Something is awry in his argument from analogy, I think. That a particular number was the winning lottery number doesn’t strike me as “extraordinary.” There had to be a winning number—why not that one? Still, Craig’s objection is an interesting one. I’ve also heard him argue that, granting the existence of an omnipotent being, nothing is truly extraordinary.

Plantinga retired from Notre Dame earlier this year, so a lot of people are discussing his legacy. I’m in no position to assess his legacy, but I know that he’s a huge name and that we ought to be better acquainted with his philosophy.

Here, I will only present two of his most famous arguments: the free will defense and the evolutionary argument against naturalism.

The free will defense is a theodicy—a response to the logical problem of evil. His argument, in brief, is as follows:

A world containing creatures who are significantly free (and freely perform more good than evil actions) is more valuable, all else being equal, than a world containing no free creatures at all. Now God can create free creatures, but He can’t cause or determine them to do only what is right. For if He does so, then they aren’t significantly free after all; they do not do what is right freely. To create creatures capable of moral good, therefore, He must create creatures capable of moral evil; and He can’t give these creatures the freedom to perform evil and at the same time prevent them from doing so. As it turned out, sadly enough, some of the free creatures God created went wrong in the exercise of their freedom; this is the source of moral evil. The fact that free creatures sometimes go wrong, however, counts neither against God’s omnipotence nor against His goodness; for He could have forestalled the occurrence of moral evil only by removing the possibility of moral good.

Many philosophers think Plantinga answers the logical problem evil. There are some limitations to the argument, though. First, it doesn’t account for natural evils like earthquakes (though Plantinga argues that apparent natural evils may in fact be moral evils committed by fallen angels). And second, it doesn’t solve the evidential problem of evil—that certain kinds and amounts of evil are incompatible with god.

Another popular argument posed by Plantinga is the so-called evolutionary argument against naturalism. What it attempts to show is that evolution and metaphysical naturalism, when coupled together, are self-defeating. Naturalists hold reason in high esteem, but Plantinga contends that they shouldn’t if evolution is true. If our minds are the product of evolution, then we have little reason to trust their epistemic reliability. Evolution doesn’t care about what’s true, it only cares about what will further our survival and reproduction. Charles Darwin himself expressed this concern:

But then with me the horrid doubt always arises whether the convictions of man’s mind, which has been developed from the mind of the lower animals, are of any value or at all trustworthy. Would any one trust in the convictions of a monkey’s mind, if there are any convictions in such a mind?

On the other hand, if there exists a loving god who created us, then we can have confidence in our cognitive faculties (or so Plantinga would have us believe).

I’ve heard Dr. Kleiner, SHAFT’s resident Catholic philosopher, espouse the evolutionary argument against naturalism, but I’m not impressed by it. I may not fully understand the argument, however, so I’ll withhold my tentative criticisms for now.

I’ll end my introduction of Alvin Plantinga with this video:

In the video, an interviewer asks Plantinga why he believes in god. His response is surprisingly simple.

…I don’t think traditional arguments for God’s existence… are all that powerful… but it just seems to me that there really is such a person [as God]…

…When I look at the mountains, when I look at the treetops in my backyard, when I go to church, when I read the Bible, and on many other occasions I just find myself convinced that there really is such a person as God… It’s more like a personal experience than an argument or a philosophical proof…

Induction, for the purposes of this post, is a form of reasoning that makes inferences about what will happen from what has happened. Science relies heavily on induction in making generalizations and predictions. But Hume believes that we can reason absolutely nothing about the future from the past. To do so presupposes the uniformity of nature—that the future will resemble the past.

There is a temptation to respond that we know that the future will resemble the past, because past futures have resembled past pasts. This begs the question, however. It assumes the very thing it attempts to prove, and is thus circular.

Atheists need to understand the implications of Hume’s argument. Hume is not saying that we cannot know with a certainty that, for example, the sun will rise tomorrow. He instead says something far more radical: that we have no reason whatsoever to believe that the sun will rise tomorrow. The fact that the sun has risen every day of recorded human history is immaterial; again, the future need not resemble the past.

So are we atheists who trust science guilty of the same faith that we accuse religious people of having? In a later post, I’ll introduce a few possible solutions to the problem of induction. But I’d first like to hear your thoughts.

The video was inspired by the work of moral philosopher Peter Singer, and particularly by his most recent book The Life You Can Save. At the book’s website, you can take a pledge (as urged in the video) to help end global poverty. If you call yourself a humanist, I hope you take the pledge.

The sorry fact is that many of us won’t actually bother to donate. I may be among the hypocrites, we’ll see. But others’ inaction is no excuse for our own.

So what miracles are there today? Celestial cameos on burnt toast and coffee stains don’t compare to the attestations of god in the Bible. From a Mormon perspective, too, there is a relative dearth of miracles. In the early church, reports of angelic visitations, demonic encounters, faith healings and speaking in tongues were commonplace. And whereas Joseph Smith regularly received revelations, god seems to have put today’s church leaders on hold.

