We recreate the past as something new: in novels, plays, video games. Sometimes it is a literal recreation of the past, sometimes it is an imagined future modeled on the past. We judge today against a pretended yesterday, and wish for good old days. Spenser took his world, one of Calvinists and Catholics, dressed it up in knights and dragons and casltes, and called it history. Virgil looked to a fallen nation to tell the story of a rising empire. One myth about human creation wasn't enough for ovid; he needed two.
The past is not a thing that once was, and its stories are not inflexible because they've already happened. The past is the newest, most important news, and going backwards in time is the smartest place to look for the next step forward. We don't dream up the past arbitrarily; we grow it, water it. The present is not a point on a line, but a branch on a living tree. The roots then bring the substance to flowers now.
Our age is one which mistrusts tradition. It is suspicious of the old and rooted. There is some good to that, for progression cannot have a fixation on the past. But institutions of the past link us to the soil of history that feeds new thought. Look at the most creative, original minds: their brains are fevered, more often than not, with something brilliantly ancient. We cannot discard the past or its influences anymore than our heads can discard our feet and knees. We mustn't stare dumbly at our feet, though, in wonderment of their design. We get new shoes, we go to foot doctors, so that we can better use our body's foundation. Just as we don't ignore our limbs for the sake of better movement, we must never ignore the stories of history, tradition and imagination with the illusion that this will better humanity.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Mythic Echoes and Disassociation
Mythic Echoes and Disassociation:
The Tower of Babel and the Achaean Wall
“The Deluge and the Golden Age are myth; it is doubtless through an extensive series of modifications that echoes of the myths have become poetry.” Ruth Scodel 50
Opening with this closing remark from Scodel, I hope to highlight the fact that myth is by no means static, but a fluid, ongoing human production still in discourse today. The works of Homer have often been called the “Greek Bible.” Considering the historical importance of these texts, the analogy is not a bad one. However, they are not merely cultural counterparts. Each work has its own unique poise, and while both function as conveyers of myth, they are not identical or wholly equivocal. Through one story of The Iliad, specifically the destruction of the Achaean fortifications, and one of Genesis, the destruction of the tower of Babel. I want to examine this relationship. While these bear thematic relevance to one another, I believe they hint at something crucial to the disparity of the texts. They share a moral impetus: human pride gets no divine favor. They share the perceived result of such pride: their efforts will be scattered. What they do not share, however, is the explanatory impulse more peculiar to, though certainly not isolated to, the Bible. The analogous dialogue of myths with each other is dealt extensively in Laura Slatkin’s The Power of Thetis, a theme highly relevant not only to studies of Homer but also to the Bible: “As with rearrangements of formulas or themes, alternative combinations of the features of a myth are possible and equally legitimate, the choices serving to reveal the framework imposed on its subject matter by traditional genre requirements of heroic epics” (Slatkin 3). Just as myths cognate to Homer within his own culture can be useful to enriching a reading of Homer, Slatkin’s impetus to cross-examine myths thematically can be equally useful when considering mythopoesis across cultures. This premise is a driving factor of the following analysis.
The process of drawing these two bodies of myth together is, of course, already underway. In “The Achaean Wall and the Myth of Destruction,” Ruth Scodel examines the very same place in Homer that I am; that is, the anger of Poseidon at the building of the Achaean fortifications. She argues that “The Trojan War functions as a myth of destruction,” tying this to the deluge in Genesis, but also to other myths, such as the flood alluded to in The Epic of Gilgamesh, and some Babylonian myths (Scodel 39-42). She traces nicely this theme of destruction, discussing how the mythic map of Homer fills out and is supplemented by that of the Bible. Of course, her work is not exhaustive, nor is it meant to be; much like Slatkin’s short book, it merely seeks to flesh out similarities and relations of thought between two mythic bodies, in my opinion to encourage further exploration of both texts. Scodel herself notes that while the story of the Achaean wall resonates with the tale of the flood in Genesis, it is not a perfect correlation because “A war, no matter how long and how bitter, does not seem calamitous enough to have been an original form of the myth of destruction; it is, moreover, a normally human and local activity, to be explained historically, rather than a divine visitation. It therefore seems likely that this mythic aspect of the Trojan War is secondary, and that the theme has actually been borrowed from the Deluge” (Scodel 42-43).
