and tenor of his presentation exacerbate the complaint that he
does. It’s strewn with descriptions of the “display,” the “demonstration,”
the “manifestation” and “enactment” of God’s goodness before our
watching eyes, in the incarnation-and-atonement event; but the age-old
theme that God glorifies Himself by diffusion—an inherently relational
notion—is comparatively neglected throughout.
Further aggravating this worry is his reply to the “Munchausen Syn-
drome by Proxy” objection—an objection to which he devotes consider-
able time—which says that God on this picture is rather like a guardian
who throws those under his care into grave predicaments, only to swoop
in and save the day to the applause of all. Plantinga doesn’t exactly seek
to dispel the aptness of the comparison; but he does insist God’s deci-
sions are overall for the best, and that the epistemic distance between
God and us should give judgment pause. Perhaps (he says), if we were
166 Chapter 9

perfectly apprised of the reasons God ordained sin and suffering, and if
our wills were perfectly attuned to His, we would voluntarily serve as
(sinful and suffering) means to His end—the depiction of His glory—
even if we weren’t in fact consulted on the matter. So perhaps the judg-
ment that God is an uncaring, utilitarian calculator on the Felix Culpa
line owes simply to our sin or ignorance.
All that’s as may be. The point is his reply gives traction to those
who’d charge him with ignoring the value of incarnation and atonement
for us, in favor of the admirable qualities of divinity it parades. Now in
my view, if Plantinga may be accused of imbalance in emphasis—as the
supralapsarian cast of his theodicy pretty well ensures—he doesn’t by-
pass the good of incarnation and atonement for creatures altogether. He
says (for instance) that incarnation and atonement is the vehicle through
which we attain an otherwise impossible degree of union with God—an
incommensurate good for us—and that our sin and suffering are ordered
to it: it is “by virtue of our fall and subsequent redemption,” he says, that
“we can achieve a level of intimacy with God that can’t be achieved any
other way; by virtue of suffering we are invited to join the charmed circle
of the Trinity itself” (2004, 19).
Here the disparate categories of sin and suffering, redemption and
participation, make contact in Plantinga’s theory. The idea is that sin
gives rise to atonement, which itself calls for incarnation and divine suf-
fering, with the result that human suffering and sin become avenues for
participation in God’s eternal life. But all this needs scrutiny. I mentioned
above that Plantinga treats incarnation and atonement as a package, and
now I can refine this claim. Atonement is clearly bound up with sin in
Plantinga’s estimation: this is why he transitions to the purpose of suffer-
ing as a further question (17ff). 6 So he distinguishes conceptually the rea-
son why God ordains sin from the reason why we suffer—and he certain-
ly does not commend being sinful as a way of growing close to God!
Nevertheless, the value of suffering as a vital bridge to divine intimacy is
something left mysterious. And the mystery only deepens when we re-
flect that incarnation is metaphysically as well as conceptually distinct
from atonement, and looks motivationally distinguishable too. 7 The good
that is the hypostatic union by itself exhibits God’s humiliating love, and
itself paves way for humanity’s inclusion in His life. What’s suffering got
to do with that? How does it enter the redemptive equation?
Plantinga is not without reply. Beyond noting with approval Hick’s
contention that suffering is instrumental to character development, and
nodding toward a natural law theodicy, he cites a few Biblical texts 8 from
which he draws these conclusions: (i) “sharing in the suffering of Christ is
a means to attain . . . salvation”; (ii) sharing in Christ’s sufferings “is a
means of fellowship with him at a very profound level” and a way “to
achieve a certain kind of solidarity with him”; (iii) by sharing His suffer-
 Redemptive Suffering 167

ing, we “come to resemble Christ . . . thus displaying more fully the

image of God” (18).
It is therefore possible to participate in Christ’s sufferings to redemp-
tive effect, according to Plantinga. But for purposes of Christian Under-
standing we want to know how this “works”—to understand the “me-
chanics” or form of participation, to see why suffering is the optimal or
necessary path to salvation, solidarity and the rest. Yet here Plantinga
pulls back:
I say that our fellowship and solidarity in Christ’s suffering and our
resembling 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 apparent that severe suffering is intrinsically a bad thing. . . .
So I don’t say this because it is evident to us, but rather because we
learn from Scripture that these are good states of affairs. . . . 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 reference to states of affairs that are
known to be good. . . . How this information is acquired is neither here
nor there. (19)
But to know that something is so does not disclose understanding of why
it is so, and this is just where (as I think) understanding is required.
Granted, my focus is not Plantinga’s, and what’s central to my interests
are perhaps orthogonal to his. But if the promissory note of Christian
Understanding theodicy can be cashed—if a unique and uniquely potent
explanation of suffering is there in the Christian religion—then we must
pick up the thread where Plantinga leaves off.

REDEMPTIVE SUFFERING IN ADAMS’

CHRISTOLOGICAL “THEODICY”

Like Plantinga, Marilyn McCord Adams (1999) draws from the well of
Christian tradition in her treatment of sin and suffering: with respect to
these, she too holds “the central doctrines of Christian theology—Chris-
tology and the Trinity—have considerable explanatory power”(164).
However, her approach is different and more demanding in orientation
than Plantinga’s. If Plantinga explains sin and suffering by connecting
them to God’s ultimate end—actualizing a world in which He magnifies
His greatness—and this end outweighs in value the intrinsic badness of
its prerequisite conditions, Adams insists sin and suffering be “defeated”
within the context of each individual life (not just “outweighed” by an
aggregate, global good). It isn’t true, according to Adams, that God’s
justice obligates Him to ensure such an outcome for each of us; it is rather
168 Chapter 9

God’s love that moves Him to secure the good for His creatures, through
the suffering they undergo. 9 So there is between Plantinga and Adams a
reversal of explanatory direction—suffering is related organically with
some great good for us, and God enters into our sufferings that this good
for us may be vouched safe.
The tremendous breadth and richness of Adams’ writings on this top-
ic make it impossible to summarize her contribution to Christian Under-
standing in such limited space. Still, as before, we may gainfully review
her work with an eye toward the nature of participatory redemptive
suffering as she develops it.
Central to her concern is horrendous suffering—suffering so profound
as potentially to destroy the meaning or worth of life for those who
participate in it. Since suffering of this order works to erode meaning, the
defeat of suffering is meaning-restorative: it lays bare the significance of
horrendous suffering such that participants can retrospectively affirm the
value of their lives, despite (even in) the horrors they’ve endured.
It is important to emphasize that the “meaningfulness” of horrendous
suffering is in principle subjectively recognizable as meaningful, as well
as really or objectively purposive. For despite the corrigibility of our
judgments about the value of a life lived, one essential component of a
life worthwhile on the whole is the individual’s estimation that it is (see
1999: 27, 81, 145–6). But it is only too evident that those who suffer hor-
rendously sometimes judge their lives a loss, regardless of the piecemeal
goods they’ve met with in their earthly careers. It follows, according to
Adams, that no aggregate of finite or creaturely goods could guarantee
for all a subjective assessment of life’s worth, and that a loving God must
therefore stand ready “to preserve them in life after death, to place
them . . . in new and nourishing environments where they can profit from
Divine instruction on how to integrate their participation in horrors into
wholes with positive meanings” (84).
Three aspects of this eschatological conclusion need noting, if we are
to appreciate the meaningfulness (thus the “defeat”) of suffering as she
conceives it. First, the postmortem reality she envisions is no mere contin-
uation of the “vale of soul-making” experienced here below. Rather, it is
tied to the incommensurate good of beatific vision, existential union with
the Triune God, which engulfs and absorbs all the minuses of life so as to
ensure positive assessment of its great worth. Second, the retrospectively
recognized meaningfulness of suffering consists chiefly in awareness that
participation in horrors was in each case a point of contact with God, who
threw in His lot and suffered there with us. Third, it is precisely in the
suffering of God Incarnate that this identification occurs: “It is God’s be-
coming a human being, experiencing the human condition from the in-
side, from the viewpoint of a finite consciousness, that integrates the
experience into an incommensurately valuable relationship” (168). Post-
mortem revelation that God-in-Christ met us there, in and through suffer-
 Redemptive Suffering 169

ing, fixes it so that no episodes of horrendous suffering would be wished

away by any who had experienced them.
Given this admittedly skeletal gloss of her theory, we can begin to
evaluate the extent to which it enhances understanding of suffering’s
redemptive power. Unquestionably she ventures beyond Plantinga’s
theodicy in lots of ways; yet I worry a basic lacuna we saw in his theory
reemerges in hers—namely, that the redemptive purpose of suffering
itself remains tantalizingly obscure. We have seen her distinguish two
senses in which horrendous suffering is “meaningful,” by pointing up an
objective or metaphysical purpose to suffering (in facilitating real contact
with God) and an epistemic sense, in which suffering is later recognized to
be an occasion of divine/human identification. To this we may add a
further disambiguation of “meaningfulness,” which signals our ability to
see how such identification is effected in suffering, and why suffering
should be the specific framework for it. It is in this last sense (I think) that
the meaningfulness of suffering in Adams’ theory is not fully clear.
What I mean is her requirements for the defeat of suffering in context
of a person’s life are not equivalent to the requirements for Christian
Understanding of suffering. For the Christian may well take on faith (or
with reason!) that the puzzle of horrendous suffering will eventually
dissolve into beatific bliss, without seeing in the meantime how Christian
Faith divulges the redemptive value of suffering as it’s been advertised to
do. Indeed, even the privileged afterlife perspective doesn’t look to en-
sure “recognition” of suffering’s redemptive value—as opposed to incenti-
vizing affirmation that some (perhaps unknowable) redemptive purpose
was there at work within it.
Several considerations underwrite this conclusion, from my view-
point. Notice first that Adams’ soteriological universalism (concerning
which I have no present quarrel) entails that all will experience beatific
intimacy in the end, whether they participated in horrors or not. Now on
one hand, her universalism seemingly extends the reach of redemptive
suffering even to those whose lives are not marred by “horrors,” which is
by my lights a desirable result. For there is no reason to suppose a person
cannot identify with Christ in his suffering, unless he is tempted by the
thought that he’s better off dead. But this result is also double-edged,
because it tends to detach horrendous suffering from its promised organ-
ic relation to the good of beatific union. On this score, Adams writes:
[My] view does not make participation in horrors necessary for the
individual’s incommensurate good. A horror-free life that ended in
beatific intimacy with God would also be one in which the individual
enjoyed incommensurate good. My contention is rather that by virtue
of endowing horrors with a good aspect, Divine identification makes
the victim’s experience of horrors so meaningful that one would not
retrospectively wish it away. . . . As a point of identification with God it
is partially constitutive of the relationship that makes one’s life over-
170 Chapter 9

