Moral Apologetics & Christian Theology

For some while now I have had the thought that it would be worthwhile to explore the connection between moral apologetics and theology. I have had occasion to touch on this matter here and there, but never anything remotely exhaustive. It remains in my mind a project to pursue for later—resonances of the moral argument(s) with such theological categories as ecclesiology and Christology, eschatology and soteriology, pneumatology, theological anthropology, and theology proper. In this short piece today, I’m going to just tip my toe in such a project by using something of a traditional four-fold distinction that cuts across a variety of theological concerns.

From the earliest chapters of Genesis we find that what gets broken and is need of being set right are the following facets of our existence: ourselves, the creation, our relationship with others, and our relationship with God. John Hare’s forthcoming book on theistic ethics—the third in his trilogy (after The Moral Gap and God’s Command)—is structured in a similar four-fold way: specifically, the unity we seek in life, with the creation or environment, with other people, and with God. And R. Scott Rodin’s excellent book on the steward leader similarly couches the discussion in terms of four areas in which leaders foster robust health: in the self, with others, with creation, and with God. Categories of self and life might seem different, but since I see the biblical discourse of life primarily in terms of the abundant, kingdom life for which God designed each one of us, it seems to me that they are inextricably linked. So let’s quickly canvass each in turn.

In terms of the self, and the sort of life for which we were made, there are three conceptually distinct aspects to our salvation. There is justification, which puts us right with God; this largely involves our forgiveness for falling short. C. S. Lewis said the key to understanding the universe resides in recognizing that there’s a moral standard and that we fail to meet it. This introduces the need, first, for our forgiveness, and according to Christian theology God has made provision for our forgiveness in the death and resurrection of Jesus. The second dimension of salvation is sanctification, the gradual process by which we are not just forgiven, but actually changed and transformed into the likeness of Christ. This introduces what John Hare calls the performative dimension of moral apologetics—how we can cross the gap between the best we can do, morally speaking, and the moral standard. If we are obligated to meet the standard, but are unable to do so on our own, Augustine thought that this was to show us our need for God’s grace to be changed. The culmination of salvation is glorification, the point at which, by God’s grace, we are entirely conformed to the image of Christ; we are made perfect, altogether delivered from sin’s power and consequences. Christian theology thus makes sense of our need for forgiveness, our need to be changed, and ultimately even our desire to be perfected.

Immanuel Kant’s argument for the afterlife was predicated on his thinking that a “holy will” was the province of God’s alone, and that it would forever reside beyond our reach. We would thus need eternity to approach it asymptotically (ever closer but never there)—because it’s a process that will never be completed. He was both right and wrong, I think. Contra Kant, Christian theology says that we will indeed by God’s grace be entirely conformed to the image of Christ, so there is a destination at which the regenerate will arrive. But I suspect he was right in an important sense to think of our eternal state as involving more of a dynamic picture than a static one. Once glorified, our growth won’t cease; indeed, completion of “the good work within us” will mark the chance for us to live as we were fully intended with all the obstructions removed.

Sometimes there is debate over whether morality will go away in heaven. My guess is that morality in Kant’s sense certainly will; talk of rights and duties will pass away. But they will be replaced by something far grander—gift and sacrifice, as George Mavrodes would say. Or think of rights and duties as the mere anteroom in a grand castle or cathedral that represents morality. Life in that place will be as it should be: life among its towering spires, where self-giving love is the norm. We are told, in fact, that the glory to come is something so wonderful we can scarcely imagine it.

Lewis sometimes likened the whole quest of morality to a fleet of ships. This fleet must consist of vessels that are individually seaworthy. It must function cooperatively, with all vessels navigating their ways without crashing into one another. And this fleet must have a destination. The first and third requirements—individual seaworthiness and reaching a destination—are closely connected to the individual’s moral trajectory. By God’s grace we are made seaworthy: we find forgiveness for our invariable shortcomings, grace to be radically transformed, grace by which to find meaning in life and our vocations of purpose, and grace ultimately to become the wholly distinctive expressions of Christ God designed us to be.

Lewis’s middle requirement in the fleet example pertains to not bumping into others, and this is the second of the aforementioned four theological constraints. In fact, nowadays, morality is often deflated in the minds of many to pertain just to this feature of ethics, but in fact it is only one of the four parts. Morality rightly understood and practiced does indeed lead, in general, to more harmonious relations with others; this is one reason why Christ followers are called to be ministers of reconciliation. Indeed, this is arguably also part of the goal or telos of humanity: that the barriers of fellowship between people would be removed and we would learn to love another and forge deep relationships of mutual care with one another. Indeed, in Christian theology, after the most important commandment, which we’ll get to in a moment, the second most important command is that we love our neighbors as ourselves. And we are pretty much told that we can’t discharge the most important command without taking the neighbor-love command with dreadful seriousness. The communal aspects of sanctification remind us that the implications of morality are not a simply individualist affair; waging war on systemic evils, promoting justice, feeding the poor, opposition to slavery—all of these are aspects of the moral life expansively and communally construed. Paul Copan is especially effective at highlighting this historical dimension of the moral argument by chronicling a myriad of ways in which Christians have traditionally led the way in women’s suffrage, building orphanages, opposing foot-binding, and the like.

In terms of the third theological category—unity with creation—two salient connections with moral apologetics immediately come to mind, namely, moral duties we have to care for the creation of which we have been made stewards, and treatment of animals as the sacred creatures they are. In his Lectures on Ethics Kant tried to spell out how our duties to animals are rooted in our obligations to fellow human beings, writing that if a man treats his dog well, regularly feeding and watering it and taking it for walks, this man is probably going to be kinder in his dealings with human persons. This is why Kant says, “We can judge the heart of a man by his treatment of animals…. Tender feelings towards dumb animals develop human feelings towards mankind.”

Although that is likely true, I can’t help but be a bit dissatisfied by this analysis alone. It seems sounder to say we have an obligation to God to treat his creation properly, which includes animals, and it’s even more pressing we treat animals well because they are capable of feeling pain. It’s almost become cliché to remind us all that dominion isn’t domination. Intentionally and needlessly inflicting pain on animals, for example, is cruel disregard for God’s creation—and a sin against God. We should care about the experience of animals and want them not to suffer needlessly, and not just for instrumental reasons. I count the inability of a number of naturalist accounts to justify believing we have obligations toward animals a deficiency—even if it’s true that animals don’t have rights (a question on which I’m currently agnostic).

Elsewhere I have repeatedly made it clear that I’m eminently open—with N. T. Wright, John Wesley, and C. S. Lewis—to the idea that we will see animals in heaven. It’s not a nonnegotiable conviction of mine, but it’s a reasonable inference, I think, if we take seriously the notion that the work of Christ redeemed the entirety of the created order, of which animals are a vital part. It is actually quite illuminating to peruse the full range of biblical teachings about the animals.

Fourthly, finally, and most centrally, Christian theology gives pride of place to reconciliation with God—and not just reconciliation, but a relationship of all-consuming love for and relationship of intimacy with God. Since there are principled reasons to think of the ultimate good in personalist terms (as nothing less than God himself) and the ultimate good for us in such terms as well (nothing less than the beatific vision), I can’t help but think of the telos of humankind and the culmination of salvation in the Christian order of things through the lens of Goodness itself. The deontic family of terms, discourse about what’s obligatory or permissible, might well pass away when all things are made new, but the Good and the Beautiful will be on full display and to be enjoyed forever. That Christianity teaches that the most important commandment of all—a necessary and eternal truth—is love of God with all of our heart and soul, mind and strength, puts this dimension, this unity, this relationship at the core of reality.

Morality here and now involves just the first, fledgling lessons in learning the dance steps of the Trinity. For this reason Lewis once wrote these words: “Mere morality is not the end of life. You were made for something quite different from that…. The people who keep on asking if they can’t lead a decent life without Christ don’t know what life is about; if they did they would know that ‘a decent life’ is mere machinery compared with the things we men are really made for. Morality is indispensable: but the Divine Life, which gives itself to us and which calls us to be gods, intends for us something in which morality will be swallowed up.”

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David Baggett is professor of philosophy and Director of the Center for Moral Apologetics at Houston Baptist University.

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Making Sense of Morality: Sociobiology

Editor’s note: R. Scott Smith has graciously allowed us to republish his series, “Making Sense of Morality.” You can find the original post here.