I agree entirely that the Deluge myth reverberates strongly in the background of the story; it is the god of the ocean who threatens the wall, after all, and just as Jehovah threatens his world with destruction for its wickedness, so Poseidon is wrathful over the Achaeans’ shortcomings. However, there is a locality, as Scodel notes, which somewhat diminishes the scene in Homer from that in Genesis, so that while the Achaean wall is an echo of the Deluge myth tradition, it is a descendent myth rather than a contemporary one, in terms of mythological narrative. I think that the story of the Tower of Babel, therefore, is a somewhat more analogous story to the invective against the Achaean wall. It, in an even more explicit way, follows after a Deluge myth (indeed, is only a few pages later) and contains echoes of the myth it follows (a similar theme of destruction and punishment). Yet, like the story in Homer, the Tower of Babel’s recounting is given a locality, circumscribing it to a more specific mythic space, whereas the Deluge in both texts is an overwhelming, almost universal presence. In short, I believe that these two stories are in equal debt to Scodel’s conception of the “myth of destruction.”
There is one other, brief point of departure between my aims here and Scodel’s. Her purpose is more exclusively to trace the way in which Biblical myth resonates and echoes with Homer’s. Of course, that interest is very much a driving force in this discussion. She also briefly discusses a disassociation of Homeric myth from Near Eastern roots near the end of her essay, though she does not take this theme very far. It is my hope, however, to take it a step further. Just as cross-examining the myths for relationships of thoughts and themes is important, comprehending disparities in cultural poise is also important. For this reason, I will be concluding with an analysis of where the myths in question seem to come apart.
Doubtlessly, the action of these scenes is easily drawn together. In book seven of The Iliad, the Achaeans build a funeral pyre, and then construct fortifications around it. Poseidon is angered by this, and goes to Zeus demanding to know, “is there any mortal left on the wide earth who will still declare to the immortals his mind and his purpose?” (180). Zeus partially rebukes him for being so concerned about his station as a god, but agrees that the wall must go. And indeed, later in the story this happens. Similarly, in chapter 11 of Genesis we are told that people of Shinar began constructing a wall together. Their rationale for this tower partially has its roots in defense; they build it for fear that “we may be scattered over all the surface of the earth,” but interestingly the primary one they voice is not pragmatic at all: “Let us build ourselves a city and also a tower with its top in the heavens, and let us make a celebrated name for ourselves” (New World Translation of the Holy Scriptures, Gen. 11:4). The degree to which this echoes the words of Poseidon is astounding: “Now the fame of this will last as long as dawnlight is scattered” (Iliad 180). It is the fame of their tower that eggs on the people of Shinar, and the potential fame of the Achaeans’ wall which angers Poseidon. Indeed, it is not mere vanity which invokes divine wrath, but the forgetting of one’s place on the part of the humans. The Achaians have not sacrificed to Poseidon, and their work rivals that of the sea god and Apollo. The people of Shinar wish to “reach the heavens,” and as Jehovah says, they think there “is nothing that they may have in mind to do that will be unattainable for them” (Genesis 11:6).
The punishment for this transgression of hubris is very similar. Zeus tells Poseidon to “break their wall to pieces and scatter it into the salt sea and pile again the beach deep under the sands and cover it; so let the great wall of the Achaeans go down to destruction” (Iliad 180). Jehovah does not scatter the Tower in the passage in Genesis, but scatters its builders. And his scattering is far deeper: he scatters their ideas by causing their language to become mixed up. It may seem that the Biblical punishment is more severe than the Homeric one, but we must remember too that the people of Shinar were transgressing on a much grander scale, and intentionally, while the act of the Achaians could very well have been mere oversight. Indeed, if we doubt that Zeus would not respond with equal ferocity to mortal transgressions into divine jurisdiction to Jehovah’s, we need only remember his words to the gods during the Trojan battle:
“And anyone I perceive against the gods’ will attempting to go among the Trojans and help them, or among the Danaans, he shall go whipped against his dignity back to Olympos; or I shall take him and dash him down to the murk of Tartaros, far below, where the uttermost depth of the pit lies under earth, where there are gates of iron and a brazen doorstone, as far beneath the house of Hades as from earth the sky lies. Then he will see how far I am the strongest of all the immortals.” (Iliad 182) Certainly, Zeus does not take kindly to insubordination, and in fact this aggressive assertion of his will follows directly after the transgression of the Achaeans and the supplication of Poseidon.