whelmingly worth living and, so, is meaningful apart from any puta-
tive causal . . . consequences. (167)
But then the meaningfulness of horrendous suffering is not intelligible
through its organic relation to beatitude, which would anyway occur
without it.
My point is not that the lower-tier suffering of souls who escape hor-
ror participation shouldn’t “partially constitute” meaningful identifica-
tion with God—I think it should. It is that the obscurity of horrendous
suffering’s relation to the beatific outcome frustrates Christian under-
standing of suffering tout court. Any affliction of life—horrific or not—
appears as nothing when compared to the eternal weight of glory, await-
ing us all. Thus all suffering (horrific or not) will inevitably be judged in
some way to just not matter. I hope so. But this does not illuminate why
suffering and death (whether human or divine, horrific or pedestrian) is
redemptively significant in the end, nor why any of it was introduced to
start with.
Note, here, that Adams considers (and rejects) process theology’s con-
tention that a world of suffering is metaphysically inevitable, and that
God’s suffering-with-the world is a metaphysical inevitability too.
Against this she maintains it is God’s free choice to create, and divine
suffering is a function of His loving-care: neither of these things simply
had to be. 10 Now I agree with her here. But this posture only sharpens the
problem of suffering, since the contingency of suffering (both creaturely
and divine) only escalates explanatory standards. That is: God’s uncon-
strained willingness to suffer and (in Christ) to die alongside us does
inspire conviction that Wisdom weaves these things into creation for
good and satisfying reasons; but that this course was freely chosen, as
opposed to strictly unavoidable, just heightens expectation that suffering
should be teleologically and redemptively intelligible from a Christian
point of view.
I think Adams would agree. 11 Her primary problem with process the-
ism isn’t really that it makes divine and creaturely suffering metaphysi-
cally inevitable, but more that it sidesteps the incarnation—and with it
the “considerable explanatory power” of Christology—in its account.
Under this heading, she argues that (i) God’s love for creation culminates
in His assumption of a particular human nature as His own; that (ii) the
suffering of God-as-man “cancels the curse of human vulnerability to
horrors,” because “the very horrors, participation in which threatened to
undo the positive value of created personality, now become secure points
of identification with the crucified God;” and that (iii) this “shifts meta-
physical frameworks” by locating divine participation in horrors square-
ly in “God’s assumed human nature” (165–8).
I believe this Christological focus is what we need to make good on
the promise of Christian Understanding. But we must ask what these
 Redemptive Suffering 171

Christological affirmations have bought us, in comparison with the alter-

nate theistic approaches to suffering she pits them against. Notice that
Adams, like Hartshorne and Rolt (and, for that matter, Plantinga), affirms
passibility in the divine nature itself (see 1999, 168ff). From this it follows
that God’s emotive and sympathetic investment in creaturely suffering is
independent of divine incarnation, at least to a significant degree. Thus
the value of identifying with God in suffering can plausibly be had with-
out His entering the human condition literally. Moreover, if God shows
love’s meaning through solidarity with us, and invites us to join Him in
His redemptive mission, we may find purpose in suffering (even in mar-
tyrdom) as acts of service to and identification with God. Adams is of
course aware of all this, but considers the points inapposite. None of the
proposals “is exclusively Christian,” she says, since such points “would
constitute satisfactory responses within Judaism” (1999, 164) (and to this
we can add at least Shi’a Islam) 12 —whereas Christianity should, if true,
shed more light on suffering and death than non-Christian religions are
able to do.
What remains to be seen, then, is how God’s suffering in Christ lets us
move past empathic solidarity with God—together with a dash of soul-
making and the promise of heavenly reward—to participation in His
redemptive victory, through our voluntary submission to suffering and
death. I explore these themes next.

REDEMPTIVE SUFFERING AND SELF-SACRIFICE—

CHRISTOLOGY REVISITED

At this point it is sensible to pause and ask whether I’m expecting too
much of “Christian Understanding,” and whether my expectations have
led me to pass too lightly over the Christological elements integral to
Adams’ view.
In answer, I deny it is asking too much for Christian Understanding to
further the teleological intelligibility of suffering and death within a
Christian framework. 13 Such intelligibility does not as I see it require
disclosure of a morally sufficient reason for God’s ordination of suffering
(by which He is “justified”), so I’m not holding Adams’ theory to a stan-
dard she rejects. Nonetheless, the forward-looking promise that suffering
will be considered meaningful retrospectively, as she develops this claim,
seems to me insufficient for purposes of understanding it at last—even
while the breathtaking vision of God’s suffering in Christ looms large.
At the same time, I believe the Christological and traditional theologi-
cal themes she canvasses 14 can be appropriated and pressed into further
service. In this final section, then, I propose an approach to human death
and suffering through the categories of sacrifice and participation, with
the hope of framing the Christian context of participatory redemptive
172 Chapter 9

suffering. In outline, the frame is this: (i) death is intended by God to be

an occasion for the complete gift of self back to God; (ii) Christ’s sacrifi-
cial death purifies and elevates the sacrificial gift of death for those who
participate in it; and (iii) suffering (exclusive of death) should be under-
stood as a prolepsis or advance extension of death itself, through which it
acquires its meaning and redemptive significance. 15 Begin with the first
element.
Death is commonly viewed as a curse, introduced through sin and
disobedience. Since sin did not have to be, it seems that death did not
have to be either—that it is an alien and unintended end for us, from the
God’s-eye view. It’s also natural to see the resurrection of Jesus as sig-
nifying the reversal of this curse, brought about (in soteriologically ironic
fashion) by Christ’s own obedience unto death. Now I don’t deny any of
this. However, I want to temper the claim that death is a curse, a punish-
ment of sin simpliciter, by considering what in Christ’s death was pleasing
to God and why it constituted the paradigmatically “acceptable” sacri-
fice.
Clearly, Christ’s demonstrated willingness to offer Himself up with-
out sin and spite made His death a singular token, and indeed an exem-
plar, of martyrdom. But the dispositional willingness to lay down His life
in this way could have been recognized by God without needing actually
to see His willingness executed in act. So Christ’s love for and commit-
ment to the Father, while powerfully expressed in the passion, does not
look to have been metaphysically grounded in it. Yet there must for all
that be something in the going through with it that rendered His submis-
sion to death such an extraordinary act of God-ward love—even apart
from its soteriological consequences for others. I think it is that “This is
My Body, given for you,” “this is the Blood of the New Covenant, shed
for you”—the words that designate Christ’s giving to us His life, pick up
their sacrificial significance in that they are quite as properly addressed
to the Father as to us.
There is a tradition according to which Adam failed at precisely this
point: in his unwillingness to lock horns with the serpent, which repre-
sented mortal danger, for the sake of God and his bride. The Second
Adam is tempted in the same way, but (in familiar typological reversal)
succeeds where the First had failed. Working backward from the victory
of Christ, my suggestion is God gave Adam (therefore in some way all of
us) the opportunity to give body and blood as the only fitting gift to the
Creator—the gift of this life for this life. Our failure to do so willingly, and
the implicit knowledge that nothing less will really do, then resulted in
repetitious blood sacrifices as propitiating substitutes for the lives we
find so hard voluntarily to give. I’m suggesting God wants those lives,
and wants them freely given. What the sacrificial gift of God Himself (in
the person of Christ) accomplishes, at least in this connection, is the pos-
 Redemptive Suffering 173

sibility of transforming death into the perfect gift of self that God intends
it to be.
There is some indication this line of thought was present to the minds
of early Christian martyrs (or their hagiographers), for whom the idea of
martyrdom as sacramentally-informed participation in Christ’s sacrifice
was evidently vivid. Thus St Paul foresees his life poured out as a libation
(see Philippians 2.17; 2 Timothy, 4.6); Ignatius looks with notorious en-
thusiasm to the day his flesh will be “ground fine by the lion’s teeth, to be
made purest bread for Christ” (Roberts and Donaldson 1999, 74); Poly-
carp’s immolation gives off the aroma of baking bread (Roberts and Do-
naldson 1999, 42); and so forth. The Eucharistic overtones, lying on the
surface in such descriptions, push Christian martyrdom past “witness-
bearing” and solidarity with divine aims into the territory of participa-
tion in the life and death of God-as-man. But if so, there are attendant
implications for a Christian view of death generally—not only the elite
and spectacular death of the martyr, but anyone’s death may be elevated
into pure and undefiled gift of self, when united to the offering of Christ.
That is, the meaningfulness of a person’s death lies in its quality as a
perfect gift of love, irrespective of the conditions in which it occurs; and
the purpose of death is the making of this gift.
But how exactly does Christ’s sacrifice “elevate,” “transform” our
own deaths into perfect gifts of love? I remarked previously that we’d
need to understand the “mechanics” or form of participation—what mys-
tico-metaphysical union with Christ amounts to, and how it comes to be
effected—in order to fill out a Christian theory of redemptive suffering. I
find I don’t know how to do this, in a way that (a) can be reasonably
articulated and (b) does not reduce to psychological identification or em-
pathetic solidarity, for example; so an essential element of my proposal
remains underdeveloped. But I stand by the claim. I think it is tolerably
clear that penal substitution theories of atonement leave the purpose of
human death hanging, while participatory accounts hold promise of
something more. But the payoff of such theories for Christian Under-
standing awaits an analysis of “participation in the divine nature” (2
Peter 1.4) that I am presently unable to provide.
I do however wish to say something about suffering in life, in contrast
to the suffering that is death. My strategy so far has been to relate the
sacrificial death of the martyr to “the good death” generally, by arguing
that participation in Christ’s redemptive death can sanctify both. What I
want now to suggest is that suffering in general may be viewed as an
extension of death, and can pick up its redemptive significance through
the same route.
A number of philosophers have argued that vulnerability to physical
and psychological harm is unavoidable for material creatures, and I see
no reason to contest this. If the benefit of creating a regular, natural order
in which living beings can thrive comes at this cost, it is perhaps worth it
174 Chapter 9