Ruse and Evolutionary Ethics

Michael Ruse (b. 1940) is another cognitivist in that moral sentences can be true or false. Yet, he is not an objectivist. If he were, then moral statements would be about facts concerning moral acts or objects thought to have moral value. Yet, there are no intrinsically moral properties, or any that transcend our biology. Instead, he too is a subjectivist. Moral discourse ends up being a way of describing the biological. Ruse also grounds ethics in naturalistic evolution and science.

Ruse’s Sociobiology

Ruse rejects as a myth the older paradigm that evolution is essentially progressive and that it generates value, for humans are its successful endpoint. Instead, he embraces sociobiology, in which morality is part of biology. Social norms develop by their evolutionary emergence.

On this view, moral behavior simply is a biological adaptation. Cooperation with others is a good survival strategy, which he claims is virtually the norm in the animal kingdom. Since we cooperate, we are successful in surviving and reproducing. Moreover, “social success” leads to the evolution of more efficient means of cooperation.

Following Richard Dawkins’s idea of the “selfish” gene, Ruse believes that what appear to be “altruistic” acts relate back to an individual’s self-interest. That is, such acts occur because ultimately they benefit the performer’s biological ends. But, since we have a self-centered nature, and we have adapted via sociality, we need a mechanism to break through that self-centeredness. Morality is that mechanism, which has been selected for cooperative behavior.

So, Ruse thinks he can derive the moral ought from what biologically is the case and thereby avoid the issue posed by the “naturalistic fallacy”: i.e., how do we get what is morally normative from what is biologically descriptive? Moreover, he is consistent as a naturalist, denying that there are any intrinsic morals. While morality seems objective to us, it does not exist objectively (i.e., independently of us), for it is an illusion of our genes.

While this position might make Ruse’s ethics seem vulnerable to charges of relativism, he flatly rejects that charge. Instead, he strongly rejects as immoral many clear cases of wrongdoing, such as rape, Hitler’s savagery, female circumcision, and more. 

Assessment

Clearly, Ruse’s ethics is an important attempt to account for ethics in a naturalistic, evolutionary framework. Surely he is right that cooperation is a good strategy for survival, and that humans seem to have a self-centered nature. He also rightly addresses the need to preserve the oughtness of morality, that it not be reduced merely to what is the case.

Now, Ruse admits that “altruistic” and “selfish” are metaphorical ways of describing behaviors. They are not the case in reality, for morality simply is an illusion. Indeed, all moral discourse would seem to be a metaphorical way of talking about biological behavior.

In that case, Ruse’s claim that his view can preserve the normativity of morality (especially of core morals like murder and rape are wrong) seems to do nothing of the sort. As he has admitted, there are no intrinsic moral properties, even to biology. But, generally, how we talk about something does not confer new properties upon it. Clearly, Ruse is not suggesting that our moral speech adds moral properties to biology. In that case, we can talk in whatever ways we want about morality, even that murder is right, but it will do nothing to change the biological facts of the matter, that there are no moral properties in our biology.

Furthermore, due to how natural selection happened to work, it is conceivable that we could have evolved differently, such that murder or rape would not be wrong, but perhaps even right and obligatory. After all, since morality’s “objectivity” is just an illusion of our genes, then murder’s or rape’s being wrong, or justice’s and love’s being good, could have turned out otherwise, or not ever have evolved. But that seems deeply mistaken.

For Further Reading

Michael Ruse, “Evolution and Ethics: The Sociobiological Approach,” in Ethical Theory: Classic and Contemporary Readings, ed. Louis Pojman, 4th ed.

R. Scott Smith, In Search of Moral Knowledge, ch. 5

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R. Scott Smith is a Christian philosopher and apologist, with special interests in ethics, knowledge, and seeing the body of Christ live in the fullness of the Spirit and truth.

Making Sense of Morality: Naturalism and Moral Cognitivist Options: Subjectivism

Editor’s note: R. Scott Smith has graciously allowed us to republish his series, “Making Sense of Morality.” You can find the original post here.

Naturalism and Moral Cognitivist Options: Subjectivism

In terms of the meaning of moral sentences, naturalists also could be cognitivists. They maintain moral claims are truth apt, yet they still deny there are any intrinsically moral properties. There are three main branches of moral cognitivism: subjectivism, error theory, and objectivism. Subjectivists generally reduce morals to what a speaker likes or dislikes (private subjectivism), or what a culture likes or dislikes (cultural relativism). This essay will look at subjectivism in general, and then in particular at that of Gilbert Harman.

In general, while subjectivist theories about the meaning of moral statements are compatible with naturalism, there is an obvious problem with them – they reduce moral claims, which are normative, into merely descriptive ones. But that does not seem to do justice when we claim (for example) that murder is wrong. We do not mean that we simply dislike murder; rather, we mean it is wrong. For example, when we see people cry out for justice when a murder has been committed, it is not because they merely dislike murder. Instead, they know something morally wrong has been committed, and justice should be done.

Harman’s Subjectivism

Now, for Harman (b. 1938), there is another sense of subjectivism. According to him, moral facts are natural facts. Consistent with naturalism, there are no intrinsically moral facts. Moral facts should be understood as being relational facts, which are about reasons that are grounded in a given subject’s goals. Moreover, our moral beliefs arise from our interaction with natural facts. But that interaction always is conditioned by our upbringing and psychology, so all moral beliefs are our constructs. Morals are dependent upon us, so they are subjective in that sense.

In terms of moral reasons, Harman thinks people likely have them only if they have implicitly entered into an agreement with others about what to do. Nevertheless, these motivating reasons will not be the same for all, and he thinks it is likely only some people have made those agreements. So, Harman’s ethics is relativistic.

Discussion

For now, let me make some observations about Harman’s ethics. For one, we can see a consistent naturalistic position at work, that there are no intrinsically moral properties or facts. If everything is natural, and the world has been “disenchanted” of things like essential natures, then surely morals would not have essences either.

Also consistent with naturalism is his relativism, even though many naturalists have not embraced ethical relativism as a system. Still, it is consistent because naturalists usually are nominalists, and on that view, everything is particular. On ethical relativism, there are no universal morals, which fits very much with nominalism.

Notice too that he admits morals are our constructs. This will be true of ethical relativism in general, which we will discuss later. But, later I also will address an issue that I think will show that on naturalism all knowledge, even of morals, must be, at best, just our constructs. This will stand in contrast to what naturalists who are objectivists believe.

For Further Reading

Gilbert Harman, The Nature of Morality: An Introduction to Ethics, and Explaining Value: And Other Essays in Moral Philosophy

R. Scott Smith, In Search of Moral Knowledge, ch. 5

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N. T. Wright on Virtue

(an excerpt from Wright’s After You Believe: Why Christian Character Matters, pp. 18-22):

Thursday, January 15, 2009, was another ordinary day in New York City. Or so it seemed. But by that evening people were talking of a miracle.

After You Believe: Why Christian Character Matters

By Wright, N. T.

            They may have been right. But the full explanation is, if anything, even more interesting and exciting. And it strikes just the note we need as we launch out on our exploration of the development of character in general and Christian character in particular.

            Flight 2549, a regular US Airways trip from LaGuardia Airport, took off at 15:26 local time, bound for Charlotte, North Carolina. The captain, Chesley Sullenberger III, known as “Sully,” did all the usual checks. Everything was fine in the Airbus A320. Fine until, two minutes after takeoff, the aircraft ran straight into a flock of Canada geese. One goose in a jet engine would be serious; a flock was disastrous. (Airports play all sorts of tricks to prevent birds gathering in the flight path, but it still happens occasionally.) Almost at once both the engines were severely damaged and lost their power. The plane was at that point heading north over the Bronx, one of the most densely populated parts of the city.

            Captain Sullenberger and his copilot had to make several major decisions instantly if they were going to save the lives of people not only on board but also on the ground. They could see one or two small local airports in the distance, but quickly realized that they couldn’t be sure of making it that far. If they attempted it, they might well crash-land in a built-up area on the way. Likewise, the option of putting the plane down on the New Jersey Turnpike, a busy main road leading in and out of the city, would present huge problems and dangers for the plane and its occupants, let alone for cars and their drivers on the road. That left one option: the Hudson River. It’s difficult to crash-land on water: one small mistake—catch the nose or one of the wings in the river, say—and the plane will turn over and over like a gymnast before breaking up and sinking.