The similarities and contrasts of these scenes could likely fill many volumes, but I wish to focus on only one disparity. This is the fact that the two gods are in dialogue with each other, whereas Jehovah speaks in dialogue, but seems alone in the text. He uses words like “Look!” and “us”! That the writer chose to use God’s words as dialogue implies a listener: but who is that listener? Angels? Himself? It cannot be another “god” in the Homeric sense. Now, scholars have dealt with this theologically, but in terms of literary analysis, the effect is singular. It brings the reader into the text: God is, in fact, talking to us. The action of the text becomes, therefore, present. And indeed, we get explanations from the story which are pertinent to the present: how we came to be a race of many languages, and the name of the place where it happened, ‘Babel.’ The action of Homer’s tale does not do this. We are told nothing about what effect Zeus’ decree against the wall did to change our lives. The action of Homer’s story, therefore, at least in this moment, serves to further only the action of Homer’s story. This is not to say that his story is not pertinent to the audience; certainly, the moral content could be of great interest either to his contemporaries or to us. And yet, the moral concerns are cast as specific to the moment. Their present-day value is left for the reader or listener to consider, if they do so at all. But for readers of Genesis, the connection of the text to their present day is unavoidable.
Works Cited
Homer. The Iliad. Trans. Richard Lattimoore. Chicago & London: The University of Chicago Press, 1951.
New World Bible Translation Committee. New World Translation of the Holy Scriptures. Pennsylvania: Watch Tower Bible and Tract Society, 1984.
Slatkin, Laura. The Power of Thetis. California: University of California Press, 1994.
Scodel, Ruth. “The Achaean Wall and the Myth of Destruction.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology. Vol. 86, pp. 33-50. Massachusetts: Harvard University, 1982.
The Tower of Babel and the Achaean Wall
“The Deluge and the Golden Age are myth; it is doubtless through an extensive series of modifications that echoes of the myths have become poetry.” Ruth Scodel 50
Opening with this closing remark from Scodel, I hope to highlight the fact that myth is by no means static, but a fluid, ongoing human production still in discourse today. The works of Homer have often been called the “Greek Bible.” Considering the historical importance of these texts, the analogy is not a bad one. However, they are not merely cultural counterparts. Each work has its own unique poise, and while both function as conveyers of myth, they are not identical or wholly equivocal. Through one story of The Iliad, specifically the destruction of the Achaean fortifications, and one of Genesis, the destruction of the tower of Babel. I want to examine this relationship. While these bear thematic relevance to one another, I believe they hint at something crucial to the disparity of the texts. They share a moral impetus: human pride gets no divine favor. They share the perceived result of such pride: their efforts will be scattered. What they do not share, however, is the explanatory impulse more peculiar to, though certainly not isolated to, the Bible. The analogous dialogue of myths with each other is dealt extensively in Laura Slatkin’s The Power of Thetis, a theme highly relevant not only to studies of Homer but also to the Bible: “As with rearrangements of formulas or themes, alternative combinations of the features of a myth are possible and equally legitimate, the choices serving to reveal the framework imposed on its subject matter by traditional genre requirements of heroic epics” (Slatkin 3). Just as myths cognate to Homer within his own culture can be useful to enriching a reading of Homer, Slatkin’s impetus to cross-examine myths thematically can be equally useful when considering mythopoesis across cultures. This premise is a driving factor of the following analysis.
