This is part two of my analysis of Alasdair MacIntyre’s approach to virtue ethics. This part focuses on Three Rival Versions of Moral Enquiry. Click here to view part one.
We are faced with a variety of competing views of morality within our society. There are many who would like us to believe that no one view is superior to another, or that all views are equally valid. This is problematic. On an intuitive level we somehow know this is not the way it should be. There remains within us the desire to resolve our differences – to enter discussion and debate for the intended purpose of convincing others that our view is correct (and theirs mistaken). But this problem goes deeper than simply having different starting points and perspectives. Every other person is convinced that their view is best, that it makes the most sense, that it is entirely rational, and in fact, more rational than any other. The result is that we are locked in a moral standoff, where no amount of arguing is likely to convince our counterparts. In Three Rival Versions of Moral Enquiry, Alasdair MacIntyre provides an excellent summation of this moral mess.
Debate between fundamentally opposed standpoints does occur; But it is inevitably inconclusive. Each warring position characteristically appears irrefutable to its own adherents; Indeed in its own terms and by its own standards of argument it is in practice irrefutable. But each warring position seems to its opponent to be insufficiently warranted by rational argument.
How did we get to this point? More importantly, how do we get out of this predicament? MacIntyre’s purpose in writing is to answer these questions and further develop the vision of virtue ethics that he initially articulated in After Virtue.
If After Virtue is perceived as an incomplete work, as I believe it should, then Three Rival Versions should be viewed as bringing MacIntyre’s aretaic vision to completion, providing the metaphysical grounding for objective virtues and providing us the means of arbitrating between competing moral views. Of course, MacIntyre’s proposed solution is not without its critics. The first, is the more serious charge that MacIntyre’s solution simply doesn’t provide enough clarity to make any difference in our moral standoff. I say this is more serious, in that if true, then the work is inconsequential. Second, is the charge that MacIntyre’s vision is essentially postmodern. This concern has been expressed by several prominent Christian philosophers. What one thinks of postmodernism, and the extent to which MacIntyre is thought to incorporate aspects of it into his position, will determine if this is a serious charge or not.
So, how did we get to this point? MacIntyre begins Three Rival Versions by delineating the development and presuppositions of three different conceptions of moral inquiry: Encyclopaedia, which is named for the 9th edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica; Genealogy, after Nietzsche’s Genealogy of Morals; and Tradition, representing the Thomism put forth by Pope Leo XIII as the official doctrine of the Catholic Church. By tracing these three views, MacIntyre demonstrates that moral enquiry has progressed from objectivity, to subjectivity, to complete incommensurability and untranslatability of rival conceptions of morality. The essential move being the genealogist’s rejection of any theoretically neutral, pretheoretical ground by which all competing claims can be judged. So while contemporary moral theorists still cling to the idea that we can enter rational discussion with those who hold different points of view (a weak conception of rationality left over from the Enlightenment project), they deny the ability to reach rational conclusions and resolve differences (the strong conception of rationality that Nietzsche rejected). MacIntyre’s point here is to expose the irrationality of clinging to this weaker conception of rationality, if no such independent standard of adjudication can be found.
It is precisely here that MacIntyre challenges the conclusion of the Nietzschean genealogist, pointing to the example of Aquinas. By resolving the conflicting issues between Augustinianism and Aristotelianism, Aquinas proves that one tradition can be demonstrated as rationally superior to another. In MacIntyre’s thinking, Thomism provides us with the philosophical craft-methodology of how to engage morally incommensurable views. Thomas was able to articulate problems within both these rival traditions in terms internal to each system, demonstrating how each lacked the necessary resources to resolve those problems. He was able to demonstrate how the Aristotelian-Thomistic tradition was then able to provide solutions to those same problems. And finally, Aquinas anticipated his critics best counterarguments (framed again in terms of these rival views) and emerged with a superior response. This alone is a significant contribution to moral discussion. But MacIntyre believes that Thomism provides more than just this methodological approach; it is also the tradition which offers the metaphysical grounding required to provide an objective standard for the virtues, something that was lacking in After Virtue.
At this point, some have raised concerns that MacIntyre has not sufficiently delineated the finer points of his moral theory. As Richard T. De George has pointed out, “MacIntyre never makes clear how we are to use whatever in Thomism he believes valuable.” But this doesn’t seem to be an accurate assessment. MacIntyre discusses at length several key features of Thomism that are essential in demonstrating its superiority to other views. For example, just as Aquinas argued on the basis of natural law, MacIntyre states that contemporary society’s unwillingness to discard the fragments of morality is evidence of its metaphysical grounding in human nature.
The Thomist . . . discerns in the continuous reappropriation of the rules, and in the recurring resistance to discarding them, evidence of the work of synderesis, of that fundamental initial grasp of the primary precepts of the natural law, to which cultural degeneration can partially or temporarily blind us but which can never be obliterated.
Synderesis is the idea that human consciousness has an innate inclination toward the good. MacIntyre is therefore arguing that our intuitive desire to determine a morally superior view is grounded in human nature, an insight he sees as essential to Thomism. MacIntyre states elsewhere,
The plain person initially, as plain child, exhibits his or her knowledge of the principium of the natural law, which is the principium of practical reasoning, in the same way that he or she exhibits his or her knowledge of the principle of noncontradiction, that is to say, not in any ability to formulate the principle explicitly, but by showing a potentiality to do just that, in the way in which the truth of the principle is presupposed in a multiplicity of particular practical judgments.
Additionally, MacIntyre identifies Thomism as providing both a human telos which is eternal and the virtues and right actions required to direct humanity towards that telos. De George concurs with MacIntyre that Thomism provides the philosophical and methodological activity necessary to conduct moral enquiry, but he conveniently overlooks the metaphysical contributions of Thomism. It is these two Thomistic contributions that allow us to not only arbitrate between rival moral theories, but also between rival approaches to the virtues. In this regard, it doesn’t seem possible to view Three Rival Views as an inconsequential work, especially when read in conjunction with After Virtue.
But what of the criticism that MacIntyre’s view is postmodern? Thomas S. Hibbs argues that MacIntyre’s overall body of work has presented a postmodern Thomism, prominently featuring three postmodern motifs: namely, the emphasis on tradition and authority, the role narrative plays in shaping thought and culture, and the part community plays in shaping one’s personal identity. But, does simply using these motifs make MacIntyre postmodern? Given MacIntyre’s commitment to essentialism, the belief that we can arbitrate between competing moral claims, as well as his intimations about the authority of scripture, it is hard to see how this can be the case. For example, both William Lane Craig and J. P. Moreland have characterized MacIntyre’s overall approach as presenting virtues as mere “linguistic constructions relative to the valuations and commitments of different traditions.” While one might be able to make this case solely based on After Virtue, it cannot be maintained given the contributions of Three Rival Versions. In this latter work, MacIntyre has demonstrated a commitment to the idea that human nature provides an objective grounding for the virtues. Essential to who we are as human beings, is an innate knowledge of what is good and virtuous. This belief would certainly seem to undermine the idea that he is postmodern, or, at the very least, Craig and Moreland’s charge that he is anti-essentialist. While it is true that, for MacIntyre, community plays an important role in cultivating the virtues, he clearly establishes nature as providing the objective grounding and impetus for such cultivation. As such, a fully orbed postmodern rejection of a transcendent, overarching telos/narrative cannot be harmonized with what MacIntyre is presenting.
I have stated elsewhere that the overall contribution of this work, in conjunction with After Virtue, provides Christians with a viable alternative to deontological approaches to moral theory. Virtue theory, properly grounded in the objective understanding of the human good afforded by MacIntyre’s reading of Aquinas, could provide a better way of reconciling the tension between transcendent moral values and the application of those values to various circumstances and contexts. This is not to say that MacIntyre’s approach should be adopted wholesale. However, the groundwork presented in Three Rival Views should guide our consideration. Christians, who fear that wading into such waters would open them to the influence of postmodern thinking, must keep in mind that simply borrowing common motifs from postmodernism does not make one postmodern. If anything, MacIntyre has demonstrated that these motifs are premodern, being originally found in the writings of both Aristotle and Aquinas.
Alasdair MacIntyre, Three Rival Versions of Moral Enquiry: Encyclopaedia, Genealogy, and Tradition (Notre Dame, Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press, 1990), 7.
MacIntyre, Three Rival Versions, 75. Even the Thomistic tradition which factors heavily into MacIntyre’s proposed solution, has not escaped “the indefinite multiplication of disagreements,” by wrongly giving priority to epistemological questions. It is important to note that when MacIntyre advocates for Thomism, he is advocating the version articulated by Thomas himself.
Richard T. De George, review of Three Rival Versions of Moral Enquiry: Encyclopaedia, Genealogy, and Tradition, by Alasdair MacIntyre, Faith and Philosophy 8, no. 4 (1991): 542. De George is actually quite emphatic in making this point, going on to claim that “If MacIntyre wants to be heard more, he must produce the substantive theory that will engage his opponents. Simply to claim that Saint Thomas has the solution to the ethical and philosophical problems of our times is a move that has been tried in Catholic schools for over a hundred years, with less than compelling success.” And then a few lines later, “This volume argues for a method. The proof of whether it is in fact superior to alternative and opposing methods will be whether it can yield a moral theory adequate to the times. This series of lectures claims that it can; but the lectures contain only a promise.” Ibid., 545.
MacIntyre, Three Rival Versions, 170.
Thomas S. Hibbs, “MacIntyre’s Postmodern Thomism: Reflections on Three Rival Versions of Moral Enquiry,” The Thomist: A Speculative Quarterly Review 57, no. 2 (1993): 277.
J. P. Moreland and William Lane Craig, Philosophical Foundations for a Christian Worldview (Downers Grove, Illinois: InterVarsity Press, 2003), 455.
A brief review of MacIntyre’s seminal work on Virtue Ethics, After Virtue. This is part one of a two part analysis of MacIntyre’s overall theory of ethics.
There is no question that Alasdair MacIntyre’s After Virtue is a significant work in moral philosophy, if not the most significant moral work of the 20th century. While it certainly figures as a major contributor to the modern revival of aretaic ethics, its true value can only be assessed within the larger context of MacIntyre’s follow-up works, particularly Three Rival Versions of Moral Enquiry. On its own, After Virtue presents an incomplete rendering of the virtues that not only falls short of the Aristotelian variety that MacIntyre professes to be offering, but that additionally runs the risk of contributing to the very moral quagmire from which MacIntyre is attempting to deliver his readers. Despite these concerns, After Virtue offers the aspiring Christian moral theorist an attractive alternative to the deontological approaches that have dominated Christian ethics for much of the church’s history.
There are two heroes in this book. The first is Friedrich Nietzsche, whom MacIntyre views as a hero of sorts; not because he is right, but because he takes the moral discussion in the modern period to its logical end. Nietzsche properly discerned that the rise of emotivism had effectively undermined the Enlightenment project’s attempt to craft an objective science of ethics. If all assertions of morality are nothing more than mere expressions of will, then better for us simply to abandon all pretense of objectivity and embrace our autonomy. MacIntyre understands Nietzsche as saying,
. . . my morality can only be what my will creates. There can be no place for such fictions as natural rights, utility, the greatest happiness of the greatest number. I myself must now bring into existence ‘new tables of what is good.’
In other words, there is no transcendent moral truths to which we can turn for guidance. What is good, is what the individual wills it to be. While Nietzsche is not responsible for morality devolving into utter subjectivity (MacIntyre places that responsibility on those who came before), he is responsible for justifying its acceptance. The result is the moral theorist’s complete inability to arbitrate between rival expressions of morality; moral discussion and debate is effectively halted.
Those thinking that Aristotle is the other hero in this book, better think again. That honor falls squarely upon MacIntyre himself. If Nietzsche is the King Kamehameha II of the European tradition because he awakened the world to the fiction of what morality had become, then what are we to make of MacIntyre? In like fashion, MacIntyre stands as a Nietzschean type hero, conducting his own genealogy of moral theory and awakening the world to the moral morass of modernity.
What then the conjunction of philosophical and historical argument reveals is that either one must follow through the aspirations and the collapse of the different versions of the Enlightenment project until there remains only the Nietzschean diagnosis and the Nietzschean problematic or one must hold that the Enlightenment project was not only mistaken, but should never have been commenced in the first place.
We can either follow Nietzsche or follow MacIntyre as he takes us back to a theory of morality rooted in Aristotelian virtues. MacIntyre plays the role of Nietzschean prophet, delineating the problems of modernity, and claiming to offer a solution far better than Nietzsche himself ever offered. What MacIntyre has done, as Richard Bernstein so ably points out, is to present us with a choice between morality and no morality. The question is whether he has sufficiently convinced his readers why they should choose the former and not simply embrace the liberation that the latter promises. Even if MacIntyre is successful in exposing modernity as devoid of morality, and even if countless moralists are awakened to realize their present condition for what it is, what’s to stop them from simply declaring, “Thanks, but no thanks.” There is no doubt that MacIntyre has laid out a substantial vision for moral theory, but why is it better than Nietzsche’s opposing vision? Why should we choose MacIntyre over Nietzsche?
The answer to this question hinges on one task. If MacIntyre is successful in presenting his readers with a teleology common to all of humanity, a shared telos such that it necessitates everyone embracing an objective catalog of core virtues, then I think they have no choice but to choose MacIntyre. To do otherwise would be to go contrary to nature and undermine the very idea of what it means to live in community. However, this is a big if. As it turns out, the most significant criticism of MacIntyre is that he has failed to do just that, instead leaving many to wonder if his account is more relativistic than objective. This charge of relativism is not entirely unjustified, and MacIntyre seems to have anticipated it. After reviewing various historical traditions related to the virtues, he finds incompatible lists and differences in rank order, acknowledging that it would be all too easy to draw the conclusion that no “single core conception” of the virtues can be found.