            In the two or three minutes they had before landing, Sullenberger and his copilot had to do the following vital things (along with plenty of other tasks that we amateurs wouldn’t understand). They had to shut down the engines. They had to set the right speed so that the plane could glide as long as possible without power. (Fortunately, Sullenberger is also a gliding instructor.) They had to get the nose of the plane down to maintain speed. They had to disconnect the autopilot and override the flight management system. They had to activate the “ditch” system, which seals vents and valves, to make the plane as waterproof as possible once it hit the water. Most important of all, they had to fly and then glide the plane in a fast left-hand turn so that it could come down facing south, going with the flow of the river. And—having already turned off the engines—they had to do this using only the battery-operated systems and the emergency generator. Then they had to straighten the plane up from the tilt of the sharp-left turn so that, on landing, the plane would be exactly level from side to side. Finally, they had to get the nose back up again, but not too far up, and land straight and flat on the water.

            And they did it! Everyone got off safely, with Captain Sullenberger himself walking up and down the aisle a couple of times to check that everyone had escaped before leaving himself. Once in the life raft along with other passengers, he went one better: he took off his shirt, in the freezing January afternoon, and gave it to a passenger who was suffering in the cold.

            The story has already been told and retold, and will live on in the memory not only of all those involved but of every New Yorker and many further afield. Just over seven years and four months after the horrible devastation of September 11, 2001, New York had an airplane story to celebrate.

            Now, as I say, many people described the dramatic events as a “miracle.” At one level, I wouldn’t want to question that. But the really fascinating thing about the whole business is the way it spectacularly illustrates a vital truth—a truth which many today have either forgotten or never known in the first place.

            You could call it the power of right habits. You might say it was the result of many years of training and experience. You could call it “character,” as we have so far in this book.

            Ancient writers had a word for it: virtue.

            Virtue, in this sense, isn’t simply another way of saying “goodness.” The word has sometimes been flattened out like that (perhaps because we instinctively want to escape its challenge), but that isn’t its strict meaning. Virtue, in this strict sense, is what happens when someone has made a thousand small choices, requiring effort and concentration, to do something which is good and right but which doesn’t “come naturally”—and then, on the thousand and first time, when it really matters, they find that they do what’s required “automatically,” as we say. On that thousand and first occasion, it does indeed look as if it “just happens”; but reflection tells us that it doesn’t “just happen” as easily as that. If you or I had been flying the Airbus A320 that afternoon, and had done what “comes naturally,” or if we’d allowed things just “to happen,” we would probably have crashed into the Bronx. (Apologies to any actual pilots reading this; you, I hope, would have done what Captain Sullenberger did.) As this example shows, virtue is what happens when wise and courageous choices have become “second nature.” Not “first nature,” as though they happened “naturally.” Rather, a kind of second-order level of “naturalness.” Like an acquired taste, such choices and actions, which started off being practiced with difficulty, ended up being, yes, “second nature.”

            Sullenberger had not, of course, been born with the ability to fly a plane, let alone the specific skills he exhibited in those vital three minutes. None of the skills required, and certainly none of the courage, restraint, cool judgment, and concern for others which he displayed, is part of the kit we humans possess from birth. You have to work at mastering that sort of skill set, moving steadily toward that goal. You have to want to do it all, to choose to learn it all, to practice doing it all. Again and again. And then, sometimes, when the moment comes, it happens “automatically” as it did for Sullenberger. The skills and ability ran right through him, top to toe.

            Which is just as well. The other options hardly bear thinking about. Supposing they had been novice pilots simply “doing what came naturally”? Or supposing they’d had to get hold of a book with detailed instructions for coping with emergencies, look up the relevant pages, and then try to obey what it said? By the time they’d figured it out, the plane would have crashed. No: what was needed was character, formed by the specific strengths, that is, “virtues,” of knowing exactly how to fly a plane, and also the more general virtues of courage, restraint, cool judgment, and determination to do the right thing for others.

            These four strengths of character—courage, restraint, cool judgment, and determination to do the right thing for others—are, in fact, precisely the four qualities which the greatest ancient philosopher who wrote about such matters identified as the keys to genuine human existence.

Making Sense of Morality: An Introduction to Naturalism

Editor’s note: R. Scott Smith has graciously allowed us to republish his series, “Making Sense of Morality.” You can find the original post here.

Pictured: A. J. Ayer

Introduction to Naturalism

The next major move in ethics has been based on naturalism, which roughly is the view that there is only the natural; there is nothing supernatural. Usually this means all that exists is physical or dependent upon the physical. There are no essential natures or universal properties, like Plato thought. Already, we have seen many shifts in this direction, with materialist, nominalist, and empiricist moves. Plus, the Scientific Revolution gave rise to the view that the universe is a causally closed machine. When Darwin’s Origin was published, there was no longer a need to appeal to God as Creator. Naturalism became the dominant worldview in the west.

Naturalistic Ethics

To be consistent, ethics needed to be adapted to a naturalistic framework. Historically, this has taken many forms. In this and the following essays on naturalistic ethics, I will focus on one or more such proposals. In this essay, I will look at naturalistic moral views that are noncognitivist. This will include A. J. Ayer’s emotivism and Simon Blackburn’s quasi-realism.

Noncognitivism

Moral noncognitivism includes the views that 1) intrinsically moral properties don’t exist, and 2) moral judgments are neither true nor false. While there is some debate about what moral judgments are, noncognitivism denies a place for beliefs. Since knowledge involves justified true beliefs, there is no moral knowledge on this view.

Ayer (d. 1989) was one of the logical positivists. Fitting with naturalism, meanings had to be something physical and empirically knowable. For them, a sentence is meaningful if and only if it is empirically verifiable. Ayer denied that moral sentences are meaningful; they do not have cognitive content and cannot be true or false. Sentences like “murder is wrong” is code language that just expresses emotions; e.g., “ugh, murder!” Similarly, “justice is good” translates to “hooray, justice!” His is a kind of emotivism. (Similarly, another noncognitivist option is prescriptivism: moral sentences just express commands; e.g., “don’t murder!” They too are not true or false.)

Simon Blackburn (b. 1944) is a noncognitivist who endorses quasi-realism. He too denies the reality of intrinsically moral properties since we live in a naturalistic, “disenchanted” world. He focuses on our ways of talking morally. His project attempts to give moral discourse the right to engage in talk as though morals exist (realism), and moral claims are true or false. Based on the surface grammar of a moral sentence, we can treat them as such. But, like Ayer, there really are no morals, and moral claims are not true or false. In both Ayer’s and Blackburn’s cases, the focus is on the way we talk morally and the denial of intrinsically moral properties.  

Assessment

What should we make of these noncognitivist views? First, by reducing away any cognitive content from moral sentences, they end up being merely descriptive. But, morality deeply seems to be about what is normative, or prescriptive. If people protest against a miscarriage of justice (e.g., an unarmed African-American man who was walking down a street, but was murdered by white men), they are not merely emoting. Instead, they deeply believe there was an injustice done, which is why they are upset.

Second, moral judgments are not identical with feelings or commands, for the former can occur without the latter. We do not need to have any feelings when we state, “Murder is wrong.” And, we can have feelings without moral judgments.

Third, there is no room for any moral education or training on these views, since there is no cognitive content to learn and therefore no real moral disagreement. But, this result undermines any training in moral virtue, such as in why we should address examples of injustices in society. It also does not do justice to the fact that many of us do disagree morally. This is plain to see when we look at the many social and moral issues we deliberate and debate.

These noncognitivist views undermine our four core morals, but there are more naturalistic options yet to be considered.

For Further Reading

A. J. Ayer, Language, Truth and Logic

Simon Blackburn, Essays in Quasi-Realism

R. Scott Smith, In Search of Moral Knowledge, ch. 5

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Editor’s note: R. Scott Smith has graciously allowed us to republish his series, “Making Sense of Morality.” You can find the original post here.

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Mailbag: Arguing for the Premises of the Moral Argument

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I had a few questions regarding the following argument:  

1. If there is moral obligation / knowledge / transformation, then God exists. (Theistic Metaethical Theory) 

2. There is moral obligation / knowledge / transformation. (Moral Realism) 

3. Therefore, God exists.  

Is there a way to argue for this in a succinct way or are 1 and 2 separate arguments in and of themselves?   

Evans in "God and Moral Obligation” argues roughly for 1 (he limits it to moral obligation). And arguments in response to people like Joyce are needed to establish 2.  