The process of drawing these two bodies of myth together is, of course, already underway. In “The Achaean Wall and the Myth of Destruction,” Ruth Scodel examines the very same place in Homer that I am; that is, the anger of Poseidon at the building of the Achaean fortifications. She argues that “The Trojan War functions as a myth of destruction,” tying this to the deluge in Genesis, but also to other myths, such as the flood alluded to in The Epic of Gilgamesh, and some Babylonian myths (Scodel 39-42). She traces nicely this theme of destruction, discussing how the mythic map of Homer fills out and is supplemented by that of the Bible. Of course, her work is not exhaustive, nor is it meant to be; much like Slatkin’s short book, it merely seeks to flesh out similarities and relations of thought between two mythic bodies, in my opinion to encourage further exploration of both texts. Scodel herself notes that while the story of the Achaean wall resonates with the tale of the flood in Genesis, it is not a perfect correlation because “A war, no matter how long and how bitter, does not seem calamitous enough to have been an original form of the myth of destruction; it is, moreover, a normally human and local activity, to be explained historically, rather than a divine visitation. It therefore seems likely that this mythic aspect of the Trojan War is secondary, and that the theme has actually been borrowed from the Deluge” (Scodel 42-43).
I agree entirely that the Deluge myth reverberates strongly in the background of the story; it is the god of the ocean who threatens the wall, after all, and just as Jehovah threatens his world with destruction for its wickedness, so Poseidon is wrathful over the Achaeans’ shortcomings. However, there is a locality, as Scodel notes, which somewhat diminishes the scene in Homer from that in Genesis, so that while the Achaean wall is an echo of the Deluge myth tradition, it is a descendent myth rather than a contemporary one, in terms of mythological narrative. I think that the story of the Tower of Babel, therefore, is a somewhat more analogous story to the invective against the Achaean wall. It, in an even more explicit way, follows after a Deluge myth (indeed, is only a few pages later) and contains echoes of the myth it follows (a similar theme of destruction and punishment). Yet, like the story in Homer, the Tower of Babel’s recounting is given a locality, circumscribing it to a more specific mythic space, whereas the Deluge in both texts is an overwhelming, almost universal presence. In short, I believe that these two stories are in equal debt to Scodel’s conception of the “myth of destruction.”
There is one other, brief point of departure between my aims here and Scodel’s. Her purpose is more exclusively to trace the way in which Biblical myth resonates and echoes with Homer’s. Of course, that interest is very much a driving force in this discussion. She also briefly discusses a disassociation of Homeric myth from Near Eastern roots near the end of her essay, though she does not take this theme very far. It is my hope, however, to take it a step further. Just as cross-examining the myths for relationships of thoughts and themes is important, comprehending disparities in cultural poise is also important. For this reason, I will be concluding with an analysis of where the myths in question seem to come apart.
Doubtlessly, the action of these scenes is easily drawn together. In book seven of The Iliad, the Achaeans build a funeral pyre, and then construct fortifications around it. Poseidon is angered by this, and goes to Zeus demanding to know, “is there any mortal left on the wide earth who will still declare to the immortals his mind and his purpose?” (180). Zeus partially rebukes him for being so concerned about his station as a god, but agrees that the wall must go. And indeed, later in the story this happens. Similarly, in chapter 11 of Genesis we are told that people of Shinar began constructing a wall together. Their rationale for this tower partially has its roots in defense; they build it for fear that “we may be scattered over all the surface of the earth,” but interestingly the primary one they voice is not pragmatic at all: “Let us build ourselves a city and also a tower with its top in the heavens, and let us make a celebrated name for ourselves” (New World Translation of the Holy Scriptures, Gen. 11:4). The degree to which this echoes the words of Poseidon is astounding: “Now the fame of this will last as long as dawnlight is scattered” (Iliad 180). It is the fame of their tower that eggs on the people of Shinar, and the potential fame of the Achaeans’ wall which angers Poseidon. Indeed, it is not mere vanity which invokes divine wrath, but the forgetting of one’s place on the part of the humans. The Achaians have not sacrificed to Poseidon, and their work rivals that of the sea god and Apollo. The people of Shinar wish to “reach the heavens,” and as Jehovah says, they think there “is nothing that they may have in mind to do that will be unattainable for them” (Genesis 11:6).
