Do We Really Want All to be Saved?

Evangelical Christians sometimes claim that we are “hopeful universalists.” This term can have a couple of different meanings. One is that we aren’t sure whether or not universalism is true, but we hope for the best. Another is that while we think universalism is not true, we wished it were. This is more or less not “hopeful” universalism as “wishful” universalists, but more people are familiar with the former term, so I’m co-opting it. I have said that I fall into this camp of people who think universalism is false, but wishes it were true. I began wondering, though, if I really didwish it to be true.

On the surface, this seems like a crazy question. Of course I want everyone to go to Heaven! But wanting everyone to go to Heaven as a collective group isn’t the same thing as wanting each individual person to go to Heaven. For one, I don’t know each individual person on Earth. But for another, there may be times where, though saddened, it’s appropriate to be satisfied with the result of eternal separation from God (indeed, I’ll argue briefly there are some cases where it would be inappropriate not to). I used the term “satisfied” in the previous sentence, and while it’s not quite right, I hope to explain where I am coming from.

Suppose someone engages in Hitler-like eugenics and genocide. Suppose they further do not repent, growing even stronger in their evil the more they are challenged. Suppose finally this person explicitly wants nothing to do with God and Jesus, and openly mocks them, claiming they hate God. While I am convinced God is—and we should be—grieved that one of his creations has made that choice, I think we intuitively perceive that this is just, and even a rightresult. It’s not the way things were meant to be, but it’s the right result: a defeat of evil, cast away from God and his redeemed creation.

If this is right, then universalists must maintain that there is a conversion for every such person; otherwise we have a situation which is fundamentally wrong. This is something, no doubt, most Christian universalists are happy to do. But it’s worth pointing out that even for those of us who wished universalism were true, there are some times where the only appropriate response is eternal separation from God. What do you think? Let me know in the comments!

My Favorite Apologetic Arguments

The following two arguments are currently my favorite apologetic arguments for the truth of theism, and by way of subsequent inference to the best explanation, Christianity. I have written about them many times, and enjoy both discussion and answering questions about them. I am going to discuss them both briefly and leave it for your consideration.

The first argument is the kalam cosmological argument (KCA). Cosmological arguments for God’s existence reason from the contingent facts of the universe to a transcendent cause of the universe. The kalam is a particular formulation of this idea. Thus, there is no one singular cosmological argument, only a family of arguments that share the basic foundation in common. There are two versions of the KCA that have been presented by its most prominent defender, William Lane Craig. I will give what I call Craig’s classical presentation, then his current presentation, and then discuss them both. Here is the classical presentation of the KCA:

1.      Whatever begins to exist had a cause.

2.      The universe began to exist.

3.      Therefore, the universe had a cause.

And here is the current presentation:

1*. If the universe began to exist, then the universe had a transcendent cause.

2. The universe began to exist.

3*. Therefore, the universe had a transcendent cause.

The first thing to notice is that (2) appears in both arguments. This is a great premise because it enjoys both philosophical and scientific support. On the philosophical side, of the several arguments given, I like the argument against traversing an actually infinite amount of time. It doesn’t appear possible. Think about it this way: if you pick an infinitely distant “starting point” (any arbitrary point will do) in the past, an infinite number of moments would have to pass for you to arrive at the present moment. But before the present moment could arrive, the moment prior would have to arrive; and before that moment, the one prior to it would have to arrive, and so on and so forth ad infinitum. But then the present moment could not arrive, since the infinite series could never be traversed! It’s like encountering a man who claims he has just finished counting all the negative numbers from infinity down to zero; it doesn’t make any sense!

Further, there are scientific reasons to think the universe began to exist. In pop culture, even today, it is not uncommon to hear things like, “The universe is eternal and infinite.” But this is just scientifically outdated (by about a hundred years!). Scientists have discovered the universe is expanding. Extrapolating the rate of expansion backward into the past, they have postulated there is a point in the past where all matter is condensed into a single miniscule point. They further postulate that this point “burst” to spread out and form the universe over a long period of time. They call this the Big Bang Theory, and it implies a beginning to space. Regardless of what one thinks of this theory, you cannot have both the old model of endless, eternal space and the Big Bang. You must have one or the other, or neither. The point is just that current scientific models suggest one cannot avoid an absolute beginning to the universe.