Is your adductive argument as you lay out for 1 and your forthcoming book is aimed at 2? 

Kevin 

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               Hi Kevin, thanks for this. Yes, I think you’re quite right. So yeah, this modus ponens version of the argument is a popular way of putting the argument(s). As you note, I prefer an abductive approach for several reasons, one being that the contrapositive of the first premise above involves what I consider to be a counteressential: a situation in which God doesn’t exist. If God exists necessarily, as I think he does, then we’re literally envisioning an impossible world, indeed a null world. So to ask of such a world what its features are strikes me as problematic. 

               Both deductive and abductive versions, though, begin with moral phenomena realistically construed. So the second premise requires a defense of moral realism. This is the book in the tetralogy that Jerry and I haven’t written yet, yes, but we just got a contract with OUP to write it, which is exciting. We will argue against error theory, expressivism, constructivism, etc., and try to answer debunking objections (this is where Joyce comes in, exactly right, along with folks like Kahane, Ruse, Street, etc.). Of course we’ll also attempt to provide several positive reasons to believe in moral realism. 

               The first premise requires that the theistic explanation be shown explanatorily superior to the secular alternatives. So it involves two tasks: defending theistic ethics against objections (and giving positive reasons for it), and critiquing secular ethics that attempt to make sense of moral realism. Good God was on the first topic, and God and Cosmos was on the second. 

               I think quite separate arguments are needed, then, for the two premises in question. Defending moral realism logically comes first (though we’re getting around to it last), and then the case for the comparative superiority of theistic ethics. 

               Evans makes the case for both premises (delimited, as you say, to moral duties)—why theism makes such good sense of them, why we have reason to believe duties are real in the first place, and the limitations naturalistic accounts encounter making sense of them. 

               Our abductive argument, too, makes the case for both premises (though the second premise would be couched in terms of best explanation). There really are three tasks, again: defending moral realism (current book), defending theistic ethics and arguing in favor of it positively (Good God), and critiquing secular ethics (God and Cosmos). A yet fuller case would expand that last point to include a critique of nonChristian religious ethics, which I haven’t done, but some students are working on (taking on Islam, Mormonism, etc.). It’s something I hope to do more later, especially Buddhism, Hinduism, and Islam.  

               Does that help? 

               Merry Christmas, friend! 

Blessings, 

Dave 

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David Baggett is professor of philosophy and Director of the Center for Moral Apologetics at Houston Baptist University.

A Walk through Samaria: Befriending The Catcher in the Rye’s Holden Caulfield (Part 2)

A Keen Eye and a Good Heart in a Shallow World

            As Lewis says, a friendship is, in part, a rebellion, and by befriending Holden, we can also participate in rebelling against the superficiality of the world, just as Holden does. The strongest weapon that Holden uses against superficiality is his keen eye. Holden, as a reader, possesses an eye that looks deep into those around him in an attempt to form meaningful relationships and defend innocence within the world. In spite of his claims that he is “quite illiterate,” Holden admits that he reads frequently.[1] According to Holden, the best stories are the ones that make the reader want to befriend the author and “call him up” at any time.[2] Holden reads not only for pleasure but also in hopes of forming a connection—a friendship—between him and the author. Given this understanding of Holden as reader, it makes perfect sense why he would want readers—which includes willing Christian readers—to take on the role of listener. Holden hopes that readers might befriend him and, through such friendship, provide him with the guidance he so desperately needs: that of an authority figure who will show him how to preserve innocence and expose superficiality.

            All around Holden are the superficial—the “phonies,” as Holden famously refers to them: the hypocrites, the shallow, the materialistic, and the perverted. And Holden’s understanding of superficiality is the same as Christian readers might have. There is, of course, the hypocrisy of the religious, which Holden does well to criticize. According to Holden, many religious people simply want to talk to a person just to know if he or she is of the faith, which is what Holden experienced with Louis Shane at Whooton, who, in Holden’s mind, ruins a decent conversation about tennis by asking Holden if there is a Catholic church in town.[3] Holden says, “He [Louis] was enjoying the conversation about tennis and all, but you could tell he would’ve enjoyed it more if I was a Catholic and all.”[4] Here, Holden is able to see past Louis’s façade: Holden understands not only how the practice of faith can become an idol and make one shallow but also how such shallowness prevents people from having a true conversation with others. Empathy is impossible in the realm of superficiality, and given the shallowness of many of Holden’s peers, Holden struggles to find one with whom he can share mutual empathy. By befriending Holden, we can join him in becoming more empathetic toward those around us, for we also seek genuine, meaningful relationships with the people around us.

            Furthermore, Holden, like Christian readers, understands the ills of materialism, and his keen eye allows him to see past the materialism in the three women at The Lavender Room. The three women (Bernice, Marty, and Laverne) represent a materialistic American culture. Holden says that he checks the women out—but not inappropriately.[5] Instead, it is as if Holden is, more or less, studying them, while also noticing their physical attributes as all sixteen-year-old males are, unfortunately, prone to do. Holden concludes in his study that the women are “three witches” and “three real morons,”[6] to use his words. When dancing with Bernice, Holden explains that she does not seem to pay attention to him. In fact, Holden says, “Her mind was wandering all over the place.”[7] Holden’s keen eye clues him in on the fact that Bernice is rather shallow and surface-level, apparently incapable of focusing on anything other than her own thoughts.

            When Holden sits down with the other two women, he discovers that they behave similarly to Bernice. Holden says, “. . . I tried to get them in a little intelligent conversation, but it was practically impossible. You had to twist their arms. You could hardly tell which was the stupidest of the three of them.”[8] Holden resists a shallow understanding of the world and the people who inhabit it. The three women, however, are shallow, blind, and materialistic, which prevents them from recognizing Holden’s humanity. They have no awareness of their surroundings or of those around them. Holden may be crass in this scene, particularly when he mentions the physical attributes of these women throughout the chapter, but he at least provides the reader with a clear vision of his perception of the women. By befriending Holden, we can set an example: we can begin to serve others by truly listening to other people and not being consumed by preoccupations. By doing so, we, by extension, are also serving Holden.   

            Along with a keen eye, Holden also possesses a good heart—and one which compels him to defend innocence. During his encounter with Sunny, a teenage prostitute, and Maurice, her pimp. Holden admits that he can tell that Sunny is his age.[9] Holden’s keen eye is able to see that Sunny, though a prostitute, is still an innocent child. After Sunny explains that the dress she took off was recently purchased, Holden says, “It made me feel sort of sad when I hung it up. I thought of her going in a store and buying it, and nobody in the store knowing she was a prostitute and all. . . . It made me feel sad as hell—I don’t know why exactly.”[10] Holden does not realize that it is his good heart that makes him feel sad.

            Furthermore, Holden desires to protect the innocent; he does not wish to corrupt Sunny. For, as Holden admits, he did not feel like sleeping with her, especially because of Sunny’s predicament and her dress: “. . . I just didn’t want to do it. I felt more depressed than sexy, if you want to know the truth. She was depressing. Her green dress hanging in the closet and all.”[11] Holden is depressed because, unbeknownst to him, he sees how her innocence has been corrupted, and he refuses to contribute to such corruption. This is why, later in this scene, he takes a stand against Maurice, calling out his vileness in spite of his threats.[12] On the surface, as Pinsker points out, Holden is simply saving face: the quarrel is more about money than anything else.[13] However, it would be wrong to say that this is all just about money. It is safe to assume that Holden’s depression turns into rage, and he directs it toward the corruptor Maurice.

            Unlike the shallow, the materialistic, and the hypocrites, Holden seeks genuineness and authenticity, and the nuns he encounters on his second day in New York fit the bill. In contrast to the women in The Lavender Room, for instance, the nuns possess a genuineness that Holden admires. The nuns are readers: they have come to New York to teach English and History, and they discuss literature with Holden.[14] Granted, they do not discuss Thomas Hardy’s The Return of the Native with him—and they change the subject after Holden gives them his opinion of Mercutio,[15] but they at least engage with him—and much more than other Catholics Holden knows. However, for Holden, the nuns do not ruin their conversation with him because they do not ask if he is a Catholic.[16] The nuns possess a genuineness not found in the three women—a genuineness that seeks not the pleasures of materialism but instead seeks to see humanity, particularly within Holden.