It appears that god is hiding, and that is problematic for theists who believe that god is loving and concerned about our belief in him. German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche wrote:

A god who is all-knowing and all-powerful and who does not even make sure his creatures understand his intentions—could that be a god of goodness? Who allows countless doubts and dubieties to persist, for thousands of years, as though the salvation of mankind were unaffected by them, and who on the other hand holds out frightful consequences if any mistake is made as to the nature of truth? Would he not be a cruel god if he possessed the truth and could behold mankind miserably tormenting itself over the truth?

This is known in the scholarly literature as the problem of divine hiddenness. J.L. Schellenberg in his landmark book Divine Hiddenness and Human Reason (1993) re-articulates this problem into what he calls “the argument from reasonable nonbelief.” Schellenberg suggests that the absence of evidence for god is evidence of god’s absence, such that nonbelief in god is reasonable. And why, if god wants a personal relationship with his creation, would he make nonbelief reasonable? There are people (myself included) who would believe in god were there sufficient evidence. Even the world’s most famous atheist, Richard Dawkins, has stated that he wants to believe in god, but cannot.

It would make sense, then, for god to come out of hiding. But some believers worry that this would render faith in god useless. Andrew over at Irresistible (Dis)Grace had a thoughtful response to this concern:

I think the issue is that “belief in god” and “faith in god” imply something a little more than what people often want it to mean.

I think the scriptures even point out the distinction. See, when someone [argues that God's showing himself would nullify faith], then they seem to mean that what it means to believe in god is to believe he exists. According to this argument, if you believe in God (the right one, supposedly), then that is the prize.

But is that the prize?

No. As James 2:19 points out, even the demons believe that there is a god (and apparently, they believe in the right one). But do demons have the prize? No.

The issue is that believing in the existence or nonexistence isn’t the critical distinction. Rather, I think that belief and faith in god entails something more substantive…something like a trust in his ways and laws. Obedience to him. The following of him.

In this way, I don’t think that if God showed himself, faith would be nullified. Instead, if this life were a test to see who would follow and who wouldn’t, we would be on equal footing (because we would know that god exists) and the only thing that would matter is whether we would follow or not.

And shouldn’t that be the test—not whether we believe in god, but whether we follow him? I’d like to hear your thoughts.

It isn’t often that Noam Chomsky comments on religion; he is most prolific where it concerns linguistics, political philosophy, and international affairs.

Chomsky is an atheist, though he is reticent to adopt that label. When asked in an interview whether he was an atheist, he responded: “I would first want an explanation of what it is that I’m supposed to not believe in, and I’ve never seen an explanation.” On several issues, Chomsky agrees with the New Atheists. He has called religious belief “irrational” and generally regards it to be “a dangerous phenomenon.” He disagrees, however, with many New Atheists (like Hitchens and Harris) about the nature of Islamic fundamentalism. Chomsky famously debated Hitchens on the subject in the immediate wake of the 9/11 attacks, and there is currently an online campaign to get him to debate Harris.

Oh, and the most important thing you need to know about Chomsky: I have an email from him.*  

*That sounds cooler than it actually is. Chomsky makes an effort to respond to all of his fan mail. Still, seeing an email from him in my inbox made me giddier than a 12-year-old girl at a Justin Bieber concert.

A priori knowledge: yes or no?

Abstract objects: Platonism or nominalism?

Aesthetic value: objective or subjective?

Analytic-synthetic distinction: yes or no?

Epistemic justification: internalism or externalism?

External world: idealism, skepticism, or non-skeptical realism?

Free will: compatibilism, libertarianism, or no free will?

God: theism or atheism?

Knowledge claims: contextualism, relativism, or invariantism?

Knowledge: empiricism or rationalism?

Laws of nature: Humean or non-Humean?

Logic: classical or non-classical?

Mental content: internalism or externalism?

Meta-ethics: moral realism or moral anti-realism?

Metaphilosophy: naturalism or non-naturalism?

Mind: physicalism or non-physicalism?

Moral judgment: cognitivism or non-cognitivism?

Moral motivation: internalism or externalism?

Newcomb’s problem: one box or two boxes?

Normative ethics: deontology, consequentialism, or virtue ethics?

Perceptual experience: disjunctivism, qualia theory, representationalism, or sense-datum theory?

Personal identity: biological view, psychological view, or further-fact view?

Politics: communitarianism, egalitarianism, or libertarianism?

Proper names: Fregean or Millian?

Science: scientific realism or scientific anti-realism?

Teletransporter (new matter): survival or death?

Time: A-theory or B-theory?

Trolley problem (five straight ahead, one on side track, turn requires switching, what ought one do?): switch or don’t switch?