on the whole. But the thought that living things are prone to suffer by
virtue of finite power and physical frame draws attention to their essen-
tial mortality, or inevitable disintegration of the physical and mental ca-
pacities vital to creaturely persistence. The bodily and mental suffering of
this life is therefore at no great conceptual remove from the fact of death:
both arise from the conditions of material, created being. So, if death
gives opportunity for the gift of oneself back to God, and if suffering is a
kind of proleptic harbinger of death’s eventuality, then suffering may
serve by extension as a gift of created life given back to its Author. Per-
haps, reaching back again to St Paul, our suffering is a way to fulfill the
(Rom 12.1) injunction to “offer [our] bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and
pleasing to God,” as a “proper act of worship.” It is platitudinous to say
we are born to die, that the process of dying begins concomitantly with
life. But there is a metaphysical point to the platitude, which Christian
Understanding would do well to mine.
The proposed approach I’ve put forward in this section is sketchy and
programmatic. Each element of it requires clarification, elaboration, and
support. And I’m under no illusion that seeing to the bottom of these
things will be any the easier for us than it is for the angels, who long to
look in on them. But my hunch is that Christian Understanding of re-
demptive suffering can still labor on, before it runs up against the im-
pregnable wall of divine mystery; and I hope the avenues of exploration I
have identified here will be found to shoulder some of that load.

NOTES

1. A generic philosophical theism may support theodicy along the periphery, but
will be anemic in comparison with the riches afforded by the western theistic religions
in all their robust particularity. On the other hand, as Stump (1985) points out with
respect to these religions, there is the danger of embarrassment by this abundance if
“attempted solutions to the problem of evil based solely on a few theistic assumptions
common to the major monotheisms are likely themselves to be incompatible with
Jewish or Christian or Islamic beliefs” when spelled out in detail (398). But beyond
these considerations lies the Christian conviction that God’s assumption of human
nature in Christ alters the field entirely, and that a Christian theodicy done well will
highlight and explain why this is so.
2. Thus Plantinga (2004) contends that it is time for Christian philosophers to
move beyond defense “to a different task: that of understanding the evil our word
displays from a Christian perspective. Granted, the atheological arguments are unsuc-
cessful; but how should Christians think about evil?” (5). Adams (1999) argues in the
same vein that Christians should write from within the framework of a Christian
value system (as opposed to a system neutral as between secularism and Christianity),
and should draw from the store of their particular array of religious beliefs, in order
the better to explain how God’s love is consistent with participation in horrific evil.
3. Forensic or debt-repayment etymological connotations of “redemption” are not
hereby ignored, since to go from being a debtor to being debtless is a terrific way of
moving from a sub-optimal to a better condition. Or so I can imagine.
4. Adams (1999) has argued that a person may identify with Christ even in the
commission of horrific evil, since Christ was ritually accursed on the cross and thus
 Redemptive Suffering 175

(symbolically) made a “perpetrator” of evil Himself. I am not altogether sure I under-

stand her suggestion, though I applaud the motivation behind it. If she means at a
minimum that acting sinfully or “being in sin” might catalyze profound sorrow-lead-
ing-to-repentance, then what I say here supports her claim.
5. See Plantinga (2004): “the value of incarnation and atonement cannot be
matched by any aggregate of creaturely goods. . . . And no matter how much evil, how
much sin and suffering, a world contains, the aggregated badness would be out-
weighed 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 existence of God, and the incarnation and atonement” (10).
6. More accurately, he distinguishes the purpose of sin from the further question
why suffering to the extent and in the ways it actually occurs is needful. That sin
inevitably brings some measure of suffering with it seems very plausible, but this does
not shed light on the “why so much?” question or the question of suffering’s telos.
7. See Diller (2008) and Adams (2008) for discussion.
8. See 2 Cor. 4.10–11, 14, 17; Philippians 3.10–11; Heb 12.10–11.
9. To be more precise, she assumes “that small- or medium-scale evils—such as a
childhood case of measles or not getting into the best graduate school—might simply
be overbalanced by a good life. Unless horrendous evils, which call into question
whether one’s life can be worth living, are defeated, however, evil’s victories will be
too large” (43 n.14). Nonetheless, the thrust of her approach to suffering remains
teleological or prospective, and her solution to the problem of horrors is of course
relevant to how suffering of lower orders may be of redemptive significance as well.
For example, universalism falls out of her criterion that God be good to every created
person. In her gloss on this she states that God wouldn’t create creatures with “such
radical vulnerability to horrors, unless Divine power stood able, and Divine love
willing, to redeem” (156). The beatific end that renders horrendous suffering meaning-
ful is thus evidently the end for each creature, and there is reason to suppose that God
weaves every life into positively meaningful wholes thereby.
10. See her appraisal of Hartshorne and Rolt (159ff.). Her affirmation of divine
freedom in creation and the contingency of suffering is qualified by her claim that
human nature is independent of God’s will, and that the creation of humanity in the
natural order inevitably renders us vulnerable to horrendous suffering (171). My point
is that (freely) creating a natural order in which suffering is inevitable calls legitimate-
ly for a kind of explanation process theism does not have to provide.
11. For example, she notes (1986) that Christian mysticism has frequently portrayed
suffering as a vision into God’s inner-life, which somehow reveals creaturely suffering
as connected logically to beatific vision (264). However, this limited affirmation is
qualified by her remarks, recorded in note 13 below.
12. On redemptive suffering in Shi’ism see Mahmoud Ayoub (1978).
13. I do not mean that we should be able to entirely close the epistemic gap between
God’s reasons and our own ability to apprehend them. Adams may be right that we
should not “envision postmortem cries of ‘felix culpa!’” or imagine “participants in
horrors would ever think it reasonable to have consented to them in advance as
constituent and/or instrumental means to the goods God brings from them” (1999,
203). But if there are no instrumental or constitutive goods to suffering and death then
I do not see that we can be said to have understood or explained their purpose from a
Christian perspective.
14. Especially in her (2006).
15. To clarify: (i) does not entail that God “intends” death; rather, in my view, God
intends that there be corruptible (mortal) beings, for whom death is an inevitability.
Thanks to Mark Murphy for pressing me on this point.
176 Chapter 9

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Adams, Marilyn McCord. 1986. “Redemptive Suffering.” In Rationality, Religious Belief,

and Moral Commitment, edited by William Wainwright and Robert Audi, 248–67.
Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
Adams, Marilyn McCord. 1999. Horrendous Evils and the Goodness of God. Ithaca: Cor-
nell University Press.
Adams, Marilyn McCord. 2006. Christ and Horrors: the Coherence of Christology. Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press.
Adams, Marilyn McCord. 2008. “Plantinga on ‘Felix Culpa’: Analysis and Critique”
Faith and Philosophy 25(2): 123–140.
Ayoub, Mahmoud M. 1978. Redemptive Suffering in Islam: A Study of the Devotional
Aspects of Ashura in Twelver Shi’ism. The Hague: De Gruyter.
Diller, Kevin. 2008. “Are Sin and Evil Necessary for a Really Good World? Questions
for Alvin Plantinga’s Felix Culpa Theodicy” Faith and Philosophy 25(1): 87–101.
Gaudium et Spes. 1965. http://www.vatican.va/archive/hist_councils/ii_vatican_council/
documents/vat-ii_const_19651207_gaudium-et-spes_en.html
Plantinga, Alvin. 2004. “Supralapsarianism, Or ‘O Felix Culpa’.” In Christian Faith and
the Problem of Evil, edited by Peter van Inwagen, 1–25. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans.
Roberts, Alexander and James Donaldson, eds. 1999. Ante-Nicene Fathers, vol. 1, 2nd
ed. Hendrickson Publishers, Inc.
Stump, Eleonore. 1985. “The Problem of Evil” Faith and Philosophy 2(4): 392–420.
Stump, Eleonore. 2010. Wandering in Darkness: Narrative and the Problem of Suffering.
Oxford: Oxford University Press.
 TEN
Predatory Goodness in the Discourse
on Evil among Anglo-American
Philosophers of Religion
Nathan Loewen