            The nuns also appear to possess rather unique qualities that Holden does not see in many other people, which suggests that the nuns—and by extension, Christian readers—represent the type of people that Holden seeks to find friendship with. For instance, Holden finds it difficult to place his aunt or Sally Hayes’s mother in the nuns’ shoes.[17] According to Pinsker, even readers could not fill such a role, for, outside of his sister Phoebe and late brother Allie, Holden finds fault—phoniness—in everyone. For that reason, if readers believe Holden would like them, they are mistaken.[18] However, what Pinsker fails to realize is that Holden respects the nuns, and in his discussion with them, does not detect the same kind of phoniness he does when with the three women. In fact, Holden is clear that he even feels bad that he did not give the nuns more money as a donation.[19] Therefore, it is safe to assume that we, who recognize the humanity in people like the nuns do, would be able to befriend Holden.

A Well and a Person in Need of Truth

            As mentioned earlier in this discussion, Holden seeks friendship from readers, and we as Christian readers should be the first to take up the call. Holden is a defender of the innocent. We should do likewise by befriending Holden and letting him come unto us. If we are to take the time to befriend Holden, then we can join him in the rebellion required of friendships. We can join Holden in calling out the hypocrites, the shallow, the materialistic, the perverse. We can decide to join him in his quest to preserve beauty and innocence. Paul says, “Let no one despise you for your youth, but set the believers an example in speech, in conduct, in love, in faith, in purity.”[20] Holden most certainly, in his own way, teaches us such things—even in his youth and in his depravity. Therefore, we must not despise him and instead let him be the example he so desperately seeks to be, so that we, in turn, can be the example the world so desperately needs.

            However, such a thing cannot be done if we are quick to write off The Catcher in the Rye or any other text that is, or appears to be, un-Christian. In his discussion of Basil the Great, Jacobs notes that in Basil’s day, much of the literature that Christian students studied was pagan (like Homer’s works, for example). However, Jacobs explains that Basil did not see this as a problem because such literature still possessed much “wisdom and virtue,” so long as Christian students possessed sound enough judgment to glean such things from their reading. And, Jacobs adds, if readers are able to engage with such pagan writings in a loving way (what he calls “charitable reading” throughout his book), then readers will also be able to learn how to “love God and neighbor better through reading them” in spite of their un-Christian themes and symbolism, making such books not as wretched as they may seem at first glance.[21] All truth really is God’s truth, and if we as Christian readers can learn to accept this, then befriending someone like Holden becomes not only possible but also beneficial for us.

            As mentioned above, Christ walked through Samaria with a godly purpose. Therefore, I am not arguing that we simply read all narratives that are un-Christian just because they are un-Christian. But I am arguing that before we throw down the book, or write to the teacher, or punish our children or ourselves, let us take the time to truly listen to what that text is saying. We may discover, if we are to turn just a few more pages, that there is in fact a well to drink from and a person in need of truth—and who knows?—this person may even be ourselves.

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               [1] Salinger, 18.

               [2] Ibid.

               [3] Salinger, 112.

               [4] Ibid., 112-13.

               [5] Ibid., 70

               [6] Salinger, 70.

               [7] Ibid., 71.

               [8] Ibid., 73.

               [9] Ibid., 94.

               [10] Salinger, 95-96.

               [11] Ibid., 96.

               [12] Ibid., 103.

               [13] Pinsker, 68-69.

               [14] Salinger, 110-11

               [15] Ibid., 111.

               [16] Salinger, 113.

               [17] Ibid., 114

               [18] Pinsker, 42-43.

               [19] Salinger, 113.

               [20] 1 Tim. 4:12.

               [21] Jacobs, 141-42.

Making Sense of Morality: Bentham, Mill, and Utilitarianism

Editor’s note: R. Scott Smith has graciously allowed us to republish his series, “Making Sense of Morality.” You can find the original post here.

Introduction

After Kant, the next major thinkers in the Enlightenment were the utilitarians. Two exemplars were Jeremy Bentham (d. 1832) and John Stuart Mill (d. 1873). On utilitarianism, no morals are intrinsically right or wrong, or good or bad. Following the trend we’ve seen, they thought pleasures and pains, and benefits and harms, could be measured empirically. Utilitarianism uses means-to-end reasoning to determine what is moral, based on the sum of an action’s consequences.  

Bentham, Mill, and More

Bentham was a hedonistic utilitarian: what action maximizes pleasure and minimizes pain is right. He treated all pleasures and pains alike, focusing on the net quantity of pleasure. But Mill realized some pleasures (e.g., intellectual ones) are better than others (e.g., sensual ones). Thus he focused on their quality. For him, we should act to achieve the greatest good for the greatest number.

There also is act utilitarianism and rule utilitarianism. The former focuses on individual acts; the one that maximizes utility should be performed. The latter looks at kinds of acts that, from experience, we know tend to maximize utility. This is helpful, e.g., in taxation policies, so that we don’t have to re-run the calculus each time we consider a proposal.  

Assessment

There definitely is a place for appeals to utility in moral reasoning. E.g., when crafting public policy, we should consider the likely consequences of a proposed action, even when a deontological principle clearly applies. After all, people have to live with such decisions. Moreover, utilitarianism appeals to people, especially in secular societies, as apparently being morally neutral. There is no appeal to God or some other set of values to determine what is moral.

However, what gets to count as a “good” or “bad” consequence in the first place? Who gets to decide that? According to whom is something (or someone) more valuable than another? Biases easily could enter the calculation here. To make such judgments seems to presuppose some outside standard, beyond utility.

Another issue is that utilitarianism seems inadequate in terms of how it treats motives. Yet, surely they are morally important. If someone kills another, it makes a major difference if it was done intentionally or accidentally. We rightly recognize that difference in the law.

Relatedly, utilitarianism undermines acts of moral supererogation, ones that are heroic and praiseworthy, yet not required. Suppose someone is jogging but notices another person in danger of being attacked by a third person with a knife. While we should expect that jogger to at least call for help (call the police or cry out, to scare off the attacker), it would be above and beyond the call of duty for that jogger to fight off the attacker and save the would-be victim. Yet, on utilitarianism, that act would be obligatory if it would result overall in net good consequences.

Perhaps most significantly, utilitarianism makes net utility the basis for what is moral. Consider again our core morals: murder and rape are wrong, and justice and love are good. If the good consequences of a murder outweigh the bad, then that act would be justified and even obligatory. The same goes for rape, whether under act or rule utilitarianism. But these results clearly are deeply mistaken, to say the least. If this justification held, it could be moral to rape another person, or murder a racial minority person who is protesting peacefully for civil rights. But, we deeply know such acts are wrong; otherwise, why would there be such uproars against these acts?

Likewise, justice would be reduced to whatever is the result of the calculation. A rape or murder would be just in a society that is predominately one race if that act would maximize the overall benefits for the majority. Yet, if these acts can be just on this moral system, we have lost justice. Indeed, murder’s and rape’s wrongness, and justice’s and love’s goodness, seem to be intrinsically so.

So, it seems utilitarianism undermines our four core morals and is inadequate as the basis for ethics.

For Further Reading

Jeremy Bentham, An Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation

John Stuart Mill, Utilitarianism

R. Scott Smith, In Search of Moral Knowledge, ch. 4

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R. Scott Smith is a Christian philosopher and apologist, with special interests in ethics, knowledge, and seeing the body of Christ live in the fullness of the Spirit and truth.

Book Review: "Can We Still Believe in God" by Craig Blomberg

In Can We Still Believe in God?, Craig Blomberg answers oft-revisited questions about Christian theism (the likes of which are addressed in similar titles elsewhere)[1] from a uniquely New Testament perspective. In fact, one might argue that a more fitting title (or subtitle) for this resource would read A New Testament Defense for God or Answering Skeptics from the New Testament as this perspective preoccupies his work on a host of issues. Blomberg is honest about this penchant for the New Testament and his relatively narrow address of issues when he confesses his academic training and his awareness of what other resources have already offered by way of answers to popular skeptical questions.[2] Therefore, Blomberg’s contribution to current apologetic scholarship is providing more well-rounded answers to age-old challenges by mining material from a fairly-neglected dataset (at least in connection with certain issues)—new covenant writings.  