MacIntyre attempts to avoid this conclusion by providing a three-tiered account of the virtues, placing them within the context of practices, traditions, and the narrative unity of human lives. But it is precisely here, with MacIntyre’s emphasis on goods and standards internal to practices, that the charge of relativism is introduced. Martha Nussbaum characterizes MacIntyre’s approach as a clear turn toward relativism, in which “the only appropriate criteria of ethical goodness are local ones internal to the traditions and practices of each local society or group that has questions about the good.” Part of this criticism is grounded in the fact that MacIntyre’s vision does not seem to rule out practices that adopt vices rather than virtues. Building upon MacIntyre’s own speculation about the possibility of evil practices, Bernstein raises the prospect of a practice aimed at international espionage which requires excelling at dishonesty in appropriate situations. He, too, claims that MacIntyre’s position is in danger of being relativistic “because there is no reason to believe that the ‘acquired human qualities’ required to excel in one practice are the same as, or even similar to, those required for other, incompatible practices.” He rightly concludes that what seems to be missing is a clear objective standard to arbitrate between rival traditions and practices, the very task MacIntyre’s whole work hinges upon. To summarize this criticism in MacIntyre’s own words:
I have suggested so far that unless there is a telos which transcends the limited goods of practices by constituting the good of a whole human life, the good of a human life conceived as a unity, it will both be the case that a certain subversive arbitrariness will invade the moral life and that we shall be unable to specify the context of certain virtues adequately.
The fundamental problem with MacIntyre’s approach is his insistence on rejecting Aristotle’s metaphysical grounding of the human telos. If MacIntyre were truly harkening the reader back to a thoroughgoing Aristotelian approach to the virtues, then he would need to embrace an essentialist view of human beings that includes what it means to properly function and flourish as a person. Defending the notion of an objective teleology without grounding it firmly in human nature denies MacIntyre of the one feature that could tie all local traditions and practices together and provide them with an external referent by which to judge the value of conflicting virtues. This is a problem that MacIntyre seems to recognize and acknowledge in his prologue to the third addition of After Virtue.
. . . my attempt to provide an account of the human good purely in social terms, in terms of practices, traditions, and the narrative unity of human lives, was bound to be inadequate until I had provided it with a metaphysical grounding. It is only because human beings have an end towards which they are directed by reason of their specific nature, that practices, traditions, and the like are able to function as they do.
It is only in MacIntyre’s later works that this deficiency is definitively addressed. In this sense, After Virtue is an incomplete work.
No one should interpret this to mean that After Virtue is an inconsequential contribution to moral discussion. While MacIntyre might have downplayed the need to provide a metaphysical and biological grounding of the good, he was correct in emphasizing its inherent social context. Our conception of the good cannot be articulated apart from what it means to live the good in community. This is a contribution that Christian moralists cannot afford to overlook. Virtue theory, properly grounded in an objective understanding of the human good, provides a better way of reconciling the tension between transcendent moral values and the application of those values to various circumstances and contexts. Remaining fixed in a mindset that absolutizes all the individual commands and truths of scripture will take us down the path of developing curious theological schemes for arbitrating the conflicts that necessarily result. In this sense, MacIntyre’s approach retains a degree of relativism, but it is a relativism we Christians should not be afraid to embrace. Applying moral values differently to different contexts does not deny the existence of objective moral truths. Even one of MacIntyre’s harshest critics acknowledges this. Nussbaum concludes, “The fact that a good and virtuous decision is context-sensitive does not imply that it is right only relative to, or inside, a limited context . . . It is right absolutely, objectively, from anywhere in the human world, to attend to the particular features of one’s context.” Of course, the fundamental problem with extending relativism to all moral truth is that it prevents us from judging which application is appropriate, and which misses the mark. In the larger context of his writings on the virtues, no one should be charging MacIntyre with making this error.
Alasdair MacIntyre, After Virtue: A Study in Moral Theory, 3rd ed. (Notre Dame, Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press, 2007), 118. I am thinking here of MacIntyre’s own claim to be presenting something like that of Aristotle’s approach, as well as his rejection of Aristotle’s metaphysical grounding of the virtues which will be addressed more fully later in this review.
MacIntyre, After Virtue, 113-114.
Richard J. Bernstein, “Nietzsche or Aristotle? Reflections on Alasdair MacIntyre’s After Virtue,” Soundings: An Interdisciplinary Journal 100, no. 4 (2017): 296.
MacIntyre, After Virtue, 181.
Martha Nussbaum, “Non-Relative Virtues: An Aristotelian Approach,” in Ethical Theory: An Anthology, ed. Russ Shafer-Landau (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers Ltd, 2013), 631.
Bernstein, “Nietzsche or Aristotle,” 304.
MacIntyre, After Virtue, 203.
I am thinking here of conflicting, non-conflicting and graded absolutism.
Nussbaum, “Non-Relative Virtues,” 639.
J. P. Moreland and William Lane Craig, Philosophical Foundations for a Christian Worldview (Downers Grove, Illinois: InterVarsity Press, 2003), 455. In my opinion, the criticisms leveled by Craig and Moreland are a bit too harsh. They read MacIntyre as presenting the virtues as “linguistic constructions relative to the valuations and commitments of different traditions.” On a simple reading of After Virtue, that seems a fair criticism. However, they most certainly have failed to take MacIntyre’s later works into consideration in making this assessment.
Special thanks to the GMU chapter of Ratio Christi for allowing me to present on this topic at a recent meeting. I would like to apologize for not being able to adequately address the question regarding Plantinga’s argument against metaphysical naturalism. I have updated my comments below to include a brief summation. I will readily acknowledge that I still find myself trying to grasp all of its intricacies. I want to especially thank Marcel for his insightful feedback regarding Spiegel’s argument. I have incorporated the idea of UGN briefly in my summation.
What explains the practice of making inductive inferences? Why do we seem inclined to think that the future will resemble the past? Is this simply the result of conditioning; something baked into us through the repetition of daily experience? Or, is it something hardwired into us, an essential part of our cognitive makeup? The distinction here is significant. On the one side is David Hume’s position which represents an authentically empiricist perspective. For Hume, beliefs based upon inductive reasoning are without any rational justification and calls into question the foundation of scientific knowledge. If he is correct in his thinking, then the so-called problem of induction may well prove to be far more problematic for the Christian than it is for the scientist. On the other side, is the position being put forth in this paper. I wish to argue that inductive reasoning, far from being the product of nurture, is more properly conceived as the product of nature. I will begin by exploring what has come to be known as the problem of induction, arguing that Hume is not so much stating a problem as he is making a demonstration regarding the limitations of reason. It is in this section that I will delineate the larger implications of Hume’s thinking for the theist. I will then discuss what has come to be known as the principle of induction. Far from weakening the ability of reason, I contend that Hume’s demonstration actually points to a priori powers of reason. Finally, I will attempt to account for the production of inductive reasoning. How are we to explain the emergence of this phenomenon? Ultimately, I will contend that inductive reasoning provides a compelling demonstration of theistic design.
The Problem of Induction
Antony Flew defines induction as “a method of reasoning by which a general law or principle is inferred from observed particular instances.” We use it all the time in our day to day life. Anytime we make a general conclusion based upon limited observation, we are reasoning inductively. If I conclude that all women from El Paso are beautiful, solely based on having met a few dozen women who were born in that city, then I have drawn an inductive conclusion. Perhaps, more commonly, we all believe the sun will rise tomorrow and do so on the basis that we have seen it rise every morning of our lives. But induction transcends these mundane beliefs. Indeed, science itself, despite efforts to demonstrate otherwise, relies heavily upon induction. Flew underscores this long tradition of inductive reasoning in science by pointing to Newton’s rules of reasoning, as delineated in the preface to Book III of his Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica.
The third rule runs: ‘The qualities of bodies, which admit neither intensification nor remission of degrees, and which are found to belong to all bodies within reach of our experiments, are to be esteemed the universal qualities of all bodies whatsoever.’ The fourth, which ‘we must follow, that the argument of induction may not be evaded by arbitrary hypotheses’, states: ‘In experimental philosophy we are to look upon propositions inferred by general induction from phenomena as accurately or very nearly true … till such time as other phenomena occur, by which they may either be made more accurate, or liable to exceptions.’
Whereas deductive reasoning provides certainty (starting with true premises leads one to a true conclusion), inductive reasoning does not. But the problem with induction is not simply the lack of certainty that it provides (most would agree that this really is not problematic at all), but rather that it seems to admit no justification whatsoever.
David Hume famously argued that while we certainly use induction all the time, when asked to justify it, we cannot. Take for instance the aforementioned belief that the sun will rise tomorrow. What justifies our believing this? Hume tells us that the belief is based upon an assumption commonly referred to as the uniformity of nature (UN). Simply put, it is the assumption that the future will resemble the past. As Samir Okasha states, it is “the assumption that objects we haven’t examined will be similar, in relevant respects, to objects of the same sort that we have examined.” But as Hume points out, this assumption is not necessarily true. One could easily conceive of a universe where the uniformity of nature does not hold.
The contrary of every matter of fact is still possible; because it can never imply a contradiction, and is conceived by the mind with the same facility and distinctness, as if ever so conformable to reality. That the sun will not rise tomorrow is no less intelligible a proposition, and implies no more contradiction than the affirmation, that it will rise.
But if UN is not logically true, can we at least provide empirical evidence to demonstrate its truth? Hume says that any attempt to do so descends into circular reasoning. If we argue that UN is true because it has always held true in the past, then we have simply used UN to prove UN and are guilty of begging the question. There are therefore no rational or empirical grounds upon which to justify inductively held beliefs. According to Okasha, “Hume concludes that our confidence in induction is just blind faith.” This is what is traditionally known as the problem of induction.
In response to Hume, some have turned to probability as a means of justifying inductive reasoning. If the premises of an inductive argument cannot guarantee the truth of its conclusion, at the very least they make it more likely than not. Bertrand Russell states,
It must be conceded, to begin with, that the fact that two things have been found often together and never apart does not, by itself, suffice to prove demonstratively that they will be found together in the next case we examine. The most we can hope is that the oftener things are found together, the more probable it becomes that they will be found together another time, and that, if they have been found together often enough, the probability will amount almost to certainty. It can never quite reach certainty, because we know that in spite of frequent repetitions there sometimes is a failure at the last, as in the case of the chicken whose neck is wrung. Thus probability is all we ought to seek.
Of course, an inductive argument’s probability is relative to the truth of the premises and whether it is based upon our total relevant knowledge. The upshot is that while scientific knowledge is not certain, we are justified in holding inductively formed beliefs on the basis that they are highly probable.
The problem with this line of reasoning is that it relies upon induction. To say that something is highly probable, is to say that a very high proportion of occurrences follow a particular pattern. Hume tells us in his Treatise on Human Nature that “probability is founded on the presumption of a resemblance betwixt those objects, of which we have had experience, and those, of which we have had none.” In other words, probability presupposes UN; and thus, also falls prey to circular reasoning. Hume continues,
I will go farther, and assert, that he could not so much as prove by any probable arguments, that the future must be conformable to the past. All probable arguments are built on the supposition, that there is this conformity betwixt the future and the past, and therefore can never prove it.
The question is whether this leaves us in a state of total skepticism. Has Hume effectively undermined our ability to justify any scientifically obtained knowledge? There is much debate as to whether Hume embraced this radical conclusion. In reviewing the many interpretations, Alexander Rosenberg concludes that Hume did not reject inductive reasoning. Instead, he confidently asserts that Hume considered it to be an inevitability for humans and essential to the scientific enterprise. Hume himself states, “. . . none but a fool or madman will ever pretend to dispute the authority of experience, or to reject that great guide of human life . . .” Or, as Alvin Plantinga states, “it is the person who does not reason inductively who requires therapy.” So then, if Hume was not advocating a form of Pyrrhonean skepticism, what exactly was his point?
Many philosophers would agree with Rosenberg that Hume was never suggesting that we abandon inductive reasoning. In separate works, both Antony Flew and A. J. Ayer argue that Hume should not be read as presenting a problem or difficulty. Instead, he was simply demonstrating the limitations of reason. We can see this clearly in Hume’s own words.
. . . in all reasonings from experience, there is a step taken by the mind, which is not supported by any argument or process of the understanding; there is no danger, that these reasonings, on which almost all knowledge depends, will ever be affected by such a discovery. If the mind be not engaged by argument to make this step, it must be induced by some other principle of equal weight and authority; and that principle will preserve its influence as long as human nature remains the same.
For Hume, that principle is custom or habit. Ayer points us to the Treatise on Human Nature where Hume states,
. . . that all our reasonings concerning matters of fact are deriv’d from nothing but custom: and that belief is more properly an act of the sensitive, than of the cogitative part of our natures.
By sheer repetition of experience, the mind begins to naturally and automatically make the inductive step. It is not reason or universally intuited principles that serve as “the great guide to human life,” but rather custom built upon experience. Just as a dog expects to be fed by her master whenever he comes home from work, so also humans form inductive beliefs on the basis of instinct. When something happens often enough, we form the expectation that it will happen again.
Custom, then, is the great guide of human life. It is that principle alone, which renders our experience useful to us, and makes us expect, for the future, a similar train of events with those which have appeared in the past.
As we will see later, Hume’s point is not terribly challenging for the scientist. However, for the Christian it has potential to be highly problematic. By relegating inductive reasoning to habit, Hume believed he had demonstrated a fundamental weakness of our cognitive faculties. According to Hume,
. . . we cannot give a satisfactory reason, why we believe after a thousand experiments, that a stone will fall, or a fire burn; can we ever satisfy ourselves concerning any determination, which we may form, with regard to the origin of worlds, and the situation of nature, from, and to eternity?