I imagine that you are likely familiar with the topic of this volume; or, at
the very least, you have a strong hunch of what the parameters of the
discussion will be when you read a title such as The Problem of Evil: New
Philosophical Directions. To a non-specialist, this title might seem lofty or
even esoteric. Any reader with a passing familiarity with philosophy will
likely know that the title marks out well-known topical territory that
ranges from Socratic dilemmas to earthquakes in eighteenth-century
Spain on past the horrific events of the twentieth century up until present
contexts. I think it safe to assume that most readers readily accept that
these are the borders of the general philosophical discourse on evil. In
fact, it is by acknowledging the themes within these borders that may
allow authors within this volume to propose variations on the typical
approaches to evil. This chapter is no different.
There is an indicator that narrows the discursive territory under con-
sideration in this volume. The title is in English. My mention of this fact
may well tip off readers to the traditional focus of this chapter. Recent
English-language philosophical discussions of evil are less concerned
with the philosophy of the classics, the Enlightenment, or events on the
European continent. Instead the discussion revolves around specific
questions related to whether or not “evil” justifies theistic belief. Over the
last 60 years, a discourse has evolved with increasingly clear borders on
the topic of the “problem of evil.” The focus of the problem is derived
primarily by focusing upon a particular abstraction of Christian doctrine
177
178 Chapter 10

into the premises of theism. 1 These premises are put into the form of an
argument whose validity is tested by questions that may be posed in their
general form: does there exist a contradiction whose resolution requires
the exclusion of a premise? Is there an event whose evidence requires the
exclusion of a premise? Is it more probable that the actual world’s state of
its affairs requires the exclusion of a premise?
All three of these questions are “critical” in the narrow sense. They are
aimed at a particular set of premises which comprise the basis of theism.
If one of these premises is rejected then all the others are correlatively
invalidated. The objective here is not critique or criticism. Rather, the
point of these arguments is to “cut off” (krinein) the grounds for an argu-
ment that would support the existence of an actual entity whose attrib-
utes correspond to the premises of theism. My objective in this chapter is
to propose a critique of this discourse by outlining some major figures
whose arguments served to establish and sustain the particular shape of
this approach to philosophically considering evil. I do this in order to
highlight a problematic with the discourse, based on the following
points: (1) the arguments deployed by the major participants share a
commitment to a binary, where either atheism or theism exclusively ob-
tains, and (2) the binary structuring of the discourse, through repeated
performances of its arguments, effectively circumscribes the object of
study for philosophers of religion to arguments about theism. None of
this is necessarily new in a general sense, but it is worth repeating where
considerations of philosophical approaches to evil are concerned.
The ways of making discourses evident is much simpler with the
advent of digital databases and Internet-based media platforms and their
search tools. A search using the hashtag such as “#problemofevil” on
Twitter may deliver thousands of results that confirm the basic outline of
the discourse. A more specialized method to confirm the discourse
would be to review contents of introductions to the philosophy of relig-
ion using a website such as Amazon.com or books.google.com. Undoubt-
edly, the most specialized method would use an algorithm to crawl
through vast amounts of recorded media to produce analytics about con-
tent patterns in the world’s major research libraries. Not too long ago,
this sort of work was done manually to create data such as the following:
between 1960 and 1991, Barry Whitney (1998) determined that scholars
produced just over 4,237 writings related to the problem of evil. Few
other topics falling within the English-language philosophy of religion
have obtained this amount of attention.
The major figures and topics in the discourse largely emerged within
the period overviewed by Whitney’s bibliographic review. The parame-
ters were set by philosophers of religion attacking the acceptability of
arguments for the existence of an entity—God—set forth by the premises
of theism. Nelson Pike’s (1958) “God and Evil: a Reconsideration” set the
stage, where he proposed a revised, concise version of David Hume’s
 Predatory Goodness in the Discourse on Evil 179

arguments to determine the existence of a logical contradiction between

the premises of theism and the premise that there is evil. In 1979 there
was a shift in the attack, where William L. Rowe’s “The Problem of Evil
and Some Varieties of Atheism” concerned a rational, rather than strictly
logical, contradiction between the purported existence of God according
to theism and the evidence that there are evils without any utility. A
decade later, Paul Draper (1989) proposed a significant twist on eviden-
tial arguments of the sort offered by Rowe. In his “Pain and Pleasure: an
Evidential Problem for Theists,” Draper is less concerned with an out-
right logical and rational exclusion of theism’s premises, rather, he seeks
to establish the stronger probability that theism should be ignored, given
the evidence of certain evils. I take these three authors to be primary
figures in the development of the English-language philosophy of relig-
ion discourse on the problem of evil. Not everyone involved in the dis-
course necessarily cites these three, but their arguments encapsulate the
basic elements of the discourse and most philosophers of religion will
have encountered their work.
The other “half” of the discourse involves responses to arguments of
the sort proposed by Rowe, Pike, and Draper. These three begin their
arguments by taking issue with theism, and the outcome of their inter-
ventions is to entrench the discursive parameters of English philosophy
of religion within the limits of theism alone. I take their attacks as the
novel markers for where to begin seeing the formation of a discourse.
Defenses largely accept their attacker’s original premises such that what
follows is largely a back-and-forth on recurring discursive grounds.
These circular returns to each other’s premises for the purposes of defeat-
ing each other reinforces and sustains particular approaches to evil. In
order to explain the problematic elements of this discourse, I will explore
the emergence of these three figures and their arguments.

WHAT IS A PROBLEM?

As a general method, problem-posing is a means of “calling out” another.

Much like open letters in the media, problems are formulated and sent
out with the hopes of a response. And while it is unreasonable to pre-
sume knowledge of what someone “really means,” it is safe to say that
problem-posing is not a neutral or benign activity. Setting out a problem
has the potential to stimulate after-effects that mark out a space for ex-
changes, wherein a sufficient degree of family resemblance among the
effects establishes a common idiom.
It is people who pose problems through language within contexts that
are particular to them. Nothing in and of itself is a problem a priori or sui
generis. In order for there to be a problem, there must be someone who
sets it into discursive motion. And, in so doing, that act of posing a
180 Chapter 10

problem attaches particular significance to things by naming and catego-

rizing them as problematic. “Evil” is one such taxon by which things are
named and arranged. If someone claims that evils exist a priori, my next
question is to ask, “Who told you this?” For example, William Rowe’s
evidential argument is what sets into discursive motion a cute little fawn
which gets caught in a forest fire. One taxon or category has the potential
to pose a problem by having it set into discursive proximity with another
taxon or category. Placing “evil” alongside the premise “theism” has this
problem-posing potential.
Dewi Z. Phillips (2005) once remarked that the problem of evil is “our
problematic inheritance” (5). The first-person plural possessive stated by
Phillips locates those who participate in the English-language philosophy
of religion. The problem of evil is a formative inheritance because it pur-
ports to evaluate religion in general by addressing theism in particular.
This is in no small part because “philosophy of religion in the English-
speaking world is practiced under conditions that have been shaped by
the history of Western philosophy” (Quinn and Taliaferro 1997, 1–2).
There exists no English-language philosophy of religion textbook that
does not dedicate a substantial section to this discussion and its key
figures. Any statement of a problem will necessarily consider some data,
exclude other data and have restricted considerations for the sake of
parsimony. The particular exercise of these conditions about the problem
of evil leads to the argument that if “theism” is compatible with “evil,”
then religious beliefs related to theism can be assured of their validity.
Although such problems posed using “theism” need not concern Chris-
tian theological claims, their formulations are specifically concerned with
what is entailed by the attributes of the all-perfect entity. And, of course,
should a restricted version of belief in God, such as theism, fail to be
valid, then the implication is that general and theologically confessional
versions of such beliefs must also fail to be rationally acceptable (Martin
1990, 341). These are the stakes of this particular discourse. Each iteration
of the problem poses these stakes in a slightly different way.

THE LOGICAL VERSION

Nelson Pike poses a logical problem of evil that consolidates a starting

point for the discourse in question. Pike’s argument formalizes the basic
dilemma. The first two premises are attributes of a being: absolute good-
ness and unconditional capacity for action. The third premise is a claim
that an evil—or some evils—exists. The problem posed is that of incoher-
ence among the premises. 2 Pike’s claim is that this creates a problem. The
predicates of goodness and omnipotence are logically essential to theism
(1970, 21). Since the theistic God has no contingent attributes, the exis-
tence of evil poses a problem of compossibility: one of the three premises,
 Predatory Goodness in the Discourse on Evil 181

Pike insists, must be entirely excluded to resolve the proposed incoher-

ence. If one of the two claims about God cannot be conjoined to that
about evil, due to some contradiction among them on the order of a
logical impossibility, then this entails rejecting the validity of the theistic
premises.
The logical problem works by tracing out the entailments from essen-
tial predicates of theism in order to arrive at a contradiction. “Logic” in
this problem is the analytical investigation into the grammar of a given
proposition to determine what can and cannot be said (Phillips 2005, 7).
The simplicity of this argument makes it persuasive; it deals with logical
necessities rather than contingent, that is, factual and empirical matters.
By working through an issue of logical coherence based on whether the
premises in question are able to “stand up to the canons of logic” (Ho-
ward-Snyder 1996, xii), philosophers of religion may be persuaded that,
“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” (Mackie 1990, 36–7). The pertinent
member of the canons of logic here is contradiction.
Contradictions must be solved by the determination of a disjunction.
But this is not a clear-cut deduction of either P or ~P. Instead, the key
working element that might establish a contradiction to be deployed by
the logical problem of evil is an enthymeme: an omnipotent being who is
wholly good, must, on account of these two predicates, actively and posi-
tively deny the existence of evil. The logical problem of evil presents a
wide-ranging version of this enthymeme: any evil establishes a contradic-
tion with the premises of theism.

