Prolegomena to the Concept of God When Dealing with the Question: Is Ethics Without God Possible?

Abstract

This article examines the assumption that, in order to respond adequately to the question in the title, one must have the classical concept of God in mind. Classical theism is criticized and neoclassical/process theism is briefly defended. Specifically, the classical theistic attribute of omnipotence receives four criticisms. The hope is that these criticisms prepare the way for a more fruitful response to the question in the title than is possible when the classical concept of God is assumed.

1. Introduction

To ask the question “Is ethics without God possible?” is to presuppose that we already have an adequate concept of God in mind. The concept of God that is most often assumed by theists and religious skeptics alike is the classical one that has dominated philosophical and theological discourse throughout the histories of the Abrahamic religions. By “classical theism”, I refer to a view of God in philosophy and theology, not to scriptural theism. (It is an open question whether classical theism or neoclassical/process theism does a better job of preserving the best insights regarding the concept of God found in the Bible, as in the concept of a God of love.) Some famous classical theists include Saint Augustine, Saint Thomas Aquinas, Martin Luther, John Calvin, and many others in all of the branches of Christianity; Philo and Maimonides and many others in Judaism; and Avicenna and Averroes and many others in Islam; along with many contemporary theorists who follow these thinkers, including many or most analytic philosophers who are theists. Classical theism involves at least the following five features:

First, omnipotence (including the related claim that God created the world out of absolute nothingness) in the sense of God ultimately having all power.

Second, omniscience (in the sense of God knowing, with absolute assurance and in minute detail, everything that will happen in the future).

Third, omnibenevolence.

Fourth, eternity (in the sense not of God existing throughout all of time, but rather of God existing outside of time altogether).

And fifth, monopolarity (to be described momentarily).

In other contexts, I have criticized the first, second, fourth, and fifth features of classical theism in an effort to defend a view called “neoclassical theism” (or, more popularly, process theism). In the present article, however, I would like to concentrate on some reasons why the first feature of classical theism—belief in divine omnipotence—is problematic, not least of which is its opposition to the most defensible feature of classical theism connected to a belief in divine omnibenevolence.

In James Sterba’s magisterial book, which asks the question Is a Good God Logically Possible? (Sterba 2019), the author argues convincingly for the thesis that if we accept the classical theistic view, then the theodicy problem cannot be solved. No matter how carefully classical theists finesse their view, their ship crashes on the rocks of the “horrendous evil” in our world, as Sterba shows. Unfortunately, however, Sterba does not seem to be aware of how much intellectual work is performed by the aforementioned use of the word “if”. That is, Sterba works on the assumption, shared by most theists and religious skeptics alike, that the classical concept of God just is the concept of God that needs to be analyzed. The present article is a brief attempt to throw sand in the eyes of both classical theists and religious skeptics so as to prepare the way for the consideration of a third option, that of neoclassical or process theism.

To be fair to Sterba, on the very last page of his book (p. 192), he considers, in a perfunctory manner, this third alternative, but he inadvertently continues the tradition of monopolarity in classical theism by identifying simpliciter neoclassical or process theism with the notion of a “limited” God. The dipolarity of neoclassical or process theism, I would argue, complicates the conceptual terrain significantly. For the neoclassical or process theist, God is both infinite and finite, but in different aspects of the divine nature, so as to avoid contradiction. That is, God is infinite in existence (in the everlasting fact that God exists), but finite in actuality (in how God exists from moment to moment). But Sterba thinks that “no useful purpose would be served by hypothesizing such a limited god”. It will be the goal of the present article to show the usefulness of the neoclassical or process concept of God.

One example of such usefulness is that the neoclassical or process concept of God makes it more plausible that there could be a role for God in ethics. If one concludes, as both Sterba and process theists do, that God, as classically conceived, is a tyrant, then it is hard to see any role for such a “deity” in ethics, either as a source of divine commands, or as providing a model of perfection, or as facilitating virtuous action on the part of human beings. If there is a role for God in ethics, then a better concept of God is needed, hence the prolegomena offered in the present article.