Because the natural powers of the human mind are so limited, as a matter of practice we should refrain from metaphysical speculation. Or as Hume more eloquently puts it, we should limit “our enquiries to such subjects as are best adapted to the narrow capacity of human understanding.” If we can’t even justify induction, how can we possibly justify anything beyond our own immediate experience? Rather than advocating complete skepticism, Hume is simply espousing a naturalistic, mitigated version which rejects knowledge claims that go beyond immediate experience. Hume continues,
It seems to me, that the only objects of the abstract sciences or of demonstration are quantity and number, and that all attempts to extend this more perfect species of knowledge beyond these bounds are mere sophistry and illusion.
According to Flew, Hume’s point is that it is impossible to postulate “any universal proposition from any evidence which can be provided by experience.” While philosophers of science have wrestled with the implications of Hume’s thought for generations, all the scientist needed to do to free herself from the problem of induction was to abandon any universal or metaphysical conclusions. So, in essence, the problem of induction provides atheists like Hume, Flew, Ayer and Russell a key premise in the argument for scientific naturalism: we cannot and should not draw conclusions that transcend the very grounds upon which those conclusions are based.
The Principle of Induction
In formulating a response to this challenge, the Christian can look to what has come to be known as the principle of induction. It is important to note that Hume himself seems to speak of induction in terms of being a principle, as evidenced by the quotes above. Many philosophers have picked up on this, taking Hume’s intimations much farther. For example, Flew believes induction should be viewed as a rule guiding how we reason.
. . . the much talked about Principle of Induction should be construed: not as the wonder premise missing from Hume’s failed syllogism; but rather as a fundamental and primary rule of procedure for argument from experience.
While the principle of induction doesn’t prove that something is necessarily true, as with logical principles, it does prove that something is probably true. But Russell goes much farther than Flew, making an interesting connection between the principle of induction and the logical principles of thought.
In addition to the logical principles which enable us to prove from a given premise that something is certainly true, there are other logical principles which enable us to prove, from a given premise, that there is a greater or less probability that something is true. An example of such principles—perhaps the most important example is the inductive principle . . .
The logical principles of thought to which Russell alludes, are known a priori; they are self-evident laws that govern all reasoning. Can we say the same for the principle of induction? Or is it more appropriate to think of it as an ad hoc principle, which seems more in keeping with what Hume is saying? Consider what makes a principle of reason a priori. When we think of the logical laws of thought pertaining to contradiction and identity, we can say that they are properly basic. Their truth is prima facie; we accept them without the need of supporting argumentation. In fact, they are incapable of being supported by argumentation. As Russell points out, “logical principles are known to us, and cannot be themselves proved by experience, since all proof presupposes them.” Is this also the case with the principle of induction? Some of the most well-known commentators on Hume would seem to think so. Ayer asserts that there is no question that the principle of induction is universally assumed by all humans. In fact, he specifically connects it with the entire corpus of principles of logic, including causality, saying that, “They cannot be proved . . . nature is so constituted that we cannot avoid accepting them.” Returning to Flew, he adds:
it would be absurd to dismiss as irrational or non-rational all appeals to experience as a guide for our expectations, on the grounds that no further reason could be offered for such appeals beyond the ultimate reason that just this is a large part of what it is to be a rational man.
Perhaps Russell gives us our most forceful statements regarding the nature of the principle of induction. He begins by stating that “. . . the principle of induction . . . is itself not capable of being proved by experience, and yet is unhesitatingly believed by everyone, at least in all its concrete applications. In these characteristics the principle of induction does not stand alone.” He is, of course, speaking of the other laws of thought, such as identity, contradiction and excluded middle, all of which are self-evident and fundamental to all thinking. But is it proper to think of the principle of induction in this same way? It is if we think of it in terms that Alvin Plantinga proposes. “A self-evident proposition is such that a properly functioning (mature) human being can’t grasp it without believing it.” Certainly, this would seem to be the case with the principle of induction, which cannot be proven without assuming its truth. This is why Russell accepts it as a priori, and has no trouble connecting it with the logical principles of thought. Experience cannot confirm or confute these principles, and yet they all seem to be firmly rooted in our rational nature. Of course, if we are to conceive of the principle of induction as an a priori truth, then we have moved beyond the traditional understanding of the concept. Plantinga asserts that we should view a priori beliefs as displaying “the same defeasibility structure displayed by perceptual beliefs, inductive beliefs, and so on.” More specifically,
But it doesn’t follow that what has a priori intuitive warrant is indefeasible, or infallible, or rationally unrevisable or indubitable, or anything of that Cartesian sort. Nor does it even follow that beliefs formed a priori are independent of experience in that they can’t be corrected or defeated by beliefs from other sources—testimony, for example. It may be, of course, that the very highest degrees of warrant are occupied only by a priori beliefs . . .
Therefore, it is entirely reasonable to view a priori warrant as coming in degrees with some a priori principles being more certain than others. In this way, the logical principles of thought have a different kind of a priori warrant than the principle of induction. Russell refers to this as non-logical a priori knowledge.
This does not mean that Russell is advocating rationalism or that to accept what he is arguing is somehow to abandon empiricism. While empiricism maintains that all knowledge is derived from experience, being an empiricist does not preclude one from acknowledging that there exist certain aspects of our knowledge (such as the principles of thought) which are logically independent of experience. Russell is careful to distinguish that knowledge of these principles is not innate as a pure rationalist would maintain. However, while experience cannot prove them, it most certainly makes their existence known. “Even that part of our knowledge which is logically independent of experience (in the sense that experience cannot prove it) is yet elicited and caused by experience.” We might say that the distinction he is making is between cognitive content and cognitive capacity. We are not born into this world pre-loaded with knowledge (cognitive content). However, we are born into this world pre-loaded with principles of reasoning (cognitive capacity), that make possible the accumulation of knowledge. Russell concludes,
Thus, while admitting that all knowledge is elicited and caused by experience, we shall nevertheless hold that some knowledge is a priori, in the sense that the experience which makes us think of it does not suffice to prove it, but merely so directs our attention that we see its truth without requiring any proof from experience.
While I agree with Russell’s assessment, I am not convinced that it is a proper interpretation of Hume.
Hume would say that the principle of induction is something conditioned within us entirely based upon our experience. He would deny any overarching universal principle of reason, or laws which are hardwired, or pre-loaded into our cognitive structure. For Hume, the principle of induction strictly refers to custom itself, which produces ad hoc guides which have wrongly come to be construed as innate and a priori. In this regard, he is a true empiricist. However, I don’t think Russell is wrong in extrapolating something more on the basis of what Hume has demonstrated. Even if Hume is correct that we only come to form beliefs about causality and the uniformity of nature after having been exposed to repeated experience, he still must account for why it is that human nature is prone to consistently and uniformly form these beliefs. Is it logically necessary that we form these beliefs? If, as Hume suggests, we can easily conceive of a universe where nature is not uniform, then it is also just as easy for us to conceive of a universe where nature is uniform, and yet individuals fail to form beliefs about the uniformity of nature. Hume uses the first case to demonstrate that inductive beliefs are not logically necessary, but rather formed upon the basis of custom. But what about the second case? How would he address that? He doesn’t. His entire argument presupposes a necessary connection between repeated experience and the formation of certain beliefs about repeated experience. Hume assumes that this happens, but he never explains why it does. Hume’s own argument reveals a blind spot which seems to have been properly identified by Russell. The great guide to life is not custom or habit, but rather a priori principles of reasoning, such as the principle of induction, which govern all thought and the formation of knowledge.
Let us briefly consider a scenario that illustrates this point with greater clarity. Early in Hume’s Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding he considers a thought experiment which has come to be known as the missing shade of blue.
Suppose, therefore, a person to have enjoyed his sight for thirty years, and to have become perfectly acquainted with colours of all kinds, except one particular shade of blue, for instance, which it never has been his fortune to meet with. Let all the different shades of that colour, except that single one, be placed before him, descending gradually from the deepest to the lightest; it is plain, that he will perceive a blank, where that shade is wanting, and will be sensible, that there is a greater distance in that place between the contiguous colours than in any other. Now I ask, whether it be possible for him, from his own imagination, to supply this deficiency, and raise up to himself the idea of that particular shade, though it had never been conveyed to him by his senses?
Hume readily acknowledges that it is universally accepted that the man will indeed be able mentally conjure up the missing shade of blue, without ever having experienced it. Of course, this contradicts his maxim that it is impossible for ideas to arise apart from experience, also a point which Hume readily acknowledges. So, how does Hume explain this phenomenon? He doesn’t. Hume simply dismisses it as an anomaly. “[T]his instance is so singular, that it is scarcely worth our observing, and does not merit, that for it alone we should alter our general maxim.” But I’m not so sure it is as singular as Hume suggests. Perhaps, the missing shade of blue reveals the fundamental problem with Hume’s entire argument about induction and causality. Hume fails to acknowledge the possibility that the man’s ability to envision the missing shade of blue is due to an innate cognitive power of abstraction, by which the missing shade is produced by comparing and contrasting all other known shades. Likewise, he also fails to acknowledge the possibility that our ability to reason inductively is due to an innate cognitive capacity to make connections between repeated events. One can admit innate cognitive capacity (the power of abstraction and the ability to make causal connections) without admitting to innate cognitive content (that we have prior knowledge of the missing shades universal essence or that we have pre-loaded knowledge of the uniformity of nature).
Of course, even though Hume doesn’t overtly make this distinction, he certainly speaks in terms that lend themselves to drawing these conclusions. He readily acknowledges that there is something essential within the operations of the mind that leads us to make causal connections and inductive inferences. Ultimately, it is unexplainable to him, and he is unwilling to chalk it up to anything more than instinct.
As nature has taught us the use of our limbs, without giving us the knowledge of the muscles and nerves, by which they are actuated; so has she implanted in us an instinct, which carries forward the thought in a correspondent course to that which she has established among external objects; though we are ignorant of those powers and forces, on which this regular course and succession of objects totally depends.
But this is really not so far from where we wish to go in this discussion. If Humean scholar Robert Fogelin can say of Hume’s argument that “we are naturally determined – hardwired, as it were – to form certain beliefs in certain circumstances,” then why can’t we wonder if this power is an essential part of cognition? And if it is, why can’t we ask what accounts for that ability?
The Production of Inductive Reasoning
It is not difficult to imagine why Hume avoids this discussion. Once we acknowledge that we have this innate cognitive ability to reason inductively, it invites the question as to its origin. How do we account for the production of this cognitive capacity? Plantinga states that inductive reasoning is warranted on the basis that “that is how a properly functioning human being forms beliefs . . .” In other words, part of the design plan of humanity is the ability to form nondeductive beliefs about the future based upon past observations. This ability to recognize uniformity in nature, and form beliefs and predictions about the future, is an essential part of human nature. Plantinga turns to Thomas Reid, from whom he draws heavily, to make this point.
. . . the principle is necessary for us before we are able to discover it by reasoning, and therefore is made a part of our constitution, and produces its effects before the use of reason.”
Reid argues that this truth is demonstrated by looking at the natural practice of children, who clearly utilize the principle long before they can confirm it rationally. Inductive reasoning comes to us naturally. Additionally, Plantinga acknowledges that it is not a principle that can be confirmed noncircularly.
. . . suppose I do note that when what was future came to pass, it resembled what was past: that is to note no more than that past futures have resembled past pasts. It is only by employing the very principle (or habit) in question, however, that I can see this as confirming that future futures will resemble past futures. So I can’t noncircularly confirm Reid’s principle.
But Plantinga argues that this isn’t problematic, as there are many principles that we accept in a properly basic way. If this is not problematic for the laws of reason, then why should it be problematic for the principle of induction?
For Plantinga, what we see operating in human reasoning suggests “intentional design on the part of a conscious agent, one who takes thought and aims to accomplish a purpose.” In fact, he takes the formation of this idea itself to be properly basic. It seems we have an inclination to consider as designed any natural organism which displays purpose and proper function. Our epistemic structure and powers, including the ability to form inductive inferences and grasp the laws of reason, represent a significantly high degree of purpose. Given this, it seems only natural to think of our cognitive capabilities as functioning according to a design plan. “If you think there is no naturalistic analysis of these notions, what you have is a powerful argument against naturalism. Given the plausible alternatives, what you have, more specifically, is a powerful theistic argument.”
Plantinga’s overall argument against metaphysical naturalism‘ s inability to account for design is both complex and compelling. As such, it is beyond the scope of this paper. Speaking in evolutionary terms, Plantinga argues that since metaphysical naturalism tends to be skeptical of beliefs, with some even discounting them as legitimate causes of action, then reliable cognition is not necessarily more fitness-enhancing than that of an unreliable sort. If this is the case, then truth is irrelevant and the naturalist cannot argue that extensive false beliefs would lead to maladaptive behavior, which in turn would not be favored by natural selection. Plantinga concludes that the probability of metaphysical naturalism plus evolution generating reliable cognition aimed at the production of true beliefs is either very low, or inscrutable.
James Spiegel provides a more overt argument for theism, specifically built upon the regularities we find in nature. Drawing upon George Berkeley’s language metaphor in his 1732 apologetic Alciphron, Spiegel attempts to formulate a Berkeleyian approach to the problem of induction. In this polemic, Berkeley argues that we can infer the existence of God from signs in the world. Spiegel points us to the words of Euphranor, Berkeley’s spokesperson in Alciphron.
Though I cannot with eyes of flesh behold the invisible God, yet I do in the strictest sense behold and perceive by all my senses such signs and tokens, such effects and operations, as suggest, indicate and demonstrate an invisible God, as certainly, and with the same evidence, at least, as any other signs perceived by sense do suggest to me the existence of your soul, spirit, or thinking principle . . .”