PREDATORY GOODNESS VERSUS EVIL

I call this the “predatory goodness” enthymeme. Such a powerful and

good being should not tolerate any evils. As Pike (1958) argues, “by
consulting the logic (or usage rules) of the terms “omniscient,” “all-pow-
erful,” “good person” and “evil,” [ . . . ] an omniscient and all-powerful
being could prevent evil and create nothing but good, while a perfectly
good person would prevent evil and create nothing but good” (116). There
is a normative claim from folk morality at work here that articulates an
expectation: a good person with the power to prevent evils ought to do
so. Where evils are the doppelgängers to supererogatory acts, maximally
good beings—much like comic superheroes—should entirely dedicate
themselves to eradicating all evils. The being described by theism should,
according to this line of thinking, exercise predatory goodness.
Quite some time after Pike’s (1958) article, J.L. Mackie elaborates fur-
ther upon the expectation at work in this enthymeme. Mackie (1990)
claims a logical entailment towards “additional premises, or perhaps
182 Chapter 10

some quasi-logical rules connecting the terms “good,” “evil,”, and “om-
nipotent” (26) all of which he understands to be conjoined into “princi-
ples” (26) that ought to be necessary for theism. The point being that if
these rules and necessities are logically true, then theism “can be dis-
proved” (25). The idea of predatory goodness, in sum, is that, “a good
omnipotent thing eliminates evil completely” (26).
It is worth noting that defenses against the logical problem of evil do
not challenge these folk expectations. Instead, it is generally accepted that
the being described by the attributes of theism always eliminates evil
insofar as it can (Weisberger 1999, 24). To my knowledge, no arguments
from within the problem of evil discourse under consideration challenge
the expectation of predatory goodness. 3 Defensive counter-arguments in-
stead choose to carry through nearly all elements of the logical problem
in order to suspend its conclusion with a deferral: for all we know, there
are morally sufficient reasons for evils. As a result, the basic outline of the
logical argument places an expectation of predatory goodness that goes
unchallenged.
The defenses of deferral are deployed because they interrupt deduc-
tive conclusions that would suit the “canons of logic” (Pargetter 1976,
242). By demanding a morally sufficient reason for each evil, defenders of
theism construct “an eternal task” (Adams 1999, 17) of connecting every
local evil in a piecemeal fashion to an ultimately global transcendent
good. Namely, “it would seem to require something like omniscience on
our part before we could lay claim to knowing that there is no greater
good connected to the fawn’s suffering” (Rowe 1979, 337).
The outcome of this defense creates far from satisfying philosophical
conditions. It neither buttresses theism nor compels atheism to find that
morally sufficient reason(s) for evil(s). The logical argument from evil
could only establish itself if there were logically deduced evils which lack
both logical necessity and sufficient reason (Martin 1978, 429). That, how-
ever, is not possible. Philosophical logic can establish conditions for what
may or may not be stated, but much like mathematics, that mode of
inquiry does not have any normative purchase on empirical conditions. 4
As Mackie (1990) notes, the logical problem of evil, “is not a scientific
problem that might be solved by further observations, or a practical prob-
lem that might be solved by a decision or an action” (25).
Two formative outcomes for philosophers of religion result from the
logical problem of evil. One is that the entity described by theism is
governed by an obligation to rule out evils. “Goodness” as an attribute
carries with it not only the contradiction with “evil,” but also an expecta-
tion that the being to which goodness is attributed should predate upon
evil to the fullest extent of its potential. The other outcome for the dis-
course is an expectation of a moral calculus, a morally sufficient reason,
to consider what evils might escape predatory goodness. “For the argu-
ment from evil to succeed, it must be shown that it is unreasonable to
 Predatory Goodness in the Discourse on Evil 183

believe that any good is such that it morally justifies the evil which ex-
ists” (Weisberger 1999, 28). These outcomes serve to demarcate the bor-
ders of the discourse by virtue of the impossibility of their satisfaction.
They preserve the potential to pose the problem of evil, but the problem
is posed only with respect to the premises of theism. And the success of
the attack on theism finds itself limited by its own tools. 5

THE EVIDENTIAL VERSION

The goalposts for the pseudo-duel of this discourse sustain themselves

because of their stark contrast: either theism or not-theism. Each iteration
of the discourse reproduces and sustains that disjunction as the gold
standard for offering a successful argument. These iterations also repeat
the expectation of predatory goodness. The evidential problem of evil
retains these thematic boundaries while shifting from a global to local
focus; the shift is from evil as a concept logically contradictory to good
towards the consideration of a specific kind of localized evil which might
upset the premises of theism. The evil posing the evidential problem is a
minimal one whose predicates are purposeless, gratuitous, and entirely
natural—the diminutive opposite to the ambitious omni-predicates of
theism.
William L. Rowe’s (1979) article, “The Problem of Evil and Some Va-
rieties of Atheism,” is the paradigmatic evidential problem of evil. Rowe
poses the problem of a fawn, which may have canonical status in the
problem of evil discourse. 6 Rowe explains a plausible scenario where,
after several days of suffering, a fawn dies of burns inflicted by a forest-
fire that was ignited by lightning. He surmises that “[a]n omnipotent,
omniscient being could have easily prevented the fawn from being hor-
ribly burned, or, given the burning, could have spared the fawn the in-
tense suffering by quickly ending its life” (337). If this scenario has hap-
pened at least once in the world, then there is evidence of an evil, which
serves no higher good or purpose, which could have been ruled out by
the being described by theism (337). And while the evidence in this argu-
ment rests upon single fallibility 7—whereby were evidence were to arise
to the contrary, the inference against God’s existence would be aban-
doned—Rowe has shaped the problem of evil discourse in such a way
that he would continue to restate and “fine-tune” the problem (2006b,
312).
The evidential problem of evil establishes a discourse of agreement
about the general empirical facts of the world, where some evils come to
pass that do not prevent any humanly known global or local goods from
coming to pass. While this version of the problem is meant to remove the
deferral invoked by defenses against the logical problem of evil, the rou-
tine patterns of the discourse are further reinforced. The lines of pro-
184 Chapter 10

posed inference reiterate predatory goodness and affirm the baseline stat-
us of theism for philosophers of religion. Humans ought to be capable of
knowing the intense animal suffering occurring in their world. They
should be able to understand what goods do exist and to imagine what
goods might come about from what exists. They are thereby capable of
making judgments as to what an omnipotent being can and cannot do;
including the capacity to reasonably expect what a wholly-good being
could do with respect to good and evil (Rowe 1990, 1612). By hinging
itself upon inference to such plausibility, Rowe’s argument obtains epis-
temic persuasiveness.
Rowe seeks to affirm that goodness is predatory while doing away
with the plausibility of evils as justified by moral sufficiency. If such a
fawn’s demise never happened, then a more quantitatively and qualita-
tively good world would obtain, and a good omnipotent thing should
completely eliminate such basic evils. However, Rowe’s argument does
not consider the plausibility of not knowing anything deductively certain
about the fawn. Evils, in Rowe’s argument, are occasional, contingent,
and finite. Each instance of evil is not epistemically accessible. The diffi-
culty, as Susan Neimen (2002) puts it, is the following: “Data are what
you have when you have scientific procedures based on causal analyses
and inductive evidence. None of this is present for events that happen
only once. There everything rests upon speculation” (158). When pressed
about “which exact fawn,” there is no specific answer.
The defense against the evidential problem of evil continues the dis-
cursive pattern of rejoinders to the logical problem of evil. Stephen Wyk-
stra’s (1984) skeptical defense affirms all the basic premises and move-
ments of Rowe’s argument, only to undermine its epistemological cer-
tainty: for all we know, there might actually be a justificatory explanation
for every evil that comes to pass. Wykstra’s strategy not merely repeats,
but amplifies the good-eliminates-evil binary of predatory goodness. The
argument may also be summarized as: for all we know, we may expect
that a powerful and good entity will ultimately rule out all evil. By rela-
tivizing the self-evidence of Rowe’s evidential claims, Wykstra attenuates
the rhetorical force of the attack but does not entirely refute to the prob-
lem posed by Rowe. The conclusion of a single fallibility argument tee-
ters provisionally on the possibility of further evidence, which Wykstra
amplifies with a principle of “CORNEA”: the condition of reasonable
epistemic access (1984). To contend that there is an inordinately strong
requirement for the appearance of divine determination of the world’s
affairs towards empirically observable events that qualify as goods. The
purpose for seemingly inscrutable suffering is reasonably limited, given
human epistemological conditions. Thus claims about evils in the world
are true observations, but any judgment upon the balance of good and
evil in the world must be suspended, pending a further possible observa-
tion of outweighing goods in the future.
 Predatory Goodness in the Discourse on Evil 185

THE PROBABILISTIC VERSION

The most recent development in the discourse on the problem of evil

appeared not long after Rowe’s evidential argument from evil. Bruce
Reichenbach (1980) introduced what he called the “inductive argument
from evil” because he found Rowe missing a knock-down argument:
“merely presenting instances of pointless suffering will not establish that
there are instances of evil which God could have prevented such that no
overriding good would have been negatively affected by their preven-
tion” (227). Lacking a sound means to decisively invalidate theism vis-à-
vis evils, evidential arguments can at least provide inductive reasons to
deny the probability that theism is improbable. Reichenbach introduced
Bayes’ theorem of probability, which determines the odds between con-
temporaneous probabilities in ratios of likelihood to establish what a
reasonable person should be expected to believe. 8 Affirming the expecta-
tion of predatory goodness, he states, “We rely on good people to re-
move, prevent or alleviate the natural evils which we encounter and
which they are capable of affecting [. . .] how much more can one expect
that there would be less natural evil in the presence of a perfectly good
and omnipotent personal deity than if the natural laws were simply al-
lowed to run their course with respect to the furniture of the world”
(1980, 223).
Paul Draper (1989) refines reformed Reichenbach’s work into what
may be called the probabilistic problem of evil. The objective is to circum-
vent the defensive deferrals against the logical and evidential versions.
Draper asks “whether or not any serious hypothesis that is logically in-
consistent with theism explains some significant set of facts about evil or
about good and evil much better than theism does” (332). From an “indif-
ferent” stance, given theism and atheism as two options of a wager, to-
wards which option is it most likely reasonable to abandon that neutral-
ity. As such, the probabilistic problem of evil shifts the criteria for “victo-
ry” in the discourse: “In general, the more specific and hence riskier an
existential claim like theism is, the less probable that claim is intrinsically
but the more probable its denial is intrinsically. This is why we assume
both in science and in everyday reasoning that existential claims, espe-
cially specific ones, require stronger evidence to be justified than their
denials do” (2004, 47).
Draper’s probabilistic argument asks for what defenders against the
problem of evil are not in the position to offer, namely, that the already
grant “omni”-type premises of theism buttress themselves with even
stronger wagers that obtain even higher probabilities of belief. 9 Draper’s
strategy presents a bind by asking defenders of theism to further amplify
the expectation of predatory goodness. The existing borders of the dis-
course are correlatively reinforced by raising the stakes of the “evil
game” in this manner, because the putatively indifferent hypothesis is
186 Chapter 10

