The Evil God Challenge

Edward Feser recently took on the "evil God challenge" from atheist philosopher Steven Law. Law wrote a paper on the evil god challenge here. This is the abstract:

This paper develops a challenge to theism. The challenge is to explain why the hypothesis that there exists an omnipotent, omniscient and all-good god should be considered significantly more reasonable than the hypothesis that there exists an omnipotent, omniscient and all-evil god. Theists typically dismiss the evil-god hypothesis out of hand because of the problem of good - there is surely too much good in the world for it to be the creation of such a being. But then why doesn't the problem of evil provide equally good grounds for dismissing belief in a good god? I develop this evil-god challenge in detail, anticipate several replies, and correct errors made in earlier discussions of the problem of good.

So the idea is that there is an "evil God" that parallels the "good God", and that if we don't think arguments for the evil God work, then we shouldn't think the arguments for the good God work either, since the arguments for one can be paralleled in the other. Now Feser's point is that this argument, whether or not it works for a God understood along personalist lines, is not applicable to the God of classical theology, since the God of classical theology is by nature good. Hypothesizing an "evil God" is like hypothesizing a "triangle with four sides"; it is just nonsense.

My purpose here is not to rehash the arguments that followed on Feser's blog, but to explore Law's idea of an "omnipotent, omniscient, and all-evil god" that parallels the good God. Does such a being really make sense? I don't think it does, and I will explain why here.

In Law's paper, he references Charles Daniels, who comes close to making the argument that I will make. According to Law, Daniels argument is that "we always do what we judge to be good. Even when I smoke, despite judging smoking to be bad, I do it because I judge that it would be good to smoke this cigarette here and now. If follows, says Daniels, that no-one does bad knowingly. But then it follows that if a being is omniscient, he will not do bad. There cannot exist an omniscient yet evil being." Law's answer is that "I believe Daniels's argument trades on an ambiguity in his use of the word 'good.' True, whenever I do something deliberately, I judge, in a sense, that what I do is 'good.' But 'good' here need mean no more than, 'that which I aim to achieve.' We have not yet been given any reason to suppose I cannot judge to be 'good', in this sense, what I also deem to be evil, because I desire evil. Yes, an evil god will judge doing evil to be 'good', but only in the trivial sense that evil is what he desires."

The problem with Daniels's argument is that the Platonic understanding of evil is false. It is true insofar as we cannot choose an evil except under the aspect of good; I don't smoke the cigarette because I judge it to be absolutely good for me, but because I desire pleasure, and pleasure is a good, even if I know that cigarettes are bad for me in the long run. So I choose the evil that is cigarettes, knowing they are evil, but under the aspect of a good (in this case, pleasure). Why do I choose the lesser good of pleasure rather than the absolutely better good of health? Because, as Aristotle wrote, our reason does not rule our nature as a tyrant; sometimes our lower nature overpowers reason and leads us to choose a lesser good rather than a greater one. This is why moral education is necessary. Moral education not only trains us to know what is right and good, but disciplines us to develop a nature that chooses the greater good rather than the lesser one. This is the difference between being a virtuous man and a vicious one.

But to really answer Law we must put some meaning to "good" and "evil." In the exchanges over at Feser's blog, Law strenuously resists doing this, and insists he need only use the everyday, "pre-theoretical" understanding of the terms to make his argument work. Yet the words must be defined, pre-theoretically or otherwise, and Law resolutely resists any attempt to define them at any level. I think this is because, as soon as good and evil are defined, even on a pre-theoretical level, it becomes clear that good and evil are not symmetrical, and the argument from symmetrical gods collapses. And he certainly wouldn't create a universe.

Let me show this by providing definitions of good and evil, definitions that are true to our pre-theoretical understanding of the terms and, without engaging in extensive dialects over the meaning of good and evil, show that the parallel between good and evil gods collapses. I think our pre-theoretical understanding of good is that which enhances nature, and evil that which frustrates it. We think smoking is bad, for example, because it damages our health; in other words, it frustrates our body's natural ability to maintain itself. A disease that kills a small child is evil because it, obviously, frustrates the child's natural inclination to survive. Of course we might launch the argument that we have competing natural fulfillments here, since the disease fulfills its nature only by destroying the child's. But since we are staying at the pre-theoretic level and avoiding dialectics, it is sufficient to remark that we commonly understand a child to be more valuable than a disease, and so avoiding the frustration of the child's nature takes precedence.

With this pre-theoretic understanding of good and evil, let us consider the God of classical theology, the all-good God. This God does good everywhere and whenever it can; to the universe and to its creatures. What about itself? Naturally, it does good to itself as well, and so avoids frustrating its own nature. It's in the business of avoiding the frustration of nature. The classical argument from evil arises; how is it then, that so much evil exists in the universe? How is it that creatures so often find their natures frustrated? The classical answer to this question is that "God permits evil only insofar as good may come of it." The key term there is "permits"; God never frustrates the nature of any creature directly, but does permit creatures to frustrate each other's natures, and that only insofar as a further good may come of it. The point is that there is no inconsistency in hypothesizing an all-good God.