(1)   is good, in that it is both intuitive and constantly confirmed by our experience. Some people have thought that a counterexample to (1) would be quantum events. However, this is confused. (1) does not say, “whatever event transpires has a cause,” but whatever begins to exist had a cause. The difference means that in order for quantum events to be a counterexample, the virtual particles would have to come from nothing. But they do not come from nothing; they come from a sea of energy.

However, Craig reformulated (1) into (1*) perhaps in part to avoid this whole confusion in the first place. (1*) seems eminently plausible; the alternative is to think that the universe both came into existence and had no cause whatsoever, which seems very, very counterintuitive, to say the least! But then it follows that the universe had a transcendent cause. This transcendent cause, then, must be timeless, spaceless, immaterial, extremely powerful, personal, beginningless, changeless, and uncaused! That sure sounds a lot like God—specifically, the God of the Abrahamic tradition.

Now here is the version of the moral argument that I prefer:

1.      If God does not exist, then objective moral values and duties do not exist.

2.      Evil exists.

3.      Therefore, objective moral values and duties do exist.

4.      Therefore, God exists.

I prefer the extra step (3) provides for reasons I shall explain in a moment. (1), I think, should be placed in probabilistic terms: probably, God is the best explanation for objective morality. Think about it this way: in the absence of God, why should we be good? To whom do we owe that obligation? It cannot be merely other humans, for humans did not always exist, and there could be other sentient moral agents that exist or could possibly have existed, and presumably morality could apply to them. So, without such a ground, it looks like moral obligations wouldn’t be around at all.

Now, as it turns out, all you need at this point is for someone to agree that objective moral values and duties do exist. However, some people resist this point initially. It is here I like to remind the objector of what his favorite (likely) argument against God is: the problem of evil. The problem of evil works only in cases where, in fact, there is evil. Beheading people for the faith, calculated genocide as ethnic cleansing, imprisonment for thought crimes—these people take to be evil deeds, not just deeds we happen not to like. You can provide myriad examples, and usually people grant that at least some things are objectively evil. If they do not, however, do not lose heart: you have shown a cost—a very, very great cost—of accepting their view: you must stand firm in the counterintuition that nothing is really wrong, deep down: it’s all preference.

In any case, once one accept (2), it entails (3), and (1) and (3) entail (4), that God exists. Now this God is plausibly a necessary being, since it looks like moral truths are necessary, and God grounds these.

So take these two arguments alone and combine their conclusions: there exists a being who is plausibly necessary, transcends the universe, brought it into existence, grounds objective morality, is omnibenevolent, beginningless, changeless, uncaused, timeless, spaceless, immaterial, enormously powerful, and personal. For a variety of reasons, I think this is best represented by the Christian God. What do you think?

What is Lying?

Here’s a simple question: what is lying?

“Ah, well, that’s easy,” you might think. “Lying is telling an untruth.”

But this brief definition doesn’t quite get at the heart of the matter. For we might think it includes some things as lying which ought not to be so regarded, such as telling a fictional story, or making a joke, or even playing certain kinds of games.[1] Further, it may exclude some things from qualifying which we want to say are lies. For example, if the teacher asks the class, “Did one of you draw that picture of me on the whiteboard?” and no one responds, no student told an untruth. However, supposing at least one of them is responsible and/or knows who did it, their silence most of us would count as lying to the teacher about their involvement. So, it appears this definition is both too broad (including things we don’t want) and too narrow (excluding things we do).

So, suppose you reconsider and reply: “Lying is deceiving others.”

This at least accounts for lying by omission, as in the case of the teacher. But this runs into a problem we’ve seen before: it includes things we do not really want to say are actual lies. For example, consider your favorite football team. They often come to the line of scrimmage attempting to disguise their defense, or on offense make a fake move before unleashing their real play, and so on. Are these all lies, all moral violations, and hence evil? It would seem not.

So, suppose you think for another moment and suggest this: “Lying is an attempt to have another person x believe P, when not-P is true, and x should have a reasonable expectation (or else a “right”) to receive the truth about P.”