The questions Blomberg chooses to address from this distinctly New Testament perspective are narrowed down and prioritized according to what appear to be either the most popular challenges raised against belief in the Christian God or the most difficult questions in need of answering (or some combination of the two). It is for this reason that he deals with the problem of evil and belief in a good God first. After perusing what philosophers, ethicists, theologians, and Old Testament authors have offered to this discussion (a practice he revisits in subsequent chapters), Blomberg argues that the New Testament highlights what God is doing in the midst of an evil and broken world.[3] The New Testament paints a picture of a God who is powerful and loving even in suffering and able to redeem the worst circumstances for greater purposes.[4] 

What of the unevangelized and the prospect of hell? Blomberg reveals (perhaps to the surprise of some in more fundamentalist/”restrictivist” communities) that the New Testament does not teach that no one is saved unless they have heard of Jesus. He also reveals that consciously trusting in Christ is not the same as finding forgiveness through Jesus’ atoning sacrifice on the cross.[5] Old Testament saints are the clearest example of this and Blomberg is shrewd to acknowledge that much of what is taught about salvation in the New Testament is constructed upon a foundation of Old Testament passages involving characters who never interfaced with Christ or knew is name. With this in mind, people ought not haughtily assume the conditions of someone’s heart and/or limit the means by which God can and has led people to salvation through his Son. Also, the author is quick to remind that hell is never said to be forced on someone against his/her will (nor is salvation forced on saints either for that matter). This conclusion pairs well with a discussion later on prayer and predestination in which Blomberg makes a compelling New Testament case for single predestination in which he concludes “we can never take ultimate credit for being saved, but we have only ourselves to blame for being lost.”[6] Such realizations are helpful as they successfully resect these theological challenges against Christian theism of some of their teeth.

            More current and emotional issues of slavery and gender roles are addressed next. Concerning slavery, Blomberg rightly points out that the New Testament is not a manual for political liberation as much as it is spiritual liberation.[7] That said, 1 Corinthians 7:21 and Philemon do teach that slaves should gain freedom when they can. Concerning gender roles, Blomberg carefully exposits certain “battleground” texts[8] and ultimately concludes that both what he calls a “soft complementarian” and a “soft egalitarian” perspective are defensible in Scripture.[9] Also, while the New Testament is univocal on is prohibition of homosexual behaviors, Blomberg argues that this should be kept separate from anything that would discriminate against a person simply for their sexual orientation. Most skeptics will welcome these thoughtful comments and analyses on such charged issues. What Blomberg offers in this discussion is especially thoughtful and refreshing among the existing literature and many would do well to thoroughly consider Blomberg’s presentation here.

            Next, the author expertly addresses several criticisms lodged against the Christian God based on the contents of Scripture. Concerning miracle accounts, the New Testament is shown to set itself apart from the existing ancient literature both in the frequency of the miracles described, the type of miracles performed, and the purpose these miracles serve as demonstrating the arrival of the kingdom of God (helping to prove that the Bible is not one of many old superstitious miracle books). Similar conclusions are shared in Blomberg’s discussion on how the narratives compare with extra-biblical legends. The author skillfully demonstrates that the New Testament story is birthed out of established Old Testament Judaism; it is not a result of plagiarizing pagan myths. Concerning the violence and warfare in the Scriptures, Blomberg suggests that this poses no real threat to the New Testament in particular. Such practices are elevated to a “spiritual plane”[10] and vindication is clearly defined as God’s prerogative to be ultimately satisfied in the final judgment.

            In his address of apparent contradictions in the Bible, Blomberg decides to deal with a few of the supposed examples of discrepancies found in the book of Acts.[11] What is learned from his analysis is that instead of contradictions, variations in accounts of the same story betray the kind of diversity that was acceptable when biographers/historians pieced together their narratives in the New Testament world. As Blomberg’s discussion broadens to include consideration of all textual variants, a good case for the accurate preservation of the New Testament (even in modern-day English translations) is also built.

            Blomberg’s final address is to those who resist believing in God on the grounds that they would rather be in control of their own lives. These believe that Christianity is a drag and that obedience to God is pleasure-robbing. However, as Blomberg correctly points out, freedom from God is slavery to sin[12] and it is only Christ who offers liberation from crippling anxiety and woeful purposelessness. While certainly the Christian life might (and probably should) include suffering, these are nothing compared to the eternal glory awaiting those who trust in the God of the Bible.[13]

            While all of Blomberg’s discussions are deserving of attention and helpful in making a well-rounded case for the God of the Bible from the New Testament, what proves most refreshing for this reviewer are those insights he offers on those issues that are not as nearly tethered to typical New Testament discussions (e.g. the problem of evil, slavery, gender roles, and same-sex relations, violence in the Bible). It is in these chapters where Blomberg’s contributions are greatest as he works to provide a more well-rounded and truly canonical address of these inquiries. His expertise displayed in these areas provides those who are seeking robust answers to difficult questions with the responsibly nuanced solutions necessary for engaging skeptics in our contemporary culture. For this, Blomberg’s work ought to be highly commended.

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Jeffrey Dickson, PhD studied Theology and Apologetics at Liberty University where he now serves as an adjunct professor of Bible and theology. Dr. Dickson is also the senior pastor of Crystal Spring Baptist Church in Roanoke VA where he lives with his wife Brianna and their children.

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[1] See Tim Keller’s The Reason for God: Belief in an Age of Skepticism (New York: Riverhead Books, 2008), Ravi Zacharias, Can Man Live Without God? (Nashville, TN: Thomas Nelson, 1994), Andreas Kostenberger, Darrell Bock, and Josh Chatraw’s Truth in a Culture of Doubt: Engaging Skeptical Challenges to the Bible (Nashville, TN: B&H, 2014), or even Craig Blomberg’s Can We Still Believe in the Bible?: An Evangelical Engagement with Contemporary Questions (Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos, 2014).

[2] Craig Blomberg, Can We Still Believe in God?: Answering Ten Contemporary Challenges to Christianity (Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos, 2020), XIV, “What makes it (this volume) a bit distinctive is that it is written by someone whose academic training is primarily in New Testament studies. Most of the literature that addresses the kinds of questions tackled here is penned by theologians, philosophers, ethicists, and even Old Testament scholars.”

[3] Blomberg, Can We Still, 1-3.

[4] Blomberg, Can We Still, 10-11. Far from being aloof or inactive in the process of dealing with evil “the New Testament affirms that (God) did the most important thing of all in the past through Christ’s crucifixion, making it possible for believer in Christ in the future to live forever without any suffering or evil…Meanwhile, even now, in the present, he uses pain and suffering to help bring believers to maturity and to wake up the spiritually asleep so that they might turn to him.”

[5] See John 14:6; Acts 4:12.

[6] Blomberg, Can We Still, 157. See also his discussion in 109ff.

[7] Blomberg, Can We Still, 35.

[8] See 1 Cor 11:2–16; 1 Tim 2:11–15; Eph 5:22– 33.

[9] Blomberg, Can We Still, 38ff, 156.

[10] See Blomberg’s discussion on Eph 6:10–20 in Can We Still, 93ff.   

[11] These include the three accounts of Paul’s conversion, the three accounts of Peter with Cornelius, an the “three rehearsals of the apostolic decree.”

[12] Blomberg, Can We Still, 150.

[13] Rom 8:18.

A Walk through Samaria: Befriending The Catcher in the Rye’s Holden Caulfield (Part 1)

Editor’s note: The work of apologetics often first requires entering into relationship with those whose values and beliefs depart radically from our own. In the piece that follows, Richard Decker explores how reading what might be considered problematic texts, such as The Catcher in the Rye, can help develop empathy and build common ground for the apologetic endeavor that follows. This is an important reminder that apologetics is about winning people and not arguments.

Introduction: A Walk through Samaria

            As a public and private school English teacher who happens to be a Christian, I am blessed to have the opportunity to interact with many people from many different walks of life—including fellow Christians. I also have the opportunity to talk about literature and other forms of art with students, parents, colleagues, and friends. However, every now and then, typically when I am speaking with my brothers and sisters in Christ, I find myself listening to an explanation as to why such and such a book/TV show/movie/video game is un-Christian because it contains such and such content. I understand where my peers are coming from—I mean really, who wants to be both in the world and of the world? Still, I typically catch myself thinking, Is that text necessarily bad? I certainly enjoyed that book/TV show/movie/video game—even learned how to be a better person because of it! Blame it on my liberal arts education, but I think such questions deserve to be addressed because I believe we as Christians, and specifically, Christian readers,[1] have a misconception of what it means to be in the world but not of it.

