The Wisdom of Hell

            The doctrine of hell has, I suspect, fallen into disrepute among many contemporary Christians. God—these Christians believe—cannot be simultaneously loving while condemning souls to eternal punishment. Further, it may be argued, belief in hell leads to self-loathing and toxic perfectionism, which prevents a Christian from experiencing God’s love. Better for all to abrogate or minimize the doctrine from Christian discourse. This will, it’s supposed, lead to a healthier relationship with self, others, and God.

            In this post, I wish to set aside the theological justification of this softer, contemporary view of hell. I also wish to set aside the question of whether hell actually exists. Instead, I want briefly to explore the existential consequences of belief in hell. Put differently, does belief in hell yield valuable outcomes in our lives? Provocatively, I argue that it does. In particular, I will contend that belief in hell makes life more meaningful. By logical extension, this means that life without a belief in hell lacks the full measure of meaning it otherwise could bear.

            To see this, I believe an analogy is in order. Imagine a general, faced with the prospect of fielding troops. If he fields the troops wisely, lives will be lost, but a victory gained. If he fields them unwisely, high casualties and defeat will result. Alternatively, then, he could shirk the battle altogether. But this too will impose costs. He will not gain the benefit of a victory and may jeopardize the overall war effort.

            Confronted with competing alternatives, each bearing momentous consequences, the general’s every decision is meaningful. Much is at stake. And it is precisely because much is at stake that the costs of his decisions are raised from the realm of the trivial to that of the meaningful. Consequences in practical action are, at least in part, the bearers of meaning. Remove those consequences and you eliminate or diminish the meaningfulness of practical action.

            It is, perhaps, for this reason that Ivan, in Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, claims that “if God does not exist, then everything is permitted.” To be sure, Ivan was linking the non-existence of God (and by extension the non-existence of hell) with the elimination of ethical duties. But there is, in his statement, the caution that without God, social obligations become a farce, sapped of ultimate meaning. 

            Relatedly, Book of Mormon prophets warn against loosing a belief in hell. Nephi tells us that in the last days, many will say, 

[e]at, drink, and be merry; nevertheless, fear God—he will justify in committing a little sin; yea, lie a little, take the advantage of one because of his words, dig a pit for thy neighbor; there is no harm in this; and do all these things, for tomorrow we die; and if it so be that we are guilty, God will beat us with a few stripes, and at last we shall be saved in the kingdom of God.

(2 Nephi 28:8 (emphasis added)). 

Later in the book, Alma gives a flesh and blood representative of this teaching in the person of Nehor, who taught that “all mankind should be saved at the last day, and that [the people] need not fear nor tremble, but that they might lift up their heads and rejoice; for the Lord had created all men, and had also redeemed all men; and, in the end, all men should have eternal life.” (Alma 1:4). For Nehor, then, fear of hell should not sting the conscience nor restrain the body. 

Aside from the truth of this teaching, the existential consequences seem clear. Belief in hell raises the stakes. It imposes risk on the life one chooses to live. Choose wisely, like the general discussed above, and a victory will result. Choose unwisely and defeat will follow. So situated, confronted with the eternal consequences of our choices, our lives become more meaningful than they would otherwise be. For if no choice made any difference in the grand scheme of things, then no choice would ultimately be meaningful. Lie, cheat, and steal, for in the end, the outcome will be the same. Wisely, then, Lehi counsels that  “it must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things.” For without such opposition, “there would have been no purpose in the end of its creation." (2 Nephi 2:11, 12). And what better way to highlight that opposition than with a belief in punishment in the hereafter?

Some may resist my argument, noting that on the whole, belief in hell yields negative existential consequences. As noted above, it can be argued that the doctrine of hell leads to self-loathing and toxic perfectionism. This, I acknowledge, can occur. But I do not believe it to be the result of a belief in hell, but of an improper picture of God as eager to condemn souls to hell. The proper Christian belief views God as essentially loving, willing to forgive, and readily willing to impart grace to bring us to salvation, even where our efforts fall short. The fully meaningful Christian life, therefore, has both these components: a belief in hell and a belief in God who desires, more than anything else, to rescue us from hell on condition of our responding to His voice. Hell is, therefore, part of a greater whole in Christian doctrine. And without that part, meaningfulness in life is lost, too high a price, in my judgment.

Do Latter-day Saints Worship God?

     Do Latter-day Saints worship God? This question has an obvious “yes” answer. But this obvious answer obscures a theological nuance that makes the justification for worship in the Mormon tradition unique as compared to other Christian denominations. In particular, I will argue that Latter-day Saints do not unconditionally worship God; their worship is conditional upon God possessing certain attributes.

     To see this, we must recognize that Mormon theology envisions a contingent God. This means that God has not always existed as God. He has instead become God through a process. Joseph Smith made this point explicit in his King Follett Sermon: 

I am going to tell you how God came to be God. We have imagined and supposed that God was God from all eternity. I will refute that idea, and take away the veil, so that you may see. . . . It is the first principle of the Gospel to know for a certainty the character of God and to know . . . that he was once a man like us.

Many prophets and apostles after Joseph expressed similar views. Brigham Young, for example, claimed that God is “the Father of our spirits, and was once a man in mortal flesh as we are, and is now an exalted being.” (Journal of Discourses, 7:333). Similarly, Elder Melvin J. Ballard taught that “[i]t is a ‘Mormon’ truism that is current among us and we all accept it, that as man is God once was and as God is man may become.” (General Conference, April 1921).