The punishment for this transgression of hubris is very similar. Zeus tells Poseidon to “break their wall to pieces and scatter it into the salt sea and pile again the beach deep under the sands and cover it; so let the great wall of the Achaeans go down to destruction” (Iliad 180). Jehovah does not scatter the Tower in the passage in Genesis, but scatters its builders. And his scattering is far deeper: he scatters their ideas by causing their language to become mixed up. It may seem that the Biblical punishment is more severe than the Homeric one, but we must remember too that the people of Shinar were transgressing on a much grander scale, and intentionally, while the act of the Achaians could very well have been mere oversight. Indeed, if we doubt that Zeus would not respond with equal ferocity to mortal transgressions into divine jurisdiction to Jehovah’s, we need only remember his words to the gods during the Trojan battle:
“And anyone I perceive against the gods’ will attempting to go among the Trojans and help them, or among the Danaans, he shall go whipped against his dignity back to Olympos; or I shall take him and dash him down to the murk of Tartaros, far below, where the uttermost depth of the pit lies under earth, where there are gates of iron and a brazen doorstone, as far beneath the house of Hades as from earth the sky lies. Then he will see how far I am the strongest of all the immortals.” (Iliad 182) Certainly, Zeus does not take kindly to insubordination, and in fact this aggressive assertion of his will follows directly after the transgression of the Achaeans and the supplication of Poseidon.
The similarities and contrasts of these scenes could likely fill many volumes, but I wish to focus on only one disparity. This is the fact that the two gods are in dialogue with each other, whereas Jehovah speaks in dialogue, but seems alone in the text. He uses words like “Look!” and “us”! That the writer chose to use God’s words as dialogue implies a listener: but who is that listener? Angels? Himself? It cannot be another “god” in the Homeric sense. Now, scholars have dealt with this theologically, but in terms of literary analysis, the effect is singular. It brings the reader into the text: God is, in fact, talking to us. The action of the text becomes, therefore, present. And indeed, we get explanations from the story which are pertinent to the present: how we came to be a race of many languages, and the name of the place where it happened, ‘Babel.’ The action of Homer’s tale does not do this. We are told nothing about what effect Zeus’ decree against the wall did to change our lives. The action of Homer’s story, therefore, at least in this moment, serves to further only the action of Homer’s story. This is not to say that his story is not pertinent to the audience; certainly, the moral content could be of great interest either to his contemporaries or to us. And yet, the moral concerns are cast as specific to the moment. Their present-day value is left for the reader or listener to consider, if they do so at all. But for readers of Genesis, the connection of the text to their present day is unavoidable.
Works Cited
Homer. The Iliad. Trans. Richard Lattimoore. Chicago & London: The University of Chicago Press, 1951.
New World Bible Translation Committee. New World Translation of the Holy Scriptures. Pennsylvania: Watch Tower Bible and Tract Society, 1984.
Slatkin, Laura. The Power of Thetis. California: University of California Press, 1994.
Scodel, Ruth. “The Achaean Wall and the Myth of Destruction.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology. Vol. 86, pp. 33-50. Massachusetts: Harvard University, 1982.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Clarification of the Problem of Good
It has been mentioned to me that my argument that an atheist cannot assert objective morality in order to disprove God does not seem to hold water. I want to quickly elucidate this point.
Let's look at the Problem of Evil as usually presented.
1. There is evil.
2. God exists.
3. God is all-good.
4. God is all-powerful.
5. These premises imply a contradiction because a good being tries to end evil. Therefore, God cannot be all good and all powerful, because obviously he has not eliminated evil.
There are two problems if this is the argument the atheist is using. First of all, this does not disprove God. It only disproves his being both all-good and all-powerful, or attempts to do so. There are pantheons in certain religions which certainly have such gods. This, however, is not my point.
The Problem of Good is as follows.