Truth: correspondence, deflationary, or epistemic?

Zombies: inconceivable, conceivable but not metaphysically possible, or metaphysically possible?

The reason for his lecture was not disabuse SHAFTers of their disbelief. Dr. Huenemann is an atheist who doesn’t consider theism “a live option.” Rather, Huenemann worries that many atheists (and people in general) aren’t very thoughtful about their basis for morality.

If you weren’t able to attend the lecture, or—like me— you just want to listen to it again, the lecture and the question/answer period are provided below.

Huenemann’s lecture

Q&A

A bit about Flew, from The Telegraph:

Flew always described himself as a “negative atheist”, asserting that “theological propositions can neither be verified nor falsified by experience”, a position he expounded in his classic paper Theology and Falsification (1950), reputedly the most frequently-quoted philosophical publication of the second half of the 20th century.

He argued that any philosophical debate about the Almighty must begin by presuming atheism, placing the burden of proof on those who believe that God exists. “We reject all transcendent supernatural systems, not because we’ve examined or could have examined each in turn, but because it does not seem to us that there is any good evidence in reason to postulate anything behind or beyond this natural universe,” he proclaimed. A key principle of his philosophy was the Socratean concept of “follow the evidence, wherever it leads”.

When Flew revealed that he had come to the conclusion that there might be a God after all, it came as a shock to his fellow atheists, who had long regarded him as one of their foremost champions. Worse, he seemed to have deserted Plato for Aristotle, since it was two of Aquinas’s famous five proofs for the existence of God – the arguments from design and for a prime mover – that had apparently clinched the matter.

After months of soul-searching, Flew concluded that research into DNA had “shown, by the almost unbelievable complexity of the arrangements which are needed to produce life, that intelligence must have been involved”. Moreover, though he accepted Darwinian evolution, he felt that it could not explain the beginnings of life. “I have been persuaded that it is simply out of the question that the first living matter evolved out of dead matter and then developed into an extraordinarily complicated creature,” he said.

But believers waiting to welcome this most prodigal of sons back into the fold were to be disappointed. Flew’s conversion did not embrace such concepts as Heaven, good and evil or the afterlife – let alone divine intervention in human affairs. His God was strictly minimalist – very different from “the monstrous oriental despots of the religions of Christianity and Islam”, as he liked to call them. God may have called his creation into existence, then, but why did he bother? To that question, it seemed, Flew had no answer.

Flew’s interests were prolific and wide-ranging, and he applied his linguistic analysis approach to studies of psychoanalysis, psychical research, crime and evolutionary ethics, among other topics.

In political philosophy, Flew defended classical liberalism against the fallacies of egalitarianism, arguing that socialism and social democracy are based on assumptions about the world that are demonstrably false.

He became a leading critic of the Harvard philosopher John Rawls, who had attempted to reconcile liberty and egalitarianism in his critically acclaimed Theory of Justice. In Politics of Procrustes: Contradictions of Enforced Equality (1981), Flew rejected Rawls’s claim that, since people do not acquire their natural talents through moral merit, these talents stand at the disposition of “society”. Moral qualities, Flew argued, are not needed to entitle us to profit from our abilities.

In Sociology, Equality and Education (1976), Flew attacked the malign influence of the egalitarian ideology in education. In the 1990s he was the author of a series of pamphlets for the Adam Smith Institute calling on the then Conservative government to return to educational selection, to widen parental choice and to embrace a more challenging curriculum for brighter children.

Flew was the author of some 23 works of philosophy, including God and Philosophy (1966), Evolutionary Ethics (1967), An Introduction to Western Philosophy (1971), The Presumption of Atheism (1976), A Rational Animal (1978), Darwinian Evolution (1984), Atheistic Humanism (1993) and Philosophical Essays of Antony Flew (1997).

Flew’s volte-face on the existence of God was all the more remarkable given the volume of his writing in the atheistic cause and his vehement denial of internet rumours in 2001 that he had renounced his atheism. His response was entitled Sorry To Disappoint, but I’m Still an Atheist! In 2007, however, he was able to publish There is a God: How the World’s Most Notorious Atheist Changed his Mind.

Dr. Richard Carrier, a friend of Flew’s, has written at length about Flew’s conversion to deism. Carrier contends that Flew was persuaded by suspect scientific arguments and that his book (There is a God) was largely ghostwritten by Christian authors.

Common Sense Atheism beat me to the video.

From the author’s website:

What is Ockham’s Razor about?
The novel is a love story that focuses on the relationship between two young men: Micah (age 21) and Brendan (age 17), both with LDS backgrounds.  Micah believes the Church is wrong about everyone being essentially heterosexual; Brendan is still figuring stuff out.  Through their relationship, Micah realizes he wasn’t simply “born gay” and Brendan wonders if Micah is worth giving up everything he knows.  The characters disagree on whether a middle ground exists — whether one can truly be “gay and Mormon.”