     This process of transformation could, furthermore, run in the opposite direction. For as the book of Alma reminds us, if God attempted to rob justice, he would “cease to be God.” (Alma 42:13). Succinctly stated, God was once a man. He developed into deity. And He could, by His own volition, cease to be God. He is, therefore, contingently God, for His divine status is contingent upon His having developed into and remaining as a certain type of being.

     Why does this fact about God hold relevance to the question posed above? Because if He is contingently God, then our worship is focused on what He is, not who He is. Our worship, to phrase the matter differently, is conditional, depending on God having realized the attributes of moral perfection, almighty power, and all knowledge. If tomorrow, God ceased to be God, losing those attributes, it would be improper to worship Him. Worship is, after all, properly reserved for the deity.

     Apostle Orson Pratt—one of the original Apostles ordained by Joseph Smith—came to a similar conclusion, though based on different reasoning. Specifically, he claimed that “[w]hen we worship the Father, we do not merely worship His person, but we worship the truth which dwells in His person.” This truth, for Orson, is the Holy Spirit, the highest member of the Godhead,[1] and “[p]ersons are only tabernacles or temples, and TRUTH is the God, that dwells in them.” This move permitted Orson to defend monotheism and the omnipresence of God. For “if the fulness of truth, dwells in numberless millions of persons, then the same one indivisible God dwells in them all.” And “[a]s truth can dwell in all worlds at the same instant, therefore, God who is truth can be in all worlds at the same instant.” Orson Pratt, therefore, held that we do not merely worship our Eternal Father; we worship the Truth that dwells within him. If Truth ceased to dwell in God, we would, it seems be obligated to refrain from worshiping Him.[2]

     Contrast Mormonism’s view of God with the classical Christian view. As I use the term, classical Christian theism is the Christianity of the creeds. Classical theists believe that God exists necessarily as God. He resides outside space and time. As such, he is unchanging. He always has been and will never cease to be all powerful, all knowing, and morally perfect. Further, classical theists hold to the doctrine of divine simplicity. This doctrine, in part, teaches that the “attributes” of power, knowledge, and goodness, are not mere add-ons or properties that attach to God. They are an essential part of who He is. He is identical with these properties. Thus, classical Christians worship a being who is essentially and necessarily good, powerful, and wise. As a result, worship of God in classical theism does not depend on God coming to possess certain properties. Unconditional worship is proper as He has been and will always be the type of being who is worthy of worship.

     This contrast between Mormonism and classical Christianity reveals the distinctive theological foundations underlying worship within Mormonism. Several objections could be made to my position. Let me respond to a few. First, some may argue that my depiction of God within the Mormon tradition is inaccurate. Latter-day Saints, the objector may continue, also believe in a God that exists necessarily as God. In response, I note that some respectable scholars take this approach. But it requires a nuanced interpretation of the King Follett Sermon and other texts. For reasons I cannot defend here, I find this objection hard to defend. Joseph really did believe God has not always existed as God. And he really did teach that we too could become as God. To the extent, however, that my view of God in the Mormon tradition is incorrect, my argument above fails. 

     Second, a person could object that my argument leads one to worship not God, but His attributes. This, I believe, is mistaken. To see this, an analogy is needed.[3] When a violinist becomes a virtuoso, we do not focus our respect and honor on the attributes that person has actualized—the property of virtuosity. No. We focus our respect and honor on the violinist. For she is the person who has realized that property.

     Something similar occurs in relation to God. Our worship of God is conditional, depending vitally on his realizing certain character traits. But this does not mean that we worship His attributes. We worship Him. He is, after all, the one who realized these attributes. We laud, praise, adore, honor, respect, and love Him because He became divine. To be sure, if he ceased to be divine, our worship would no longer be proper. But insofar as it is proper, we worship Him, not His attributes. 

     Third, and finally, a person may object that the God of Mormon theism is not worthy of worship at all. This is a criticism made by classical Christians, and I do not have the ability to venture a complete response to it here. I do note, however, that notions of worship worthiness vary between peoples. I find the idea of a God who prepared the way for me to become His peer inspiring. A Christian, in response, may attempt to transform the question of what type of being is worthy of worship into a normative one, arguing that while people differ in what they personally find worship worthy, there is one standard of worship worthiness. This response will, in my judgement, beg the question as it will rest on theological notions of perfection and goodness that I, as a Latter-day Saint, do not share. 

     In the end, Latter-day Saints do worship God. But that worship rests on a different theological foundation than it does for other Christians. Some may find this foundation disturbing. But for the Latter-day Saint, it is nothing more than the proper view of deity—a contingent God who is worthy of our worship because of what he has become.

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     [1] Terryl Givens, in his recent volume Wrestling the Angel, provides a fuller discussion on how Orson Pratt placed the Holy Spirit as the Highest Member of the Godhead. See Terryl Givens, Wrestling the Angel (New York: Oxford University Press, 2015). p. 126 (noting that for Orson, "the original divine entity was not God the Father; rather, "the Great First Cause itself" consisted of "conscious, intelligent, self-moving particles, called the Holy Spirit."

     [2] Orson Pratt Makes these observations in "The Pre-Existence of Man," published in The Seer, Vol. I, No. 2, February 1853, paragraph 22.

     [3] I borrow this analogy from a wise friend, Benjamin Leto.