It must be admitted that the classical theistic thumb has pressed down hard on the scale of philosophical history, but the neoclassical view also has a rich past and, it is to be hoped, an even richer future. The two greatest neoclassical or process theists, Alfred North Whitehead and Charles Hartshorne, saw Plato as a dipolar theist who defended divine omnibenevolence but not divine omnipotence. God acts as a perfect model and as a lure forward for all three thinkers (see Dombrowski 1991, 2005). The dominance of classical theism in the Abrahamic religions, ironically due, in part, to one strand of reasoning in Plato, is not absolute, as can be seen in the developing history of the neoclassical view in many thinkers in the Abrahamic religions in addition to Whitehead and Hartshorne: Faustus Socinus, Friedrich von Schelling, Gustav Fechner, Otto Pfleiderer, Nicholas Berdyaev, Mohammed Iqbal, Abraham Heschel, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, Henri Bergson, John Cobb, David Ray Griffin, Katherine Keller, Carol Christ, Franklin Gamwell, Donald Viney, and many others (see Hartshorne 1953; Dombrowski 2016). In the context of the present article, one would hope that, whatever one’s approach to questions regarding the existence of God, one would keep a Humean open mind regarding the concept of God, as evidenced in his Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion (in contrast to Kant, who assumed the classical concept—see Hume 1980).

2. Four Criticisms of Omnipotence

Hartshorne is famous (or infamous) for the provocative title to one of his later books, Omnipotence and Other Theological Mistakes (see Hartshorne 1984). One of the aims of the present article is to make the case in a concise way for omnipotence as a philosophical mistake. Because Hartshorne himself was a philosopher rather than a theologian, my efforts will be continuous with his. The topic of the present article is important at the very least because perhaps the main reason it is difficult to receive a fair hearing for neoclassical or process theism is that it is widely assumed (by both theists and religious skeptics like Sterba) that God must be omnipotent or the being in question would not be God and that an alleged divine being who was not omnipotent would be too weak to be seen as God.

I would like to make it clear that I will not be giving up the concept of divine perfection. To the contrary. I will start with the well-known definition of “God” from St. Anselm (Anselm 1962): that than which no greater can be conceived (see Dombrowski 2006). But I will call into question the historically pervasive assumption that God is omnipotent in the sense that God has all power. I will defend an alternative version of the logic of perfection (which involves dynamic perfection rather than the classical theistic static perfection) by claiming that God has ideal power, but not all of it. This view will be integrally connected to the distinction between coercive and persuasive power and the idea that we ought not jump too quickly to the position that assumes that ideal power is associated more with the former than with the latter.

As I see things, there are at least four major problems with the concept of omnipotence. First, belief in divine omnipotence creates the nastiest version of the theodicy problem, as Sterba realizes. This is because, on the basis of divine omnipotence, all evil is either sent by God or is at least permitted by God. The disturbing examples are well known, as in an intensely painful disease experienced by a young child. Sterba understandably cites several such examples. It is no surprise that there are religious skeptics like Sterba if it is assumed, as it has been historically, that theism requires belief in divine omnipotence. Hume was correct to point out that an omnipotent being could eliminate the suffering of the innocent; when conjoined with belief in divine omnibenevolence, which entails that God would eliminate such suffering, the presence of evil in the world becomes an insoluble mystery, in the pejorative sense of the term “mystery” (see Griffin 1976).

That is, belief in divine omnipotence is at odds with belief in divine omnibenevolence. This is because both beliefs together entail the absence of evil and gratuitous suffering in the world. But there is evil and gratuitous suffering in the world; hence, we need to modify what we say about at least one of these two concepts. In the remainder of this article, I will try to show the inferiority (indeed, the incoherence) of divine omnipotence in contrast to quite intelligible divine omnibenevolence. A further problem with belief in divine omnipotence, in addition to its leading to the nastiest version of the theodicy problem, is that it distracts our attention away from divine omnibenevolence. Instead of concentrating on divine love, which is the goal of a theocentric life in various theistic religions, one is always tempted on the basis of belief in divine omnipotence to be distracted by or be vexed by the question as to why intense suffering exists, especially suffering experienced by the innocent. In addition to Hume, neoclassical or process theists can also learn from Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov about the defects in classical theism (Dostoyevsky 1929). As Hartshorne dramatically puts the point in an early essay, “if theism cannot be improved upon profoundly, then I for one have little desire to see it survive” (Hartshorne 1934, p. 92).