Now this has some merit. In order to defeat a proposed definition, one will typically want to show it is either too broad or too narrow. Does this definition survive? Let’s test it against some of our examples: First, if we’re telling a fictional story, we get the right answer that we’re not lying, since x does not have a reasonable expectation that he will receive the truth about P.[2] Making a joke is also excluded, as are games. There is, of course, the worry jokes or stories are taken too far—but we tend to agree it’s not in virtue of these being jokes and stories that they are lies. It also includes lying by omission.

It also provides what many of us take to be the “right” answer in some classic ethical quandaries. Consider the family hiding Jews in WWII Germany and the Nazis come by. They ask, “Are there any Jews here?” If you answer “no,” then you are lying and thereby violate a moral norm. If you answer “yes,” however, you are not protecting the innocent (at least not very effectively, anyway). While there are answers that vigorously defend the “yes” position, we typically want to say protection of the Jews by saying “no” is morally justified. But it also seems bizarre to claim lying is ever morally right or permissible. In fact, it’s a violation of the ninth commandment (Exodus 20:16)! But on this view, answering “no” is not lying. The Nazi does not have a reasonable expectation for the family to tell him the truth about the Jews, given that he intends to persecute, torture, experiment on, and ultimately kill them.

There is one worry here, and it’s about rationality. Suppose the Nazi thinks, “They know, or should know, that telling me an untruth about the presence of Jews will result in their incarceration or death, and the risk that I will check their home anyway is decent. Thus, the rational thing for them to do is to tell me the truth.” Here, it seems the Nazi has a reasonable expectation after all (is it really unreasonable, given the thought process?). But this is why I added “the right” portion above. Given that it’s a moral atrocity, if such people are hiding Jews, it’s because they have moral sensitivities (most likely); if that is the case, does he have the right to expect such people to move against these sensibilities and answer him, revealing the presence of the Jews? It seems not. The one committing a moral crime is not necessarily owed—or does not have the right to reasonably expect—the truth in a particular situation in which he is involved directly with moral evil.

And now we can apply this in the biblical narrative. In an ethics/moral philosophy course, we were once asked how many of us thought Rahab’s lie to cover for the pair of Jewish spies was justified, and how many thought it was not. The prof noticed my hand not going up for either, and I communicated I didn’t think it was a lie at all. We moved on for the sake of discussion, but I think it’s the right answer. It was not truth-telling, but as the enemies of God they did not satisfy what I am calling the reasonable expectation condition, and so should not have expected to hear the truth. Again, it must be noted that this condition deals with the rights one has to the truth in a given situation involving direct moral issues. I’ll leave it to others to decide whether or not telling people they look good when they don’t qualifies. J

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[1] Here I am thinking of the game “Two Truths and a Lie,” where the winner is the one who convinces the others of the truth of the story when it is in fact false.

[2] Note also that if one protests that we could tell x “What I am about to tell you is absolutely true,” that it would be a lie. But this comports perfectly well with the definition given: in those circumstances, all being equal, x does have a reasonable expectation to be given the truth.

Skeptic's Not Knowing God Exists is not Necessarily an Excuse

I was thinking today about a common theme in discussing what skeptics and non-believers may say if confronted by God in the afterlife. A typical retort is that they did not have enough evidence or reason to believe in God, and so did not know God existed or of their need for repentance. This relies heavily on the traditional analysis of knowledge as “justified, true belief.”[1] The argument, then, would look like this:

1.     If one does not know he ought to do x, then it is not the case that he ought to do x.

2.     One does not know he ought to do x.

3.     Therefore, it is not the case that he ought to do x.

The argument seems straightforward enough. The unbeliever does not, by definition, believe in God’s existence and so does not, by definition, believe he must repent. If he does not believe these things, then by the traditional analysis, he does not know these things (since belief is a necessary condition). Thus, the unbeliever is not actually obligated to respond to the Gospel, for one can hardly know what he thinks is untrue, and so he’s off the hook!

The typical Christian response is to accept (1) and deny (2). Romans 1 and 10, Psalm 19, and other passages suggest strongly that everyone knows there is a God. Thus, there really are no such things as atheists, in the strict sense—everyone believes or knows, deep down, even if it is suppressed to the point of the subconscious. While I think this response, if carefully nuanced, can get to the truth of the matter (that is, I agree with the Bible), it’s not always helpful to tell the atheist what he “really believes.” Rather, I intend to attack (1).