Just as we infer the existence of other minds (an invisible, rational cause) from the outward signs displayed by others (specifically language), we can infer the existence of an invisible, universal agent speaking through the workings of nature. “Like human language, the language of nature has a syntax, which we call the laws of nature.” Again, pointing to Berkeley’s own words:
The phenomena of nature, which strike on the senses and are understood by the mind, form not only a magnificent spectacle but also a most coherent, entertaining, and instructive . . . language or discourse.
Spiegel’s point is that along with the logical laws of thought (which Berkeley would have considered part of the language of nature), we can include the principle of induction. All of these principles together make up the syntax of nature, functioning very much like human language. Much like Plantinga’s argument above, this leads us quite naturally to think of this syntax in terms of being designed by an intelligent being. But whereas Plantinga locates his argument in the design plan evidenced by our cognitive faculties functioning properly, Speigel’s Berkeleyian approach is more focused outward, on the regularities found in nature. There are three steps in his argument.
- We begin with the observation that there are regularities in nature that help sustain and prosper life. Because these regularities have obtained universally and without exception (given certain qualifications), humanity has not only been able to survive, we have flourished. Since these regularities are fundamental to scientific discovery, we have been able to make astounding advances in science and technology. This has led to even greater benefits for humanity. In fact, these regularities are what have allowed us to discover more and more of the syntax of nature (its laws and principles).
- We next move to the conclusion that these regularities, benefits and syntax (laws of nature) are the result of an intelligent, purposeful and powerful mind which has designed the universe for our benefit.
- We conclude by maintaining that since this God is so obviously benevolent, we can trust that he will continue to maintain these regularities, benefits and laws. In other words, we can have complete confidence in the uniformity of nature that the future will continue to resemble the past.
We might add that while it is not logically necessary that nature remain uniform, Hume is correct that we can conceive of a universe where it doesn’t hold; it certainly seems logically necessary in a universe where God exists. It would be contradictory to God’s benevolent nature if he allowed the uniformity of nature to cease. In conclusion, Spiegel summarizes his argument.
In short, regularities in nature are useful for human welfare and thus indirectly testify to the existence of a purposeful, intelligent, and powerful mind at work behind the cosmic scene who seeks to benefit his creatures. That is, the laws of nature evidence the existence of a benevolent God.
While Spiegel’s and Plantinga’s approaches clearly differ, they do share two common points. First, they point to design as evidence of divine intelligence and purpose standing behind the workings of the universe. Second, they both maintain the inability of metaphysical naturalism to properly account for the design found in nature. Spiegel states,
When it comes to the basic principle that nature is uniform, the scientist, whether or not she believes in the supernatural, exercises faith, precisely because no empirical evidence sufficient to justify this belief can be provided.
If you are dead certain naturalism is true, you will have to accept the cost, not only of rejecting this account of warrant, but of rejecting the very idea of proper function. A high price, no doubt—but no more than what a serious naturalism exacts.
Ultimately, it is their differences that leads me to favor Plantinga’s approach. On the one hand, Plantinga is justifying inductive reasoning on the grounds that it represents a properly basic belief, which in turn points to intentional design on the part of a conscious agent. Spiegel seems to approach the matter from the completely opposite direction, using the existence of a benevolent God to justify inductive reasoning and our continued belief in the uniformity of nature. The problem with this is that Spiegel opens himself up to Hume’s familiar charge of circular reasoning. He has essentially used the uniformity of God’s nature, or UGN, to justify our belief in UN. Spiegel’s Berkeleyian approach now has to address questions about the uniformity and benevolence of God’s nature. Specifically, how do we know that God’s past benevolence will continue into the future? Additionally, if we are going to argue that a failure of the uniformity of nature would be irreconcilable with the benevolent nature of God, then by the same logic we could reason that the existence of evil is irreconcilable as well. As theists, we know that the existence of evil is not incompatible with the existence of God. So, why should we suppose that the existence of dis-uniformity would? Because he doesn’t invoke the existence of God to justify inductive reasoning, Plantinga’s simplicity is to be preferred.
I began this paper by stating that the problem of induction was possibly a more troubling idea for the Christian than it ever was for the scientist – at least this has been the claim of scientific and metaphysical naturalists alike. My hope is that by facing the problem head on and seeing it for what it is, we have actually reversed that claim and demonstrated that it is more problematic for the atheist. Inductive reasoning provides a compelling premise in our overall argument for an intelligently designed universe.
 This paper will limit its focus to what has come to be called the old riddle of induction. The new riddle of induction, which deals with the question of what makes a property projectible, is not pertinent to my overall purpose of using inductive reasoning to point to the existence of God.
 Antony Flew, A Dictionary of Philosophy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979), 171.
 I’m thinking here of Popper’s attempt to account for scientific knowledge on non-inductive grounds. Popper accepted Hume’s idea that inductive reasoning was completely without justification and maintained that scientists need only use deductive inferences. While it is not possible to prove a scientific theory true on the basis of limited observation (by induction), it is possible to prove a scientific theory false (by deduction).
 Antony Flew, Hume’s Philosophy of Belief: A Study of His First Inquiry (New York: Routledge Press, 2013), 80. Newton’s work was published in 1687, a few decades before the birth of Hume. His comments are quite sophisticated, anticipating some of the later discussion among philosophers of science wrestling with Hume’s writings on induction.
 Samir Okasha, Philosophy of Science: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 24.
 David Hume, An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, ed. Peter Millican (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 18.
 Okasha, Philosophy of Science, 27.
 Bertrand Russell, The Problems of Philosophy (Overland Park, KS: Digireads.com Press, 2011), 44-45, Kindle.
 Richard Swinburne, introduction to The Justification of Induction, ed. Richard Swinburne (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1974), 6-7. Total relevant knowledge would include anything that might affect the probability of the conclusion. While “all swans are white” is a common example of inductive reasoning, it actually represents a bad inductive conclusion. Given what was known prior to Captain Cook’s discovery of black swans, an induction based upon species coloration had a high probability of error. Even at that time it was general knowledge that in multiple species of animals, color is a common variable characteristic.
 Robert J. Fogelin, “Hume’s Scepticism” in The Cambridge Companion to Hume, ed. David Fate Norton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 95.
 Hume, Enquiry, 138.
 Alexander Rosenberg, “Hume and the Philosophy of Science,” in The Cambridge Companion to Hume, ed. David Fate Norton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 77.
 Hume, Enquiry, 26.
 Alvin Plantinga, Warrant and Proper Function (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 126.
 A. J. Ayer, Hume: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 91; Flew, Hume’s Philosophy of Belief, 70, 88. The argument that follows is largely built upon the common flow of Flew and Ayer’s arguments. I will admit that I am clearly using observations by Flew, Ayer, and Russell (a bit later) in a manner that they would likely find unacceptable. However, my point is that even in the writings of some of the most well-known atheists, we can find elements that both undermine Hume’s thesis and, when properly understood, set us on a path to find evidence of theistic design in nature.
 Hume, Enquiry, 30.
 Ayer, Hume, 86
 Hume, Enquiry, 32.
 Ibid., 118.
 Rosenberg, “Hume and the Philosophy of Science,” 76.
 Hume, Enquiry, 118
 Flew, Hume’s Philosophy of Belief, 71.
 For example, logical positivism has its roots in Hume’s empiricism. It is easy to see Ayer’s verification principle as a natural outgrowth of Hume’s argument regarding inductive reasoning.
 Ibid., 88. It seems that Flew has included a subtle critique of his colleague Russell, who put the principle of induction forth to serve as the hidden premise in every inductive argument. In this way, Russell seemed to be attempting to make inductive reasoning logically conclusive, by converting it to a deduction.
 Russell, Problems, 50-51.
 Ibid., 51.
 Ayer, Hume, 87
 Flew, Hume’s Philosophy of Belief, 79.
 Russell, Problems, 48.
 Plantinga, Warrant, 108.
 Ibid., 112.
 Ibid., 111-112.
 Russell, Problems, 53.
 Ibid., 51.
 Ibid., 52. Russell’s argument that we must accept the principle of induction a priori or embrace total skepticism is not without contention. Russell states that “we must either accept the inductive principle on the ground of its intrinsic evidence or forgo all justification of our expectations about the future (56).” Paul Edwards argued that it was not necessary to embrace a non-empirical principle, arguing instead that we can provide justification for induction without begging the question. See Paul Edwards, “Russell’s Doubts About Induction,” in The Justification of Induction, ed. Richard Swinburne (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1974), 19-25.
 Hume, Enquiry, 14.
 Ibid., 40.
 Fogelin, Hume’s Scepticism, 112.
 Plantinga, Warrant, 136.
 Ibid., 122.
 Ibid., 123.
 Ibid., 126.
 Ibid., 195.
 A case he makes in Warranted Christian Belief.
 Ibid., 214. Plantinga considers this to be a version of Thomas Aquinas’s Fifth Way, and at this point quotes Aquinas at length: “The fifth way is taken from the governance of the world. We see that things which lack knowledge, such as natural bodies, act for an end, and this is evident from their acting always, or nearly always, in the same way, so as to obtain the best result. Hence it is plain that they achieve their end, not fortuitously, but designedly. Now whatever lacks knowledge cannot move towards an end, unless it be directed by some being endowed with knowledge and intelligence; as the arrow is directed by the archer. Therefore some intelligent being exists by whom all natural things are directed to their end; and this being we call God.” As part of his overall argument, Plantinga agrees with the claim of Richard Dawkins that evolution is a “blind watchmaker,” arguing that evolution cannot produce design without the assistance of a divine watch-maker.
 He is constructing an argument based upon how he believes Berkeley would have responded to Hume. Even though Berkeley was alive at the time Hume first published his thoughts on induction, he never specifically addresses it in his writings.
 James Spiegel, “A Berkeleyan Approach to the Problem of Induction,” Science & Christian Belief 10, no. 1 (April 1998): 77
 Ibid., 78.
 Ibid. Here he is quoting from Siris.
 Spiegel, 79.
 Ibid., 80.
 Planting, Warrant, 213. He follows this up rather nicely by asserting, “the way to be a naturalist in epistemology, is to be a supernaturalist in ontology.”
The following is my review of Michael Shermer’s book, The Moral Arc: How Science Makes us Better People. The book was a gift from one of my professors at Southern and sat on my shelf for nearly a year before I decided to take on this review. I must admit that after my initial read, I was very troubled about the potential impact this book might have in Christian circles (especially among young believers heading off to college). I found Shermer’s arguments compelling, and his overall thesis challenging to my own faith. That doesn’t happen often, so it had me concerned. This is not a subject that should be taken lightly for Christian educators and pastors. If we fail to confront the moral claims of the new atheists (Shermer is not alone in his argument that objective moral values can exist apart from God and his message is becoming increasingly prevelant), the Church runs the risk of becoming irrelevant in the eyes of the educated world. We can’t let that happen. Taking on Shermer’s book is no small task, but I can assure you that we have nothing to fear from his claims. As is the pattern with most of the work being generated by popular atheist authors, its bark is much worse than its bite.
It used to be that if you found yourself reading a book that argued for the existence of universal, objective moral values, then you were likely reading something written by a theist. In his classic work Ethics: Inventing Right and Wrong, atheist J. L. Mackey opens with the definitive assertion, “There are no objective values.” Perhaps no other philosopher better articulated the connection between moral objectivism and belief in God.
If we adopted moral objectivism, we should have to regard the relations of supervenience which connect values and obligations with their natural grounds as synthetic; they would then be in principle something that a god might conceivably create; and since they would otherwise be a very odd sort of thing, the admitting of them would be an inductive ground for admitting also a god to create them.
For Mackie, the only way to avoid this problem would be to adopt ethical subjectivism. Oh, how times have changed. Michael Shermer represents a growing trend among contemporary atheists, who argue for ethical naturalism (the view that ethics can be understood in terms of natural science). It is a trend that threatens to undermine one of the strongest arguments for theism: The moral argument for the existence of God. In The Moral Arc: How Science Makes Us Better People, Shermer, an atheist, makes the claim that morality is not relative, and moral judgments are not arbitrary. Universal, objective moral values exist, and are not the result of religion; they are the result of secular forces emerging from the Age of Reason, namely, science and reason. While morality has long been the province of religion, according to Shermer, it now belongs to science. The new moral authority in this world is not the minister wearing a collar, but the scientist in a lab coat. No longer is science confined to simply describing how the world functions and how we live, it can now inform us on how we should live. The goal of this paper is to provide an overview of Shermer’s argument, pointing out what I believe to be its major weaknesses.
Clearing a Humean Hurdle
Before attempting to construct a system of morality based entirely upon the scientific method and empirical data, Shermer needs to address what is commonly referred to as the naturalistic fallacy. Is it possible to derive an “ought,” a statement about how we should behave, from an “is,” an observation about how we do behave? Shermer concedes that science has traditionally steered clear of morality.
. . . most scientists have conceded the high ground of determining human values, morals, and ethics to philosophers, agreeing that science can only describe the way things are but never tell us how they ought to be. This is a mistake.
The great debate in philosophy is whether Hume, for which the distinction first receives attention (often referred to as Hume’s Law), actually held it to constitute an unbridgeable gap. Shermer addresses this issue in the very first chapter of the book, and rightly so. For if the naturalistic fallacy establishes that observations about the way things are have nothing to say about the way things should be, then his whole enterprise fails and science cannot play a role in determining moral values.
Not surprisingly, Shermer doesn’t agree that the naturalistic fallacy actually constitutes a fallacy. Giving considerable attention to what Hume actually says, Shermer quotes him at length.
In every system of morality, which I have hitherto met with, I have always remark’d,
that the author proceeds for some time in the ordinary way of reasoning. . . when of a sudden I am surpris’d to find, that instead of the usual copulations of propositions, is, and is not, I meet with no proposition that is not connected with an ought, or an ought not. This change is imperceptible; but is, however, of the last consequence. For as this ought, or ought not, expresses some new relation or affirmation, ’tis necessary that it shou’d be observ’d and explain’d; and at the same time that a reason should be given, for what seems altogether inconceivable, how this new relation can be a deduction from others, which are entirely different from it.
