Theism's Demand

Is it morally wrong to believe in God?

I used to think theism was overwhelmingly improbable, given the weight of the evidence against it. There is quite a lot to suggest that the universe is utterly indifferent to good and evil, pain and pleasure, value and disvalue. I never saw the fingerprints of God on DNA or the innards of cells, or the “beginning” of the universe, or strange events reported in human affairs taken to be miraculous. I do, however, seem to notice an absence of God in aimless forest fires, in merciless predation, in the unspeakable cruelty human beings have been known to inflict. Damning as that may seem, the evidence isn’t all in favor of an indifferent universe. In some ways, we’re quite fortunate – suspiciously so, many have argued. The problem of evil nevertheless prevents me from venturing past a middle boundary; so I end up as an agnostic of some sort. It may prove to be an unstable position. But it’s where the contradictory evidence of our world has left me for the time being.

The question of God’s existence necessarily involves evaluative – not merely descriptive – claims. I don’t just mean ordinary normative epistemic judgments, which involve the weighing of evidence and the import of theoretical virtues like simplicity. Because God is said to be good, we cannot evaluate the evidence for and against the theistic hypothesis while avoiding any moral judgments whatsoever. If we are to look out at the world to judge whether our expectations have been verified or violated, we cannot pretend our understanding of the good has no bearing on our assessment of the evidence. God, the foundation of reality, our loving Heavenly Father of unsurpassable power and goodness has allegedly created this world. Your world – the world you see outside your window. The world you read about in biology textbooks. Thus, how one understands the good directly influences one’s evaluation of theism.

It’s true that the kind, degree, and distribution of pain (and pleasure) in our world is evidence supporting an indifferent universe. But for me, there’s something else blocking the road to theism. I can’t shake the feeling that it would be wrong to believe, somehow. Becoming a theist would require a seal of approval on the suffering on earth. I would have to believe, for any instance of pain, or at least for pain in general, that it was okay that it occurred, all things considered – that it was not unjustified for an all-powerful God to permit or create. There is some sense in which theism demands approval of suffering that surely wouldn’t be endorsed by the sufferer. This is a betrayal and an abandonment of those creatures. Theism asks too much of me. It asks me to betray every creature who ever suffered without reason.

To affirm the truth of theism is to issue a moral judgment, not a merely descriptive one. Here’s a trivial example. Typically, to affirm the truth of theism means affirming the existence of a God who had the power to prevent evil, but who chose not to, for whatever reason. This would imply that the evil was not intrinsically impermissible, meaning it would be wrong always and everywhere to permit such an evil from occurring. Since God, if he exists, permitted the evil to occur, a theist must affirm that the evil act was not impermissible to allow. An atheist has the freedom to reject this, while the theist does not. The affirmation of theism cannot be totally divorced from all moral considerations.

Even those who would shy away from the stronger claim that a particular evil was intrinsically impermissible might still think there is, in reality, no reason to permit that particular evil. That is, they think God, if he exists, would have more reason to prevent that occurrence of evil than to permit it. Theists, to maintain the unsurpassable power and goodness of God, are obliged to maintain that good reasons for its permission exist, be they known or unknown to us. There is no escaping these kinds of moral judgments when one evaluates the truth or falsity of theism. Belief in God could never be a merely descriptive belief.

Ultimately, the suffering on earth must come with a kind of endorsement and imprimatur of believers. But why would I offer mine? My seal of approval would be a betrayal. The adoption of theism would require me to look at the young child who dies in the house fire and say, “In the end, it’s okay that this happened to you. You see, your suffering is only a small part of an organic whole, the value of which is greater with your agony included…” Or fill in the blank with your preferred account of the suffering of children.

Most attempts to explain evil are not merely absurd but morally obtuse, if not outright perverse. In this context, being “so made that I cannot believe” is to be so made that I cannot betray every animal who burned alive, or whose skin was ripped from its bones by a predator driven by instinct. Nor can I abandon the predator who starves because it has no prey to terrorize. Am I to believe this natural order was designed by God, who has limitless power and is unsurpassably loving, just, and merciful?