1. There is evil in the world.
2. Either evil is objective or subjective.
3. If evil is subjective, then the atheist cannot use it to disprove God's goodness or power. The very nature of subjective is to say that it is specific to human experience and response; if evil is only a matter of subjective experience and no objective morality gives rise to it, then it is not a 'fact' in the way the atheist needs it to be. In short, the Problem of Evil needs evil to be an objective fact. Because objective claims cannot be made against the postulated objective good and powerful qualities of God from a subjective experience. Put another way, we cannot say that the sun is not bright based on the fact that I am not looking at it. Even if we say it is the experience of human vision which makes the sun bright, then we can say that the sun is subjectively bright. We can not say anything from it of the objective brightness if we argue that the experience of brightness is merely subjective. Similarly, if we say that evil is subjective, then we cannot use it to postulate about the objective nature of God.
4. If evil is objectively true, then so is the good. For I take evil to mean either "that which fails to be good in some way" or "that which opposes the good in some way." Evil necessarily implies good, because the first is defined in terms of the second. Good is a standard, evil is a type of deviation from that standard.
5. If this is the case, then good must also objectively exist. We cannot say now that good is a subjective truth and evil an objective one, because one is derived from the other. Either morality is subjective or not. We are following the thread of not.
6. If it can be said that the good exists, then we can say that the unexplainable exists. By the very nature of the atheist's invective, it is the unexplainable aspect of evil which stands against the power and goodness of God. Often it is said by these thinkers that "Such senseless evil denies the existence of God." But by their admission, evil is outside of logic. In this way, good is also outside of logic. By outside I do not necessarily mean that we cannot understand what is good and evil through logic, but only that the existence of good and evil cannot be explained by it. How individual cases come to be are one thing; it is the objective reality of both which is unexplainable.
7. If we hold that good is as senseless as evil, in the sense that we cannot understand it, then we cannot logically connect the senseless evil to the senseless good in such a way to disprove the existence of the good. In this case, the good is God. Senseless evil cannot be used against senseless good by the very fact that both are senseless.
8. Should we say, however, that good and evil are not senseless but entirely apprehendable, we stil must contend with the fact that the good exists. If it does exist objectively, then we must see that it exists outside of subjective humanity. In what sense does the good exist? Does it exist like a number or a philosophical point? In what senses do these things exist? These are difficult questions, but I don't think we need to answer them to see why now the problem of evil fails. If the good indeed exists objectively, then it exists objectively regardless of evil's existence.
9. In short, we can say: Objective evil implies objective good. Objective good is outside of human subjectvity, and so cannot be contained or limited by evil, for this is what it means to exist. Just as evil implies good, it is good from which evil is understood, so the objective good is seen to be higher. Based on the reality of any evil, the reality of any good cannot be disproved; in fact, belief in its existence should only be made stronger.
10. By objective good, I mean God. As I see it, there is no difference whatsoever between these terms. Whatever the objective good is, that is God. We may not understand goodness, and so we may not understand God, but these terms are identical. Whatever goodness is in its purest form, that is God. Of course this does not clarify what God looks like, but that is not the issue here. We do not need to know anything further than that God is the good.
Another point: the argument that objective good does not need God fails. The morality we articulate is a subjective attempt to capture the objective. Utilitarianism makes happiness God; but utilitarianism is itself cannot create the happiness nor deny that happiness is God. If happiness is the greatest good, then happiness is God. The idea that there can be an ethics without God is simply a misunderstanding of what 'ethics' and 'God' mean.
Let's look at the Problem of Evil as usually presented.
1. There is evil.
2. God exists.
3. God is all-good.
4. God is all-powerful.
5. These premises imply a contradiction because a good being tries to end evil. Therefore, God cannot be all good and all powerful, because obviously he has not eliminated evil.
There are two problems if this is the argument the atheist is using. First of all, this does not disprove God. It only disproves his being both all-good and all-powerful, or attempts to do so. There are pantheons in certain religions which certainly have such gods. This, however, is not my point.
The Problem of Good is as follows.
