I quite acknowledge that these allegories are very nice, but he is not to be envied who has to invent them; much labour and ingenuity will be required of him; and when he has once begun, he must go on and rehabilitate Hippocentaurs and chimeras dire. Gorgons and winged steeds flow in apace, and numberless other inconceivable and portentous natures. And if he is sceptical about them, and would fain reduce them one after another to the rules of probability, this sort of crude philosophy will take up a great deal of time. Now I have no leisure for such enquiries; shall I tell you why? I must first know myself, as the Delphian inscription says; to be curious about that which is not my concern, while I am still in ignorance of my own self, would be ridiculous. And therefore I bid farewell to all this; the common opinion is enough for me. For, as I was saying, I want to know not about this, but about myself: am I a monster more complicated and swollen with passion than the serpent Typho, or a creature of a gentler and simpler sort, to whom Nature has given a diviner and lowlier destiny?
Socrates, Phaedrus
Our current philosophical understanding of the problem of evil is not healthy. Symptoms of philosophical sickness are easy to see, though often easier to see in the ‘other’ side than in our own. An impartial yet uncharitable browse through the recent history of philosophical debate on the problem of evil shows ad hoc argumentative moves, straw men and misattributions, selective cognitive biases, arguments supported by weak analogies, sceptical appeals to mystery and ignorance, unfounded probabilistic claims (followed by spurious calculations on the basis of those claims), metaethical confusion, brute yet absolute assertions of value judgements, implicit or explicit disagreement about even the most basic terms, and all manner of inconsistency of belief. In short, exactly the kind of thing that happens when philosophers are confused but are trying to pretend otherwise.
This is not that unusual in a discipline that deliberately seeks out confused ideas with the intention of clarification, but even so, the discussion of the problem of evil can sometimes show levels of philosophical sloppiness that we would not tolerate in other topics. Even the best of our arguments stand vulnerable to this. The best versions of theodicy are morally blind, the best versions of the argument from evil are theologically shallow: problem and solution stand equally accused of missing the point to the worst degree, without either seeing eye to eye about what that point is.
I suspect my pessimistic view is not shared by many philosophers who are active in this debate. I think we have tricked ourselves into thinking our understanding is better than it is. By incrementally narrowing the terms of the debate, and the assumptions on which it is to be conducted, then insisting that those and only those are the appropriate means, we have created an artificial sense of clarity. Clarity not only of the problem and its solutions, but of its history too: we talk so easily of ‘Augustinian’ and ‘Irenaean’ theodicies, as if those now familiar forms have anything more than a tenuous eponymous connection to their origins, in method, context, approach, or purpose. It is not the labels but the casualness of the labelling that is the symptom of a general tendency to self-serving oversimplification. We prefer the simple version, neatly packaged and ready for export to schools and undergraduate courses and other introductory works. But this comes at the cost of overlooking some fundamentally important gaps in our understanding of God, of goodness, of our moral perspective and status as human beings. These are what ought to be the main focus of the discussion of the problem of evil, since everything depends on them, but they are conspicuously absent from the philosophical discussion. The result is a version of the problem that is detached from its proper subject matter. I think we have lost sight of the purpose, the ‘that for the sake of which’, of what we are doing.
I do not expect to cure this condition, though I will make an attempt at diagnosing it and its root cause. In doing so, I hope to show where the discussion might have gone off on the wrong track, hoping then to suggest how we might get back on track and on the way to a more helpful destination. What and where that destination is it not for me to say, but I think we would all agree that we ought to have some good idea of where we are trying to get to in order to have a better idea about how to go about getting there. My thoughts on this will become clearer over the course of this book, but as a quick spoiler: if you think this road leads to good reason, conclusive or otherwise, to believe or not believe in God, then you are probably wrong. If, however, you think it will lead to a better understanding of your own ethical perspective, then you might be on the right track.
I will present an argument in this book and this argument has a prima facie forceful conclusion: a consistent set of theistic beliefs is morally problematic. Which is to say, in effect, that theism is morally wrong. I think a suitably refined version of this conclusion would be true for many forms of theistic belief, but – for reasons that should become clear – it doesn’t really matter whether this conclusion is true. This argument is not the purpose of the book; it’s only serving a purpose, as a provocation. The therapeutic role of the argument is more important than the truth of the conclusion. I am certain that many philosophers will not accept my conclusion and they will consider themselves to have good reason for doing so; what I hope is that the process of engaging with this argument will cause them to attend to, and thus reflect on, important elements of the topic that might have been overlooked.
In order to get to this conclusion, two things will need to be established along the way. These are the basic building blocks of my argument. Firstly, it must be the case that the problem of evil can be and perhaps should be (I do not say must be) understood to be a matter of having a consistent set of beliefs. What this means is that the so-called ‘logical’ formulation of the problem of evil is still a legitimate form of the problem. Many philosophers would dispute the viability of any such ‘logical’ formulation, but I want to show that the logical problem of evil remains viable if we focus on the appropriate kind of necessity: moral necessity. With this we can construct a logical problem of morally-impossible evil. If I succeed here, it follows that there are versions of the problem of evil that remain logically binding to any theist. This means that the theist must offer a solution to these forms of the problem of evil if they are to hold a consistent set of beliefs.
Solutions to the logical problem of evil have always been possible; the question is whether and when they can be considered permissible.