Now let us consider the parallel universe evil god, the one who is omniscient and omnipotent like the good god, but tries to maximize evil. In converse to the good god, he will do everything he can to frustrate nature, both the natures of his creatures and himself. We hit an immediate snag: Why would this god ever create anything at all? Since god is the greatest being there is, the greatest evil would be to frustrate his own nature, and so god would always do evil to himself (frustrate himself) before doing evil to anything else. But to create a universe for the purpose of doing evil to creatures (doing good that evil may come of it) is to perform the greater good for a lesser evil, since the evil done to god is always the greater evil compared to an evil done to creatures. So the evil god would always choose to frustrate himself rather than create a universe he could torture.

There is a further problem, for the parallel between good and evil can't hold. The good god permits evil that good may come of it, but he never directly does evil himself; the evil god must directly perform the good of creating a universe if he is ever to engage in the evil of frustrating his creatures. This reveals the asymmetry between good and evil that is latent in even a pre-theoretical understanding of the terms.

There is a more subtle problem with the notion of an evil god creating a universe so that he may commit evil. He commits evil by frustrating the natures of the beings he has created; so when he creates creatures, he does so for the purpose of later frustrating them. When he in fact later frustrates them, he is therefore fulfilling his own purposes; in other words, he is not frustrating his own nature but fulfilling it and, to that extent, he is good rather than evil. But the good god doesn't ever resort to evil; he is purely good. The evil god can't be purely evil; he must in part be good - so there is no real parallel between an all-good and an all-evil god.

In summary, if we use a pre-theoretical understanding of good as what enhances nature, and evil as what frustrates it, then we can see that an all-knowing, all-powerful, and all-evil god doesn't make sense. This god would frustrate himself before he frustrates anything else, since he is the greatest thing that can be frustrated. And if he did attempt to create a world on which he could perform evil, he could only do so by contradicting his own nature. This all-evil God that parallels the good God can't exist.

The Power of Evil

St. Thomas has taught us that evil is a deprivation of the good. It is not a metaphysical substance in its own right; it is a defect in a substance that is good insofar as it is. Evil, in itself, is nothing. Yet evil is also powerful. This leaves us with a paradox. How can nothing be powerful? Why is evil a force in the world at all?

I made a start at addressing this question here. In that post, I pointed out that evil, in the sense of deprivation, can make one apparently strong through insensitivity. A long-time smoker has damaged lungs, but even though his lungs are weaker than healthy lungs, through that very weakness they can better endure a smoky environment. An evil man will become insensitive to the nature of his deeds, and so find them easier to perform. In that sense he is more "powerful." 

The Western philosophical tradition, starting with Socrates, taught that such "power" is not really power at all. The argument is teleological. Every being is created with an end (or hierarchy of ends) that is an expression of its nature (or, if you don't like creation, every being simply has an end that is an expression of its nature.) Power is a measure of the extent to which a being can fulfill its end through itself. Beings that are entirely dependent on other beings to fulfill their ends are not powerful; beings that are entirely independent of other beings to fulfill their ends are supremely powerful (e.g. God). The end of a tree is to grow tall, become a home for birds and other animals, become wood for man, and make more trees. But the tree is dependent on the wind to spread its seed, the nature of the soil in which it grows, the degree of competition from other trees, and the amount of sunlight in its environment. If the soil is bad or larger trees shade it from the sun, the tree cannot pick itself up and move to another location. To that extent it is not powerful. An animal, on the other hand, if the conditions are not right, has the power to move itself to a better location. It can also actively seek out and hunt its food, where the tree can only passively absorb it. 

Man is the supremely powerful terrestrial creature because he not only has an end, but he has the power to know that end and consider various means to achieve it. The dog needs food and can move himself to find it, but he cannot analyze how different foods effect him, let alone ask himself why he eats food in the first place. Man is more powerful than the dog because he is not limited to acquiring food through instinct; he can understand what food is and why he needs it, and can consider other ways of getting food. He can also consider food in the light of the hierarchy of ends that constitute his own nature. He may deprive himself of food (e.g. in fasting) for a higher end.

Man can know his own end. He is ultimately free to accept or reject that end. But even if he rejects it, his end is still his end; his relationship to his end will be one of despair (the sickness unto death.) When man acts with moral evil, he is acting in a way that cannot be conducive to his end; for Socrates, this means he acts without power, for power is the capability to fulfill an end. In thwarting his own end, therefore, man only acts with apparent power.

Since evil does not act according to a being's end, it is necessarily destructive. 

"It came to me suddenly that evil was, perhaps, necessarily always more impressive than good. It had to make a show! It had to startle and challenge! It was instability attacking stability." (Agatha Christie, The Pale Horse).

But evil can destroy only to the extent that it is, and is therefore good. It is only to the extent that evil is stable that it can cause instability. Socrates uses the example of the criminal gang that, while unjust to others, must be just within its own ranks to be effective. It is only because the gang fulfills its true end to some extent that it has power at all. 