formulated explicitly with regard to theism. Draper’s approach thereby

serves to limit questions from arising within the discourse, such as how
or why in the first place only certain options obtain consideration for the
analysis of their probability. Indeed, this question is absent from the dis-
course on the problem of evil. Draper does briefly consider what options
are eligible “relative to our epistemic situation” (1989, 190n.18) but with-
out substantive elaboration in order to highlight that potential to expand
the range of possible considerations by those participating in the dis-
course (1989, 181). Presumably this applies to any hypothesis with which
theism’s premises must compete for probability. According to Draper’s
shaping of the discussion, however, to analyze the discrete processes and
operations of judgment is unnecessary: “The crucial point is that, as long
as one makes the correct abstraction, the background knowledge that
should affect the crucial probabilities will affect them, and the back-
ground knowledge that should not affect them won’t. There is no need to
list all of our beliefs or all of the propositions we know, subtract some,
and then conditionalize on the ones that are left. That would be a truly
hopeless procedure” (2004, 54).
At this stage in the development of the discourse, the boundary for
what is admitted and granted for consideration is in its third round of
reiteration and reinforcement. The point being made by Draper, against
the logical and epistemological deferrals of various defenses, is that there
are limits to what considerations should be made when considering op-
tions for philosophical reflections on evil. The correct abstractions that
“we” should make are being quite accurately represented here by Draper
on behalf of the other participants in the discourse. The correct abstrac-
tions are the ones that engage the premises of theism with an eye towards
presuming that good logically contradicts evil, and therefore good
should predatorily rule out evil. The scope of the discourse, what “we”
consider, is not all background knowledge or beliefs. What would be
hopeless for Draper is the rather simple task of considering all the viable
options for approaching evil within the orbit of theism. Substantially far
more hopeless, then, would be the task of philosophically approaching
evil in such a way that would critically question the presumptions of
what are the correct abstractions, background knowledge, crucial prob-
abilities, as well as the propositions and beliefs possibly known by other
“we’s.” In this way, the current state of the discourse on the problem of
evil purports to facilitate the exercise of judgment toward a determinate
decision, but the fundamental data and basic assumptions at work in the
discourse, however, are not scrutinized.
Draper does reflect upon the possibility that the available antecedent
probabilities may indeed 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” (1989, 14). But I think it reasonable to expect that Draper
 Predatory Goodness in the Discourse on Evil 187

is not asking anyone to consider the epistemological variations outside

the borders of the current discourse on the problem of evil. Were it the
case, then a host of background data and epistemological starting points
would be considered beyond choosing between theism and atheism.

CONCLUSION

While one must always start somewhere, all three paradigmatic iterations
of the problems of evil—the logical, evidential and probabilistic—intro-
duce and sustain a rather restricted set of considerations for philosophers
of religion who wish to approach the topic of evil. The borderlines of this
discourse are reinforced by the defenses’ counterarguments to each ver-
sion of the problem of evil. David O’Connor (1987) correctly surmises
that the nature of the discourse is “less a duel than a mime, for the
weapons yielded on each side are incapable of inflicting any wounds”
(441). Despite voluminous publications and a status quo of détente, partic-
ipants in this discourse share the expectation that one side or the other
must ultimately be correct, and, that goodness is necessarily predatory.
Perhaps the participants in this discourse cannot be faulted for this
state of affairs. The discovery and resolution of any apparent contradic-
tion is, according to most philosophers, a fundamental element of under-
taking studies in the discipline and the canons of logic are something
taken to provide conditions for their practice. If a philosophical approach
cannot resolve a contradiction, then its mission has likely failed. For the
problem of evil, however, the possibility of contradiction is not a logical a
priori condition of theism or any religion for that matter. The problem is
posed by people in specific contexts by linguistically putting concepts or
categories into relations with one another. In the case of this specific
discourse, the problem requires the formulation of a third element, an
enthymeme, which brings into relief a putative contradiction between
good and evil. To my knowledge the participants in the discourse de-
picted in this chapter never question the basic folk belief of predatory
goodness behind neither the enthymeme that animates the problem of
evil nor the good-versus-evil binary that structures their arguments. As it
stands, these are the basic elements of the so-called correct abstractions
and background knowledge needed to participate in the discourse in
order to pose a problem of evil. The same elements prevent the discourse
from ever arriving at a decisive conclusion.
After surveying the participants and arguments in the discourse on
the problem of evil, an outcome foreign to their considerations can be
stated by asking about the effect of this discourse. The formalizations and
abstractions done in order to pose a clear-cut contradiction, where good-
ness is predatory upon evil, cumulatively work to exclude wider critical
questions about the scope for doing philosophy of religion. Each paradig-
188 Chapter 10

matic iteration of the problem effectively reinforces the borders of the

discourse, and thereby deflects the potential for philosophers of religion
to consider a wider assortment of data when approaching the topic of
evil. This intractability is due to the logic and strategies employed by the
so-called “sides” in the discourse: the grounds for the debate have been
systematically narrowed, while the explanatory and probative power of
each opponent has become increasingly idiosyncratic (O’Connor 1990,
73). To philosophically approach evil as a face-off between religion and
reason, where the grounds of debate are between theism and atheism,
sets out an expectation that to practice the philosophy of religion is to
engage in a battle over the conceptual usurpation of religion via theism.
As a result, this sub-field of philosophy has neither questioned its basic
assumptions nor substantively engaged in alternative investigations on
the topic of evil.

NOTES

1. Neither Jewish nor Muslim figures nor the resources of their religions have a
significant presence in the discourse. An analytic response would remark that, strictly
speaking, the figures and resources of religions along with their diversity are unneces-
sary for working out the form, structure, and solutions to this specific problem.
2. The logical argument from evil is only a pseudo-problem because, as Terence
Penelhum (1990) notes, “[t]heists do not see fewer evils in the world than atheists; they
see more. It is a necessary truth that they see more [. . .]. Only if this [the atheists’
acceptance of the theological concept of ‘sin’ as a valid means of discussing evil] is
accepted can the problem of evil be represented as a logical problem” (70).
3. For example, William P. Alston (1990) discusses, via meta-ethics, God’s moral
obligation within divine command theory.
4. “First, even if he [the atheist] can refute n possible reasons for saying that God
has a morally sufficient reason, there still may be an n + 1th reason, which hasn’t been
refuted. Secondly, and more generally, the anti-theist is committed to the view that the
statement, ‘an omnipotent and omniscient being cannot have a morally sufficient rea-
son’ is a logical truth. However, the only evidence he can bring to bear against the
statement is factual and inductive” (McMahon 1969, 84).
5. Paul Ricoeur (1984), while not a participant in this discourse, nicely summarizes
the issue, “the fact that a finite understanding will be unable to reach the evidence for
this guaranteeing calculation, only being able to gather together the few signs for the
excess of perfections over imperfections in the balance of good and evil” (641).
6. For example, in his 2003 Gifford lecture, Peter van Inwagen (2006) refers to
“Rowe’s fawn” (9).
7. Single fallibility is the hypothesis that, since human knowledge of the external
world bases its reasons upon propositions whose certainty stands contingently upon
experience of the world, that knowledge is the product of inference rather than deduc-
tive entailment. The truth of knowledge then rests upon confirmation of a proposition
which renders the proposition probable. So long as the proposition is not overridden
by a more probable proposition, it does not yet fail as knowledge. Single fallibility
leads to reasoning by what Charles Sanders Pierce named “abduction,” “where we
find some very curious circumstance, which would be explained by the supposition
that it was a case of a certain general rule, and thereupon adopt that supposition”
(Walton 2004, 4).
 Predatory Goodness in the Discourse on Evil 189

8. Informally stated, Bayes’ theorem is that: “[. . .] if an experience is indirect

evidence for h and neither h nor the denial of h is antecedently certain, then that
experience makes h more probable, all things considered, than it would otherwise be.
The greater the ratio of the antecedent probability of the experience occurring given h
to the antecedent probability of the experience occurring given the denial of h, the
stronger the evidence” (Draper 1992, 151).
9. See van Inwagen (1996, 155).