What’s with the title?
Ockham’s Razor is the theory that the simplest answer is usually the correct one.  The idea comes up a few times in conversations Micah has with his mother about homosexuality.

I look forward to the sequel: Buridan’s Ass. 

Now, to be fair, the book has received positive reviews. But that title and cover make it an irresistible target for my juvenile sense of humor.

The New York Times recently released an article stating that the state of Washington had a total of 36 legal assisted suicides since the passing of its legislation last year.  I personally applaud Washington State for having the courage to allow people dignity and ease of pain. When I debate people on this subject they commonly refer to suicide as being murder of one’s self. The dogma of Dante’s Divine Comedy and its circle reserved in hell for those who leave life on their own terms has entered the collective consciousness of the religious right and made its way into politics.  The best argument I have heard against religious claims came from a PBS documentary on the subject. Watch and share your thoughts and feelings on the sensitive issue.

Kleiner–I’m going to leave your existing comments in place on their current threads, but any future comments that topically belong here will be moved here, along with their responses.

The event is Wednesday @ 5:00 PM in Old Main 117. Again, it’s our last event, so let’s make it count.

I notice that Jon posted his Socratic dialog with God (which is hilarious to read). This comes from an Intro to Philosophy course he and I and a bunch of other SHAFT kids took and completely annoyed everyone in with our amoral materialism. While studying Plato’s Dialogs, one of the papers we wrote was a dialog between Socrates and anyone at all. Jon chose The Lord Thy God Yahweh. Because I’m a steampunk nerdy nerd, I chose Leonardo Da Vinci. My full dialog is below the fold.

During his time in Renaissance Italy, Socrates visits the city of Florence. While wandering around to get a feel for the city, he comes across a crowd heckling and laughing at a man soaked from head to foot. Strapped to his body, a pair of great cloth wings hangs from his back in tatters. The man strides away from the crowd and up a street, shouting curses and pawing at the fastenings of his wings. His curiosity aroused by this very unusual sight, Socrates hurries to catch up to him.

Socrates: Sir! Excuse me, sir! May I have a word?

Leonardo: I have no more time to hear the mocking words of yet another fool Florentine.

Socrates: I am not a Florentine, sir, but an Athenian.

Leonardo: What is that you say? Ah, you are certainly not dressed like a Florentine. Who are you?

Socrates: I am called Socrates, a Greek and Citizen of Athens. May I have your name as well?

Leonardo: Surely you have heard of me. I am Leonardo of the city of Vinci. By the forge of Hephaestus, you say you are Socrates? How is that possible?

Socrates: I am unsure as to the how of my coming to this place. I had been sitting under a tree near the Lyceum, and it may be that I dozed. When next I woke, I found myself in a strange city called Venice. I suspect that it may be that the gods have sent me here for some purpose, perhaps to aid in my search.

Leonardo: A very remarkable story. If indeed you are the Socrates of Antiquity, I would very much enjoy talking with you. You may find you have seen many strange things since your coming to Italy, and I would be pleased to discuss them with you, and hear your thoughts.

Socrates: Indeed, Leonardo, I have heard of you. People tell tales of you in every city I have visited in this strange land. Some have called you wise, and some have called you mad. But I should wish to discover for myself which it is, if either. And that is the reason I have stopped you. I am curious what it is you have done, and what it is that you are wearing.

Leonardo: Ah, already you have shown more interest in my work than this wretched city has. I have invented a pair of wings so that I may fly with the grace of a bird, after the manner of Daedalus. I have flung myself from the bridge, and sadly into the river. There must be some error in my design.

Socrates: You have said many interesting things just now, and I would like to ask you some questions, if I may?

Leonardo: Certainly, although I would prefer to return to my workshop. You are welcome to join me. Have you been to France, Socrates?

Socrates: I’m sorry to say I have not.

Leonardo: The King of France is a great admirer of mine. “The Divine Leonardo” is all I hear when I walk through his streets. And what music do I find in the streets of Florence, eh? The cooing of pigeons and the babbling of fools! Yes, I think I will journey to France.

*They begin walking*

Socrates: Just now, when talking about your wings, you said that you have “invented” them. Forgive me, but I have not heard that word before, and I am unsure as to your meaning. Do you not mean that you have built them?

Leonardo: Indeed I have built them, out of wood and cloth and leather over the space of a month or two. But I have also built them out of ideas, in my mind and in drawings. I have studied birds in order to understand the means by which they fly, and applied the concepts I have discovered to the design of my wings. That is what I mean when I say I have invented them.

Socrates: I think I am beginning to see the distinction. When you say you have invented something, you understand the means by which it performs its function, and how to build it in order to address that function.

Leonardo: Precisely so.