While initially plausible, I think (1) is not impervious to objection. Consider a person who is responsible for being in his current predicament, even though he cannot now alter his current state. That person, if in circumstances in which he ought to refrain from performing some action, still ought to refrain from performing that action, if he was responsible for being in the particular state he is in now. Take a drug addict, and assume one ought not to abuse drugs. Suppose further, as has been argued, that there is at least possibly some circumstance such that, were a drug addict sufficiently addicted, he could not now refrain from shooting up with heroin (without some external intervention). In this case the drug addict, if he chose to use drugs of his own volition and became addicted through that free choice or series of free choices, is responsible for his current predicament. Additionally, it is plausible that he is morally responsible—not just for the initial acts, but for the subsequent acts, and the act within the situation that now confronts him. In other words, even though the drug addict fails to have now a necessary condition for being such that he ought to refrain from abusing drugs, he nonetheless still ought to refrain from abusing drugs—because he is completely responsible for being in the situation in which he finds himself.[2]

So how can we apply this to our situation with the unbeliever? It seems we could say that if an atheist is responsible for his initial state of unbelief,[3] then he is responsible for his current state as well. So, if we have someone who decides to walk away from Christianity, or will not accept it, and they chose that state, then even if they do not now believe (or even find themselves unable to believe!), it was within their power to believe and so are still obligated to trust and repent. Now it’s obvious that a non-believer can dispute our account here; but this is not the point. The point is that (1) is not nearly as obvious as a first glance may suggest, and is even plausibly false.

Plausibly, we can capture the intuitive force of (1) as:

1’. If one is not responsible for his current state of not knowing he ought to do x, then it is not the case that he ought to do x.

2’. One is not responsible for his current state of not knowing he ought to do x.

3.     Therefore, it is not the case that he ought to do x.

(1’) and plausible instances of (2’) seem right. But now notice that this is not the state most non-believers we’ve been discussing find themselves in. They usually are responsible for not believing the Gospel. While some may claim that no beliefs are chosen, I find this hard to believe (and if they’re right, I couldn’t have chosen to believe it anyway). I think at least some beliefs are chosen, and even if they aren’t, the argument plausibly needs only that sense of responsibility that anyone would have about anything anyone has concerning their current states and/or formation of character. But again, a skeptic need not accept this alternative account in order for us to show that the original account, and hence the original excuse, fails.

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[1] Let’s leave to one side Gettier cases or attempted counterexamples for the sake of argument.

[2] This has some interesting implications for “ought-implies-can” which I will, for now, leave to the reader to work out.

[3] Here we may want to distinguish between states of infants and states of what I shall call “responsible knowers,” which will coincide with a state of moral responsibility. I will appeal to this latter state, though I will not endeavor here to figure out when that begins.

Book Reviews: The Problem of Pain and A Grief Observed

Summary

The Problem of Pain (TPP) and A Grief Observed (AGO) are two very contrasting, but ultimately complimentary, views on the problem of pain and suffering. It is important to note that Lewis deals with both the emotional and physical aspects of suffering. He also is only addressing the traditional “problem of evil” as a part of his treatise on suffering; he is not speaking solely or even necessarily mostly about moral evil (and is almost leaving it to one side entirely in AGO).

In TPP, Lewis sets up the problem of pain quite well; he is not fond of the strawman argument. Essentially, the universe is a dark and cold place, that came from non-life, that treats life cruelly (with respect to disease, death, and extinction), and ultimately results in the heat death of the universe, where all things must end (552). He ends this section with the atheistic challenge: “Either there is no spirit behind the universe, or else a spirit indifferent to good and evil, or else an evil spirit” (552). The challenge for Christian theism should be evident.

Lewis responds, not by challenging the basic premises in the argument, but by instead bringing up a problem: the idea of morality (557). In a completely reductive universe, morality could not really be binding. Thus, he explains, “it is either inexplicable illusion, or else revelation” (557). The problem of pain still remains, but there is at least some reason to think that theism contains an answer.