Many would agree with Shermer that Hume is not saying that a leap from “is” to “ought” is impossible, simply that it must be made carefully, with adequate justification. In other words, when shifting from observation to valuation, reason and evidence must be provided. Otherwise, one would simply be asserting opinion and preference. Shermer provides an example to make his point,
If you agree that it is better that millions of people no longer die of yellow fever and smallpox, cholera and bronchitis, dysentery and diarrhea, consumption and tuberculosis, measles and mumps, gangrene and gastritis, and many other assaults on the human body, then you have offered your assent that the way something is (diseases such as yellow fever and smallpox kill people) means we ought to prevent them through vaccinations and other medical and public health technologies.
But in justifying his use of science to make moral valuations, Shermer has fallen prey to what Hume is actually cautioning against. Hume is calling out the imperceptible shift that both scientists and ethicists are prone to make, and Shermer’s own example highlights this error. The true shift from “is” to “ought” is not in wanting to stop millions of people from dying of terrible diseases. Who wouldn’t want that? The shift is in making the valuation that diseases are “bad things” and that people dying is a “moral evil.” On what basis is this valuation made? From where does he get the ideas of good and bad? As Hume says, we cannot deduce the non-material (such as moral valuations) from something that is material – the two are entirely different. The imperceptible shift that Shermer makes, and fails to justify, is from the observational fact that people die every day from disease, to the valuation that we ought to view this as wrong.
It isn’t surprising that Shermer feels the need to do this, or that he is able to make moral valuations. Epistemologically speaking, because all human beings are made in the image of God, all human beings (including the atheist) can know the difference between good and bad. They are able to see the world as it is, and recognize how we ought to respond. Not even Hume would deny this. However, ontologically speaking, upon what is this knowledge based? Whenever the shift is made from is to ought, epistemological assertion is not enough; ontological justification must be provided.
For the theist, this shift is explained; such valuations are made against, and grounded in, a transcendent moral standard of right and wrong. But how do the atheist and scientist justify such a shift? What standard are they using to make this determination? The scientist can point out what is happening, even offer ideas on how to stop what is happening (as science rightly does), but she cannot sneak in her valuation that natural processes are either good or bad, without shifting to an non-material explanation. In the absence of such an explanation, her valuation is reduced to mere opinion or preference. Of course, admitting that would be to admit that moral valuations are not objective – something Shermer does not want to do. Philosopher Rachel Cohon states, “It is not simply by reasoning from the abstract and causal relations one has discovered that one comes to have the ideas of virtue and vice; one must respond to such information with feelings of approval and disapproval.” The issue is identifying where these moral sentiments originate. How can we assign moral properties to non-moral observations? For the Christian, the answer is obvious: the standard of moral goodness is grounded in God. For Shermer, he just assumes that we already know what is good and bad, without explaining where he derives such notions. Hume’s guillotine claims another victim. Unfortunately, Shermer doesn’t see the problem. He has stated elsewhere,
The Is-Ought problem is itself a fallacy. Morals and values must be based on the way things are in order to establish the best conditions for human flourishing. Before we abandon the ship just as it leaves port, let’s give science a chance to steer a course toward a destination where scientists at least have a voice in the conversation on how best we should live.
Moral Improvement as an Empirical Fact
Believing he has adequately addressed the issue of the possibility of ethical naturalism, Shermer begins constructing his moral system on a key observational fact: the world is becoming an increasingly moral (and less violent) place. He believes this to be “the most moral period in our species’ history,” readily acknowledging that many will find such a claim to be absurd. If the mainstream media is to be believed, we appear to be on the brink of destruction (and apparently Donald Trump is to blame). Shermer reminds us, and rightly so, that the media focuses on what brings in the highest ratings, asserting that the reason the negative gets so much attention is that it is so uncommon. Much of The Moral Arc is focused on proving this overall point, and Shermer has plenty of statistics to back up his argument. Take terrorism for example. Doesn’t the rise in terrorist activity refute the idea that the world is becoming less violent? Shermer cites that 13,700 people die each year in the United States from homicide. Compare that with the 340 people who died in the 38 years prior to 9/11, and the 33 that have died since (these statistics are based on data at the time of publication), and the situation is not as dire as it first seems. Shermer adds that violent crime rates in major US cities have fallen by as much as 75%, the overall rate of rape has decreased by 58% since 1995, and domestic abuse has fallen 21 % nationally. And what about war? Shermer states that it’s simply not true that more people are dying today from state sponsored conflicts than in the past, especially when computed “as a percentage of the population killed.” Then there are the many advances in civil rights, treatment of women, gay rights, animal rights, the reduction in human trafficking, the rise in liberal democracies, and a decrease in the number of people living in poverty. Of course, all of this invites the question, why? Why are we becoming less violent? For Shermer, the answer is obvious: we are becoming more moral, and the clear cause of this moral progress is scientific rationalism.
I demonstrate that the arc of the moral universe bends not merely toward justice, but also toward truth and freedom, and that these positive outcomes have largely been the product of societies moving toward more secular forms of governance and politics, law and jurisprudence, moral reasoning and ethical analysis.
Evolutionary Biology as a Means of Explaining Moral Improvement
Essential to Shermer’s theory of scientific morality, are the notions of survival and flourishing, which he sees as part of human nature. Humanity has an instinctive drive to survive, the result of evolutionary biology. Because this is part of our essence, hardwired into our DNA, it is universal and inalienable. As such, it’s not relative, or based upon a particular culture or period of time; it is firmly entrenched in who we are. Therefore, as Shermer sees it, the most fundamental right is the freedom to pursue survival and flourishing. This, however, is not something that should be viewed in terms of the community as a whole. For Shermer, this is an individual right. When we link morality to what is good for the group, morality is relative to what the group decides, and individuals are sacrificed for the sake of the many (which is why he sees ethical systems such as utilitarianism as deficient). “We are first and foremost individual within social groups and therefore ought not to be subservient to the collective.” This in turn leads Shermer to conclude that the personal autonomy of the individual is the standard by which all actions are judged as right or wrong. “Do they increase or decrease the survival and flourishing of individual sentient beings?” This is the fundamental moral principle that science produces.
The Scientific Method as a Means of Explaining Moral Improvement
But doesn’t this simply result in ethical egoism and social anarchy, with everyone living and making choices on the basis of their own needs? At first, yes. We come into this world selfish, but based upon our interactions with other people, along with our rational reflection upon those relations, we evolve toward what is beneficial to all. Much of Shermer’s thinking is based upon Steven Pinker’s analysis in The Better Angels of Our Nature: Why Violence has Declined.
If the members of species have the power to reason with one another, and enough opportunities to exercise that power, sooner or later they will stumble upon the mutual benefits of nonviolence and other forms of reciprocal consideration, and apply them more and more broadly.
Here, through a process of trial and error (not unlike the scientific method), a secondary moral principle emerges: reciprocity and mutual beneficence. In a strange way, looking out for our own selfish interests leads to us helping others. Shermer refers to this as reciprocal altruism: we help ourselves by helping others. In this sense, humans are not altruistic for the sake of altruism, but rather because it “pays” to help others. Shermer draws insight from moral philosopher Adam Smith (known mostly for his writings on capitalism). These ideas of reciprocity and mutual beneficence are reflected in Smith’s two great works. First, in The Theory of Moral Sentiments, Smith states,
How selfish soever man may be supposed, there are evidently some principles in his nature, which interest him in the fortune of others, and render their happiness necessary to him.
In his later work, Wealth of Nations, Smith again echoes this sentiment.
It is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer, or the baker, that we expect our dinner, but from their regard to their own interest. We address ourselves, not to their humanity but to their self-love, and never talk to them of our own necessities but of their advantage.
It is important to note here, that Shermer’s views have evolved from his previous work on objective moral values. In The Science of Good and Evil, Shermer provides an entirely evolutionary account of morality, where certain characteristics and traits (such as beneficence and altruism) become dominant (and thereby firmly entrenched in human nature) through the process of natural selection. The change here is subtle, and more so a matter of emphasis for Shermer. Instead of having evolutionary biology determine which characteristics survive, elevating them to the status of being “good,” these values emerge through a de facto scientific process of trial and error. It is then human reason that identifies these values as the most rational means of survival. So while evolutionary biology supplied the foundational drive to “thrive and survive,” it does not provide the objective moral values of reciprocity and beneficence. What is good and moral in Shermer’s system, is simply a matter of what works for human flourishing. I am convinced that Shermer makes this shift in emphasis as an attempt to circumvent the primary criticism of any evolutionary account of moral values, namely, that it leads to ethical skepticism. If objective values have arisen from an evolutionary process, then they are arbitrary and could just as easily have turned out to be different. Ultimately, Shermer fails to escape this criticism, as his moral values still ultimately originate through a process of random mutation. Again, we find ourselves asking the same question we did when considering Shermer’s response to the is-ought fallacy: why should we consider these values “good,” when they just as easily could have been entirely different?
The Age of Reason as a Means of Explaining Moral Improvement
This development toward a more benevolent society slowly evolved over the course of human history, with sporadic and intermittent success. However, Shermer believes that following the scientific revolution and the Enlightenment (the Age of Reason), this process of moral development accelerated greatly, especially as humanity began to depend less and less on superstition and religious belief, and more and more on science and reason. To illustrate this point, Shermer uses the medieval example of burning witches, which he refers to as the Witch Theory of Causality. People burned witches, not because they were blood-thirsty, but because they had a faulty understanding of the universe. Witches were burned because people believed they caused bad things to happen in the world. In other words, these immoral actions were the direct result of faulty causal reasoning. “My point here is that beliefs such as witchcraft are not immoral so much as they are mistaken.” Magical and supernatural superstition is based upon uncertainty and unpredictability. The scientific revolution led the drive to better understand our world, ultimately disproving the witch theory of causality (as well as countless other errors of understanding).
The Enlightenment philosopher Voltaire explicated the problem succinctly: “Those who can make you believe absurdities, can make you commit atrocities.” One path (among many) to a more moral world is to get people to quit believing in absurdities. Science and reason are the best methods for doing that.
The scientific revolution and the Enlightenment led people to question Christianity’s emphasis on the Bible as the ultimate authority, and instead check assumptions on the basis of rational reflection and empirical data. For Shermer, the Age of Reason was the age when “humanity was born again, not from original sin, but from original ignorance and dependence on authority and superstition.”
This emphasis on science and reason has in turn led to better education, increased literacy, better living conditions, and ultimately less crime and violence against other people. As a result, we are more rational than at any other time in our history. Shermer cites evidence demonstrating that the average IQ has risen 30 points over the last 100 years (at a rate of 3 points per year). The specific rise is in abstract reasoning. “I claim that our improvement in abstract reasoning generally has translated into a specific improvement in abstract moral reasoning, particularly about other people who are not our immediate kith and kin.” Science has increased our rational ability to better consider the needs and perspectives of others. For Shermer, this is an essential skill in the process of reciprocity and mutual beneficence.
No doubt, the influence of science has been great, and the subsequent gains to humanity significant. Unfortunately, what Shermer fails to do in touting the values of science and reason, is analyze the environment that gave rise to these values. The drive to understand our world and use our rational faculties to a greater extent did not arise in a vacuum. It is far beyond the scope of this paper to present an argument detailing Christianity’s contributions to the birth of the scientific movement. However, all that is truly sufficient here is to disprove the negative assertion that Shermer is making. The fact is that science was born in a Christian culture, that the first scientists were largely Christian, and that the Church encouraged study of the created order in order to achieve greater understanding of God (a value they took from the Bible). While these facts do not prove a direct causal link, it makes it significantly more difficult to maintain, as Shermer does in the next section of his book, that Christianity was an obstacle to scientific progress.
The Failure of Religion to Contribute to Moral Progress
Shermer spends a great deal of the time challenging the assumption that religion is the source of moral value and the best facilitator of moral development. While he acknowledges that religion can and does motivate people to do good works, he is convinced that religion is the primary contributor to moral regress. To demonstrate, he examines the biblical record of Christianity, declaring the Bible to be one of the most immoral books in history. Just as we see many things we dislike in modern Islam tracing back to the teachings of the Quran, Shermer points out that most of the disagreeable things that society has condemned today, can be found commanded in the Bible.
The handful of positive moral commands in the Old Testament are desultory and scattered among a sea of violent stories of murder, rape, torture, slavery, and all manner of violence . . .
Shermer argues that when Christians hold up the Bible as the ultimate moral standard, they are conveniently overlooking the record of the text. The Bible, as characterized by Shermer, endorses slavery, the selling of virgin daughters, the killing of headstrong children, the stoning of homosexuals, the condemnation of interracial marriages, and the suppression of women’s rights. When Christians complain that such a characterization is unfair, Shermer adds that they are conveniently overlooking the record of history. The Bible was used by devout Christians to justify slavery in the South, stand in the way of racial desegregation, argue against women’s suffrage, and condemn gay marriage. In response to those who would argue that these were all textual misinterpretations on the part of the faithful, Shermer wonders why God’s word wasn’t more specific. If the Bible espouses a radical ethic, wonders Shermer, then why doesn’t it categorically denounce slavery? If it had just been clearer, maybe a little more emphatic, then generations could have been spared this immoral practice. “The kind of moral clarity one might expect to find in a book purported to be the final authority on the subject is nowhere to be found . . .” Arguing largely against Dinesh D’Souza’s claim that Christianity has been a major contributor to the moral progress that we see in Western society, Shermer writes,
D’Souza’s claim that the Bible points toward equality is especially nonsensical in light of the fact that slaves remained slaves for eighteen more centuries, and women remained little more than property for nineteen more centuries in Christian countries around the world. Clearly, even if Paul’s message were interpreted to mean that we’re all equal, absolutely no one took it seriously.