Socrates: So if a carpenter who builds a table understands that the function of the table is to hold up objects placed on it, and the carpenter has correctly built the table to hold objects, he can be said to have invented it, as well as built it?

Leonardo: My dear Socrates, there is more to invention than simply understanding the purpose for which something is made.

Socrates: I apologize, Leonardo, but one of your understanding must easily forget that others are not so quick to grasp the nature of things. What you have given as the meaning of “invention” must not be the whole of it. Please, I ask again what you mean, and do give me the whole of the meaning.

Leonardo: The devices and machines that I have invented are designed according to natural law as I have discovered. For instance, these wings I have built are modeled on those of birds. I have spent much time studying the movement of a bird’s wing in flight, and the curves and lines of its construction. A bird is a mechanical instrument that works according to mathematical laws, an instrument that surely I can recreate! And above all, an inventor must make something new, something the world has never seen.

Socrates: Thank you, you have given me a much clearer explanation of what an inventor does. I would like to examine a few of the different aspects of inventing you have told to me. You have said that you have invented many devices and machines, and I can see several of them drawn here. May I see the carriage with a spiral over it?

Leonardo: I’m sorry, Socrates, but that device has not been built.

Socrates: And yet you say you have invented it?

Leonardo: Of course, these are my drawings and no one else’s.

Socrates: So you are telling me that you have invented this thing, but have not built it. Are you to say that inventing and building are distinct from each other?

Leonardo: Yes indeed, Socrates, I am saying that. Invention differs from building in the same way that sculpting differs from painting. I may invent something that I cannot yet build, such as the devices I have drawn here. On the other hand, someone can build a thing that he did not invent, such as your carpenter’s table.

Socrates: Would it be fair to say that building is an act of the hands working on objects, and inventing is an act of the mind working on ideas?

Leonardo: I believe that is a fair distinction.

Socrates: If I may, however, I would like to adjust your metaphor.

Leonardo: Please do so.

Socrates: You have compared inventing and building to sculpting and painting, in that they are different actions. If I am correct in my understanding, I would like to say that inventing is like planting a field, and building is like harvesting that field. May I describe why I have made this change?

Leonardo: Of course.

Socrates: I do not think that inventing and building are distinct in the way that painting and sculpting are. One need not sculpt before one can paint, and the opposite is also true, would you say?

Leonardo: I would.

Socrates: However, in order to harvest a field, the field needs to have been planted ahead of the harvesting. Is this not true?
Leonardo: Plainly.

Socrates: As you have described it, inventing has this sort of relation to building. It seems to me that an invention sews the field of the mind in order to prepare for the harvest of building the device or machine. As for my carpenter, he may build a table he has not invented, in the way that one may harvest a field that has been planted by others.

Leonardo: You are of course correct.

Socrates: The carpenter has learned how to make tables as an apprentice to a master carpenter above him. And this master was himself an apprentice as well, and so on.

Leonardo: That seems clear.

Socrates: At some point in this chain of masters and apprentices, you would say that tables had been invented by some man, who can be said to have invented the idea even if he did not build one. Let us call him the First Carpenter.

Leonardo: Now that you have said it in such a way, it seems to be clear that there was such a First Carpenter.

Socrates: This First Carpenter has laid the seeds for the building of tables, and he may have harvested them himself, or he may have left the harvesting up to his first apprentice. Either way, he is the inventor of tables. Without such an inventor, the field would have lain fallow, and no man could harvest tables from it.

Leonardo: A correct as well as poetic statement.

Socrates: Also, while it is certain that the First Carpenter is an inventor of tables, and may have been a builder as well, all apprentices of table-making since are merely builders of tables, and not inventors.

Leonardo: Indeed. It is he who first conceives of the idea who can be called an inventor.

Socrates: We seem to have worked out the distinction between inventing and building. I wish to turn now to other aspects of invention you have described. You have given the example of observing birds in flight. You say that a bird works according to mechanical principles, a claim I wish to set aside for now. The purpose behind your observations is, as you say, to discover those principles by which a bird flies. So you may build your wings to mimic these principles?

Leonardo: Yes indeed, by Zeus. An inventor must have a grasp of the methods by which his inventions are to work, for the purpose of an invention—even one remaining unmade—is to someday be built to fulfill its purpose, and I think you would agree that an invention that cannot work cannot be built to fulfill its purpose.

Socrates: If I understand what you mean by inventions, then I do so agree. You are saying that an invention is the idea of an object, built or unbuilt, that is meant to have a specific function, or to serve in some purpose. It is designed based on an observation and understanding of natural laws. I am curious, though, what you mean by an invention being “something the world has never seen before”.

Leonardo: You are coming close to my meaning of invention, Socrates. As for what I mean when I say an invention must be something new, I believe we have shown that he who builds another man’s invention is merely a builder, not an inventor. An invention must always therefore be something new.