Chapter Two begins with the classic formulation that if God were wholly omnipotent, then he would want to see his creatures as happy as possible (560). That obviously has not happened; thus, God must not be omnipotent (or not good). However, Lewis takes pains to argue that what is truly impossible is not a thing for omnipotence to do (560-61). Thus, if forcing a free creature is a truly impossible act, God cannot be blamed for not doing so. And yet this means that a truly free creature can bring about great suffering upon himself and others with poor moral choices. This truly free creature was meant to be in a love relationship with God at the center (574).

A central insight as to how much pain is brought about by man concerns his own perception of the evil man commits. Lewis writes, “As soon as we perceive our badness, it [God’s wrath] appears inevitable, a mere corollary of God’s goodness” (581). Thus, the wrath of God only seems unintelligible when we have failed to understand our own depravity. When it is fully understood, we recognize our characters need a radical transformation. This will form the basis of Lewis’ defense of the existence of human pain. In a world in which creatures interact, there is the possibility of pain. Further, since a man’s character (given sin, freely chosen of one’s own will) is such that he will not grow, pain is needed. Finally, a nature governed by general laws will need to be only rarely divinely interfered with (otherwise there is no point to nature at all).

Lewis then provides a defense of both Hell and Heaven, showing that God, in the end, leaves some people alone as they desire (627). He closes with a chapter on animal pain that a reader will find incredibly insightful, despite the fact he insists it is all speculation (629). He suspects that there may be animals in the eschaton who were joined in a human master, so that our resurrection involves theirs. There may be “soulish” animals (who have higher-order being) who experience resurrection. Finally, there may be types of animals who appear in the eschaton, even if the “original” animals do not live again (637).

AGO is a much shorter book, coming in at 42 pages. Here Lewis is not making an argument as much as a journal that chronicles his thoughts in the aftermath of his wife’s death. This edition begins with a great introduction from Lewis’ stepson, Douglas H. Gresham. The very first chapter is both raw and emotional. It comes within the very first weeks after his wife’s passing (the journaling nature of the work is revealed in that he only refers to his wife as “H”). He attempts to explain his pain by way both of asking questions (such as “why is God absent?”) and by the insight that his imagination cannot bring his wife’s face to mind (662).

The second chapter deals with Lewis’ apparent loss of faith. In these reflections, he looks like a man tossed back and forth between defeated doubt (665) and intellectual faith (668). A faith untested is a faith unknown, he claimed (665). In the next chapter, he realizes that a life without pain means no faith that is strong, at least in his case. His faith was exposed as a “house of cards” (672), and now he is stronger for it. At this juncture, he is still unsure whether or not God is truly for his good or evil (673). Finally, Lewis concludes that he had been thinking about himself, then his wife, and finally God—and all along, he should have been praising God for his goodness, for his wife, and then his faith would have followed along (682). AGO is a book about a journey of rediscovering faith in the midst of indescribable loss.

Critical Evaluation

            Lewis writes so clearly and candidly in both TPP and AGO that one may find himself wanting to agree with everything he writes, whether or not it seems to him to be pious or even theologically accurate. TPP is dealt with from a purely intellectual perspective; in fact, Lewis very nearly apologizes for not having experienced certain types of pain himself (though he did indeed lose his mother to cancer when he was a young boy). In TPP, the goal was to tell a story of how it is that a loving and good God, who is all-powerful, could allow so much pain and suffering, and even the existence of an eternal Hell. Lewis achieves this masterfully. In AGO, there is less of an overarching goal as much as a series of lessons. These lessons find their culmination in a practical application of grief and pain, and in that he achieves his objective—at least for him, and others who may be like him.

Strengths

            In TPP there are several strengths. First, Lewis excels at providing a thorough discussion. He includes moral evil, the origin of moral evil, human pain and its purpose given moral evil, the natural world, animal pain, Heaven, and Hell; he also includes God’s omnipotence and goodness, as well as a brief discussion on libertarian freedom. It seems that he left no major aspect unexamined. Second, Lewis did well to assume the evolutionary account of man and still provide an answer. He told a story of how sin may have arisen in the hearts of prehistoric man, even in an evolutionary context, where man ceased to function as God intended (and therefore as man ought to function), and thus sin entered into the world (595). Thus, Lewis argues that, “Science, then, has nothing to say for or against the doctrine of the Fall” (591). On this point he seems quite right.