It will be objected, of course, that by abandoning belief in divine omnipotence, we would be opening ourselves to the possibility that life would be tragic. I do not think that it is intellectually honest to sidestep this objection by trying to deny the possibility of tragedy. There is much to be learned from the ancient Greek conviction that life is tragic (see Arnison 2012). The sublime symbol for this conviction in Christianity is the cross. Rather than insist a priori that divine omnipotence is a non-negotiable concept in theism and then try (unsuccessfully) to find an explanation for why there is gratuitous suffering in the world, it makes more sense to start with the realization that life is tragic (the evidence is in abundance!) and then find the appropriate way to articulate the logic of perfection and the most defensible concept of God in such a logic. Once some tragic (or pathetic) suffering occurs, there is no evading that fact so long as there are those who remember the tragic suffering. In fact, such memory itself is a type of vicarious tragic suffering.

Second, divine omnipotence is at odds with Plato’s claim that being is power (Sophist 247e—see Plato 1901–1976, 1989). This claim is a commonplace in Hartshorne’s writings and in those of Alfred North Whitehead as well (see, e.g., Whitehead 1967a, pp. 119–20; Hartshorne 1941, pp. xvi, 14, 198–99). In fact, it is a cornerstone of process metaphysics. The key idea here is that anything that exists exerts power (dynamis), however slight. In related terms, to be is to have the power not only to influence others, but also the power to be influenced by others, again in however slight a way. It must be admitted that Plato says “or” (eite) here, such that anything that exists either has the power to influence others or the power to be influenced by others. This leaves open the unfortunate possibility that there could be a being, say an unmoved mover, who could influence others but be altogether uninfluenced by them. Hartshorne and Whitehead offer an insightful friendly amendment to Plato’s view by suggesting that Plato should have said “and” (kai) rather than “or”. Each actual occasion receives influence from the past and then exerts some influence on others in the future via momentary decisions or pulses of dynamic energy in the present. It is fortuitous in this regard that the Greek word for “power” (dynamis) is the etymological root for our word “dynamic”.

The relationship between the definition of being as dynamic power and the critique of divine omnipotence is clear. If each existent has some power, however slight, to be influenced by others and to influence others, then no being (not even God) could have all power. Divine omnipotence, in the sense of the possession of all power, would render everything else powerless (i.e., nonexistent). But beings other than God obviously do exist, hence the indefensibility of divine omnipotence. If an actual entity is where it acts and is acted upon, and if being is power, then power is divided among many beings. Further, a real division of power between God and creatures also implies a division of responsibility, although some powerful creatures (as in cancer cells) are not capable of moral responsibility. It should be noted, however, that rapprochement with the concept of omnipotence is possible if what is meant by the term is divine ability to influence (not absolutely coerce) and be influenced by all others, in contrast to our ability to influence and be influenced by only some others. But this is not what classical theists mean by omnipotence.

According to Whitehead, when Plato says in the Sophist (through the Eleatic Stranger) that it is the definition (horon) of being that it exerts power, Plato reached the height of his genius as a metaphysician (see, e.g., Whitehead 1967a, pp. 5–6, 25, 83, 118–22, 129, 166–69; Dombrowski 2005, chap. 2). Hartshorne agrees. Power must be exercised upon something, at least if by power we mean active and passive influence. But the something that is “controlled” cannot be completely inert if being is dynamic power. There must be some resistance, however slight, to even ideal power and power that is resisted cannot be absolute. Contrary to what defenders of divine omnipotence might claim, the fact that God cannot “make us do” certain things does not really “limit” God’s power, as Sterba suggests, because there is no such thing as power to make impossibilities true, as even classical theists would admit in other contexts. Power over us would not really be power over us if we counted for nothing and had no being and hence no power. Power is the ability to influence and to be influenced; ideal power consists in the best possible ways to influence (not utterly dominate) and to be influenced by others (see, e.g., Hartshorne 1941, pp. xvi, 14, 89, 198–99, 205, 232, 244, 294).

