The Simpsons, the Talmud, and Divine Command Theory

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In an episode of The Simpsons, the perpetually pious Ned Flanders is the representative of a theistic ethicist. Gerald J. Erion and Joseph Zeccardi explain:

In Springfield, Ned Flanders exemplifies one way (if not the only way) of understanding the influence of religion upon ethics. Ned seems to be what philosophers call a divine command theorist, since he thinks that morality is a simple function of God’s divine command; to him, “morally right” means simply “commanded by God” and “morally wrong” means simply “forbidden by God.” Consequently, Ned consults with Reverend Lovejoy or prays directly to God himself to resolve the moral dilemmas he faces. For instance, he asks the Reverend’s permission to play “capture the flag” with Rod and Todd on the Sabbath in “King of the Hill”; Lovejoy responds, “Oh, just play the damn game, Ned.” Ned also makes a special telephone train room in Reverend Lovejoy’s basement as he [Ned] tries to decide whether to baptize his new foster children. Bart, Lisa, and Maggie, in “Home Sweet Home Diddily-Dum-Doodily.” (This call prompts Lovejoy to ask, “Ned, have you thought about one of the other major religions? They’re all pretty much the same.”) And when a hurricane destroys his family’s home but leaves the rest of Springfield unscathed in “Hurricane Neddy,” Ned tries to procure an explanation from God by confessing, “I’ve done everything the Bible says; even the stuff that contradicts the other stuff!” Thus, Ned apparently believes he can find solutions to his moral problems not by thinking for himself, but by consulting the appropriate divine command. His faith is as blind as it is complete, and he floats through his life on a moral cruise-control, with his ethical dilemmas effectively resolved.

I thought of this passage the other day as I was working my way through Jane Sherron De Hart’s compelling biography of Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Although Ginsburg had pride in her Jewish heritage, it was eventually more for its social dimensions than religious ones. De Hart writes about one of the exceptions:

There was also one other factor that might have indirectly contributed to [Ginsburg’s] success, though it did not occur to Ginsburg at the time—the age-old connection between Judaism and the law. The Torah (the five books of Moses) functioned as the original constitution for Jews. In the centuries following their exile from the land of Judea, rabbis and scholars in scattered Jewish communities had to figure out how to apply the Torah and its multiple commandments to seemingly insoluble problems of law and ritual. How could a common standard of behavior be maintained in the face of new sociopolitical, economic, and technological developments?

The result was the Talmud—a body of debates and opinions emphasizing legal argumentation based on the precedent of Mosaic law. Issues were examined from every possible angle, though room was always left for further interpretation in the face of ever-changing circumstances. The pattern of thought and methodology used to create the Talmud two millennia ago is remarkably similar to the kind of thinking demanded in law schools today. Ginsburg herself later elaborated on this theme in the introduction to a book about her Jewish predecessors on the Supreme Court. “For centuries,” she explained, “Jewish rabbis and scholars have studied, restudied, and ceaselessly interpreted the Talmud, the body of Jewish law and tradition developed from the scriptures. These studies have produced a vast corpus of Jewish juridical writing that has been prized in that tradition.”

Making Ned Flanders one’s foil instead of, say, a Jewish sage steeped in the Talmud renders quite a bit easier the task of depicting religious folks as doltish numbskulls uninterested in thinking hard. It is also a quintessential example of constructing a straw man. In truth, whether in the interpretation of the Old Testament or New, good exegesis is hard work. It is done according to solid, principled logarithms of hermeneutics, taking into account the often multifarious aspects of context. The Bible itself tells us to study to show ourselves approved, rightly dividing the word of truth (2 Tim 2:15), which presumably suggests we can wrongly divide the word of truth. When, as is often the case, what scripture teaches are general principles, there is a great deal of labor called for in applying them to specific and concrete situations. It is hard work, taking real thought, not floating through life on cruise control. That believers on occasion—intelligent and informed ones at that—don’t always see eye to eye on how best to exegete a passage and understand its import is evidence that the interpretive task is no easy matter, and often far from a no-brainer. For one who takes, say, scriptural commands seriously, rightly understanding them includes all the following: application of general principles to specific situations, each with its own unique features, extenuating circumstances, and mitigating factors; contending with invariable and vexed hermeneutical complexities; disambiguating between the timeless and transcultural, on the one hand, and the contingent and culturally conditioned, on the other; studying societal, biblical, and historical contexts in rich detail; engaging both heart and mind and communities in conversation; something at least resembling reflective equilibrium; precedent, synthesis, extrapolation, and more besides.

Ned is a funny character, no doubt, but hardly the paradigm of a thoughtful theist.