The Atheist's Noble Lie

     Morality rests on a lie. We labor, after all, to develop virtuous characters capable of compassion, honesty, selflessness, and trustworthiness. In all of this, we aim at ideals that we can never perfectly actualized. When we strive for moral improvement, the ideals recede from us, always just out of reach. We never achieve perfect compassion or become wholly selfless. And we know we never will in this life. Regardless, we hide this knowledge from ourselves, recognizing that if we too carefully observe our own moral limits, we may slacken our push for moral growth. This seems paradoxical. Morality, which (by most estimations) abhors lying, is founded on self-deception, a form of lying.

     Or at least it does for one who does not believe in God. For the theist can recognize his or her own powerlessness in the face of morality's demands, and yet strive for perfect virtue, secure in the knowledge that God will, in the end, bring about perfect conformity with ethical ideals. And this "in the end" is key. The theist knows life continues beyond this moonlit sphere into a brighter and holier one. Given this knowledge, he or she may strive in God with all vigor, undeterred by the inability to perfectly actualize moral ideals here and now. When morality rests on God it is not founded on a lie.

Mormonism and the Contingency Cosmological Argument

     Ancient and modern philosophers have frequently attempted to construct arguments that command rational assent to the existence of God. One class or family of arguments for the existence of God goes by the name "cosmological arguments." These arguments aim to show that we cannot explain the cosmos and its causal structure without a creator.* Samuel Clark (1675 - 1729) offered a unique type of cosmological argument styled the "contingency cosmological argument." Specifically, Clark argues that atheism undermines the principle of sufficient reason, which holds that for every being that exists or ever existed, there is an explanation of the existence of that being. Since modern atheism relies on science to provide an exhaustive explanation of the cosmos, Clark's claim poses a serious threat. Interestingly, Clark's claim also threatens Mormonism's claim that the cosmos is co-eternal with God.

     Before proceeding further, however, I need to carefully explicate Clark's argument. For sake of accuracy, I quote Clark at length:

"There has existed from eternity some one unchangeable and independent being. For since something must needs have been from eternity, as has been already proved and is granted on all hands, either there has always existed some one unchangeable and independent being from which all other beings that are or ever were in the universe have received their original, or else there has been an infinite succession of changeable and dependent beings produced one from another in an endless progression without any original cause at all. Now this latter supposition is so very absurd that, though all atheism must in its accounts of most thing [. . .] terminate in it, yet I think very few atheists ever were so weak as openly and directly to defend it. For it is plainly impossible and contradictory to itself. I shall not argue against it from the supposed impossibility of infinite succession, barely and absolutely considered in itself, for a reason which shall be mentioned hereafter. But, if we consider such an infinite progression as one entire endless series of dependent beings, it is plain this whole series of beings can have not cause from without of its existence because in it are supposed to be included all things that are, or ever were, in the universe. And it is plain it can have no reason within itself for its existence because no one being in this infinite succession is supposed to be self-existent or necessary (which is the only ground or reason of existence of anything that can be imagined within the thing itself [. . .]), but every one dependent on the foregoing. And where no part is necessary, it is manifest the whole cannot be necessary - absolute necessity of existence not being an extrinsic, relative, and accidental denomination but an inward and essential property of the nature of the thing which so exists."

From this, Clark concludes that atheism sacrifices the principle of sufficient reason, since it cannot explain the existence of the entire cosmos. For sake of clarity, I will set forth concisely Clark's main premises below.

Diagram: X---------->X---------->X---------->X---------->X---------->X---------->X---------->X

1. If the entire cosmos is composed of contingent beings (i.e. a being that could or could not exist), then we can explain the existence of a particular contingent being in terms of the totality of contingent beings or some subset thereof.
1. For example, a tree is a contingent being (think of an X in the previous chart as a tree). We can explain the existence of a tree with certain physical realities (a seed, soil, water, sunlight) that converge to bring the particular tree into existence (think of the X previous as the physical realities). In turn, we can explain the those physical realities, which are contingent, in terms of other physical realities that converge to bring them into existence. And so on, ad infinitum. This would explain a contingent being by a subset of contingent beings.
2. Alternatively, we could attempt to explain the existence of a contingent being by pointing to the totality of all existing beings. In the simple diagram above, we may say the final X relies on the totality of contingent things for its being. This isn't exactly what Clark has in mind, but I will set forth what he has in mind below.
2. Such an explanation will satisfy the principle of sufficient reason, which holds that for every being that exists or has existed, there is an explanation of the existence of that being.
3. However, while we can explain the existence of a particular contingent being (a particular X in the series above), we cannot explain the existence of the entire series of contingent beings in terms of the totality of contingent beings or some subset thereof.
4. After all, since the series is composed of particular contingent beings, it follows that the totality and any subset is contingent as well.
5. Thus, to explain the series' existence, we must suppose that a necessary being exists (i.e. God, a being that could not not exist).

More concretely, unless we presuppose that God exists, we cannot explain why something rather than nothing exists at all. The very existence of the cosmos requires a creator, since neither the cosmos, or any part of the cosmos, can explain its own existence.

     For atheism, this argument poses a threat, since it cannot explain the very existence of the world, and as such, sacrifices the principle of sufficient reason as to the whole of reality. Likewise, for Mormonism, this argument also poses a threat. After all, as Terryl Givens has observed: "God is the supreme intelligence in the universe, but he is not the source of all being, or even the creator of that which constitutes the human soul. Men and women have existed from eternity as uncreated intelligence."** In other words, the universe and human souls within that universe have existed for eternity. Clark's argument is threatening precisely because Mormonism, it would seem, sacrifices the principle of sufficient reason by taking the entire cosmos as a brute fact.

