Ascending Mt. Moriah: Divine Command Theory, Human Free Will, and Ecclesiastical Authority

This past week, I posted about how morality without God rests on a form of self-deception. This post, to my surprise, gave rise to a discussion among my friends about Divine Command Theory, which I abbreviate as DCT in what follows. That discussion has caused me to think more deeply about DCT. In this post, I have explored new thoughts—at least new to me—on how DCT influences our understanding of ecclesiastical authority. I have also discussed other aspects of DCT. What follows is not carefully and analytically argued. Much of it may prove objectionable. It is not intended as an airtight argument, but as my general impressions of DCT’s problems. To discuss those problems, though, I must first briefly identify what DCT is.

Divine Command Theory*

Divine Command Theory (DCT) is a metaphysical theory about what makes an action right or wrong. Advocates of the theory hold that when God commands something, it is obligatory to do that thing. So if God commands Abraham to sacrifice Isaac, then it is morally obligatory (and morally praiseworthy) for Abraham to plunge the dagger into his son.

This view stands in conflict with Moral Realism. Moral Realism, for our purposes, comes in two types: Platonism and Divine Goodness Theories (DGT). Platonism posits universal, eternal moral realities that exist independently of God. These realities fix what is right and wrong, good and evil. When human agents grasp that murder is wrong, they grasp a universal, eternal law that exists independently of what any agent believes. Christian theologians have been reluctant to accept Platonism, as it invokes realities that God did not create and to which he is subject.

DGT, in comparison, import these “Platonic” moral realities into God’s nature. Stated differently, under DGT, God’s nature is essentially good. Thus, when human agents grasp that murder is wrong, they grasp God’s nature, achieving a type of intellectual union with it. This theory, importantly, is different than DCT. For theorists of DGT (keep up with the acronyms) say that God’s nature is fixed and essentially good. God cannot change his nature tomorrow to make murder consistent with it. But DCT roots God’s goodness in his will, which is not fixed. God can command murder one day and revoke that command the next.

One problem a proponent of DGT must face is a lack of divine omnipotence. DGT, after all, maintains that God’s nature is fixed and that God must act consistent with it. God cannot alter his nature. He is what he essentially is. Nor can he act contrary to that nature, for he is essentially good.

Most proponents of DGT address the problem of omnipotence by claiming that acts inconsistent with goodness are not acts of power. Thus, murder is not an act of power. Acts of power, under this understanding, express goodness. And murder does not express goodness.

Advocates of DCT reject this solution. They instead claim that God is not constrained by his nature. He can command anything. At one time he may say, “thou shalt not murder,” and at another, “thou shalt utterly destroy.” If he is not constrained by a fixed nature, he can be omnipotent in the strongest sense of the term. William of Ockham, a well known advocate of DCT, made this move to preserve divine omnipotence. But in resolving the problem of divine omnipotence, DCT creates new ones.

Problems with DCT

The problems created by DCT are manifold. Many may prove soluble. For my purposes, I will focus on two-types of problems. The first type of problem concerns how DCT distorts the divine nature. The second type concerns how DCT distorts our understanding of free will and ecclesiastical power. 

Problems with the Divine Nature

Regarding the first type, DCT safeguards divine power by making goodness purely subjective: goodness is what God decrees. So if God commands the murder of children, it would be morally obligatory and morally good to carry out that command. Under this theory, we should praise those who comply with God’s command.[1]

But we intuitively view the murder of children as deeply wrong, no matter who commands it. By the light of our own reason, we would adjudicate a god who commanded such a thing, as a god engaged in immoral acts. This, to my mind, reveals that DCT fundamentally misunderstands the foundations of moral goodness and moral obligations.

But an advocate of DCT will contend that we simply err in our moral judgments when we adjudicate the divinely commanded murder of children to be wrong. In making this move, the advocate owes us an error theory. In philosophical parlance, an error theory explains why we err in our judgments. Take the analogous case of free will. Some philosophers deny that we have free will. In so doing, they must confront the fact that we experience ourselves as endowed with the capacity for free choice.

Similarly, in this case, the divine command advocate must explain why we err in seeing God’s commands as immoral. If God commanded the murder of a son, why do we experience this event as unethical? Is it merely due to societal convention that we view such an act as wrong?

Each of these answers is plausible enough. They reveal, however, another problem for DCT. For the theory imagines a world where our moral judgments may be radically wrong. When you and I intuit the murder of a child as wrong, we could be mistaken; God may have commanded it. And if we could be wrong about that judgment, we could be wrong about a whole host of pedestrian judgments. Furthermore, we could be right about one judgment today (murder of children is wrong), and wrong about it tomorrow when God decrees the opposite. 