Socrates: Ah, now I believe I see your meaning. Although I have one remaining concern that I fear we have not yet addressed.

Leonardo: What is that?

Socrates: You say that an invention is designed for some purpose. The purpose of your wings is to allow a man to fly like a bird. The purpose of the invention in this drawing is to besiege a castle. I believe we need to address whether a device succeeds or fails in its intended purpose in deciding whether or not it is an invention.

Leonardo: A wonderful insight.

Socrates: We have previously decided that invention is distinct from building, as if it were a planted field. Yet you have said that one purpose of all inventions is to be built, and it seems that all other purposes of an invention—whether causing men to fly or castle walls to crumble—are dependent on that invention being built. Would you agree?

Leonardo: I would. An unbuilt machine cannot serve anyone.

Socrates: Therefore, a device needs to be built, and it needs to fulfill its purpose once it is built in order to be called an invention. An unbuilt machine cannot fulfill its purpose, and should not be called an invention. A machine that has been built but does not work should not be called an invention as well.

Leonardo: I see.

Socrates: Since your wings have been built, but did not achieve their purpose in allowing you to fly, they have not yet been invented, and you are not their inventor. As well, many of these drawings have not yet been built, and have not achieved their purposes, so they are not inventions either. As for the First Carpenter, he is the true inventor of the table, as the first table—built either by him or his apprentice—has clearly served its purpose of holding up objects placed upon it. Although only the first built table may rightly be called the invention.

Leonardo: I fear, my friend Socrates, that you are right.

Over the past twenty-five years, there has been a dramatic rise in the volume and sophistication of Mormon apologetics. This rise has been especially pronounced in just the last decade or so. The Foundation for Ancient Research and Mormon Studies (FARMS), the foremost Mormon apologetic outfit, became an official entity of Brigham Young University and now enjoys church funding. Websites like FAIRLDS, SHIELDS, Mormon Fortress, and others have also helped to popularize and make accessible LDS apologetics.

John-Charles Duffy, a young religious studies scholar at Chapel Hill in North Carolina, argues in a recent Dialogue article that postmodernism has been incredibly influential in Mormon apologetics and helps account for its ascendancy. To see why, one must know the history of Mormon scholarship.

Duffy identifies two dominant schools of thought in Mormon scholarship today: the “new Mormon history” and “faithful history.” The new Mormon history began in the late 1960s, and purports to be a more objective, less sectarian reporting of the LDS Church’s history. This new approach to church history broke with the traditional approaches in that it neither shied away from sensitive topics nor suppressed controversial conclusions.

The second school of thought in Mormon scholarship is “faithful history.” This “faithful history” was a response to and rejection of “the new Mormon history.” Scholars in this camp are orthodox Mormons, who believe all histories of Mormonism should be sympathetic and faith-promoting. In other words, Mormons should be engaged in apologetics, not academically rigorous histories.

The tensions between postmodern and modern thought exist in many religions. In Christianity, there is a debate between Protestant fundamentalists and liberals over Biblical inerrancy. Protestant fundamentalists are often considered anti-science, but where it concerns the Bible, they are wedded to the modern concepts of “objective knowledge” and “truth.” Liberal Protestants, however, have a more postmodern, metaphorical reading of the Bible. Mormonism is having a similar dialogue about the Book of Mormon historicity and other issues, but the roles are reversed. As Duffy notes, it’s the conservative, orthodox scholars that advance postmodernism against the more liberal scholars of the new Mormon history, who want a dispassionate approach to the LDS Church.

The success of the faithful history came with the demise of the new Mormon history during the 1980s and ‘90s. Louis Midgley and David E. Bohn, retired BYU political science professors and contributors to FARMS, were among the earliest and most dogged detractors of the New Mormon history. Midgley and Bohn employed a postmodern critique against the approach. In particular, they argued that any attempt at an objective Mormon history is futile, because all claims originate in an ideology and are “inescapably mediated by language and culture.” And since there is no objective or a priori means by which determine the truth or falsity of an ideology, all perspectives are valid. This philosophy resembles Nietzsche’s perspectivism, which says that we can only know things from our individual perspectives. Midgley and Bohn therefore urged all Mormon scholars to study from their religious perspectives and give up their pretenses of neutrality.

Bohn accused reputable Mormon scholars like Leonard Arrington and Lawrence Foster of excluding “non-scientific testimony of the role of God” in Mormon history. Midgley was less diplomatic and boldly indicted such historians of treason against the faith for not actively affirming Joseph Smith’s prophetic claims. These attacks proved devastating to the new Mormon history.