     While some Mormons may be willing to make that sacrifice, they do not need to do so. Clark's reasoning, after all, rests on the fallacy of composition. The fallacy of composition names a form of faulty reasoning, wherein an argument concludes that a whole possess a certain property because its parts possess that property. This is flawed reasoning, however. A Grand Piano is not light-weighted merely because its component parts (keys, strings, wood) are light-weighted. Likewise, just because the particular beings in the cosmos are contingent (it is possible for them to not exist), it does not follow that the entire cosmos is contingent. 

     Notice that Clark must rely on this flawed assumption.*** After all, if the entire cosmos exists necessarily (as Mormonism contends), then we do not need to invoke the existence of an immaterial, transcendent God to explain its existence. Thus, Clark's argument fails at premise 4 above. This shows that Clark's argument fails on its own terms. 

     Thus, it seems clear to me that Mormonism escapes Clark's argument. It seems less clear to me, however, that atheism escapes Clark's challenge. After all, certain types of scientific atheism claim that the entire universe flashed into existence with the big bang. In these brands of scientific atheism, the whole cosmos is contingent, it could have never existed. And if the cosmos is contingent, then atheists need some way to explain its existence if atheism is to preserve the principle of sufficient reason. Since Mormonism rejects this entire picture of the cosmos, it easily survives Clark's argument.

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* Cosmological arguments focus on the causal structure of the cosmos. In comparison, teleological arguments focus on designed complexity in the cosmos. Alma, in the Book of Mormon, confronts Korihor with what appears to be a teleological argument for God's existence: "But Alma said unto him: Thou hast had signs enough; will ye tempt your God? Will ye say, Show unto me a sign, when ye have the testimony of thy brethren, and also all the holy prophets? The scriptures are laid before thee, yea, and all things denote there is a God; yea, even the earth, and all things that are upon the face of it, yea, and its motion, yea, and also all the planets which move in their regular form do witness that there is a Supreme Creator." (Alma 30:44). In a previous post, I took up this argument to show why Alma's putative teleological argument is quite unlike from the teleological arguments of the philosophers.

**Terryl L. Givens, Wrestling the Angel: The Foundation of Mormon Thought: Cosmos, God, Humanity, page 45.

***I think Clark resists this conclusion by noting that "absolute necessity of existence not being an extrinsic, relative, and accidental denomination but an inward and essential property of the nature of the thing which so exists." In other words, necessary existence is not a property like weight, and as such, making this inference does not commit the fallacy of composition. I cannot go into that argument here, but it should suffice to note that Alvin Plantinga has persuasively demonstrated that "necessity" is a predicate in modal logics. This, in my judgment, lays the ground work for showing that Clark's attempt to resist the fallacy of composition by noting that necessary existence has to do with essence, not property, is flawed.

Alma's Teleological Argument

     A well worn argument for God's existence goes by the title, "the teleological argument." Numerous philosophers from Aristotle to William Paley have employed the teleological argument to demonstrate God's existence. These philosophers' arguments rely on theologically neutral premises (i.e. premises that can command the assent of any rational non-believer) about the purpose, order, or design of the universe for the conclusion that God exists. This is why some refer to the teleological argument as the argument from design.

     As an amateur philosopher, I am skeptical of the teleological argument. Specifically, such arguments rest on selective data. They point to purpose, order, or design in the universe (so called teleological data) to the exclusion of disorder and other needless evils (disteleological data). For this reason, David Hume remarked that the state of the universe doesn't prove the existence of an omnipotent, omniscient, omnibenevolent deity, but instead suggests that whoever created the universe was an inexperienced infant deity. In his words:

"The world, for aught he knows, is very faulty and imperfect, compared to a superior standard; and was only the first rude essay of some infant deity who afterwards abandoned it, ashamed of his lame performance: It is the work only of some dependent, inferior deity, and is the object of derision to his superiors: It is the production of old age and dotage in some superannuated deity; and ever since his death has run on at adventures, from the first impulse and active force which it received from him. . . ."

     As a Latter-day Saint, I am skeptical of the teleological argument because in its more sophisticated iterations, it leads to the existence of an abstract deity, not the embodied personal deity of Joseph Smith. So, as both amateur philosopher and Latter-day Saint, I was initially perplexed by the apparent presentation of a teleological argument for God's existence in Alma 30:44.

     In that chapter, Korihor, described as an "Anti-Christ," argues against the existence of God. The Book of Mormon summarizes Korihor's teachings as follows:

"O ye that are bound down under a foolish and a vain hope, why do ye yoke yourselves with such foolish things? Why do ye look for a Christ? For no man can know of anything which is to come. Behold, these things which ye call prophecies, which ye say are handed down by holy prophets, behold, they are foolish traditions of your fathers. How do ye know of their surety? Behold, ye cannot know of things which ye do not see; therefore ye cannot know that there shall be a Christ. Ye look forward and say that ye see a remission of your sins. But behold, it is the effect of a frenzied mind; and this derangement of your minds comes because of the traditions of your fathers, which lead you away into a belief of things which are not so."