It is not surprising that Shermer shows such a lack of understanding and scholarship when it comes to representing the Bible, even given his evangelical past. It’s a common tactic on the part of atheists to paint the Bible in as negative a picture as possible. Take for instance the issue of slavery, for which Shermer dedicates an entire chapter. It is simply not the case that the biblical practice of indentured service was anything like southern slavery. Servant-hood in the Old Testament was a voluntary arrangement that served primarily as a means of debt repayment. Experientially, it was on the level of paid employment. Anyone taking the time to study the text would see that it was far from the barbarism to which Shermer equates it. Given that the Old Testament was written a very long time ago, in a culture very different from the present, and in an ancient language, would it be too much to ask that it be approached with the same care and scholarship that would be taken in approaching any other ancient work? It is unlikely that Shermer would approach Aristotle’s Physics or Copernicus’s Revolutions with such lack of scholarship. But then, treating the biblical text fairly wouldn’t fit his purpose.
In light of how Shermer views the morality of the Bible, it is only natural to find him concluding that today’s society is morally better. According to Shermer’s thesis, the reason the Bible does not condemn slavery, is because it reflects the values and moral beliefs that were prevalent at the time it was written. The Bible reflects a pre-enlightenment stage of moral development. And because the Church is continually struggling to maintain this antiquated scriptural tradition, it is more often than not a late adopter of moral progress.
Once moral progress in a particular area is under way, most religions eventually get on board—as in the abolition of slavery in the nineteenth century, women’s rights in the twentieth century, and gay rights in the twenty-first century—but this often happens after a shamefully protracted lag time.
While Shermer doesn’t agree with fellow atheist Christopher Hitchens that religion poisons everything, he does believe it to be harmful enough to merit its elimination from society. He rounds out his critique of the Bible with a deconstruction of the Ten Commandments, which he sees as immoral and violating the liberties delineated in the US constitution. In its place he offers an alternate, secular Ten Provisional Moral Principles.
The problem with any religious moral code that is set in stone is just that—it is set in stone. Anything that can never be changed has within its DNA the seeds of its own extinction. A science-based morality has the virtue of having built into it a self-correcting mechanism that does not just allow redaction, correction, and improvement; it insists upon it. Science and reason can be employed to inform—and in some cases even determine—moral values. Science thrives on change, on improvement, on updating and upgrading its methods and conclusions.
It’s in this section of the book that we see one of Shermer’s greatest flaws revealed. Virtually every secular principle that he delineates is simply a restatement of a value or principle found in the Bible. For example, let’s evaluate what he refers to as The Responsibility and Forgiveness Principle:
Take full responsibility for your own moral actions and be prepared to be genuinely sorry and make restitution for your own wrongdoing to others; hold others fully accountable for their moral actions and be open to forgiving moral transgressors who are genuinely sorry and prepared to make restitution for their wrongdoing.
Sound familiar? These are values that go all the way back to the Old Testament, the very one he referred to as the most immoral book in history. It also has the Gold Rule embedded within it – forgive others just as you would like them to forgive you. Next he presents The Golden Rule Principle: behave toward others as you would desire that they behave toward you. Again, Shermer is not even trying to hide where he gets this value from, changing only a few words from what Jesus originally said in the Gospels. It’s amazing how far 2,000 years of moral progress has brought us! He accepts the Golden Rule because it’s essentially a principle of reciprocity and reciprocal altruism. Of course, although he elevates it to the level of moral principle, he argues that it’s in need of a correction. Shermer questions, “What if the moral receiver thinks differently from the moral doer? What if you would not mind having action X done unto you, but someone else would mind it?” In response, he offers The Ask First Principle: to find out whether an action is right or wrong, ask first. Unfortunately, Shermer fails to see that this is also covered under the original Golden Rule, which fundamentally asks people to never disregard how others would want to be treated. If you don’t want your preferences disregarded, don’t disregard the preferences of others. The fact that Shermer is so clearly borrowing moral values from the Bible, undermines his main assertions. First, Shermer wants us to believe that moral values and behavior are improving, and yet he goes back to texts thousands of years old to borrow their values. Secondly, he wants us to believe that his provisional moral principles are the products of science and reason, and yet as we have seen, they clearly predate the Age of Reason. Going back to the start of this paper, I wondered where Shermer was able to get his valuation that diseases were bad and that saving lives was good. Now it is obvious. The reality is that Shermer gets his universal, objective moral values from the same place as the Christian: God. He is able to shift from “is” to “ought” on the basis of non-material moral standards, grounded in the nature of a transcendent, divine moral law giver. He is just not willing to admit it.
The remainder of the book is an application of his previously stated principles to the issues of gay rights, abortion, capital punishment and animal rights. While a full evaluation of everything Shermer addresses is simply not possible (the book exceeds five hundred pages and includes over a thousand footnotes, many of which extend the discussion), I have attempted to provide a response to the essential elements of his overall argument. Ultimately, Shermer’s account of ethical naturalism is self-defeating. The idea that objective moral values exist, independent of God, is at odds with the very first moral principle that Shermer puts forth – that the personal autonomy of the individual is the standard by which all actions are judged as right or wrong. What does the individual do when this principle clashes with those that later emerge under Shermer’s account? There will inevitably be times when self-interest runs contrary to upholding an objective moral value. Given the fundamental premise of autonomy, the individual acting in violation of these other objective moral principles cannot be accused of having done something wrong. So, if upholding an objective moral principle is the right thing to do, and acting in such a way that violates an objective moral principle can also be the right thing to do, then Shermer has essentially laid out a relativistic moral system. So, why the pretense of claiming that moral values are objective and universal? Perhaps, it is simply a ruse designed to play upon our intuitions regarding moral objectivity and undermine the moral argument for the existence of God. Shermer’s system simply leads back to the place that J. L. Mackey indicated it would – moral subjectivism. Without God, objective moral values cannot survive.
Overall, The Moral Arc is well written, is considerably less acerbic than similar works written by contemporary atheists, and comes across as well documented and researched. Unfortunately, the book has more bark than bite. Its general size, the amount of data and statistics included, and its intellectually sober tone, should not intimidate the Christian reader. Instead, the Christian can give thanks that once again, atheism has proven that objective moral values cannot exist without reference to an objective reality beyond the material world. Rest assured, the moral argument for God’s existence is as formidable as ever.
J. L. Mackey, Ethics: Inventing Right and Wrong (London: Penguin Books, 1977), 15.
J. L. Mackey, The Miracle of Theism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1982), 118.
Michael Shermer, The Moral Arc: How Science Makes us Better People (New York: Henry Holt and Co., 2015), 2.
David Hume, A Treatise of Human Nature (London: John Noon, 1739), 335.
Antony Flew, A Dictionary of Philosophy (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1984), 240-241. Flew discusses the difference in interpretation, noting that some believe Hume to be saying it is not a fallacy. Of course others, take Hume to be saying that the world is forever divided into statements of is, and statements of ought, and that the former are statements of fact, and the latter statements of opinion.
James Rachels, “Naturalism,” in The Blackwell Guide to Ethical Theory, ed. Hugh LaFollette, (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing , 2000), 75. Rachels takes the view that Hume was in fact making the claim that we can never move from an ought to an is, to which he responds, “Hume was wrong.” If our premises (based upon factual information) include information about a person’s relevant desires, then we may draw conclusions about what we ought to do.
Shermer, The Moral Arc, 35.
Rachels, “Naturalism,” 90. If I’m reading Rachels correctly, he is saying that scientific facts can very well inform us about what we should do, especially when the scientific information takes into consideration our own desires. Shermer certainly does this. Where he runs into trouble is when he seeks to place a moral value of good or bad, right or wrong on the action.
Paul Copan, “God, Naturalism, and the Foundations of Morality,” in The Future of Atheism: Alister McGrath and Daniel Dennett in Dialogue, ed. Robert B. Stewart (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2008), 146.
Rachel Cohon, “Hume’s Moral Philosophy”, The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Fall 2010 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.), URL = https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/fall2010/entries/hume-moral/.
Michael Shermer, “Morality is Real, Objective, and Natural,” Annals of New York Academy of Sciences 1385 (November 2016): 57.
Shermer, The Moral Arc, 83
Shermer, “Morality is Real,” 58.
Shermer, The Moral Arc, 92
Steven Pinker, The Better Angels of Our Nature: Why Violence Has Declined (New York: Viking Press, 2011), 16. Pinker has actually stated that he considers Shermer’s book as a continuation of his own.
Shermer, The Moral Arc, 39. It is this kind of thinking that leads Shermer to argue much later that a free market economy is the best economic means of furthering moral development in society.
Adam Smith, The Theory of Moral Sentiments (New York: Penguin Books, 2009), 34.
Adam Smith, An Inquiry Into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations (New York: The Modern Library, 1937), 14.
Michael Shermer, The Science of Good and Evil (New York: Times Books, 2004), 56.
Copan, “God, Naturalism,” 152.
Shermer, The Moral Arc, 114.
Ibid., 165. See D’Souza’s What’s So Great About Christianity? (Carol Stream, IL: Tyndale House, 2008).
Paul Copan, Is God a Moral Monster? Making Sense of the Old Testament God (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Books, 2011), 125.
 Shermer sees the Tenth commandment treating women as property, and the fifth commandment punishing descendants for the sins of their ancestors – something he states is intuitively immoral.
Andres Serrano’s Piss Christ, a 60 x 40 inch full color glossy photo of a plastic crucifix submerged in a container of the artist’s urine, was first displayed in 1988 at the Southeastern Center for Contemporary Art (SECCA) in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. The photo took first prize in the center’s annual competition, but immediately caused outrage among the Christian community. Its subsequent display at museums around the world has lead to protests, accusations of desecration, a reduction in funding for the
National Endowment for the Arts (the government agency that funded the SECCA competition won by Serrano), and acts of vandalism carried out against the controversial photograph. While violence should never be condoned, it’s understandable why so many Christians are upset. What Christian could possibly view this so-called work of art as anything other than an offense against the faith? One would think, we would be hard pressed to find a single follower of Christ for whom this photo is deemed beautiful. And yet, this is exactly what we find in Christian artist Edward Knippers, who believes that after more than twenty-five years it’s time for the church to no longer view Piss Christ as sacrilegious, but rather as a statement of divine truth.
How exactly does Knippers come to this conclusion? He begins by asking the reader to consider what she would think upon viewing the photograph without any prior knowledge of the fluid in which it is contained, or of the artist’s intention in creating the work. Under such conditions, Knippers cannot help but feel that she would consider it beautiful.
The image in and of itself is quite beautiful as we see a crucifix almost nostalgically glowing in a golden mist of timelessness.
It’s only upon becoming aware of the title and the realization of what the fluid is, that one takes offense. Knippers describes it as a jolt to the emotions. In his own reflection on Piss Christ, philosopher Jorge J. E. Gracia states that this is because of how society views the act of deliberately urinating on another person or object. It’s considered an act of power, defiance and humiliation. It’s as if the one pissing is declaring the person or object as worthless and disposable, like piss. It seems only natural for the viewer to conclude that this is exactly what Serrano is doing. But what if the viewer were to discover that this was not the artist’s intention? If this disturbing immersion was for a noble purpose, would it no longer be considered an offense? Knippers is not the first to make such a speculation. It’s entirely possible that Serrano is trying to make some statement about the trivialization and commercialization of the Christian faith. In this sense, he would be attacking the reduction “of one of Christianity’s most precious and seminal moments to a plastic trinket.” That would mean that Serrano is not attacking the Christian faith, but rather the Christian community for the way they themselves have desecrated the image of Christ. Along these same lines, Serrano may be expressing his anger about corruption in the Catholic Church (the institution most commonly associated with crucifixes), acting in a manner not unlike Christ when he overturned tables in the temple and chased out the money changers. Wouldn’t we then have to view Piss Christ as a work of piety and righteous indignation?
Even though Knippers considers these possibilities, in the end he dismisses the artist’s intention as unimportant. It wouldn’t even matter to Knippers if the artist was Catholic, or considered himself a Christian. What matters for Knippers is what Piss Christ comes to mean for him (and for Christians in general), independent of the artist’s actual purpose.
No matter what Serrano’s intent or what this piece has become through the crucible of the culture wars, at this distance in time, from all of the shouting and wounded feelings of hard fought battles, the Piss Christ has become for me an elegant statement of the Christian truth that should be at the heart of our contemplation . . . the fact that our dear Lord and Savior has come, and is here, to powerfully redeem the likes of us with his love.
Knippers has come to view Serrano’s work as symbolic of the incarnation: Jesus left the splendor of Heaven to be immersed in the cesspool of earth, in order to sacrifice his life on the cross for a fallen and filthy world. In this way, Piss Christ is to be seen as a powerfully instructive tool aimed at shocking us out of our comfortable lives to “wrestle with the hard reality of what Christ has done for us.”
Is Knippers correct in his interpretation? Given that Serrano has been largely silent regarding his intention, one might conclude that the meaning of this work is ambiguous. If this is the case, then Knippers is certainly justified in his postulation. It’s not
uncommon for artists to construct works that lend themselves to multiple interpretations. In a recent interview focusing on Piss Christ, the artist acknowledged that this was his goal.
I distrust anyone with a message. The best artistic intentions are usually cloaked in mysteries and contradictions. It wouldn’t be interesting for me if the art were not “loaded” in some way. I always say my work is open for interpretation and that’s why I prefer not to read many of the “interpretations” out there. Suffice it to say, the work is like a mirror, and it reveals itself in different ways, to different people.
But Knippers is not premising his interpretation on the basis of ambiguity. He is declaring that Serrano’s intention makes no difference in how he interprets this photograph. In taking this approach, he is isolating it from the context in which it is necessarily embedded.