So-called “faithful historians” like Midgley and Bohn gained an audience with LDS church leaders. Church leaders were concerned that the new Mormon history scholars were flirting with apostasy by publishing what was at times unflattering research about Mormonism. Apostle Boyd K. Packer conveyed these concerns to BYU educators in an address he gave in 1981 titled “The Mantle is Far, Far Greater than the Intellect.” “There is a temptation,” Packer said, “for the writer or the teacher of Church history to want to tell everything, whether it is worthy or faith promoting or not. Some things that are true are not very useful.” He also warned that some scholars’ “posture of detachment” was “giving equal time to the adversary.”

Later, in 1991, the First Presidency released an official statement cautioning members from reading histories or attending research symposia that were not approved by the LDS Church. And throughout the ‘90s, the church was quick to discipline scholars who challenged the traditional LDS narrative. These actions had a chilling effect on all research into Mormonism that wasn’t expressly apologetic. Mormon scholarship is only now beginning to rebound.

So postmodernism was the bludgeon with which Mormon apologists beat down the new Mormon history. And apologists continue to use postmodern perspectivism to deflect criticisms of the LDS Church.

There is another way that Mormon apologists employ postmodernism. Duffy writes that apologists use perspectivist language “as the primary rhetorical resource for those who hope to win credibility for faithful scholarship within the academic mainstream.” They play on academia’s postmodern sympathies in order that their faithful perspective will get offered at or respected by universities other than, say, Brigham Young University. Again, their argument is that all perspectives are valid given postmodernism, so on what grounds can a faithful LDS perspective be excluded? LDS literary critic Michael Austin wants to see Mormonism counted among other minority histories. Austin believes that Mormons are hyphenated Americans, like African-Americans or Italian-Americans. He even coined the term “Mormo-American.”

Such appeals to academia’s tolerance of differing perspectives haven’t been successful. And noted Mormon historian Richard Bushman is somewhat relieved that they haven’t. “Wouldn’t we prefer,” Bushman asked, “to be taken seriously enough to be directly opposed rather than condescended to?”

As it was for Mormon teachings, postmodernism is a double-edged sword for Mormon apologetics. Many professors at the very conservative BYU do not want to see their school become a bastion of postmodern thought. English professor Richard Cracroft fears that postmodernism will invariably bring with it “the creeds of secularism,” which include “immoralism, atheism, nihilism, negativism, perversity, rebelliousness, doubt, disbelief, and disorder.”

What’s more, it seems that orthodox Mormon apologists have yet to internalize the very postmodern philosophies that they use against their critics. On the one hand, the Mormon apologist dismisses truth as a fiction as per postmodernism. But on the other, they affirm that the LDS Church is “the one and only true Church.” These two sentiments cannot easily be reconciled. If the apologists were to fully adopt the philosophies they exploit, then postmodern Mormon apologetics would be a self-cannibalizing project. The orthodox scholars would have to surrender their claims to knowledge and objective, religious truth.

It will be interesting to see, then, whether postmodernism will keep its privileged role among Mormon intellectuals for much longer. I suspect it won’t. Postmodernism was not a philosophical commitment for apologists, but a novel convenience.

Already, Mormon scholarship seems to be trending back toward a new “new Mormon history.” In Duffy’s words: “…faithful scholars must capitulate to secular ground rules more than they might prefer as the price for participating in the academic mainstream, postmodern challenges to the Enlightenment notwithstanding.”

Upon death, Socrates finds himself (or rather, his spirit) at the Gates of Heaven. Here he meets his maker, Yahweh.

Socrates: Where am I?

Yahweh: If I may borrow an allegory of yours, you escaped the cave. You’re in Heaven, Socrates.

Socrates: Oh, hey! Aren’t you the god of the Israelites?

Yahweh: That’d be me, yes. My name is Yahweh.

Socrates: So what brings you here?

Yahweh: I own this joint, actually. I’m just manning the gates until Saint Peter gets back from his lunch break.

Socrates: By Zeus! This beautiful place is yours? That’s wonderful.

Yahweh: Meh, it’s nice. I run it on the cheap, though. I employ child laborers from Limbo; they do the jobs angels won’t do and for a lower wage. Oh, and don’t let the streets paved with gold fool you—it’s only like 8 karats.

Socrates: Still, you must have worked hard to get where you are.

Yahweh: Actually, this God business was a self-appointed deal, what with my being uncaused and all. There was no job application, no election, no arbitrary Supreme Court fiat—nada.

Socrates: Wow. Lucky break. You say you run Heaven; do you preside over the Pantheon of gods, then?

Yahweh: Nope. Those pagan gods don’t exist—your atheism toward them was warranted. Good on you, Socrates. But I’ve got some bad news: I still have to send you to Hell. You didn’t believe in me, and that’s my biggest pet peeve. I’m a jealous god.

Socrates: In all due respect, that hardly seems fair. I was a lover of many virtues. Why do I deserve Hell?

Yahweh: How dare you question God Almighty, the Alpha & Omega, the Big Cheese! Look, Socrates, I call the shots here. And everything I decree is just.