(Alma 30:13 - 16). In modern philosophical parlance, the Book of Mormon characterizes Korihor as an empiricist, a humanist, and an atheist.*

     Eventually, the Nephite priests bring Korihor before Alma, the Chief Judge and governor over all the land. In response to Korihor's atheism, Alma presents what appears to be a teleological argument for God's existence:

"But Alma said unto him: Thou has had signs enough; will ye tempt your God? Will ye say, Show unto me a sign, when ye have the testimony of all these thy brethren, and also all the holy prophets? The scriptures are laid before thee, yea, and all things denote there is a God; ye, even the earth, and all things that are upon the face of it, yea, and its motion, yea, and also all the planets which move in their regular form do witness that there is a Supreme Creator."

(Alma 30:44). This teleological argument, on first blush, appears to suffer from the same flawed reasoning that David Hume showed above. Alma cites harmonious order but ignores the violence, destruction, and disorder that naturally occurs in the cosmos. In addition, even if Alma's argument succeeds, it's not clear whether it demonstrates the existence of an embodied deity.

     In my judgment, reading Alma's argument in this manner--i.e. as a traditional teleological argument--misreads the text. To properly understand Alma's argument, we must look at the clauses that proceed his apparent teleological argument, and to the conclusion of the entire Alma 30 narrative.

     Alma prefaces his teleological argument by noting that Korihor has the testimony of all his brethren and the holy prophets[.] Furthermore, Alma tells Korihor that the scriptures are laid before thee. In so doing, Alma situates his "teleological argument" in the context of prior belief in the scriptures. He does not provide a teleological argument that aims to provide deductive certainty as to God's existence. Nor does he aim to show inductively the likelihood of God's existence. On the contrary, Alma says to Korihor, "[t]he scriptures are laid before thee[.]" He does not rely on empirical, teleological data, free of theological assumptions, to prove God's existence. He relies on the veracity of sacred texts, which show the existence of God. After referencing the scriptures, Alma points to the ordered heavens as evidence for God's existence.

     This theologically saturated preface suggests that Alma views the scriptural witness as an interpretive key to the universe. In other words, the scriptures operate as an interpretive lens that enables a person to see what he could not see without them: harmonious order that bears the imprint of a divine artificer. Alma doesn't attempt to prove God's existence through empirical, teleological data. He suggests that when a person comes to know the God of heaven and earth through the scriptures, he will begin to see that God in the world around him. As a believer in God and a follower of Christ, this interpretive lens is no mere interpretation, it is a perspective on the true nature of reality; a perspective that cannot be gained in any other way. In short, the scriptures bring us to a knowledge of God and permit us to see the world as it really is. If I read Alma correctly, this line of thought is a far cry from Aristotle's or William Paley's teleological arguments, which rely on religiously neutral premises to hopefully demonstrate God's existence to the rational non-believer.

     Why would Alma, however, employ sacred writings to make this argument? After all, Korihor, an atheist, would reject these writings as the "foolish traditions of [Alma's] fathers." It seems Alma, as a prophetic figure, relied on these texts because he knew that Korihor did not, in fact, reject the testimony of the prophets. In the narrative's closing scene, Korihor gives an insightful concluding statement:

". . . I always knew that there was a God. But behold, the devil hath deceived me; for he appeared unto me in the form of an angel, and said unto me: Go and reclaim this people, for they have all gone astray after an unknown God. And he said unto me: There is no God; yea, and he taught me that which I should say. And I have taught his words; and I taught them because they were pleasing unto the carnal mind; and I taught them, even until I had much success, insomuch that I verily believed that they were true; and for this cause I withstood the truth[.]"

(Alma 30:52 - 53). Alma perceived that Korihor knew that God existed. Alma, therefore, relies on this knowledge to remind Korihor that the universe testifies of God's existence. For those who already believe that God exists, the whole visible world takes on new meaning. Far from playing the part of philosopher or theologian, Alma plays the part of a prophetic midwife, helping Korihor to birth the forgotten truth that he knew all along; a forgotten truth that would allow Korihor to see the world as it really is: a testament to God's living existence.

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* See, e.g., Chauncey Riddle, Korihor: The Arguments of Apostasy, Neal A Maxwell Institute for Religious Scholarship, BYU. I would caution relying on these terms too heavily, however. These terms arose in particular European cultural situations. They invoke a family of views that gain their content from a complex cultural situation. Given more information about Korihor and his cultural context, it is likely that these terms would fail to adequately explain his thought.

The God Who Calls, The Disciple Who Flees

Why do some individuals hear God's voice in response to sincere prayer, while others call after God only to hear silence? Recent discussions with friends and family has forced this question into my awareness. And in this brief post, I can only offer a personal insight that some may find offensive. The truth of my insight, however, will turn, in each instance, upon the private assessment of the reader. And the quality of the reader's assessment will turn, in each instance, upon his capacity for brutal self-honesty. From the outset, I emphasize that what I write here does not explain every unanswered prayer. Yet, for some individuals--myself included--it explains precisely why many individuals can hear God's call, flee from it, and forget that they had ever heard God's voice. To best explain this insight, I detour into a helpful, hypothetical story.

Imagine a newly wed husband and wife. They excitedly anticipate life together. They both love the other deeply. They clearly recognized this love, and commit to share their lives. Yet, after a brief period of marital bliss, their marriage takes a turn for the worse. From the wife's perspective, the husband suddenly detaches and becomes angry. He invests his time in activities that seem to purposefully exclude her. From the husband's perspective, his wife is no longer the woman with which he fell in love. His anger and detachment arise from this painful fact: he doesn't love her. When asked about his prior love for her, he responds that it wasn't love, but lust, since it didn't endure.