Third, his theodicy of Hell shows itself to be quite strong. Lewis argues that justice is necessary to any conception of punishment (after all, why punish me if I do not in fact deserve to be punished?). From this, he draws a distinction between condoning and forgiving—and argues that forgiveness must be accepted by the one being forgiven in order for it to be applied (623). Thus, if someone will not accept God, then he will leave them alone (627). He then addresses the objection that eternal punishment does not fit the temporal crime by suggesting that perhaps the eternal punishment is itself timeless (624). This is at least an interesting suggestion, to say the least!

Finally, his defense of animal pain and suffering is worthy to be considered. Lewis argues that most animals are only aware of a succession of pain states, but not that they themselves are in such pain states. Thus, there is a lack of consciousness needed to truly suffer. Thus, most of what goes on in the animal kingdom is not what we would qualify as pain. Next, for even the higher animals that may possibly know that they themselves are in pain, it may be that resurrection in the service of man awaits them; even if not, it may be that the animals were abused by Satan just as mankind was.

AGO’s primary strength is in its candor. Lewis’ openness about his grief and struggles allows the reader to identify with him (and not merely pity him)—even if they have not undergone the specific type of pain he has. Its strength lies in that it is no mere academic exercise. Though it is surely intellectual, it does not come across as sterile. It does not serve to contradict TPP, but complement it. This is why it seems so back-and-forth, verging on contradictory. He recognizes God as undergoing the ultimate grief of sending his own Son, but struggles to reconcile his feelings with a God of ultimate love. In the end, AGO encourages us to view God first, what pleases us or what has grieved us second, and only ourselves third.

Weaknesses

            Both TPP and AGO are amazing works that can and should be read by Christians and non-Christians alike; however, this is not to say that they are perfect works without any room for improvement or lacking any error. First, in TPP, it is not clear Lewis has established his refutation of the temporal/eternal objection to Hell. This is because, amongst other things, it controversially assumes a B-theory of time, whereby those who are in Hell can be timelessly “removed” from chronological existence. Consider the fact that it seems one can argue that the condemned can be said to be condemned at one moment, and uncondemned at a prior moment (that is, not experiencing the punishment of Hell). Or consider that one could argue that eternal, in Scripture, seems to mean “everlasting” rather than “timeless” punishment. If this is so, Lewis’ response falls apart. He also fails to recognize other, perhaps more important responses, such as a sin against an infinitely holy God is an infinite crime, or that the condemned reap more and more punishment as they continually resist God in their God-abandoned state.

            Next, in his chapter on animal suffering, Lewis makes the following claim: “This [the claim that animal suffering results from the Fall] is now impossible, for we have good reason to believe that animals existed long before men” (631). Aside from controversially assuming an evolutionary-like story, even evolution does not preclude human sin from being the reason animal suffering came about. Consider William Dembski’s retrocausal account. It could be that God viewed what would happen, perceived in his omniscience that man would sin, and for that reason, God imparted the consequences unto the world. Now whether or not a Dembski-like account succeeds is not the point; the question is whether it is even possible. It seems that it is, meaning Lewis need not dismiss such an account out of hand (even though, in fairness, he was not aware of it).

            If AGO has a weakness, it must only be in its strange assumption that Lewis’ wife no longer existed currently. Perhaps this is due to his belief in Purgatory, or perhaps he was merely emphasizing the nature of time and existence, but either way it seems false. He seems to rely on the claim that passages that speak of hope and life after death and reunions with others as entirely unscriptural if interpreted literally (666-67). Perhaps in one sense he is right: but surely there is a literal truth behind even the most fanciful of metaphors. And what would that literal truth be? “To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.” While Lewis does eventually recognize there is more to his wife’s person than her body, it does seem that he does not take seriously the idea that she is in Heaven with God even now, and that is an unfortunate loss of comfort.

            Both TPP and AGO are strongly recommended. TPP is recommended both for believers and unbelievers alike. AGO is recommended primarily for believers; I suspect that unbelievers will not grasp it without a faith already in Christ. While believers who have not undergone such grief as Lewis may struggle to understand it, it will give them at least an empathetic insight into those who are hurting, and for that reason they will find it very helpful.