Whereas the first criticism (that belief in divine omnipotence leads to an intractable version of the theodicy problem) might lead some to nonetheless wistfully hope for an omnipotent God so as to eliminate all evil and suffering, the second criticism (that belief in divine omnipotence is at odds with the Platonic/process claim that being is power) calls into question the very coherence of the concept of divine omnipotence on the assumption that there are other beings (i.e., powers) in existence. In this regard, we should remember the scholarship of Bernard Loomer, who best articulates both the differences between two sorts of power—coercive and persuasive—and the superiority of the latter to the former in the logic of perfection. Combined with Hartshorne’s concept of dual transcendence, it can be said that the neoclassical, process, dipolar God is ironically more powerful than the classical, monopolar God in that the dipolar process God is the most powerful agent and patient, in contrast to the traditional view wherein God is altogether deficient in patiency powers (see Loomer 1976, 2013).

Third, belief in divine omnipotence is closely connected to belief in creation ex nihilo, the latter of which is unintelligible. Here, again, Plato is helpful in distinguishing two different sorts of nonbeing or nothingness: relative and absolute (e.g., see Sophist 241d). Relative nonbeing is a rough synonym for otherness or difference, as when we say quite intelligibly that a corkscrew is not the same as a catcher’s mitt (although both corkscrews and catchers’ mitts exist). By contrast, to say that absolute nothingness is, is to contradict oneself, both semantically and pragmatically. Our awareness of absence depends on our awareness of presence, as Plato realized long ago when he committed parricide on “Father Parmenides” by showing the necessity of relative nonbeing or otherness (me on), but who nonetheless denied even the possibility of absolute nonbeing (ouk on). Neoclassical or process metaphysics explicates the semantic logic of existence, which requires “meontic” negativity, but not the “oukontic” sort.

A putative thought whose content is completely negative is, as I see things, meaningless. This is due to the fact that a putative thought whose content is self-contradictory is meaningless. One may utter the words “a colorless blue thing” or “the existence of absolutely nothing,” but there is something contradictory and hence meaningless (due to a lack of content) in each case. Gamwell goes so far as to claim that “no decision in philosophical thought is more fundamental than whether or not ‘something exists’ is necessarily true” (Gamwell 2011, p. 29). The self-contradiction involved in belief in creation ex nihilo, built on belief in divine omnipotence, is both semantic (in that it exhibits self-contradiction within the meaning of a statement, as in a colorless blue object or the existence of absolutely nothing) and pragmatic (in that when one says that absolutely nothing exists, one’s own existence contradicts what one says).

Some in the Abrahamic traditions may worry that belief in creation ex nihilo or creation out of absolute nothingness is integral to biblical faith and, hence, this sort of creation should not be disposed lightly. Although this concern carries no weight philosophically, the fact that many philosophical theists are also Abrahamic believers makes it appropriate to notice that biblical creation is, according to many noted Hebrew scripture scholars, creation ex hyle (out of disorderly matter) and not ex nihilo (see Levenson 1988; May 1994). When the spirit of God hovers above the waters in the beginning of Genesis, one gets the impression that both God and the aqueous muck have been around forever. That is, a critique of divine omnipotence and, hence, of creation ex nihilo need not be an impediment to biblical faith. In fact, biblical creation ex hyle is very close to Plato’s similar view in the Timaeus of God’s persuasive ordering of the chaotic material stuff of the world. Both are intelligible, in contrast to the unintelligible concept of absolute nothingness.

It is a commonplace in process theism that we should avoid paying metaphysical compliments to God that end up backfiring (see, e.g., Whitehead 1967b, p. 179). Divine omnipotence, I am claiming, is one of these “compliments”. The source of the problem is that, at the time of the first centuries B.C.E. and C.E., coercive physical power was revered in political leaders, quintessentially in Caesar. This admiration was (in Feuerbachian fashion—see Feuerbach 1957) transferred to God. I will return to this transfer momentarily. It should also be noted that one of the causal influences that has historically facilitated belief in divine omnipotence is male bias, as has been persuasively argued by several feminist scholars (see, e.g., Christ 2003).