As it turns out, the husband is deeply mistaken about the situation. In fact, he has acted to undermine the marriage and fall out of love with his wife. Why? After the brief period of marital bliss, he realized the depth of commitment made. The marriage requires him to renounce selfishness and to surrender all on the alter of matrimony. His wife reinforced this expectation, asking for his free time, energy, and efforts in building the marriage. Confronted with this demanding obligation, the husband became overwhelmed. Instead of maturing to the challenge, he begins--albeit unconsciously--to behave in ways that undermine the marriage--the source of the onerous obligations.

Again, the husband does not act with full conscious deliberation. He experiences obligation and begins a systematic enterprise of self-deception in which he seeks to escape that obligation without admitting to himself that he is in fact undermining the marriage with this aim in mind. In other words, he deceives himself to preserve the ability to justify his behavior--after all, he doesn't love her anymore. Love begets obligation, and obligation terrifies the husband, causing him to flee. But the husband cannot merely flee from that obligation. His love for his wife will follow him, wherever he goes. The only escape is to erase that love. Only then will his marital obligations disappear.

This self-deceptive flight from marriage is, in fact, similar to what certain existentialists discuss (e.g. Sartre). For those thinkers, when an individual faces his own radical freedom, he also faces the profound obligations that freedom imposes: he must take responsibility for life choices. Most people, when faced with this awful specter, self-deceptively flee into the crowd, allowing a group to direct their life choices. Often, such individuals join groups that loudly trumpet their own individuality and freedom--when in reality they behave as puppets. In short, the self-deceptive flight from life's obligations is real. And if the reader will reflect on the matter, he will see multiple contexts in which this occurs.*

With this insight in hand--i.e. that individuals self-deceptively flee the call of obligation--we can see how it applies to God's call. In my view, many who claim to seek God in vain, are like the husband above. At one time, an individuals seems to enjoy union with God. He confidently declares God's existence, and allows that declaration to shape his life. Yet, after a brief period of discipleship, he begins to detach, doubting what he once seemed to know. He fills his day with activities that exclude prayer and thoughtful study. Eventually, he abandons his faith and proudly proclaims that God never answered his prayers. When asked about the prior religious confidence and apparent union with God--as one could ask the husband about his prior apparent love for his wife--he responds that his confidence and sacred experiences arose from a deep desire for the religion to be true. He, in fact, produced those experiences (or was brainwashed into those experiences) in an attempt to affirm God's existence. Just as the husband explains away his genuine love with recourse to lust, the former disciple explains away his genuine faith with recourse to mere emotion.**

The truth? As it turns out, the disciple acted to undermine his faith. Why? After a brief period of divine union, he realized the depth of the commitment. God demands the disciple to renounce selfishness and to surrender all upon the alter of sacrifice. When the disciple prayed, God did indeed answer. And in that answer--as in the experience of a person's own freedom--the disciple was simultaneously confronted with divine obligations. Confronted with this demand, the disciple became overwhelmed. Instead of maturing to the challenge, he begins--albeit unconsciously--to behave in ways that undermine his faith in and knowledge of God--the source of the onerous obligations.

Again, the disciple does not act with full conscious deliberation. He experiences God's demands and begins a systematic enterprise of self-deception in which he seeks to escape that obligation without admitting to himself that he is in fact undermining his knowledge and faith with this aim in mind. In other words, he deceives himself to preserve the ability to justify his flight from God--after all, he doesn't know whether God exists. Prayer begets knowledge, knowledge begets the terror of divine obligation, and divine obligation engenders the disciple to flee. But the disciple cannot merely flee from that obligation. God's presence surrounds him and the only escape is to erase his memory of God. With his knowledge of God erased, the force of divine obligation subsides.

Many will find what I've said offensive. The reader may say: "this is the typical response by members when asked why people leave the church, viz., 'so they can sin.'" If the reader has this reaction, he has deeply misunderstood my argument. When a husband leaves his wife because of onerous obligations, he leaves, not to sleep with other women, but to escape the demands of the marriage. Likewise, when a disciple flees from God, he flees, not to sin, but to escape God's demands. I can, with great confidence, argue this point. After all, I myself sought to flee from God's call at one time. In retrospect, I can say that I stepped away from God, not because I didn't know whether he existed, but because I did know that he existed, and that knowledge placed too much demand upon me. As Soren Kierkegaard's aptly titled book suggests, when we approach God, God demands sacrifice and that demand makes any individual, even the true disciple, experience "Fear and Trembling."


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*As an additional example, many confronted with the demands society imposes on adults, flee into childish behaviors, avoiding employment and escaping into virtual worlds that can, by their nature, impose no real demands upon them.

**Some may argue that the very idea of self-deception is suspect. How can we purposefully act, while concealing purposiveness of the act? For those who would make this claim, while at the same time affirming our ability to generate spiritual experiences, a more careful reflection on the powers of the human mind is in order.

Disentangling Immaterial Souls

Classical Christian doctrine—and for that matter, nearly the whole of contemporary Christian doctrine—espouses belief in immaterial souls. Properly understood, our immaterial souls ground individual identity, conscious life, rationality, and moral accountability. At time of biological death, our souls will separate from the physical body, with the hopes of reunion at resurrection day.