First, there is the context of the artist’s intention. While Serrano may have intended for it to be a debatable thing, the fact that it has outraged so many would seem to suggest that he has failed in his goal and “loaded” the work too heavily in the direction of desecration. Is this a surprise? There is nothing ambiguous in the title he has chosen. As Gracia points out, the title is not Piss on Christianity, or Pissed Christ. Serrano entitled the work Piss Christ. There is simply no getting around the fact that Serrano has pissed on an image of Christ, and that alone is not easily separated from negative intention (especially given that he knew it would outrage people). Second, there is the context of the cultural reaction to the photo. To casually dismiss the perceptions of seemingly countless Christians worldwide (and quite a large number of non-Christians as well) and ask that they instead view it as an elegant statement of faith is ludicrous. Knippers is advocating a reckless hermeneutic. And because of this, I believe his interpretation is wrong.
This photo is disgusting and insulting. Given our society’s perception of what it means to urinate on someone or something, there is simply no other way to interpret it. However, that doesn’t mean that it’s not instructive. Piss Christ should serve as a visual reminder of precisely why Christ came into this world. Even knowing that men would reject him, even knowing that they would mock his work on the cross, he still came. Though the world would piss upon it, the image of Christ’s unconditional love remains visible.
“. . . While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.”
 In 2011 a print of the photograph was destroyed by a mob of protesters in Avignon, France.
 Edward Knippers, “Serrano’s Piss Christ Reconsidered,” Critique, February, 2016, 8.
 Jorge J. E. Gracia, “On Desecration: Andres Serrano, Piss Christ,” Michigan Quarterly Review 52, no. 4 (Fall 2013): accessed October 15, 2016, http://quod.lib.umich.edu/cgi/t/text/text-idx?cc=mqr;c=mqr;c=mqrarchive;idno=act2080.0052.415;g=mqrg;rgn=main;view=text;xc=1.
 Knippers, Piss Christ Reconsidered, 8.
 Gracia, On Desecration.
 Knippers, Piss Christ Reconsidered, 8.
 Udoka Okafer, “Exclusive Interview with Andres Serrano, Photographer of Piss Christ,” The Huffington Post, June 4, 2014, accessed on December 1, 2016, http://www.huffingtonpost.com/udoka-okafor/exclusive-interview-with-_18_b_5442141.html.
 Gracia, On Desecration.
 Romans 5:8 (NASB).
This is my attempt to put into action the principles learned from the book Art and Music: A Student’s Guide. You can refer to my post on What is Beauty? for a full review of that book. Keep in mind that I have zero experience evaluating works of art, and even less skill.
I first encountered Pascal Adolphe Jean Dagnan-Bouveret at a mall gift shop in 2004. I was thumbing through an eclectic mix of art reproductions, movie posters, and bikini clad women stretched across the hoods of luxury sports cars. I was killing time and not expecting to make a purchase. When I saw the print of Dagnan-Bouveret’s Christ and the Disciples at Emmaus, I knew immediately that I had to own it. Was it because I instantly recognized this as a great work of pictorial art? That didn’t matter to me. I had never heard of Dagnan-Bouveret before that day. What mattered to me was what the painting represented. As it turns out, this artist is not considered one of the Old Masters, and this particular painting is not regarded, at least by most critics, as a masterpiece. However, it may be time to reconsider its place in history. My goal here is to evaluate the work in light of aesthetic principles and theological/biblical considerations, with an eye toward allowing this piece to speak to others just as clearly as it first spoke to me over a decade ago. The history of Christ and the Disciples at Emmaus is one of promise and disappointment. The work was purchased by Carnegie Steel chairman Henry Clay Frick, when he first saw it unfinished on the artist’s easel in the summer of 1897. An avid patron of the arts, Frick immediately donated the work to the Carnegie Institute, where it became one of the centerpieces of the newly established Carnegie Museum of Art. Carnegie’s vision for his museum was not to build upon the acquisitions of Old Masters, but rather to showcase contemporary painters who would in time become the ‘new generation’ of Old Masters. Dagnan-Bouveret was seen as exemplifying that vision. John Caldwell, one of the trustees of the Carnegie Institute’s Fine Arts Committee, was quoted as saying to Frick,
Unless I am greatly mistaken, this is one of the modern paintings that is going to hold its own and remain a ‘masterpiece’ for the instruction as well as pleasure of future generations.
Caldwell was mistaken. Frick purchased a total of three of Dagnan-Bouveret’s paintings.After his death his estate was unable to give away one of the more repudiated, the Consolatrix Afflictorum (which to this day remains out of public view in the storerooms of the Frick Art and Historical Center in Pittsburg). While Christ and the Disciples at Emmaus remains on display at the Carnegie Museum of Art, it was subject to mixed reviews when first introduced. Even though the Chicago Tribune declared it “one of the most remarkable works of the modern French school,” it also criticized it for being unoriginal (specifically referencing Veronese’s Supper at Emmaus as an example of the derivative nature of the work). The London Times, in its review of the painting’s London showing, also highlighted this point, referencing Titian and Rembrandt as examples. There is even some insinuation of kitschiness from critics. In 1900, this is exactly what a correspondent for the New-York Tribune implied when describing Dagnan-Bouveret’s body of religious paintings.
As devotional works one cannot take them seriously. The figures are too intensely French; the spirit of each is somewhat lacking in the magic which would stir the emotions of the spectator.
Contemporary art critic Ken Johnson characterizes the paining as “absurdly sentimental.” I wish to counteract these claims and demonstrate that Dagnan-Bouveret has produced something entirely original, transcending any characterization as religious kitsch. Far from being derivative and devotional, Christ and the Disciples at Emmaus should be viewed as Avant-garde.
I have been a Christian educator for over twenty years. In 2004, when I first came across this work of art, I was the principal of a K-12 Christian school in El Paso, Texas. As a mission oriented school, we had an open enrollment and saw our ministry as one of leading students to Christ. The passage of scripture upon which this work is based, Luke 24:13-35, resonated with me as an educator. Like the disciples on the road to Emmaus, my students metaphorically walked with Jesus. They were exposed to scripture-based curriculum, affording the opportunity to hear about Jesus in each of their classes. They attended weekly chapel services where they were regularly challenged to commit their lives to Christ. They sat under the teaching of fully dedicated Christian teachers, who constantly sought to apply the Bible to every area of the student’s life. And yet, many of the students never came to faith. Luke gives insight as to why.
When he was at table with them, he took the bread and blessed and broke it and gave it to them. And their eyes were opened, and they recognized him. And he vanished from their sight. They said to each other, “Did not our hearts burn within us while he talked to us on the road, while he opened to us the Scriptures?”
These disciples did not recognize Jesus until he broke the bread and their eyes were opened. They did not, and could not, see Jesus on their own. He needed to open their eyes and make them see. It is this precise moment that Dagnan-Bouveret has chosen to capture. Seeing the painting for the first time, I suddenly realized that it was not my job to convert students to Christ. I could present him daily. I could open the scriptures just as Jesus did to these unknown disciples. But a person only comes to faith when God himself chooses to open the eyes. When this authentically happens, it is the most spectacular thing that can be witnessed. While it’s true that this passage is well depicted in European art, in my opinion, Dagnan-Bouveret is the only one to capture it with such vivid realism and emotion.
When looking at the painting, one cannot help but first be drawn to the figure of Christ. He sits at the center, surrounded in a glow of radiant light (reminiscent of Dagnan-Bouveret’s most famous work, La Cena). His hair is auburn, not typical of depictions ofChrist, but adding to a heightened sense of awe and intensity. This stands in contrast to the drabness of all other colors in the painting. The artist wants Christ to be the focal point. His eyes are looking straight ahead, as if focused directly on the viewer, instantly drawing him or her into the image. In fact, from whatever angle the picture is viewed, it appears that Christ’s eyes follow the observer. His two hands are spread out, the bread now divided, and the eyes of the three supper guests clearly opened. Their bodies are largely situated in shadow and darkness, with the light that radiates from Christ shining upon each of their faces. The light even seems to wash out the background scenery making it impossible to discern what is back there. This effect adds to the notion that at this moment, nothing else matters; everything else is obscured by the risen Savior. Two of the supper guests appear to be disciples, and the third a servant. There is a gradation in the responses of each. The servant girl, dinner platter in hand, appears to be in shock as she realizes that Christ is sitting before her. The disciple immediately next to her has his hands thrown up in wonder, as if amazed and entirely speechless. The disciple on the opposite side of Jesus has pushed his chair back, dropped to his knees, and has his hands clasped in worship. The progression of responses moves from fear and terror, to awe and wonder, then finally to total submission.
There is no doubt that the artist is attempting to paint a biblical event in the style of the Renaissance, and both The London Times and Chicago Tribune are correct that other European artists have painted this same scene. However, while this may be a biblical storycommonly depicted in European artwork, Dagnan-Bouveret captures the intensity and wonder of it better than any other. Take for instance the aforementioned Supper at Emmaus. Veronese seems more concerned with capturing the intricate detail of clothing than the intensity of the moment. Christ’s radiance extends barely beyond his own head. In contrast, Dagnan-Bouveret has Christ’s radiance overtaking everything in the photo. Where there is darkness, one gets the sense that the light is quickly chasing it away. You cannot help but conclude that this is a life changing event. Then there is the comparison of the people surrounding Christ. In the Supper at Emmaus, many of them seemed disengaged and unaffected. Nowhere in this work does anyone come close to capturing the mood and feeling that certainly must have accompanied this moment. In contrast, Christ and the Disciples at Emmaus is filled with emotion.
But both the Tribune and Times were referring to something more than simply the style, when accusing the artist of being unoriginal. Off to the right of where Jesus sits, Dagnan-Bouveret has inserted three figures dressed in contemporary clothing. Numerous renaissance painters often did the same thing. Veronese was reportedly called before church officials because of this, being cited for the crime of heresy. But whereas Veronese was clearly doing nothing more than embedding a family portrait into his painting (often wealthy donors would be included in religious depictions to display their adoration and worship), Dagnan-Bouveret is providing commentary on the biblical scene. In addition to the very clear biblical message, which I believe Dagnan-Bouveret has captured faithfully, he has added an additional layer of meaning, one that is in tension with the original.
The modern figures are that of a man standing, a woman kneeling, and a small child immediately in the forefront, kneeling next to the woman. While all three figures are more obscured than any other in the work, the faces of the boy and woman reflect the light radiating from Christ, while the man remains obscured in darkness with what appears to be a dubious demeanor. More than anything else, it was the image of this modern man that caused the Chicago Tribune to title its 1898 review, “Frick Buys A Freak.” The paper also included multiple sub-headlines with the piece: It Will Cause A Shock; Europe Considers It Scandalous and Sacrilegious; Boldness Of The Artist; and, His Cynical View Of Religion. History has left us with the artist’s own words responding to this criticism and explaining the meaning of the three figures. For Dagnan-Bouveret the man clearly is skeptical, finding himself unable to accept the truth of Christ as easily as the boy and woman. This is reflected in the positioning of each of the modern figures’ hands. The child’s hands are clasped near his waist, the woman’s hands are prayerfully at her chest, and the man’s hands are touching his face as he considers what is before him. The move is from childlike faith to the uncertainty of modern man. Dagnan-Bouveret explains that it is the man, enlightened by the advances of philosophy and science, that struggles with his own religion.
But perhaps there is more to be seen here then the artist conveys in his own words. Upon closer examination, it appears that the child is the only one in the frame not looking at Christ. A child accepts the faith of his or her family, often without question. But while children understand the form of piety, they do not necessarily have a heartfelt devotion. This child appears distracted by something else, as children so often are. On the other hand, the woman is filled with devotion as she gazes upon the scene before her. There is no question of her sincerity or acceptance of the truth of Christ. But what of the man? Does Dagnan-Bouveret intend to communicate that educated man cannot, and must not give in to the superstition of religion? While the work does not reveal the man coming to faith, perhaps the radiance and intensity of the rest of the scene provides some insight as to the ultimate outcome of the struggle between faith and reason. The artist asks the question of his own work:
Have scholars and philosophers succeeded in giving satisfaction to the human soul? I don’t believe it. The figure of Christ remains, after 1,900 years, as effulgent as ever. His rule of morals is as sublime as ever.
In providing a retrospective analysis of Dagnan-Bouveret’s work, modern critic Gabriel Weisberg concludes that the artist must be understood in light of the deeper meanings that are reflected in his paintings.
He was certainly one of the most personal of the academic painters, and perhaps the key artist who interiorized academic image-making in a way that reveals the doubts and traumas of an era in which traditional ideology was under severe stress.
Of course, Dagnan-Bouveret did not limit his doubt to traditional ideology in artistic styling. In Christ and the Disciples at Emmaus, he is clearly expressing doubt over the traditional ideology expressed in the very content of art, distinguishing this work as far more than sentimentality and devotion. This is the juxtaposition of two worlds in conflict: the enduring legacy of religious art verses its rejection by modernity. Is that legacy merely the product of a time when scientific ignorance made room for naïve faith? Even though Dagnan-Bouveret entertains this idea, the transformative power communicated in this painting suggests otherwise. Ultimately, it is today’s viewer that finds herself in the exact same position as the skeptic within the painting, coming face to face with the figure of Christ. His eyes connect, his radiance overwhelms, and he draws the viewer into the scene. Will the response be doubt, fear, wonder, or submission? Whatever the response, Christ and the Disciples at Emmaus compels us to decide.
 Gabriel P. Weisberg, Against the Modern: Dagnan-Bouveret and the Transformation of the Academic Tradition (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2002), 267.
 Ross Finocchio, “Frick Buys a Freak: Dagnan-Bouveret and the Development of the Frick Collection,” The Burlington Magazine, December, 2013, 827.
 Ibid., 828.
 W. R. Hearst, “Frick Buys a Freak,” Chicago Tribune, February 6, 1898, accessed November 13, 2016, http://archives.chicagotribune.com/1898/02/06/page/2/article/frick-buys-a-freak.