1. There is evil in the world.
2. Either evil is objective or subjective.
3. If evil is subjective, then the atheist cannot use it to disprove God's goodness or power. The very nature of subjective is to say that it is specific to human experience and response; if evil is only a matter of subjective experience and no objective morality gives rise to it, then it is not a 'fact' in the way the atheist needs it to be. In short, the Problem of Evil needs evil to be an objective fact. Because objective claims cannot be made against the postulated objective good and powerful qualities of God from a subjective experience. Put another way, we cannot say that the sun is not bright based on the fact that I am not looking at it. Even if we say it is the experience of human vision which makes the sun bright, then we can say that the sun is subjectively bright. We can not say anything from it of the objective brightness if we argue that the experience of brightness is merely subjective. Similarly, if we say that evil is subjective, then we cannot use it to postulate about the objective nature of God.
4. If evil is objectively true, then so is the good. For I take evil to mean either "that which fails to be good in some way" or "that which opposes the good in some way." Evil necessarily implies good, because the first is defined in terms of the second. Good is a standard, evil is a type of deviation from that standard.
5. If this is the case, then good must also objectively exist. We cannot say now that good is a subjective truth and evil an objective one, because one is derived from the other. Either morality is subjective or not. We are following the thread of not.
6. If it can be said that the good exists, then we can say that the unexplainable exists. By the very nature of the atheist's invective, it is the unexplainable aspect of evil which stands against the power and goodness of God. Often it is said by these thinkers that "Such senseless evil denies the existence of God." But by their admission, evil is outside of logic. In this way, good is also outside of logic. By outside I do not necessarily mean that we cannot understand what is good and evil through logic, but only that the existence of good and evil cannot be explained by it. How individual cases come to be are one thing; it is the objective reality of both which is unexplainable.
7. If we hold that good is as senseless as evil, in the sense that we cannot understand it, then we cannot logically connect the senseless evil to the senseless good in such a way to disprove the existence of the good. In this case, the good is God. Senseless evil cannot be used against senseless good by the very fact that both are senseless.
8. Should we say, however, that good and evil are not senseless but entirely apprehendable, we stil must contend with the fact that the good exists. If it does exist objectively, then we must see that it exists outside of subjective humanity. In what sense does the good exist? Does it exist like a number or a philosophical point? In what senses do these things exist? These are difficult questions, but I don't think we need to answer them to see why now the problem of evil fails. If the good indeed exists objectively, then it exists objectively regardless of evil's existence.
9. In short, we can say: Objective evil implies objective good. Objective good is outside of human subjectvity, and so cannot be contained or limited by evil, for this is what it means to exist. Just as evil implies good, it is good from which evil is understood, so the objective good is seen to be higher. Based on the reality of any evil, the reality of any good cannot be disproved; in fact, belief in its existence should only be made stronger.
10. By objective good, I mean God. As I see it, there is no difference whatsoever between these terms. Whatever the objective good is, that is God. We may not understand goodness, and so we may not understand God, but these terms are identical. Whatever goodness is in its purest form, that is God. Of course this does not clarify what God looks like, but that is not the issue here. We do not need to know anything further than that God is the good.
Another point: the argument that objective good does not need God fails. The morality we articulate is a subjective attempt to capture the objective. Utilitarianism makes happiness God; but utilitarianism is itself cannot create the happiness nor deny that happiness is God. If happiness is the greatest good, then happiness is God. The idea that there can be an ethics without God is simply a misunderstanding of what 'ethics' and 'God' mean.
The Problem of Good
This is the style most of these blogs will take. They are rants, not formulaic arguments. I hope my ideas are helpful to you.
It is an odd turn of the argument that people would use unexplainable evil as a proof against unexplainable good. A vision of true evil, of something wrong, can never disprove God, because if ‘wrong’ is a real thing, then so is ‘right,’ and so, the good exists. And only by admitting an objective morality can the atheist use the problem of Evil against God. But objective morality is, no more and no less, the stuff of God. You might as well disprove the sun by saying that it is too bright to look upon.