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 Index
Adams, Marilyn McCord, 5, 6, 7, 13, 16,
18n1, 18n4, 77, 79, 80, 81n4, 82n14,
82n18, 162, 163, 164, 167–171, 171,
174n2, 174n4, 175n7, 175n13, 182
Adams, Robert M., 95, 106
aesthetic theodicy,. See theodicy,
aesthetic
Alston, William P., 13, 18n1, 18n11,
188n3
ambivalence, 23, 24, 25
Anscombe, G. E. M., 30–31, 34
a priori, 24, 92, 102, 134, 179, 187;
argument against theism. See
theism, a priori argument against
Aquinas, Saint Thomas, 2, 28, 89, 134
Arendt, Hannah, 4, 19, 51–54, 57–58,
59, 62, 63, 65, 66n9
atheology, 127–128, 133, 134, 135, 136,
137, 138, 139
Augustine, Saint, 2, 13, 18n4, 19n15, 28,
34, 38, 42, 70–71, 72–73, 73–81, 81n3,
81n4, 82n13, 82n16, 82n22, 143, 149
Auschwitz, 17
Bayes’ Theorem, 85, 185, 189n8
Beatific Vision, 103–105, 168, 169,
175n11
beauty, 70, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 81n4,
82n13, 82n16, 111, 142
being, 1, 2, 18n3, 28, 38, 39, 39–40,
40–45, 45, 46, 46n1, 46n5, 46n6, 47n9,
47n10, 47n18, 48n20, 48n27, 48n28,
55, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 144, 145, 146,
147, 148, 157; Great Chain of, 71, 72,
73, 74, 77, 78, 80, 81n2; univocity of,
35–38, 38, 39, 47n12
binary, 178, 184, 187
Blumenthal, David, 16
Boehme, Jakob, 143–144, 144, 146,
158n1
191
Brient, Elizabeth, 37, 48n19
Buddhism, 10, 139n1
Camus, Albert, 18, 141–142, 142, 146,
149
character, 13, 28, 111, 116, 117, 118, 119,
119–120, 121, 122, 123, 124n7, 132;
development, 13, 110, 116, 117, 120,
122, 124n7, 166; traits, 116
Christianity, 16, 34, 70, 81, 132, 133,
135, 138, 140n4, 162, 170, 174n2
Christology, 167, 170, 171
compatibilism, 12, 75
confidence, 120, 121
conscience, 27, 31, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58,
63, 66
conscious(ness), 28, 60, 61, 62, 63, 65,
65n4, 65n6, 79, 95, 146, 148, 150, 151,
156, 157, 158, 158n2, 168
CORNEA, 184
creativity, 145, 146, 147
Davies, Brian, 2, 7, 15, 139n2
defeat, 16, 80, 86, 93, 94, 132, 167, 168,
169, 175n9
Defense (response to problem of evil),
9, 11, 16, 114, 114–115, 116, 123, 141,
161, 174n2, 179, 182, 183, 184, 186,
187; greater good, 12, 69, 74, 93, 128,
182; robust, 114–115
detachment, 36, 37, 38, 41, 44, 45,
47n10, 49n36, 49n37, 50, 118
Devil, 23, 24, 25, 26, 28, 125, 129, 130,
138, 140n4, 153
dialectic(al), 35, 39–46, 46n5, 46n6,
47n12, 47n18
discourse, 17, 177–179, 180, 182, 183,
185–186, 187, 188n1, 188n5
divine hiddenness, 4–5, 18n7, 109–119,
120–123, 124n3, 124n7
192
Dostoevsky, Fyodor, 69, 70, 81, 83, 141,
142–144, 145–146, 148–151, 152–153,
154, 155, 156–157, 158, 159n3
Dougherty, Trent, 14, 117, 118
Draper, Paul, 18n1, 18n11, 103, 178,
179, 185–186, 189n8
Eckhart, Meister, 35–46, 46n1, 46n2,
46n3, 46n4, 46n5, 46n6, 47n9, 47n10,
47n12, 47n15, 47n16, 47n18, 48n19,
48n20, 48n22, 48n27, 48n29, 48n30,
49n31, 49n32, 49n36, 49n38
Edwards, Jonathan, 111, 124n3, 137,
138
egoism, 29, 148, 150, 152, 153, 154, 155,
156, 157, 158
Eichmann, Adolf, 4, 51, 52–54, 57–58,
59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65n3
enthymeme, 181, 187
Epictetus, 34n3
epistemic trust. See trust, epistemic
eschatolog(y/ical), 44, 49n31
Evans, C. Stephen, 111
evil, 40, 43, 45, 46, 46n3, 46n5, 47n10,
47n12, 47n13, 47n14, 48n19, 48n28,
48n29, 49n31, 49n32, 51, 54, 55–56,
62, 72, 73, 75, 79, 81, 127–128,
132–133, 135, 136, 136–137, 138–139,
143, 144, 145, 149, 150, 153, 154, 158,
158n2, 159n3, 164, 174n2, 175n5,
175n9, 188n5; abstract, 9, 10, 12,
18n12, 82n18, 91–92; concrete, 9, 10,
12, 18n12, 82n18, 91–92, 97;
demonic, 151; doers, 6, 51, 52, 53, 54,
57, 64, 65; epistemic, 110, 113, 114,
115, 116, 118, 119, 121, 122, 123;
gratuitous, 12, 13, 112; Hell, and. See
Hell; horrendous, 5, 13, 16, 18n8,
19n16, 79–80, 92, 168–170, 174n4,
175n9, 175n10; incomprehensibility
of, 23, 24, 25; intrinsic, 72, 93, 96,
167; moral, 3, 5, 23, 41, 73, 98, 103,
113, 119, 121; natural, 3, 5, 40, 43, 76,
113, 119, 185; nature of, 1–6, 38;
origin(s) of, 23, 24–25, 75, 77, 150,
152; of perspective, 128, 129, 130;
privation theory of, 2, 11, 18n2, 38,
41, 42, 70–72, 73, 76, 77, 81, 82n6,
103, 129, 134–135, 136, 143, 146, 154;
Index
problem of; problem of evil; of
proportion, 129, 130; pure (impure),
25–33, 130; relational, 72; religious,
5; social, 4
faith, 14, 16, 76, 81, 82n12, 109, 110, 115,
116, 119–123, 124n4, 124n6, 124n7,
132, 134, 135, 157, 169; bad, 51, 55,
59–61, 62–63, 65
felix cupla, 164–167, 175n13
freedom, 11, 54, 59–60, 61, 62, 63, 65n5,
72–76, 79, 107n4, 114, 117, 143–145,
146–147, 149, 150, 151, 152, 153, 155,
175n10
free will, 11–13, 70, 72, 73, 77, 82n9,
107n1, 117, 132, 134, 135; defense,
11–12, 77, 81, 92, 113–114, 117, 122;
libertarian, 73, 74–75; theodicy,
11–12, 19n15, 73, 76, 135
Freud, Sigmund, 23, 28
Garcia, Laura L., 117–118, 118
Gleeson, Andrew, 15, 19n18
God, 4, 5, 6–7, 8–9, 11–12, 13–14, 15, 16,
16–17, 23, 24, 35–36, 37–38, 38–46,
46n1, 46n4, 46n6, 47n9, 47n10,
47n14, 47n15, 47n17, 48n21, 48n24,
48n25, 48n26, 48n27, 48n30, 49n31,
49n32, 49n34, 49n36, 49n37, 65n3,
69–77, 78–81, 81n4, 82n12, 82n19,
85–86, 88, 90, 92, 93–94, 95, 96,
97–98, 99, 100, 100–101, 102, 103,
103–106, 107n1, 107n4, 109–111, 112,
113, 114–115, 116–118, 119, 120–122,
123, 124n7, 127–137, 137–139,
141–143, 145, 146–148, 148–150, 151,
152, 153–155, 155, 158, 161–162,
164–166, 167, 168–169, 169–171,
171–173, 173, 174n1, 175n5, 175n9,
175n10, 175n11, 175n13, 175n15, 178,
180, 183, 185, 188n3, 188n4;
goodness of (omnibenevolence), 6,
7, 10, 16, 41, 48n21, 48n24, 75, 81n4,
86, 88, 92, 101, 112, 134, 136, 138,
149, 165, 166; knowledge of
(omniscience), 6, 7, 80, 88, 109, 112,
132, 136; love of, 7, 47n10, 75, 109,
115, 119, 135, 154, 167, 170, 174n2;
necessary existence of, 86, 101, 106;
 Index
power of (omnipotence), 6, 7, 10, 73,
86, 88, 109, 112, 135–136, 142
Godhead, 39–46, 46n6, 47n10, 47n14,
47n15, 49n32, 49n34
goodness, 2, 10, 15, 16, 18, 31, 41,
48n21, 48n25, 56, 70, 72, 73, 75, 76,
77, 81n4, 88, 93, 101, 103, 107n4,
133–137, 138–139, 141, 148, 149, 153,
158, 158n2, 164, 165, 175n5, 180,
181–182, 183, 183–185, 185, 187
Gregory of Nyssa, 28
Griffin, David R., 10
Hartshorne, Charles, 10, 170, 175n10
Hell, 4, 18n6, 51, 60, 79, 80, 128,
129–131, 133, 134, 135, 136, 137–138,
138, 140n3, 155
heresy (heretical), 35, 45, 46n2, 46n5,
48n29, 49n31
Hick, John, 7, 13, 19n16, 80, 82n14,
109–110, 114, 115–117, 118, 119, 122,
139n2, 166
Howard-Snyder, Daniel, 7, 117, 118,
181
Hume, David, 7, 95, 178
immanence, 44, 48n26
Islam, 130, 132, 133, 139n1, 139n2, 170,
174n1
Jesus, 7, 16, 45, 48n27, 82n12, 129, 132,
153, 161, 163, 172
Jews, 6, 17, 53, 55, 57, 60, 61
Jonas, Hans, 34n2
Judaism, 130, 133, 170
Kant, Immanuel, 23, 24–25, 54, 95, 104,
107n3, 154, 158n2
Keller, James A., 10, 124n2
Kierkegaard, Soren, 31, 34n5, 111,
124n6
Kirilov, 151
Kodaj, Daniel, 5
Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm, 11, 134,
147, 149, 158n1
Levinas, Emmanuel, 17
Mackie, J. L., 8, 9, 141, 181, 182
193
malevolence, perfect, 85–106
Manichaeism, 28, 34n2, 138, 140n4
Martin, Michael, 5, 180, 182
Mill, John Stuart, 10
Milton, John, 28, 130, 154, 158n1
monotheism, 131, 133, 139, 174n1
Montaigne, Michel de, 29, 31
Moore, G. E., 86, 93–95, 96
morally vacuous, 51, 54, 58, 63
Moser, Paul, 111
multitude, 40–41, 43–44, 48n28
Murray, Michael J., 18n1, 117, 118
mystic(al/ism), 35, 37, 38, 39, 41, 46n2,
47n9, 47n10, 47n11, 47n12, 49n31,
49n33, 117, 173, 175n11;
philosophical, 38, 46n3, 47n9;
speculative, 35, 44, 46, 49n31; terror,
143, 145
naturalism, 128, 129
Nazi, 5, 6, 17, 54, 55, 58, 59, 60–61;
ideology of, 55–57, 63, 65n2
Neo-Classical Theism. See Process
Theism
Neoplaton(ism/ic), 71, 77
nobody, 62, 63
nothing(ness), 35, 36–37, 38, 39–40,
40–41, 44–45, 46, 47n9, 48n20, 61,
148
O’Connor, David, 139n1, 187
omnibenevolence. See God, goodness
of
omnipotence. See God, power of:
paradox of, 86
omniscience. See God, knowledge of
Optimism, 11, 13
pankalia , 70, 77–79, 79, 81, 82n21
paradise, 131–133, 135, 136, 138
Phillips, D. Z., 15, 17, 180, 181
Pike, Nelson, 18n1, 178, 179, 180, 181
Plantinga, Alvin, 7, 9, 11, 16, 18n11, 73,
82n14, 85–86, 91–92, 101, 102, 103,
106, 112, 114, 139n2, 141, 162,
164–167, 167, 168, 169, 170, 174n2,
175n5
Plotinus, 34n3, 71, 82n5, 134
Poston, Ted, 4, 117, 118
194
prestige, 28
problem of evil, 6–18, 37, 69–70, 73,
85–106, 109–110, 112–115, 116–119,
122, 123, 124n3, 127, 128, 132, 137,
141–142, 146–148, 161–162, 174n1,
177–187; evidential, 8, 18n10, 18n11,
85–106, 183–184; existential, 16;
logical, 8, 9, 180–181, 182, 188n2;
probabilistic, 8, 18n11, 185–186;
theodicy as, 17
Process Theism, 10, 170, 175n10
protest theodicy. See theodicy, protest
Raskolnikov, 148, 151, 152, 154, 157,
158
redemption, 45, 162–163, 165, 166,
174n3
reflection, 63, 66n9
Reichenbach, Bruce, 185
reliance, 86, 120, 121, 123
remorse, 24, 31, 60, 65, 148
retaliation, 26–28, 56
Roth, John, 16
Rowe, William L., 5, 8, 9, 12, 13, 14,
18n1, 85, 91, 92, 93, 96, 97, 98, 103,
106, 139n1, 178, 179, 182, 183–185,
188n6
Russell, Bruce, 13
Sartre, Jean-Paul, 51, 55–56, 59–60, 61,
62–63, 65, 65n4, 65n5, 65n6, 65n7,
65n8, 66n9
Satan. See Devil
Schellenberg, J. L., 4, 12, 18n7, 109–111,
111–112, 112, 115, 116, 121–122, 123,
124n3
Schelling, Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph,
142, 143–144, 145–148, 149–152,
153–156, 157–158, 158n1, 158n2
Schopenhauer, Arthur, 29, 34n4, 145
Shatov, 151
skeptical theism, 13–14, 122
soul making, 13, 109, 110, 114, 115,
116–117, 118–119, 122, 168;
epistemic, 119, 122
Spinoza (Spinozism), 11, 13, 158n2
Stavrogin, 143, 148, 151, 152, 153, 154,
157
Stoicism, 34n3, 128, 129, 130
Index
Stump, Eleonore, 7, 82n14, 107n2, 163,
174n1
suffering, 2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 12, 13, 14, 16,
18n1, 29, 37, 49n38, 52, 78, 79, 80,
95–96, 97, 106, 107n1, 118, 127, 129,
132, 134, 136, 137, 138, 142, 149, 182,
183, 184, 185; redemptive, 16, 19n17,
161–164, 165, 165–171, 173–174,
175n5, 175n6, 175n9, 175n10,
175n11, 175n12, 175n13
Symmetry Principle, 86, 99, 102, 103
temptation, 23, 24, 25, 130, 148, 149,
151, 153, 155, 163
theism, 6, 8–9, 10–11, 13–14, 15, 16,
18n8, 18n9, 19n16, 95, 96, 101, 106,
110, 127, 128, 129, 131, 141, 162,
174n1, 177–178, 178–179, 179–183,
185–186, 187; a priori argument
against, 88–91
theodicy, 9, 11, 13, 46n2, 72, 74, 76, 79,
81, 114–115, 127–128, 128, 131, 133,
133–134, 135–137, 138, 139n1, 139n2,
149, 161, 164–171, 174n1; aesthetic,
70, 77–79, 80; protest, 16; soul
making. See soul making
theology, 2, 6, 10, 28, 38, 46n2, 48n27,
48n29, 71, 75, 127, 130, 131, 132, 136,
139, 149, 162, 167
thinking, 54, 63, 66n9
Tilley, Terrence W., 17
Tooley, Michael, 14, 18n1, 18n12,
85–106
transcendence, 48n26, 62
trust, 27, 107n1, 119–122, 123, 124n7;
epistemic, 120, 124n5; and faith, 110,
119, 120–122, 123, 124n4
typolog (ical/y), 172
understanding, Christian, 161–162, 167,
168, 169, 170, 171, 173, 174
Ungrund, 143–144, 145, 147
universalism, 169, 175n9
van Inwagen, Peter, 1, 2, 7, 13, 18n1,
18n12, 113, 114, 118, 119, 124n3,
188n6
Wainwright, William J., 111, 124n3
 Index 195