The second basic building block of my argument is the claim that many of the proposed solutions to the problem of evil are morally problematic. This claim is controversially though clearly defensible in its own right – in that many theodicies or other such responses are clearly morally problematic, at least for some of us – but it is also defensible by appeal to a wider consistency of moral belief. Universal moral agreement is not necessary for this point. There is always disagreement about moral matters, but whatever the ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ answer is when it comes to a moral matter, it is prima facie inconsistent to hold one standard of ‘rightness’ to be universally true in all circumstances whilst also holding it to be false in some others. One cannot, e.g., consider lying to be categorically wrong whilst also considering it permissible under certain circumstances; for if it is permissible under certain circumstances, then it is not categorically wrong, and vice versa. This is the case regardless of whether or not lying is categorically wrong: it is a matter of consistency. We can acknowledge that the universalizability of moral judgements might be weakened in exceptional cases, and God’s relationship to evil is certainly an exceptional case, but there remains a question to answer about whether and to what extent a theist is willing to set aside their moral beliefs or surrender their moral judgement for the purpose of solving the problem of evil. To show this clearly, I consider how it looks to violate moral necessity in order to solve the logical problem of morally-impossible evil.
I believe that engaging with this question exposes an extremely important point: a capacity to solve the problem of evil depends on an individual’s moral modalities. Seeking, offering, or even suggesting the possibility of a morally-sufficient reason to justify any and all of the terrible evils of the world pushes us beyond the limits of our moral thinking. But should there not be limits to our moral thinking? Mustn’t there be? Don’t we have good moral reason to impose such limits on ourselves and consider some things to be morally impossible, condemned to the realm of the morally unthinkable?
Solving the problem of evil is a matter of what you are willing to countenance, morally; it is a matter of where you are willing to draw the line, if at all, between the morally possible and the morally impossible. Those who do not see theodicies or other such solutions to the problem of evil as being morally problematic clearly consider it within the realms of moral possibility; those who disagree tend to see it as beyond the realms of moral possibility. The disagreement is not just a disagreement about morality, about what is rightly thought of as right and wrong, it is a disagreement in moral modalities, about what could be rightly thought of as right and wrong.
It is uncertain ground, but my intention is to push the discussion of the problem of evil in this direction. I think it would be helpful to recognise that many of our disagreements about the problem of evil are just underlying moral disagreements in disguise. They are disagreements about moral meaning. To push in this direction, I offer an argument to a conclusion that will undoubtedly be a point of moral disagreement: I argue that theism is morally problematic.
1. A consistent set of theistic beliefs requires a solution to the logical problem of morally-impossible evil.
2. Solutions to the logical problem of morally-impossible evil are morally problematic.
3. Therefore, a consistent set of theistic beliefs is morally problematic.
Clearly there will be ready responses to this argument, but that is exactly my point: these responses will take the form of disagreements about, mostly, moral modalities. Accepting my morally-challenging conclusion depends on whether you think a theist must offer a solution to the problem of evil or whether they can go without; whether there could be a morally-sufficient justification for all the terrible evils in the world or whether it goes beyond the limits of moral meaning to talk about a justification for some cases. I want us to reflect on these questions, because it is these that ultimately determine not only whether or not the problem of evil can or should be solved, but also why we philosophise about it in the first place.
The problem of evil is an ethical problem. It is not an argument that tells us anything for or against the existence of God, it tells us only about our beliefs, our values, our morals, our ethical perspective on and in the world. In a world of evil and suffering, philosophising about the problem of evil can help us to clearly see the reality of that evil and suffering, without flinching or blinking or pretending it to be other than it is. Because of this, it can help us to orient ourselves rightly in the world. It can strengthen our moral resolve. It can correct a childish optimism or a shallow pessimism. It can help prepare us to face suffering as philosophers should. If you have faith, then it can help that faith mature into a sincere and world-defining hope that holds back from fantasist superstition.
Ultimately, philosophising about the problem of evil can help you to live in a way that is more consistent with yourself, your ethical beliefs, and with the world as it is. To live in a way that is ‘consistent’ is a long-standing philosophical and ethical ideal, recurrently buried in esoteric phrases like ‘know thyself’ and ‘live in conformity with nature’, or even (less esoterically) ‘you do you’. It’s easy to be flippant about these things; we’ve been trained, professionally, to not give them too much weight. But the obligation to seek the truth and live in a way that is aligned with whatever truth there is ought to weigh heavily on people who would call themselves philosophers.
The first lesson of philosophy is scepticism: we know that we don’t know as much as we’d like to think. Often true and complete knowledge is beyond our reach. But whilst it’s hard to know what’s true, it’s easier to know what’s inconsistent; that is within my grasp. And what is inconsistent can never be true. If, therefore, I want to live in a way that is true to whatever truth there is, shouldn’t I start with the easier thing? I should aim to have no inconsistent beliefs nor live in a way that is inconsistent with my beliefs. To ensure this, I should subject my life and thoughts to examination and expose and reject any inconsistencies.
This is why Socratic questioning is so useful. Socratic questioning doesn’t establish truth; it exposes inconsistency. In so doing, it reveals errors, things that cannot be true because inconsistencies are contradictions and contradictions can never be true. If you live in a way that is inconsistent then you live in contradiction with yourself or with the world, and neither can be a ‘true’ way to live. In an uncertain world, a consistent way of living could still be false, but an inconsistent way of living can never be true. Better, then, to aim to live consistently, because that will give you the best chance of living in a way that is true to whatever truth there is.
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