Traditional theism, to be blunt, imposes a limit on how much one can care about the earth’s suffering. If you care too much, you won’t be able to overcome evil. If it’s too vast, too random and too senseless, then it can no longer be excused. Naturally, many theists who wish to resist the problem of evil diminish the significance of the evidence against their view. Unfortunately, the evidence in question is the pain of moral patients. This has predictable effects on the moral faculties of those who sneer in the face of such evidence. As I explained in a recent video about my agnosticism,

The majority of theists, I’m sorry to say, do not seem to appreciate the data in front of them. It’s far more common to hear a disgustingly glib answer to the sufferers on earth from theists than it is to hear even an acknowledgment of the sheer moral weight of what they’re trying to explain away. Along with Alvin Plantinga, I think most attempts to explain evil from theists are shallow and flippant. They seem to betray an unwillingness to unwaveringly look at what their God permits, what he idly watches without intervention, what he apparently didn’t think was worth preventing through the subtlest alterations to human psychology or the process by which we were created. Once again, theism is too good to be true.

Some theists are triumphalist, dismissive of any challenge to theism from evil. Others hang their heads, sheepish, ashamed, but nonetheless convinced of the existence of an unlimited and morally perfect God. The latter group can at least see the tension.

As one pastor put it to me, callous dismissiveness towards the suffering on earth is a sign of spiritual immaturity. It’s sacrilegious, because the suffering on earth is sacred. Those who wish to explain evil away typically don’t understand that the suffering on earth is sacred. They don’t treat a bird with a broken wing with the reverence it compels. That suffering bird is a thing of cosmic significance, and they don’t see it.

To dismiss the problem of evil as trivial betrays a moral unseriousness unworthy of small children, and exposes some of the more disturbing and pernicious effects that theism can have on the minds of those who can tolerate no perceived threat to God’s goodness. The corruption of one’s moral faculties is the terminus of all this. Tell me the moral faculties have not been degraded and diminished of one who can scoff at the agony of a confused animal, or laugh in the face of the atheist or of the doubting believer shaken to his core by hundreds of millions of years of predation, starvation, fear, and death.

The suffering on earth is unfathomable. Yet the triumphalist theist can overlook it. But why should I? How could I overlook it and think I haven’t wronged those who have suffered pointlessly, those who would not endorse their suffering?

The atheist asks, “What about the fawn in the forest?”

“What about them?” the theist must answer. “In the end, the suffering of the fawn is not significant enough to count for much against the existence of a good God who had the power to prevent it.” How can this be purely descriptive judgment? No, it is a moral judgment as well. I would owe the fawn in the forest an apology if I were to become a believer. I would have to beg for her forgiveness.

Theism’s demand: Either close your heart or close your eyes. Stop caring or stop looking. Those are my options when it comes to the suffering on earth. How could I live with myself, knowing that I’m doing one or both every moment I affirm the existence of God?

A few notes that can hopefully clarify:

I don’t think this concern about the immorality of theistic belief is a non-intellectual consideration, but I ultimately don’t care if you categorize it as an existential concern or something else, as long as its import isn’t diminished. After all, how many theists pontificate about the existential hopelessness of atheism and the contrasting joy and beauty and hope of their religion? Atheism and agnosticism possess existential and moral appeal as well. One such benefit: I don’t have to abandon the fawn in the forest, as every theist must.

Is there any hope? Yes – there is one way I could overcome this barrier: If the victims themselves blessed the occurrence of their suffering. I wouldn’t see it as a betrayal of the sufferers on earth if they come to understand and approve of their own suffering. This kind of response has a basis in Christian philosophy and theology, but we shouldn’t lose track of the commitments required: Universalism, an animal afterlife, the existence of a presently unknown justification for all seemingly gratuitous occurrences of pain that, additionally, will someday be understood and endorsed by the sufferers themselves.

The first two are contentious among Christians. The latter requires not only the dubious project of skeptical theism, but the additional condition of assent from the sufferers. This is what it takes for Christianity to make sense, and much of it is flatly rejected by Christians. You might argue that I shouldn’t care what virtually every Christian in the history of Christianity has believed, but I think it does count as some higher-order evidence.

Why must it be understood by the sufferers? Because someone with a why can endure the how. I can endure a painful procedure if I understand why it’s happening and why there’s no other way. Then I can say, “It’s okay that this happened.” Without the understanding, all we’re left with is compensation. “Well, you still don’t understand why it had to happen, but look! It’s all being washed away in the tide of the good you’re receiving now.” There has to be a reason it happened in the first place. And if they don’t understand the reason, they can’t approve of it to the fullest extent.

Why the approval? Because they are the ones who suffer – they are the ones who paid the price. They are the ones whose forgiveness would be needed. If they do not endorse their suffering, that’s when it would be a betrayal.