More deeply, then, the God of DCT may have created us in such a way that we cannot recognize good and evil. This, in turn, has some drastic implications for human culpability for sin--an issue I do not grapple with here. Instead, I am more interested in the effects of DCT in more practical affairs. And it is to that issue that I now turn.

DCT’s Effect on Free Will and Ecclesiastical Authority

In addition to the problems listed above, I believe DCT gives rise to several more practical problems. First, it distorts our view of human free will. For our understanding of human free will follows our understanding of divine free will. This is not a necessary truth, but a historically verified contingent truth.

Before DCT gained widespread acceptance among theological circles, Moral Realism of the DGT variety held sway. DGT, as discussed above, modeled divine free will as constrained by the divine nature. God cannot murder a child as it is inconsistent with his nature. Those who held this view, also held an analogous view of human free will. The proper use of freedom, for these theologians, was the conduct in conformity with human nature. But human agents, unlike God, are fallible and weak willed. We often commit acts that are inconsistent with our God-given natures; whereas God, who is infallible, perfectly realizes his nature.

When DCT gained traction, a new model of human freedom arose. Now, human freedom was not the power to actualize a human nature, but the freedom to express one’s will. This, strangely, has caused us to view the proper exercise of human freedom as unconstrained by any moral laws. True freedom, is not freedom to actualize moral laws grounded in essential human nature. No. True freedom is freedom from any constraints on the human will.[2]

DCT has also, in my judgment, had an impact on the notion of ecclesiastical authority and legitimacy. Those who embrace DCT see God’s authority as flowing from his power, not from his goodness. This may be a controversial point. But if God does not have a fixed, essentially good nature, then his authority is grounded in the exercise of his will. Whatever he wills is good because he wills it. Stated differently, we give ascent to God’s commands because those commands flow from the exercise of God’s power, not because they flow from an essentially good, divine nature. And where we give ascent to God because of his power, we worship God because he is powerful.

This, it seems to me, holds some negative implications for ecclesiastical authority. For parishioners who come to see a particular person as uniquely connected God, will come to treat that person's authority in a way analogous to the way they treat God's authority. They will come to believe that this person's authority is legitimate because it is an exercise of authority.

I believe this is exactly the wrong orientation. I believe ecclesiastical authority is legitimate only where it is legitimate. Put differently, legitimacy flows, at least in part, from morality, not solely from authority. A man’s pronouncements are not authoritative merely because he thunders them from atop a figurative ecclesiastical Mt. Moriah. To be sure, we must give latitude to God’s divinely appointed leaders. But that latitude has limits—limits I do not fully explore in this already lengthy post.

Conclusion

In the end, many who suppose themselves advocates of DCT are actually driven by a sense of epistemic humility. Namely, the trust God’s judgments more than their own, including when those judgments are given through earthly authority. This is admirable, and I too strive for that humility. But we should not equate epistemic humility with divine command theory. The former actually assumes, I believe, an objective moral order that God is better able to perceive; the latter assumes no such order and no such perceiving. It instead denies a moral order and holds that God’s commands generate the moral order.

As I hope to discuss in my next post, this view, in its starkest form, is inconsistent with Mormonism’s view of God. I also reemphasize that what I have said above may be objectionable in many particulars. Some of my readers may wish to defend DCT, and there are good defenses of my comments above. But I will ultimately argue that DCT is a flawed metaphysical theory inconsistent with Mormon theism.

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* A great deal of nuisance among divine command theories. I cannot explore all of those nuisances here, and some may rightly accuse me of creating a straw-man version of DCT. But the version I present is the most basic articulation of the theory.

[1] The theory also, I note, distorts divine goodness, leading to the conclusion that God lacks moral virtue because a moral virtue would have to be defined as a habit to do an action that God commands.

[2] For those interested in this point, I commend David Bentley Hart’s book, Atheist Delusions, where this idea is explored in greater detail.

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.

The Nominal Fallacy and the Loss of Personal Relationships

            A fallacy is a form of faulty reasoning. These forms litter our thinking, and one who seeks truth must exercise great caution to avoid them. Take the democratic fallacy (argumentum ad populum) as an example. This form of reasoning holds that a proposition is true because most people believe it to be true. This model of reasoning can lead us to err: if 9 out of 10 people believe the northern star resides in the southern hemisphere, those people are still wrong. The truth of a proposition is not up to a vote.