Evil, therefore, exists because of good. To remove evil, so must good be removed. But goodness is the point. Goodness is why we are here. So we cannot strike at the good, even if it seems it might remove the evil. Because no matter how terrible evil might get, if we let it destroy the good that created it, then it will win. This happens, you see, in religion. The aim of religion is the good, which is why, of course, it causes, or helps to cause, so much evil. Religion is the art of loving God; but once you have taught someone the highest love, they can then learn the lowest hatred.
To a man dying of cancer, having a needle pierce his skin is very little trouble. To a healthy man, it is a pain he would fight if he believed he did not need it. A very evil man does little good, but a very good man gone a little wrong will do very evil things. Just as a healthy body feels a little pain more acutely than a sickly one, so a good soul is more corrupted by a little evil than a wretched one. If you turn the strength of a strong man to evil things, he will kill many more than a weak man. But strength is a goodness, not an evil. It is only with the increased goodness of strength that it might become so deadly.
So it is the very goodness of religion which makes it so powerful a tool of evil. The key then is not to take away goodness to prevent evil, but to teach it. A strong man, a smart woman, these are good things. We do not kill them to stop the evil they might produce, but teach them better ways so that they can use their powers for marvelous things. Tolerance, humility and free discourse must be taught in every religion, even the secular ones which claim not to be religions (but they are, for they are interested in promoting their vision of good, which is another way of saying “religion), knowing that those will rise who will preach intolerance, arrogance and tyranny.
Let the tyrants speak, but do not let them fool you into thinking that their evil would have any strength without the goodness they attack. They will blame goodness for evil and strength for weakness, and their attack on religious freedom will be a crusade, their invective against spirituality will be a homily. Persecution is an evil whose strength will only be lost when the religious and the secular realize that God does not want us to be right at the expense of love. Any truth which promotes hatred is a lie, and mistakes the evil for the good which gives it power.
It is an odd turn of the argument that people would use unexplainable evil as a proof against unexplainable good. A vision of true evil, of something wrong, can never disprove God, because if ‘wrong’ is a real thing, then so is ‘right,’ and so, the good exists. And only by admitting an objective morality can the atheist use the problem of Evil against God. But objective morality is, no more and no less, the stuff of God. You might as well disprove the sun by saying that it is too bright to look upon.
Evil, therefore, exists because of good. To remove evil, so must good be removed. But goodness is the point. Goodness is why we are here. So we cannot strike at the good, even if it seems it might remove the evil. Because no matter how terrible evil might get, if we let it destroy the good that created it, then it will win. This happens, you see, in religion. The aim of religion is the good, which is why, of course, it causes, or helps to cause, so much evil. Religion is the art of loving God; but once you have taught someone the highest love, they can then learn the lowest hatred.
To a man dying of cancer, having a needle pierce his skin is very little trouble. To a healthy man, it is a pain he would fight if he believed he did not need it. A very evil man does little good, but a very good man gone a little wrong will do very evil things. Just as a healthy body feels a little pain more acutely than a sickly one, so a good soul is more corrupted by a little evil than a wretched one. If you turn the strength of a strong man to evil things, he will kill many more than a weak man. But strength is a goodness, not an evil. It is only with the increased goodness of strength that it might become so deadly.
So it is the very goodness of religion which makes it so powerful a tool of evil. The key then is not to take away goodness to prevent evil, but to teach it. A strong man, a smart woman, these are good things. We do not kill them to stop the evil they might produce, but teach them better ways so that they can use their powers for marvelous things. Tolerance, humility and free discourse must be taught in every religion, even the secular ones which claim not to be religions (but they are, for they are interested in promoting their vision of good, which is another way of saying “religion), knowing that those will rise who will preach intolerance, arrogance and tyranny.
Let the tyrants speak, but do not let them fool you into thinking that their evil would have any strength without the goodness they attack. They will blame goodness for evil and strength for weakness, and their attack on religious freedom will be a crusade, their invective against spirituality will be a homily. Persecution is an evil whose strength will only be lost when the religious and the secular realize that God does not want us to be right at the expense of love. Any truth which promotes hatred is a lie, and mistakes the evil for the good which gives it power.
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