 “M. Dagnan-Bouveret’s New Picture,” The London Times, December 21, 1897, accessed on November 13, 2016, https://www.newspapers.com/image/33185176/?terms=M%2BDagnan-Bouveret%27s%2BNew%2BPicture.
 Finocchio, Frick Buys a Freak: Dagnan-Bouveret and the Development of the Frick Collection, 830.
 Ken Johnson, “A Timid Academician, Tempted by Modernism,” The New York Times, September 20, 2002, accessed November 9, 2016, http://www.nytimes.com/2002/09/20/arts/art-review-a-timid-academician-tempted-by-modernism.html.
 Luke 24: 30-33 (English Standard Version).
 Hearst, “Frick Buys a Freak.”
 Weisberg, Against the Modern, 10.
I will be posting several articles related to aesthetics and the nature of beauty. The following is a review of a book I picked up a few years ago and will serve as an introduction to the topic. Enjoy!
What is beauty, and how do we identify it? While the nature of beauty has perplexed philosophers for generations, perhaps the problem is best illustrated by turning to children. In every home occupied by toddlers, there are likely numerous “works of art” hanging on the refrigerator door. What mother wouldn’t consider such pictures beautiful? But can a shaky, barely identifiable image, drawn by a three year old hand, actually be considered beautiful? Would a curator declare such a drawing beautiful enough to replace a Rembrandt or a Picasso in an overcrowded exhibition? Paul Munson and Joshua Farris Drake utilize this scenario in their book Art and Music: A Student’s Guide, to point out why so many in our society find it easy to accept aesthetic relativism. The idea that “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” helps us understand how a mother genuinely finds beauty in a child’s drawing, while a curator does not. It helps explain the wide variety and dissimilarity that exists in people’s preferences of beauty. But is this thinking correct? Munson and Drake’s purpose is to prepare Christians to think Christianly about art and music. How does the Christian faith and scripture inform our understanding of art and music? What constitutes beauty in these mediums? The authors are convinced that how we come to view beauty, has a direct impact on how we view truth and goodness. Munson and Drake propose a distinctively Christian conception of beauty, that is both objective and absolute, while at the same time accounts for our apparent subjective differences in taste.
In fleshing out this proposal, the authors begin with an analysis of the two major approaches to defining beauty. First, is the classical approach, which views beauty as objective and uniform. Beauty is seen as a characteristic of the object of perception, and can be empirically studied and measured. At first glance, this would appear to be in line with the Christian view of beauty that Munson and Drake are putting forth. In fact, the traditional perspective of Christians has been predominately classical. But the authors view this conception of beauty as inaccurate and dangerously idolatrous.
But make no mistake: not only were the masterpieces of classical antiquity made in the service of idols but also the classical vision itself, at its purest, is an idol. When form is made absolute, when—like the media-bewitched teen starving herself before the mirror—we devote our lives to the pursuit of some created formal standard, the result is not beautiful at all, but wicked and ugly.
Here, the authors connect this idea to C. S. Lewis’s warning against aestheticism. In The Weight of Glory, Lewis poetically cautions that the classical view of beauty can lead to idolatry, hinting at a more accurate conception (something the authors delineate later in the book).
The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshippers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.
Lewis is correct in his observation that the classicist conception has often led to the misguided notion of equating beauty with the object of perception. Perhaps, it is precisely this adoption of the classical approach that has led to the internal struggle that many Christians have with beauty. Why does God makes things beautiful, if beauty only serves to lead us away from him? Augustine, who clearly echoed Plato in defining beauty in terms of symmetry and proportion, writes of his own struggle in The Confessions:
Late have I loved Thee, O Beauty so ancient and so new, late have I loved Thee! And behold, Thou wert within and I was without. I was looking for Thee out there, and I threw myself, deformed as I was, upon those well-formed things which Thou hast made. Thou wert with me, yet I was not with Thee. These things held me far from Thee, things which would not have existed had they not been in Thee.
The authors maintain that the classical view is a mistake, not simply because we are sinful and inclined to abuse it, but because it is inherently idolatrous.
But idolatry is not the sole reason for rejecting this approach. The classical view tends toward uniformity, which seems to be at odds with our experience of beauty. If all things are beautiful in exactly the same way, how do we account for the diversity of tastes and the variety of perceptions regarding what is beautiful? It is precisely this phenomenon that has led to the second approach, which has become the most dominant. The postmodern approach maintains that beauty is not to be considered a quality of the object of perception, but rather a quality of the one perceiving. Beauty has essentially become synonymous with preference. It is precisely this kind of thinking that has led many to abandon the debate on what constitutes beauty. For the postmodern mind, there is no need to define what is relative to the individual and essentially undefinable.
It is at this juncture, that Munson and Drake begin to delineate a proper Christian conception of beauty. Building upon the teachings of scripture, the authors assert that beauty must be viewed as objective, rooted in the very nature of God. A key verse for them is Mark 14:3-8 where Jesus commends the woman who has anointed him with oil. Jesus declares that she has done a beautiful thing. Instead of commending her for doing a good thing, he commends her for the way (or form) in which she worships him. Hearkening back to Lewis’s quote above, the authors then define beauty as the forms through which we recognize the nature and ways of God. To make this clear, they juxtapose two scriptures discussing God’s creation. In Ecclesiastes 3:11, creation is referred to as beautiful. In Genesis 1:32 it is referred to as good. From this they infer that beauty is a form of communication. Beauty is the means through which God communicates truth and goodness. It is the means through which he communicates himself.
The authors are quick to distinguish this objective view from that of the classical approach. Yes, beauty is objective, but this does not mean that it is uniform. It also does not imply a cookie cutter approach to beauty where everyone must like the same things. Beauty is endlessly diverse. But how can this be the case if beauty is rooted in the unchanging nature of God? Beauty is endlessly diverse because it reflects and communicates the infinite glory of God. Because no mind can comprehend beauty in its fullness, we all see different aspects of it. Because we all have different backgrounds and experiences, we all have different perspectives and preferences. It therefore becomes necessary to view beauty as transcendentally objective. In this regard, the authors believe that the Christian view of beauty is the only view that can properly account for both objectivity and subjectivity.
The authors also assert that this is not a relativistic approach to beauty. The postmodern, relativistic approach implies that no one preference for beauty is better than another. When we are left with such a predicament, it leads to indifference. When no one’s view of beauty is better than anyone else’s view, then there is no need to learn from others or attempt to expand our understanding of beauty. Each person’s perception of beauty represents an objectively knowable facet of the overall concept of beauty. If we are going to come to a better and more complete understanding of beauty, then we must learn from others. “If we are going to see as much of God’s glory as possible, we have to learn to see through others’ eyes.”
Returning to the illustration at the start of this essay, we can easily see how both the mother and curator are merely seeing different aspects of beauty, and to different degrees. In her child’s drawing, the mother rightly perceives beauty. The child’s picture communicates several objectively good things, namely love, imagination, and the development of fine motor skills. But the curator is also making a correct assessment of beauty in not including the child’s picture in his exhibition. He is trying to find the highest and best examples of beauty, and certainly the child’s work does not compete with those of Picasso, although some might feel otherwise. Munson and Drake conclude that to a certain degree, beauty is present is all art. Both the child’s drawing and Picasso’s painting are beautiful. However, this does not mean that all art reflects the same degree of beauty.
. . . the beauty of any object is its capacity to proclaim truth and to realize goodness. The ugliness of any object is the sum of all the ways in which it obscures truth and impedes goodness, which means that everything in this cursed world is both beautiful and ugly. Some things will be mostly beautiful, and some will be mostly ugly, but everything will be a mix.
Munson and Drake next consider the question of art and music for the sake of enjoyment and leisure. Too many Christians believe that pursuing aesthetic pleasure is a waste of time. The authors provide several reasons, based upon general revelation, why this attitude is mistaken. Most notably, is the idea that Christians ought to start thinking of the artist or musician as expounding upon God’s natural revelation much in the same way that a preacher expounds on God’s special revelation. Just as not every Christian is gifted as a pastor, with the ability to exegete scripture, not every person is gifted as an artist, with the ability to observe and communicate through art the often obscured truths of general revelation. By means of color, symmetry, exaggeration and even abstraction, the artist draws our attention to the details of God’s revelation through the created order. The artist helps us see truth and goodness more clearly. She communicates a message, much like a pastor. And just as there are bad pastors, those who fail to communicate appropriately or clearly, so also there are bad artists and musicians. While Hegel is certainly not coming from a Christian perspective, I think he perfectly illustrates this when he talks about art being “born again.” There is truth that is communicated via the created order, which receives added emphasis and clarity as it is reborn through the artist’s work. The artist should be seen as highlighting, elucidating, and communicating things that fallen men and women might not have seen, or might have glossed over in the busyness of life. Beautiful art and music reminds us that we need to stop, look, listen and read God’s works. Seeing it in this capacity, the Christian needs to understand that avoiding art would be disastrous. Those who fail to take the time to enjoy and appreciate beautiful art and music, or even worse focus solely on bad art and music, will inevitably become desensitized to truth and goodness.
The book concludes on a very practical note, providing the student with guidelines for judging art and music, and then asking the student to make applications. Every Christian’s goal ought to be identifying those works of art and selections of music that best communicate the true and the good, that best exemplify beauty. Here the authors once again turn to C. S. Lewis for insight. In An Experiment in Criticism, Lewis challenges the Christian to seek out art and music that reveals new ways of thinking, and enriches one’s life. We can either use art and music to reinforce what we already believe, or we can allow it to teach us, imparting truth and goodness. Ultimately, this means judging art and music on the basis of its purpose. Does it promote an evil use, or the reception of ideas that are evil? If so, then it should be considered ugly art. In this sense ugliness should be understood as a form that “poorly realizes a good purpose, whether it be a good use or the reception of something good.”
In applying these ideas, the authors ask the reader to evaluate three separate works of pictorial art, spending at least fifteen minutes alone in contemplation before reading the author’s own analysis. These instructions are repeated in the final chapter, with three separate musical compositions. In each case, the reader is looking for ways in which the artist or musician is communicating truth and goodness. Several study questions are provided for further reflection, along with a glossary of key terms and a list of suggested resources.
While I found this book to be a compelling introduction to discerning the nature of beauty in art and music, I believe it comes up short in two areas. First, in the area of providing a distinctively Christian approach. Art and Music: A Student’s Guide, is just one volume in an eleven volume series entitled Reclaiming the Christian Intellectual Tradition. And yet, while the authors are clearly influenced by C. S. Lewis, they fail to significantly incorporate any other representatives from the long tradition of Christian thinkers writing on beauty. While I am fascinated by the position that the authors take, I am not sure this represents what Christians have traditionally held. In what is arguably the most important chapter of the book, when the authors are delineating their definition of beauty as transcendentally objective, there is more hints of Immanuel Kant and Werner Krieglstein, than there is to any distinctively Christian ideas. If one is hoping to learn about the rich tradition of Christian thought on art and music, this is not the book.
Second, the authors fail to provide any strong reasons for accepting the position they are asserting. Regarding the connection between beauty, truth and goodness, the scriptural argument is weak. This seems more of an assumption inherited from the classical approach, rather than anything based upon clear passages of scripture. Regarding their definition of beauty, if the authors are going to completely redefine how most people intuitively define beauty, then they will need to provide greater biblical and philosophical support. I found the proposal very intriguing, I just wish they have made a more convincing case. In the end, it comes across sounding more like a postmodern approach to beauty (everything is beautiful, everything is ugly), nuanced slightly to retain the appearance of objectivity.
Ultimately, the book did not provide the definitive clarity I had hoped. I am still unsettled in my views about the nature of beauty. However, the book did engage me enough to make me want to study this question further. What truly is the traditional Christian view of beauty? Do we need to re-think our understanding of beauty and settle on a view that somehow bridges the gap between the classical and postmodern approach, as Munson and Drake attempt to do?
As a fun activity until the next posting, how do you think Munson and Drake would respond to the Voltaire quote at the top? How would you respond?
 Paul Munson and Joshua Farris Drake, Art and Music: A Student’s Guide (Wheaton, IL: Crossway, 2014), 23-24.
 C. S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory (New York: Touchstone, 1996), 29. Italics mine.
 Augustine, “Augustine, from Confessions,” in Theological Aesthetics: A Reader, edited by Gesa Elsbeth Thiessen (Grand Rapid, MI: Eerdmans Publishing, 2004), 1.10.5, Kindle.
 The biblical argument presented by the authors rests solely on Psalm 27:4.
 Munson and Drake, Art and Music, 35.
 Munson and Drake, Art and Music, 37.
 The language throughout this section seems to echo that of Werner Krieglstein and his thoughts on transcendental perspectivism. However, it should be distinguished that the authors are not making the argument that man can know nothing of the beauty of God, or that what defines absolute beauty is somehow relative to each individual’s own context and perception. Each individual has a tendency to hone in on certain aspects of beauty, on the basis of upbringing and personal experience. But each perceived aspect is still objectively discernible.
 Munson and Drake, Art and Music, 38.
 Ibid., 40.
 Arthur C. Danto, The Abuse of Beauty: Aesthetics and the Concept of Art (Chicago: Open Court Publishing, 2003), 12-13. Of course, the Christian would not go as far as Hegel and claim that the artist’s work speaks with greater clarity and truth.
 Munson and Drake, Art and Music, 91.
 The authors do not provide a clear delineation of “things” to look for when contemplating these works. They more or less challenge the reader to take a disinterested approach and allow the works to speak to them. When reviewing the analysis of the authors, it is clear that they are employing knowledge of artistic style and art history. The student interested in getting more specific details on what to look for might find Joshua C. Taylor’s Learning to Look: A Handbook for the Visual Arts (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981) exceptionally helpful.