The government has used this principle to destroy the Mafia. Fifty years ago, the code of omerta was strong and mobsters lived according to a strict code that made them powerful. The Mafia was largely destroyed, in the 1980's and 1990's, when the government was able to get mobsters to turn on each other. The FBI destroyed the stability of the mafia by turning its instability inward rather than outward.

The difference between the modern and the classical view of power is that modern power is simply "the ability to make things happen," whatever their nature. The classical view is more restrictive. Power is not merely the ability to make anything at all happen, but only things that are conducive to a being's own end. True power is essentially creative rather than destructive. The classical view has this going for it: The difference between the good man and the evil man is not one of raw capability; it is that the good man orders his actions to his own true end while the evil man does not. The good man rationally refrains from certain actions that the evil man is willing to perform. But the good man has the raw capability to perform the same actions as the evil man; he can "make those things happen" in the modern sense, but he refuses to because they are not ordered to his true end. So the evil man is powerful, yes, but it is not in his evil that he is powerful.

 

Is the Harsh and Cruel More Real than the Kind and Compassionate?

I think we have a tendency to think that what is violent, unjust, harsh and cruel is somehow more "real" than what is peaceful, just, kind and compassionate. This feeds the impression that religious belief is a form of escapism for people who can't handle reality. Atheists are folks who are man enough to face the hard facts about the world; religious believers invent a beneficent God to shield them from that reality.

Why do we think that the violent, unjust and harsh are more real than their virtuous alternatives? Partly because of the impression that the vicious are more powerful than the virtuous. We see the kind and compassionate dominated and abused by the vicious every day. It seems that the kind and compassionate survive only at the indulgence of the vicious, or only because the vicious haven't got around yet to crushing them. "Reality" is the dominating power of the vicious, not the healing power of the kind.

We also see that the virtuous are shocked by things that do not shock the vicious. The kind man is often not only unprepared for the assaults of the vicious, but surprised by them, as though he did not expect that such things were possible in life. In the recent film No Country for Old Men, for example, an evil man (Anton Chigurh) plays on the innocence, kindness, and good will of ordinary people to routinely trap them, get what he wants from them, and then kill them. No one, not even the police, is able to stop Chigurh. Anton Chigurh is reality. In the film ordinary life, with its ordinary kindnesses and expectations, is an illusion because it is powerless before Chigurh.

And yet, if we listen to St. Thomas and the classical philosophers, this impression is the direct opposite of the truth. Evil, St. Thomas teaches us, is a deprivation of the good. As a deprivation, the existence of evil is entirely derivative of the good; there can be evil only to the extent that there is a good that can be deprived (thus God cannot be evil because no aspect of his being can be deprived from Him.) Evil is like a hole in something, and a hole is possible only to the extent that something exists that is capable of being holed or, in other words, of supporting a hole. There is no such thing as a purely evil being just as there is no such thing as something that is purely a hole. (A truth used to comic effect by the RoadRunner character in Looney Tunes, who would pick up a hole and carry it around with him, then drop it in front of Wile E. Coyote.)

So we know as a philosophical truth that the good is more real than the evil. And since it is more real, it must ultimately be more powerful as well. Why, then, does evil seem more powerful in "real life?" I will attempt one answer with an anecdote. Once while serving as a company XO in the Marine Corps, my company's NCOs held a closed-door meeting in the first sergeant's office. I needed something from the first sergeant, so I knocked on the door and walked in. I could barely see the NCOs through the cloud of cigarette smoke, which nearly knocked me out. The NCOs (and I) got a good laugh out of this, I quickly got what I needed, and I managed to stagger out the door before collapsing. Superficially, it appeared that the NCOs were stronger than I was, since they had no problem in the smoke-filled room. It was I who could not handle the "reality" of cigarette smoke. But why was this? It was because I had healthier lungs than the NCOs, and so could absord more of the toxins in the smoke. My stronger lungs, paradoxically, made the room unbearable to me.

A similar thing, I believe, happens when the realities of death and war are confronted. The company first sergeant, a wonderful man, was a Vietnam veteran (some of whom were still on active duty in the late '80s). Like many veterans, he didn't speak much about his battle experiences, but he did say that part of himself died in Vietnam. When he said this, I thought of the smoke-filled room. Maybe the realities of war are toxic to the soul like smoke is toxic to the lungs, and the only way one can survive in the face of such realities is for certain sensitive parts of the soul to die. But just as the NCOs lungs were ultimately weaker than mine for their ability to handle smoke-filled rooms, maybe the first sergeant's soul had also lost some of its power in Vietnam - which may have explained a certain melancholy I found in him.

Anton Chigurh's soul, perhaps, had died to an extent that cruelty and suffering could have no effect on him. But, ultimately, this makes his soul weaker and not stronger. It gives him a superficial, temporary power because he his able to react more quickly in his self-created world of savagery, to which he is no longer sensitive but we are; just as the NCOs had the advantage on me in the smoke-filled room. But we see that Chigurh's world is derivative of our world as evil is always derivative of good; it is only because the general world is one of kindness and goodwill that he has any power at all. Were everyone suspicious of him on meeting him, he would not be nearly so dangerous.

more on this to come...