Despite its respectable genealogy—mostly attributable to Plato—and its widespread acceptance, the doctrine of immaterial souls cannot fulfill the measure of its creation. One reason is the inability to disentangle and distinguish one immaterial soul from another.

Matter, unlike an immaterial soul, can be identified via its location in space-time.[1] Matter is extended and locatable in relation to other physical entities. An immaterial soul, by contrast, is not extended and not locatable in space-time. Consequently, we cannot distinguish your soul and my soul by indexing them to a particular space-time location.

Thus, this question emerges: in virtue of what are two immaterial souls disentangled and distinguished?

One proposal distinguishes immaterial souls with reference to a unique, identifying psychology. This psychology would include a unique set of memories, habits, character traits, and the like.

This suggestion, however, may prove inadequate. To begin, memories, habits, character traits, and the like are constituted by, and are manifested in, the causal structure of reality. My psychology is formed, in significant part, during interaction with the social and physical world. Further, my psychology manifests itself in relation to that social and physical world. So, it is not clear how my immaterial soul possesses a psychology that is dependent on the causal structure of the world. Such an immaterial psychology would be, at best, always in potentiality until reunion with a resurrected body and that is like no psychology we are familiar with.

More importantly, though, this suggestion suffers conceptual breakdown. Imagine a parallel universe identical to this universe in all relevant respects. Now imagine your parallel twin in that universe. She possesses your identical psychological structure. She has your same temperament, habits, and predilections. In short, respecting psychology, you and your parallel twin are identical. However, your parallel twin is not identical to you, since you reside in different universes. Now imagine that at the exact moment you die, your parallel twin also dies. At time of soul/body separation, you and your parallel twin possess the identical psychological structure. Thus, if your immaterial soul is distinguished from your parallel twin’s immaterial soul by psychology, it follows that at time of death, you and your parallel twin are identical. For that matter, it follows that your souls are identical during life as well. Yet, logic compels the distinction all along the way.[2] Importantly, even though this may never happen in the actual world, it shows that conceptually, the criterion cannot possibly correct.  

The parallel twin example suggests another way to disentangle and distinguish immaterial souls: each immaterial soul is distinguished by being associated with a particular body. But again, conceptually, this criterion won’t suffice. Imagine that God assigns an archangel, call him Michael, to create and bind immortal souls to particular human bodies at the time of conception.[3] However, prior to Noah’s flood, God and the other archangels are overworked and so recruit Michael to help. Unfortunately, one day Michael, multitasking and distracted, creates a soul and fails to properly bind it to its intended body. The floodwaters eventually roll in, destroying the soulless shell of a body, and the created soul never unites with its intended host. Fortunately, Michael, now devoted full time to soul-body binding, never repeats the former accident. At the end of God’s magnificent redemptive work, every single human soul was associated with a particular body, except one. However, this single immaterial soul can be distinguished precisely in virtue of the fact that it was never associated with a particular body. Thus, a soul can be distinguished without being associated with a particular body.

Now imagine the same thought experiment in the reverse: imagine the exact same scenario. Michael is distracted during Noah’s flood, only this time he does not misplace a single soul, but places two created souls into a single body. The result is conjoined-soul twins that share the same host body. If they are distinguished by reference to a particular body, then they will be identical and hence indistinguishable. But God created two souls. In short, the body-soul association suggestion can’t possibly be right. 

At this point, one may argue that God distinguishes souls. He recognizes each individual soul and in that recognition disentangles and distinguishes them. But the question reoccurs: in virtue of what does God recognize and distinguish each individual soul? Is it in virtue of a soul’s psychology, including its memories and habits? Is it in virtue of a body-soul association? Some combination? Some other criterion altogether? In the end, this explanation may prove theologically satisfying, but it will not prove philosophically satisfying.

Faced with similar arguments, German Idealists, like Hegel, and some strains of Buddhist thought, deny the existence of immaterial souls. Instead, since souls cannot be distinguished, such theorists hold, there must be a single, unifying principle, or world/universe soul underlying all of empirical reality. Accordingly, a deep unity pervades all apparently distinguishable phenomena. At the other extreme, contemporary physicalists, like Daniel Dennett and Patricia Churchland, deny immaterial souls. Instead, humans are beautifully complex meat computers, nothing more.

Between these two responses, Mormonism points to a third-way: a layered physical reality, with material souls. And I will walk that “third-way” in a subsequent post.

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[1] Though I note, quantum mechanics may challenge this claim.

[2] An argument from contradiction demonstrating the distinction could be supplied by relying upon Leibniz criterion of identity, which states that if x=y, then anything that can be predicated of x, can be predicated of y. The fact that you and your parallel twin reside in distinct universes supplies all we need to generate such an argument. I spare you the details. 

[3] In Christian theology the view that God creates the soul at time of conception is called creationism. By contrast, traducianism is the view that individual souls are generated as a natural result of the procreation process.  

Does the Infinite Exist?: the Distortion of Language and Self

Does the Infinite exist apart from our thinking it? or is it bound to our cognition? This is similar to other questions in philosophy, such as, whether numbers exist in objective reality or are they simply “in the head” as entities created by human cognition. In this post, I will present two arguments for and against the existence of the Infinite. These arguments will dovetail into one another. The first argument will be an ontological argument. Ontological arguments attempt to prove a position by the meaning of the term alone. In this case the meaning of the Infinite will be used to show that the entity corresponding to the term must exist independent of our minds. The second argument will be a reductio ad absurdum. It will begin with the claim that the Infinite exists—the conclusion of the first argument—and show that this position leads to absurd, untenable results. In the end, I will briefly elucidate the consequences of accepting either position.