            One of my former professors, Dr. Stephen J. Bell, always begins his English classes with his famous weltanschauung[2] lecture. In it, Bell discusses how Christian readers must be careful not to avoid or retreat from the world as they live in it and read its literature. In other words, to truly engage with the world, we must be willing to at least enter it. In light of Bell’s teachings, I have noticed that many of us seem to think that avoidance of—or isolation from—all things un-Christian is what keeps us from becoming part of the world.

            However, if avoidance is the only path to holy living, why did Christ decide to walk through Samaria instead of around it? Scripture tells us that Christ and his disciples had to walk through Samaria in order to return to Galilee.[3] Andreas J. Köstenberger, an ESV Study Bible contributor, explains that the need to walk through what the Jews would have considered unclean can be understood in two ways: one can read it as the quickest route or as a necessary route, the latter, given the original Greek, refers to a “divine necessity or requirement.”[4] If the latter is true, then this means that Christ went through Samaria for a godly purpose. In this case, it was to reveal himself as Savior to the Samaritan woman—and not only reveal himself but also to drink from her well and listen (and answer) the questions she asks.[5] Drinking from such a well, as Köstenberger mentions, would have been considered unclean by the Jews.[6] However, what mattered more to Christ was not cleanliness or uncleanliness but truth—his truth. Granted, Christ did not dirty himself, so to speak, simply for the sake of dirtying himself but to reveal truth to a woman Christ’s peers would have simply written off as unclean and unholy.

            Christ and his actions reveal to us that we must sometimes go through Samaria and walk alongside those who are unclean if we want to reveal his truth. In the context of this discussion, this may mean that in order to become better ministers and purveyors of truth, we must sometimes engage with that which is unclean—like the many books and movies that many of us tend to simply write off without first listening to the questions these texts ask. When the scribes and the Pharisees were perplexed that Christ was spending time with sinners and unholy people, Christ responds by saying, “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. I came not to call the righteous, but sinners.”[7] Followers of Christ should also be willing to spend time with those plagued by the sickness of sin so that we may better minister to them. But how can we care for the sick if we know nothing of their ailments? And how can we know of their ailments if we don’t walk alongside those who suffer from them and investigate the world that is the source of such sickness? How can we truly walk alongside someone without first befriending them? Such questions have led me to ask a more immediate question: “Why immediately write off and avoid books or other media without even taking the time to listen to what it and its characters have to say?” Christ certainly engaged with what we might call un-Christian in his ministry, and not a single serious Christian would call out Jesus for such actions. Yet, for some reason, when books and other media are the topic of discussion, many of us are quick to turn away without question.  

            Therefore, I wish to look into the idea of engaging with what may be considered un-Christian stories and characters. I propose that as we attempt to understand the un-Christian characters in un-Christian books and other media, we must seek to befriend such characters so that we can give them a chance to be heard before simply writing them off. For I believe that such reading can be beneficial for our Christian hearts and minds. Given that such an idea may be controversial to some Christian readers (or, at the very least, unsettling) and given that I only have time to discuss one character from one novel, I figured it would be best to discuss a rather unsettling and controversial character: The Catcher in the Rye’s Holden Caulfield.

Reading in General and Friendship in Particular

            One of the greatest benefits to reading literature is its ability to encourage the reader to practice empathy. Karen Swallow Prior, in the first half of her discussion on the human aspect of reading, suggests as much.[8] And in her article on why Christian literary critics must learn to approach a text more lovingly, Marybeth Baggett explains how her reading of Stephen Crane’s Maggie: A Girl of the Streets, invoked feelings of empathy within her.[9] However, empathy, being a most selfless act, is arguably one of the most difficult acts to perform. And selfless reading, given that all readers are human and thus fallen, is equally difficult.

            However, for us Christian readers, and especially those of us who seem to be quick to write off any text that has traces of the un-Christian, such empathetic reading is relevant. Christians are called to be selfless in all things, which includes the reading of great literature. But when one considers many of the characters of great literature, it can be rather difficult to be selfless—to be empathetic. Such a difficulty may arise when we attempt to empathize with, say, The Catcher in the Rye’s Holden Caulfield. Holden is a difficult character with whom to walk alongside: he is blunt, rude, at many times vulgar, and seemingly not a person that readers should emulate. However, by befriending Holden Caulfield, we will discover that we both seek to defend innocence and expose superficiality, and in turn, will see that sometimes, that which is un-Christian, can sometimes revel to us the most Christian of truths.

            When considering befriending Holden Caulfield, we must first understand what it means to be a part of a friendship. C. S. Lewis’s understanding of such a relationship makes even befriending Holden possible. In The Four Loves, Lewis explains that one aspect of true friendship is when two or more people desire to go against the grain, seeking out a particular truth in a way that is unique—different from all others within their community. And true friends, Lewis continues, are those who separate themselves from the status quo in a fashion that resembles rebellion.[10] Such a stance, Lewis suggests helps to solidify friendship. By befriending Holden, we will discover that, like Holden, we seek to defend innocence and resist—or rebel against—superficiality.

To Befriend Holden Caulfield

            On the very first page of the novel, Holden appears to invite readers to befriend him, and Christian readers would be wrong to not accept his invitation. Holden begins his story by addressing his listener with the phrase “if you really want to hear about it.”[11] It is well known that Holden is in a psychiatric hospital of sorts; his listener, one can assume, is a counselor or psychoanalyst. This setting establishes the novel’s frame narrative.  However, the listener is not named, nor does he speak. It is as if the novel itself is inviting readers to take on this identity and assume the role of listener—not passively, as eyes scan over the page, but actively, sitting face-to-face with Holden. If we are to take on this role, we at once begin the journey of befriending Holden by participating in his narrative with open minds and hearts and reading in accordance to what Alan Jacobs refers to as a form of reading that understands that not only books themselves but also their characters become neighborly beings during and after the act of reading.[12] Therefore, it is important for us to treat literary characters the way we would want to be treated.

            However, we may wonder why Holden appears to ask them to befriend him, and such an answer may lie in Holden’s desire to find an ideal parental figure. In the essay “The Saint as a Young Man,” Jonathan Baumbach discusses Holden’s attempts at finding an authority figure he can look up to. According to Baumbach, Holden not only seeks to defend the innocent but also seeks one who will also defend his own innocence. In order to be such a defender, Holden must be taught how to defend—a burden that the adults in Holden’s life must bear. In Baumbach’s words, Holden “is looking for an exemplar, a wise-good father whose example will justify his own initiation into manhood.”[13] Furthermore, Baumbach explains that Holden’s attraction to older women represents his need to find a motherly figure. “Where the father-quest,” says Baumbach, “is a search for wisdom and spirit (God), the mother-quest is a search not for sex but ultimately for love. They are different manifestations, one intellectual, the other physical, of the same spiritual quest.”[14]

            Unfortunately, the parental figures in Holden’s life fail to provide him with the answers he seeks and fail to show him what Baumbach refers to as a “God-principle,” which is essentially a system through which a metaphysical entity cares for physical beings.[15] Baumbach is clear that no adult is able to tell Holden where the ducks of Central Park go when the lake freezes over, a question Holden continuously ponders throughout the novel.[16] In The Catcher in the Rye: Innocence Under Pressure, Sanford Pinsker explains that by asking where the ducks go, Holden seeks to know if there is a God who will rescue him from corruption,[17] which, as Pinsker argues throughout his work, is adulthood. Essentially, Holden asks not only the other characters he encounters but also, by extension, readers, “Who is my father and mother?” and “Who will save me?”

            We have the opportunity to be the adults who befriend Holden and serve him by being the role model he so desperately seeks. Of course, readers cannot literally serve Holden—or befriend him for that matter. To serve and befriend a literary character like Holden, readers must allow him to play a part in shaping their “ethical agency,” defined by Marshall Gregory in Shaped by Stories as our ability to make moral choices.[18] Befriending Holden also involves what Gregory refers to as “reflective assent,”[19] or deep consideration for what has been read. And finally, readers must see Holden as what Gregory calls a “narrative companion,” or a character who rests in readers’ imaginations and has the potential to influence their decision-making even after their eyes no longer look at the page.[20] For Gregory explains that to imagine something is just as real as any other action one can take in real life, and that even our real-life friends (as opposed to fictional, literary friends) are also our friends when they are not around us because they are still on our minds—and still can influence the choices we make when we are simply thinking of or imaging them.[21] Friendship is both a physical and mental activity, and befriending Holden means allowing him to enter into our imaginations so that he may have a chance to influence us as we live out our lives.