And fourth, belief in divine omnipotence has historically had a negative effect on conceptions of political power (and continues to have implications for the question asked in the title of the present article). This effect reverberates in the way in which we live at present. The standard view in political philosophy is that justice is the first virtue of political institutions. This view was at least implied by most political philosophers from the time of Plato until John Rawls. It was also the view of Hartshorne and Whitehead, both of whom were political liberals; I defend it as well (see Morris 1991; Dombrowski 2001, 2011, 2019). But there is an opposing view that was initiated in Book 1 of Plato’s Republic by the character Thrasymachus as conflicting theories of justice were being debated in that dialogue. Thrasymachus hurled himself into the debate by urging that politics is not primarily about justice but about power. On this view, which finds expression in contemporary political philosophy and culture on both the political right and the political left, theories of justice are ruses for the acquisition of power.

For theists, the standard view is that love is the first virtue of theological ethics. Therefore, a major conceptual problem for political theologians and political philosophers who are theists is to determine the best fit between justice and love. The issue is complex in that there is an understandable tendency to think that, in a pervasively pluralistic society, although we have a duty to be just to everyone, love is supererogatory in the sense of being above and beyond the call of duty. The requirements of citizenship include the idea that we have to treat everyone fairly, but it seems to be asking too much of citizens in a pervasively pluralistic society that they love everyone in society in that we cannot expect to have a pervasively pluralistic society where everyone is saintly. But we can require that everyone obeys the rules regarding basic fairness.

One persuasive way to deal with this problem is to find the best fit between justice and love via Rawlsian impartiality. In Rawls’s famous thought experiment (see Rawls 1971), we are asked to deliberate about what the general principles are that would govern a truly just society. The needed decision-making procedure occurs in what Rawls calls a hypothetical original position. In order to counteract bias, deliberations need to occur behind a veil of ignorance whereby we are not permitted to know our own religious beliefs (or lack thereof), our race or ethnicity, our economic class background, our gender, etc. Others in the original position will keep us honest, as it were, if background knowledge of our own characteristics inadvertently seeps into our deliberations. For example, it would not make sense to restrict freedom of religion in the original position if one did not know whether, when one left the original position, one would be a traditionalist or liberal Catholic, a Jew, a fundamentalist or progressive Protestant, a Muslim, a religious skeptic, etc.

Some might wonder why we do not build up a political philosophy on a communal basis of love, in contrast to the allegedly cold procedure found in original position rationalism. A response to this criticism points to the difficulty that arises when love of several persons leads to conflict if these distinct persons desire goods that are at odds with each other. In this situation, love is at sea and requires principles of justice so as to fairly adjudicate the disputes that occur in a condition of conflicting loves. In this regard, it is important to notice that love is a second-order notion in that it is concerned with one’s own actions in relation to the (sometimes conflicting) interests of others that we want to advance. There is nothing to be gained by attributing love to parties in the Rawlsian original position in that such attribution could be seen as “cooking the books” in favor of Rawls’s famous two principles of justice.

These are indeed principles of justice (very much compatible with Hartshorne’s and Whitehead’s political beliefs) and not mere power plays or ruses for economic class interests (cf., Morris 1991). The first principle of justice, which Rawls alleges would be agreed to by all rational agents deliberating about justice in a fair decision-making procedure, is that all basic goods should be distributed equally in a just society. These basic goods would be both material (like food and access to health care) and formal (like freedom of speech and freedom of religion). The second principle of justice suggests both that any unequal distribution of goods beyond the basic ones be open to all (such that one cannot prevent some people from receiving a larger slice of the pie, as it were, due to their race, gender, etc.) and that any unequal distribution has to be to the advantage of everyone in society, especially the least advantaged. This latter principle—the difference principle—reminds one of the preferential option for the poor found in many versions of contemporary religious ethics.