The term the Infinite means that which is unbounded.[1] We can think about this concept and understand its meaning. Yet, in thinking about the Infinite, if we suppose that it is confined to our cognition alone—i.e. it does not exist independent of us—then we are not thinking about that which is completely unbounded. After all, an entity which is bound to our cognition is not completely unbounded. Since the Infinite means that which is completely unbounded, the entity we refer to in using the term the Infinite must exist independent of our thinking it.[2] In other words, what we mean by the term the Infinite requires that something actually exist independent of us in order to satisfy the meaning of the term. Therefore, the Infinite exists independent of us.

The Infinite exists and is wholly unbounded. To be wholly unbounded, the Infinite must encompass all that we encounter in experience, viz. the whole cosmos. The Infinite contains all abstract objects and concrete objects, including human agents.[3] However, these entities have distinct properties that demarcate them from one another. For example, human agents have the distinct property of subjectivity—i.e. they are aware of themselves as freely acting subjects with an independent identity separate from other agents and entities.[4] If these various entities truly can be demarcated from one another, and if the Infinite, by definition, must contain them since it is unbounded and encompasses all things, then either the Infinite is not unbounded since it has divisions in itself setting forth various boundaries between various types of entities and human agents, or these various entities and human agents are mere illusions arising from human cognition. It cannot be the case that the Infinite has divisions within itself, since it would not be truly unbounded. Therefore, the entities we encounter in experience, including ourselves as distinct subjects, are merely illusions. The Infinite requires that all reality is one, unbounded whole and since it must exist (see the Ontological argument above) we as human agents cannot have an independent existence over and against each other or other things. It therefore follows that there is no such thing as individual personalities—i.e. your sense of being an independent personality is an illusion—or separate entities, all reality is one; it is all the Infinite.

If these arguments are both sounds and cogent, respectively, what they show is that inherent difficulties result from taking either position. If we conclude that the Infinite actually exists, it follows that we as human agents—as independent personalities which are thinking about the Infinite—do not exist as individuals. All things are metaphysically one. If, on the other hand, we conclude that the Infinite does not exist, then we must conclude that our language is not a reliable guide to reality; for the term the Infinite seems to require a corresponding object independent of us. If our language is unreliable the next natural conclusion would be an epistemic skepticism about what we can know by means of our language. We may suppose that we can deny the existence of the Infinite and rethink the way our language works; in particular, that our language doesn’t have to reliably refer to things in reality, by its terms, in order to grant us knowledge. A language detached from referential relations in this manner may engender greater difficulties than just biting the bullet and maintaining the existence of the Infinite, though. So, we either don’t exist as individuals or, if we do exist, our language is an unreliable guide to reality leadings us into a type of skepticism.[5]

As for my part, I would refer the reader to my previous blog post entitled “The Infinite.” I suggested there that any attempt to speak about the Infinite annihilates our understanding of it. For if the Infinite is truly unbounded, it cannot be encapsulated in a definition or, more broadly, in our language through description. And perhaps this blog has further demonstrated that point. When we attempt to encapsulate such a grandiose entity into our language it distorts it—almost as if it is trying to break free of our concepts, being too large for them, and in the process completely bends the usual boundaries of our linguistic concepts. Further, in the attempt to encapsulate the Infinite it began to bend and warp our sense of self or our sense that we can reliably know the world through our language. In short, whatever the Infinite is, the attempt to encapsulate it in human thinking and language leads to the inevitable distortion of the same. Perhaps Wittgenstein’s wisdom comes radiating through even more brilliantly, “whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.” Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus.

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[1] See my previous post entitled “the Infinite” for further clarification on this premise.

[2] Kant’s criticism that “exist” is not a true predicate may seem appropriate here. However, when it is observed that the Infinite cannot be bounded in any sense, including bounded to modal contingency, then it seems appropriate to say that the Infinite must “necessarily exist.” Important, necessary existence is a true predicate.

[3] If the Infinite did not encompass all entities then it would have a boundary, viz. a boundary separating it from these entities.

[4] We all have this experience. I experience myself as Judson Burton with certain memories, habits, desires, interests, etc. And I recognize that my identity in all of this is separate from the identity of my wife, Angela. She is an independent person apart from me.
[5] As with all philosophical arguments, these conclusions can be resisted. In a later post, I will take up a response to these arguments to ward of potential skepticism and maintain our common sense notion of the self.

The Infinite

The infinite cannot, by definition, be defined. Our common sense notion of “the infinite,” after all, is that which is unbounded.[1] Paradoxically, this notion is a definition that seeks to contain or encapsulate that which by definition cannot be encapsulated. Oddly, we understand what we are talking about when we use the term, “the infinite.” Yet, in speaking of it, or in defining it, we annihilate our understanding of it by attempting to encapsulate it. Perhaps the best we can do when speaking about the infinite is follow Austrian philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein’s lead, “whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.”  Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus.[2]

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[1] It is important to note that the term “the infinite,” uses the definite article, “the” since only one thing could possibly be totally and completely unbounded. If two things were unbounded they would be totally inclusive of each other thereby being the same entity.

[2] I appreciate the recent conversations I’ve had with a close friend which has brought Wittgenstein and a few of his teachings to my awareness.