Socrates: That begs the question: what exactly is justness?

Yahweh: This old shtick? I’ve heard of your rhetorical skills, Socrates. But I refuse to be your philosophical punching bag. Your lowly debate tricks are ineffectual here in my Kingdom.

Socrates: I meant no offense. I genuinely just wanted to drink from your well of wisdom.

Yahweh: You mean that?

Socrates: I do.

Yahweh: Well alright. What is just? Hmm. As I said, all I decree is just. So justness, I suppose, is whatever I decree.

Socrates (mumbling): Dumbass.

Yahweh: What’d you say?

Socrates: Oh nothing, nothing. I’m having a difficult time following you. Forgive me. So can you decree lying to be just?

Yahweh: Of course. I could conceivably do anything. But I would not make lying just. After all, I forbade my chosen people to bear false witness. That commandment is even written in stone!

Socrates: Why wouldn’t you make lying just, though? It would spare a lot of people the fires of Hell—politicians, lawyers, used car salesman, et al.

Yahweh: Ha! That’s funny because it’s true.

Socrates: More to the point, what moral reservations could you have against sanctioning dishonesty?

Yahweh: Oy Vey! You’re kidding. That’s easy, Socrates—dishonesty is obviously unjust.

Socrates: Only because you decree it to be so. Perhaps I misheard you, but I thought you just taught me that whatever you decreed to be just is just.

Yahweh: And I stand by that statement. There’s more to my argument, though.

Socrates: Enlighten me, Lord.

Yahweh: It’s like this: I am, by my nature, just; my decrees are in accordance with and an expression of that justness. So to make lying just would be to contradict my very nature.

Socrates: By Zeus, I think I follow you now.

Yahweh: Ahem! Thou shalt have no gods before me. Drop this “by Zeus” bullshit, please.

Socrates: I will; I swear on “The Odyssey.”

Yahweh: Ugh. I’d really rather you didn’t, but whatever. Continue.

Socrates: It is your nature to be just. I understand that. But we have yet to define justness. To say that you are justness and justness is you is to utter an empty tautology.

Yahweh: Huh? Tautology? I may be omniscient, but I’m not omnilingual—speak English.

Socrates: In other words, if justness equals you, then it makes no sense to say you are just. You’re simply saying that you are yourself. You devoid the word justness of its meaning and reduce it to a mere synonym for yourself. Surely there is a better way to demonstrate your justness.

Yahweh: Look, I freely admit that this is all very confusing, Socrates. Remember that the wisdom of this world is foolishness. I cannot expect you to fully comprehend these things.

Socrates: Thank you for tolerating my ignorance. But would you please try—for my sake—to explain your justness?

Yahweh: Okay, but my patience and interest in this discussion are wearing thin. It’s becoming increasingly apparent that you do not seek truth, but contention. Out of my infinite mercy, however, I will nonetheless educate you. When I say my nature is just, I mean to say that I am measuring up to standard of justness.

Socrates: Interesting. So justness is something all by itself, apart from you?

Yahweh: Uh, I guess it would have to be in order for me to measure up against it.

Socrates: What assurance do I have that you are constrained to follow this objective standard of justness? Why should I trust that your damning me to Hell is just?

Yahweh: Again, it is my nature to be bound to the standard of justness.

Socrates: To what exactly are you bound? The question persists: what is justness?

Yahweh: Socrates, you are too dense to understand it were I to tell you. Can we please set this issue aside?

Socrates: Very well. I did want to explore one last thing, though: your nature. To have a nature is to mean that you are defined and therefore constrained—that you are one way and not another. Right?

Yahweh: Exactly. I could not, to revisit your example, make lying just.

Socrates: I remember you saying that you could make lying just, but would not.

Yahweh: Maybe I misspoke. I don’t know; I don’t care. This is just a silly exercise in semantics. The fact is that I could not make lying just—it is contrary to my nature.

Socrates: If you cannot make lying just, as you conceded, then, you are not all-powerful. But you, the Judeo-Christian God, must be all-powerful. It, too, is integral to your nature. And given that you are not all-powerful, you cannot be God.

What’s more, a person is just, in large part, by choosing justice over injustice. However, you do not have this choice as per your nature; you have to be just. In what way, then, can you be called just? In what way can you even be called God?

Yahweh: Perhaps I don’t have a nature at all. What now, Einstein?

Socrates: That is equally problematic. Without a nature, you have no limits. Without limits, you have no identity. And to be without an identity is to not exist at all.

Yahweh: Certainly, I exist! “I think, therefore I am.”

Socrates: Frankly, it would be generous to call what you’ve been doing in this discussion “thinking.”

Yahweh: You are as aggravating as you are ugly, Socrates! I can understand why you were executed. If sending you to Hell is unfair, it is unfair only to Satan! Enjoy your eternity in torment.