It should be noted that these principles might be instantiated either in some version of a market economy (but certainly not in a laissez-faire version of capitalism), or in some version of socialism (but certainly not in the command economies of communist states), or, more likely, in some hybrid version of these two. The wide gaps in wealth that have existed historically would be seen as unjust in light of these principles of justice; in fact, a Rawlsian state would be more egalitarian than any existing state, including those in the Scandinavian countries.

It is remarkable that the combination of mutual disinterest in the Rawlsian original position and the well-known veil of ignorance (rather than the former alone) achieve the same purpose as love. This combination forces each person in the original position to take the good of others into account. The result is the same as would be achieved if the general contours of a just society were developed by a community of saints or a committee of loving agents. This is because, in the original position, the deliberating parties are forced to take the interests of others into account, which is, of course, the distinguishing feature of love. The fact that Rawls is able to achieve the goal of defensible principles of justice on such a parsimonious basis remains the greatest accomplishment in political philosophy of the past 150 years (see Dombrowski 2022).

However, the continued popularity of the Thrasymachian point of view implies for some political theologians and political philosophers who are theists that the key issue is the relationship between love and power. I will leave it to others to articulate what the proper relationship should be between these two concepts. At first glance, it seems that there is something contradictory or at least oxymoronic in the effort to bring together agapeic love and Thrasymachian power. Perhaps some thinkers have more imagination than I when trying to soften the edges of Thrasymachus’ bellicosity. One concession that I am willing to make is that some efforts to defend certain actions as just are disguised power plays. But to hold that justice itself or that all theories of justice are mere veneers covering the hard core of coercive power strikes me as hyperbolic, at best.

This foray into political theology and political philosophy is related to the topic of omnipotence in the following way. One can detect an authoritarian boomerang whereby Caesar’s aforementioned power was transferred to the concept of God, a transference that facilitated defense of the concept of divine omnipotence, as Hartshorne and Whitehead have persuasively argued. Then, after 2000 years, this concept became entrenched such that it is now widely assumed, even by religious skeptics like Sterba, that the greatest conceivable being just has to be omnipotent. This assumption in turn has led to the legitimation of any number of human imitators of divine coercive power, from the divine right of kings to various political leaders with authoritarian tendencies, the latest of which is Donald Trump. The conceptual task, as I see things, along with fellow political liberals like Hartshorne and Whitehead, is to break the circle by calling into question the idea that the logic of perfection requires omnipotence and the priority of coercive to persuasive power.

Not much help is given here on the basis of a classical theistic version of divine “love”. Granted, Saint Augustine might be correct in holding that love is integrally connected to knowing in that one cannot love a person whom one does not know. On the neoclassical or process view, however, in contrast to the classical theistic view, both love and knowledge are thoroughly relational terms. On the classical theistic view, God is not internally related to creatures, even if they are internally related to God. Consider the following problematic argument: (1) X loves Y. (2) Y, who previously did not suffer, now starts to suffer. (3) X remains unmoved by the change that has occurred to Y. If X stands for God and Y for some particular creature, one can see several problems in the classical theistic versions of divine love and knowledge in that, on the classical theistic view, God is a strictly changeless being who remains strictly unmoved by the suffering of the beloved and by the object known, which is a sort of “love” that is completely disanalogous to human love.

Nor is much help given by Saint Thomas Aquinas’ view of love as a type of action rather than as a type of emotion. The problem is not so much with Aquinas’ doctrine of analogy, which the neoclassical or process theist can view as a great achievement, but with his problematic application of this doctrine when dealing with divine love because an emotionless love strikes me, at least, as a contradiction in terms. That is, a view of love devoid of emotional content and utterly lacking in emotional response to creaturely suffering is not at all analogous to human love. Aquinas and other classical theists say they affirm a belief in divine love, and no doubt they are sincere in such an affirmation, but their metaphysics leads them to a concept of God that is at odds with such affirmation in that God is seen as a being completely unlike what we experience love to be. Once again, on the classical view, God is strictly permanent, unmoved by creaturely suffering, only capable of external relations with creatures, completely impassible, etc.