Perhaps a more pernicious fallacy is the nominal fallacy (from the Latin nomen, meaning name). This fallacy posits that when you apply a name (or label) to something, you have explained it. Put differently, a name transmits explanatory content. So framed, this is a descriptive form of the fallacy: a name describes (i.e. explains) that to which it applies. But I believe the fallacy also occurs in a prescriptive or normative form—a point of relevance to what follows. In the prescriptive form, a name both describes (explains) and evaluates.

The nominal fallacy—in its descriptive and prescriptive forms—permeates all intellectual endeavors. To elaborate, imagine a person attaches the label “democracy” to a particular society. Has he thereby descriptively explained that society or its form of social organization? No. Has he even prescriptively fixed its value or worth as a form of social life? No. The name itself carries no explanatory or normative information. Understanding and evaluating a society requires careful assessment of its institutions, cultures, and mores.

But as intellectually lazy creatures (and we all are), employing a label as a shortcut to knowledge is satisfying. Labels free us of the labor necessary for authentic understanding. In freeing us, however, they deceive us, leading us into an encounter not with the reality we try to understand, but with a pale conceptual counterpart that bears a cartoonish resemblance. The nominal fallacy, therefore, confers the gift of cheap, pseudo knowledge.

Aside from the epistemic error flowing from this form of reasoning, it also carries with it a deeper, existential problem. Specifically, when we use labels or names to explain a person, we no longer enter into a personal relationship with him or her. We instead strap a cartoonish, abstract concept onto that person, which shields us from a direct encounter. So shielded, we do not see a flesh and blood person, a unique individual, but a mere representative of some pernicious or virtuous class or group.

Who hasn’t heard a political opponent charging his interlocutor (if that term even properly applies) as a “racist” or a “liberal snowflake.” In taking up this debate tactic, the political opponent believes he has explained his interlocutor while revealing something about his interlocutor’s worth. But the nominal fallacy, as already noted, bears the cheap gift of pseudo knowledge. It gives rise to an illusion in the mind of the political opponent—an illusion that makes him feel virtuous.

He is far from it, though. Not because he errs, but because he has severed himself from a direct encounter with the person he maligns. His interlocutor is not a person with a family and career, with hopes, desires, and fears. No. For the political opponent, his interlocutor is a racist or a liberal snowflake—a manifestation of an abstract class or group. And the interlocutor knows he has not been treated as a person, but as a proxy for something worthy of derision.

The nominal fallacy—while easy and satisfying—is, I believe, a form of intellectual cowardice. One who employs it is never forced to look another person—a real individual—in the eyes. He instead dehumanizes the other and then looks at a mere object of his outrage. This form of cowardice, therefore, makes political conversations easier and more difficult. Easier because it frees participants from any meaningful intellectual work. More difficult because it raises the cost of engaging in any type of dialogue whatsoever. As responsible citizens, we must avoid this form of thinking like a cancer. Our republic—which depends on our having difficult conversations in a respectful way—cannot long survive its presence.

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.

Contemporary Epistemology and the Tension Between Circularity and Incompleteness

As I prepare to study epistemology at the University of Edinburgh in January, I am reminded of the circular nature of contemporary epistemology. Epistemologists seek to define the term "knowledge" to understand precisely what humans can know and when they can know it. Traditionally, philosophers defined "knowledge" as "justified true belief." This definition held until the 20th Century when Edmund Gettier published a paper that called this definition into question. See "Is Justified True Belief Knoweldge," available at http://fitelson.org/proseminar/gettier.pdf.

Since that time, epistemologists have provided ever more sophisticated definitions of "knowledge." With each definition, however, a conscientious philosopher must ask "how do you know that this definition of knowledge is correct? Is it on the basis of the very conditions set forth in the definition (in which case your argument is circular) or is it on the basis of some other conditions that give rise to your knowledge? If the latter, your current definition of knowledge, whose accuracy you know on the basis of some other conditions for knowledge, does not actually define all instances of human knowledge as it purports." And for any putative definition of knowledge, the philosopher can repeat this identical line of questioning to show that any definition of knowledge is either circular or incomplete. This, it seems, leads inexorably to skepticism.

In the end, the philosophical landscape may not be this bleak. There are plenty of cogent responses to my line of reasoning above. However, I think it worth mentioning that all epistemology must confront this foundational tension between circularity and incompleteness. As Plato's Meno aptly argues (in what philosophers subsequently label the paradox of knowledge): "And how are you going to search for [the nature of virtue] when you don't know at all what it is, Socrates? Which of all the things you don't know will you set up as the target for your search? And even if you actually come across it, how will you know that it is that thing which you don't know?" (Meno 80d).

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.