Whitehead, Alfred North, 11 Žižek, Slavoj, 147

Whitney, Barry, 178 Zoroastrianism, 130, 138
Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 15, 47n9
Wykstra, Stephen, 13, 18n1, 184
 About the Contributors

Jennifer M.S. ANG is the author of Sartre and the Moral Limits of War
and Terrorism (2009), “Fighting the Humanitarian War: Justifications and
Limitations” in Routledge Handbook on Ethics and War: Just War in the 21st
Century (2013), and “Contradictions of Race Struggles: The Case of the
Uyghurs” in Philosophy of Race: Introductory Readings (forthcoming). She
has published articles that examine Sartre’s philosophy with Kant, Hegel,
and Arendt on various issues on ethics, war, revolutions and history in
Peace Review, Sartre Studies International, Philosophy Today, and Cosmos and
History.
Robert Arp works as a research analyst for the US Army. He has
published in many philosophical areas, including philosophy of religion,
philosophy of biology, and philosophy of mind. His work in philosophy
of religion has appeared in Religious Studies, History of Philosophy Quarter-
ly, Journal of Philosophical Research, International Philosophical Quarterly,
and American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly. He is editor of Revisiting
Aquinas' Proofs for the Existence of God and co-editor of The Concept of Hell
with Ben McCraw. See robertarp.com.
A.G. Holdier is the teacher and program director for southern Idaho’s
Minidoka Christian Education Association, as well as an instructor for
Colorado Technical University. His research interests lie at the intersec-
tion of theology, phenomenology, and art, with a particular focus on the
function of stories as a cultural artifact. He has presented at conferences
sponsored by the Society of Christian Philosophers and Gonzaga Univer-
sity’s Faith and Reason Institute, as well as at the annual Northwest
Philosophy Conference. He holds an MA in the philosophy of religion
from Denver Seminary.
Neal Judisch received his PhD in philosophy from the University of
Texas, Austin, where he focused in metaphysics, philosophy of mind and
action, and philosophy of religion. He is currently associate professor of
philosophy at the University of Oklahoma. His current areas of research
focus on the overlap of metaphysics (especially human agency) and phil-
osophical theology.
Nathan Loewen is an assistant professor in the Department of Relig-
ious Studies at the University of Alabama. He has two primary areas of
research and publication. One focuses on globalizing discourses within
the philosophy of religion, and the other analyzes the emerging conflu-
ence between Religious Studies and Development Studies. A third area of

197
198 About the Contributors

interest for him is collaborative online learning—how the emphasis on

technology in higher education can be directed towards strategies for
networked learning.
Edward N. Martin is co-chair and professor of philosophy at Liberty
University, Lynchburg, Virginia, and teaches in the areas of metaphysics,
philosophy of religion, and history of modern philosophy. His essays
have been included in several chapters of books, including in the editors’
recent book Revisiting Aquinas’ Proofs for the Existence of God, eds. Robert
Arp and Benjamin McCraw (Brill/Rodopi, 2015), as well as various arti-
cles and reviews. He is currently doing research in Kant and Hume on
teleological judgments. He resides with his wife and two teenage chil-
dren in Lynchburg, Virginia.
Benjamin W. McCraw is an instructor of philosophy at the University
of South Carolina Upstate. His research focuses primarily on epistemolo-
gy and philosophy of religion—especially their intersection in religious
epistemology. He’s published articles in the International Journal for Phi-
losophy of Religion, Social Epistemology, and Logos and Episteme as well as
having co-edited collections in philosophy of religion that are forthcom-
ing from Routledge and Palgrave Macmillan.
James McLachlan is professor of philosophy and religion at Western
Carolina University. He is an assisting professor in the Levinas Summer
Seminars, past co-chair of the Mormon Studies Group at the American
Academy of Religion, member of the board of the Institute for American
Religious and Philosophical Thought, and organizer of the Personalist
Seminar. His research interests include twentieth-century Continental
thought, especially Levinas, Sartre, and Berdyaev. He also publishes on
American and European Personalism, Process Theology, Romanticism
and idealism, and Mormon Theology.
At the University of Georgia, where Gregory S. Moss received his
PhD in 2014, he completed a dissertation on Hegel’s Science of Logic
under distinguished research professor, Dr. Richard Dien Winfield. Dur-
ing the 2013–2014 academic year, Dr. Moss completed a Fulbright Re-
search Fellowship at the Rheinische Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität Bonn
under Markus Gabriel. Since the Fall of 2014, Dr. Moss has been working
as a lecturer in philosophy in the Department of Philosophy and Religion
at Clemson University. Dr. Moss has published in various international
journals, such as the Journal for the British Society for Phenomenology, and
has recently published his first monograph on Ernst Cassirer, entitled
Ernst Cassirer and the Autonomy of Language, published by Lexington
Books.
John R. Shook teaches philosophy at Bowie State University in Mary-
land, and also teaches philosophy of science and science education for the
University at Buffalo's online EdM program in Science and the Public.
From 2000 to 2006 he was a professor of philosophy at Oklahoma State
University. He has also been the director of education for two national
 About the Contributors 199

secular organizations, the Center for Inquiry and the American Humanist
Association. Among his recent books are The Future of Naturalism (co-
edited, 2009), The God Debates: A 21st Century Guide for Atheists, Believers,
and Everyone in Between (2010), The Essential William James (edited, 2011),
Dewey’s Social Philosophy: Democracy as Education (2014), and the Oxford
Handbook of Secularism (co-edited, forthcoming).
Hugo Strandberg is lecturer in philosophy at Åbo Akademi Univer-
sity, Finland. His two most recent monographs are Self-Knowledge and
Self-Deception (2015) and Love of a God of Love: Towards a Transformation of
the Philosophy of Religion (2011).