            For these reasons, befriending Holden is quite possible, and it is, arguably, Christian readers’ duty to befriend him. The underlying theme of Jacobs’ Theology of Reading is to approach a text lovingly, just like one should approach a person lovingly, which is what Jacobs considers the “hermeneutics of love.” Granted, Jacobs is clear that it is agape as opposed to philia that allows readers to approach a text lovingly,[22] but, arguably, it takes agape to truly befriend Holden given his language and delinquent behavior throughout the novel.

            We must love Holden by befriending him and letting him dwell in our imagination—especially since Holden has not been loved in such a way by any other authority figures. According to Baumbach, Holden’s history teacher Old Spencer is too caught up in justifying his own actions. This self-concern causes him to act more childish than Holden, who, in spite of criticizing Old Spencer in his mind, treats him with respect—an example of a reversal of the roles of father and child and the catalyst that sets Holden off on his journey to find a true authority figure.[23] Old Spencer, Baumbach explains, fails to give Holden what he truly needs: someone who will come down to his level and see the world the way he does by claiming that Holden “knew absolutely nothing” in his history course,[24] which may be the case on the surface. But Old Spencer does not take the time to truly see—or read—Holden and listen to the questions Holden asks underneath the surface.

            The same can also be said of Mr. Antolini, who at first appears to truly care for Holden, but then proves otherwise. When Holden goes to Antolini’s to spend the night, Holden updates him on some of his adventures in Pencey, and Antolini offers sound advice.[25] Antolini appears to be speaking to Holden on the level that Holden has wanted others to speak to him the entire novel. However, while Holden is sleeping, Antolini is found “patting” Holden’s head.[26] Holden is obviously shaken by this, and as he is rushing out of Antolini’s apartment, makes the following heartbreaking statement: “That kind of stuff’s happened to me about twenty times since I was a kid. I can’t stand it.”[27] Holden, in a very sixteen-year-old way, suggests that he has been molested in one form or another many times in the past. Up until this point in the text, Holden has struggled with simply finding a person who can meet him on his level, but now one sees that he has also been violated by those around him. Baumbach, too, recognizes that though Antolini’s words are well intentioned, his violation of Holden causes him to lose respect for Antolini in particular and father figures in general, and Baumbach equates this loss of respect to a “loss of God.”[28] As Christian readers, we must act differently: we must not write Holden off by deeming him immature, ignorant, or subhuman. Instead, we must provide Holden with the love that has been denied him by befriending him so that, as we interact with children similar to Holden in real life, we may allow Holden to dwell in our imaginations in such a way that we choose to not write off these children as well.

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                [1] And by “readers” I mean not only readers of books but also of any text—be it a video game, movie, TV show, or even a person.

                [2] German for “worldview.”

                [3] John 4:1-4 (English Standard Version).

                [4] Andreas J. Köstenberger, “John: ESV Study Bible Notes,” in ESV Study Bible, ed. Lane T. Dennis et al. (Wheaton, IL: Crossway, 2016), 2027.

                [5] John 4:7-26.

                [6] Köstenberger, 2027.

                [7] Luke 2:16-17.

                [8] Karen Swallow Prior, “How Reading Makes Us More Human,” The Atlantic, June 21, 2013, https://www.theatlantic.com/national/archive/2013/06/how-reading-makes-us-more-human/277079/.

                [9] Marybeth Baggett, “In Love with the Word: A Charge to Christian Literary Critics,” MoralApologetics, March 16, 2020, https://www.moralapologetics.com/wordpress/2020/3/16/in-love-with-the-word-a-charge-to-christian-literary-critics.

                [10] C. S. Lewis, The Four Loves, Signature Book (New York: HarperCollins, 1960), 102.

                [11] J. D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye (New York: Little, Brown, 1991), 1.

                [12] Alan Jacobs, A Theology of Reading: The Hermeneutics of Love (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 2001), 64.

                [13] Jonathan Baumbach, “The Saint as a Young Man,” in Holden Caulfield, ed. Harold Bloom, Major Literary Characters (New York: Chelsea House, 1990), 65.

                [14] Ibid., 69.

                [15] Ibid.

                [16] Ibid.

                [17] Sanford Pinsker, The Catcher in the Rye: Innocence Under Pressure, Twanye’s Masterwork Studies, ed. Robert Lecker (New York: Twayne Publishers, 1993), 37-38.

                [18] Marshall Gregory, Shaped by Stories: The Ethical Power of Narratives (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2009), 24.  

                [19] Ibid., 75.

                [20] Ibid., 81-83.  

                [21] Ibid., 81-82.

                [22] Jacobs, 66-67.

                [23] Baumbach, 67-68.

                [24] Ibid., 10.

                [25] Salinger, 187-88.

                [26] Ibid., 192.

                [27] Ibid., 193.

                [28] Baumbach, 66.

Making Sense of Morality: Kant’s Ethics

Editor’s note: R. Scott Smith has graciously allowed us to republish his series, “Making Sense of Morality.” You can find the original post here.

Introduction

Immanuel Kant (d. 1804) thought all knowledge begins with sense experience. However, as a nominalist, there are no literally identical qualities in experiences. Moreover, experiences always show us what contingently the case is. These are a posteriori truths (ones known by experience).

Yet, he also wanted to preserve a major role for reason. To him, there also are a priori truths, which are known by reason independently of experience. There are two kinds of a priori truths: analytic a priori truths (ones true by definition; e.g., a bachelor is an unmarried male), and synthetic a priori truths, which are true due to how the world is. So, for him there are universal and necessary truths.

Unlike many we surveyed before Hobbes, Kant did not conceive of knowledge as the mind’s matching up with reality. Instead, it is an activity which generates knowledge. For him, we cannot know things as they are really are in themselves, but only as they appear to us.

This move led him to posit two realms, that of experience (the phenomena) and that of reality as it is apart from our experience (the noumena). But, if all experiences are discrete and there are no universal, necessary qualities given in experience, how can we share in a common, intersubjective world? Kant posited that a transcendent mind (not God) constructed the same world in each of us.

Kant’s Ethics

Kant conceived of morals as categorical, or absolute, commands. They are valid independently of experience. Therefore, morals could not be dependent upon the contingent, phenomenal realm. Morals are part of the noumena, and as such, they are known by reason. But as a nominalist, he could not appeal to transcendent, objectively real, universal morals like Plato. Instead, he believed that we should self-legislate a maxim (plan of action) that would apply universally. That is, we would generalize a maxim to be applicable for all people, a move fitting with nominalism.

By self-legislating morals, we are being autonomous. Why should we obey the moral law? Though he was raised as a Pietist, it was not out of love for God. Rather, we should do our duty for duty’s sake, out of pure respect for the moral law. By acting autonomously, we live out the categorical imperative. He gave it different formulations. For example, whatever I choose to do, I should will it to be universal for everyone. Additionally, we always should treat all humans (including ourselves) as an end, and never just as a means to an end. Fittingly, the goal of ethics is to develop a good will that acts autonomously and independently of consequences.

Kant made several posits to make his system “work.” For example, we should act as if God exists to make full sense of morals. Also, to achieve a holy will, the soul must be immortal; and to freely will our maxims, we need free will. Yet, none of these are empirically knowable, so it seems they are postulates.

Kant’s Legacy

Kant’s ethics has endured. His reasoning influences bioethics with the principles of autonomy, justice, beneficence, and nonmaleficence. He also tried to provide universal morals and respect of persons.

Kant believed we cannot know things as they really are in themselves, but only as they appear to us. Many take that idea as “settled.” However, suppose we see a tiger. For him, we cannot see the tiger, but only as it appears to us. Call that A1. But, we cannot see A1 as it is, but only as it appears to us (A2). The same result repeats without end. Disastrously, it seems we cannot get started to know anything empirically. Yet, if all knowledge begins with sense experience, there’s no knowledge.

Thus, while Kant tried to preserve universal morality, it is at best just a human construct. In terms of his legacy, people thought he gave much prestige to science, which uses an empirical method. Thereafter, the fact-value split became more entrenched: the sciences give us knowledge of facts, while religion and ethics are just opinions, preferences, and values.

For Further Reading

Kant, Critique of Pure Reason, and Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals

R. Scott Smith, In Search of Moral Knowledge, ch. 4

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R. Scott Smith is a Christian philosopher and apologist, with special interests in ethics, knowledge, and seeing the body of Christ live in the fullness of the Spirit and truth.

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