Of course, the classical theistic reply to these criticisms would emphasize the Boethian claim that God is eternal in the sense of being outside of time and history such that God has already responded to any creaturely suffering that might occur in an eternal now outside of time. Strictly speaking, however, this would not really be a response to creaturely suffering but some sort of non-response, so to speak, that is not even remotely analogous to human love, defined as taking an emotional interest in the lives of others, in caring for them, in desiring the best for them. On the neoclassical or process view, it might be better to refer to God’s everlastingness throughout all of time rather than to God’s eternal existence outside of time, whatever the latter sort of existence might be.

One final point is needed. Underlying the defenses of omnipotence offered by classical theists, it seems, is a deep-seated desire to control things. Such a desire is exhibited by both political rulers (obviously) and (not so obviously) by classical theists who wish to have everything make sense in the end on a cosmic scale. Two extremes can be detected. The aforementioned desire to control is expressive of the morbidly serious homo gravis conception of human nature, a conception devoid of any ironic distance regarding what used to be called the human predicament. Theists would do well to have this overly grim view balanced by the homo ludens stance, wherein a lighthearted playfulness helps us to better understand and cope with the tragic dimension of our lives by not giving in to the compulsion to imaginatively do away with tragic suffering by way of a supposed omnipotent deus ex machina (see Dombrowski 2009; Huizinga 1955).

The point here is obviously not to eliminate seriousness, nor is it to give in to frivolity. Rather, the goal should be to hold seriousness in check with a ludic buoyancy. Shakespeare made a great deal of this in his tendency to introduce comic scenes at crisis points in his tragedies (e.g., the gravedigger scene when Hamlet learns of Ophelia’s death or the drunken turnkey scene after Macbeth’s regicide, etc.). His view was, and ours should be, I am arguing, tragicomic. In addition to the four problems with omnipotence mentioned above, there is also its positing of a Controller who can (or who at least will in the future) altogether eliminate tragedy. I am suggesting in this regard that it would be wise to manage our expectations.

Perhaps I am unfair in suggesting that the only motive behind belief in divine omnipotence is the desire to have hegemonic power triumph over evil. There is also, at the least, fear as a motivating factor in that, especially when facing our own deaths or the deaths of those for whom we care, it is understandably easy to be overwhelmed by the indeterminacy of the future. Once again, however, I am encouraging us to manage our expectations regarding divine omniscience, which is often misunderstood for reasons similar to those that lead to problems regarding omnipotence. Just as a perfect being would exhibit ideal power, so also a perfect being would exhibit ideal knowledge.

But this does not mean that the greatest mind would know the outcome of future contingencies in any detail. The reason for this lies in the reality of temporal asymmetry. The best knower would comprehend past actualities as already actualized, present realities in their presentness (to the extent that this is possible in that there is a time lag between what is epistemically present and the reality perceived, as in a present sighting of a star that burned out light-years ago), and future possibilities or probabilities as possibilities or probabilities. To claim to know a future possibility or probability as already actualized is not an example of omniscience, but rather of nescience. There simply are no future actualities to be known. If there were, they would not be future. As before, divine power and divine knowledge do not consist in making impossibilities come true.

Nonetheless, God’s power and knowledge are ideal in the neoclassical or process view, in contrast to our own relatively feeble abilities to receive influence from others and to exert positive influence on others, in contrast to our own fallible talents at knowing what has happened in the past and at realizing what is happening now, and in contrast to our extremely flawed ability to plot possibilities or probabilities regarding the future.

3. Conclusions

In the present article, I have obviously not offered anything like a full-scale refutation of classical theism (although I think that such is possible). Further, I have not offered a comprehensive defense of neoclassical or process theism (although I think that this is also possible). However, I have offered four criticisms of omnipotence, a divine attribute that is integral to both classical theism and to the sort of religious skepticism defended by Sterba. In a way, there is an ironic alliance between classical theism and religious skepticism: When the classical theist insists on including divine omnipotence in the concept of God, the case for religious skepticism is much easier to make than it would be otherwise. Sterba, in his book Is a Good God Logically Possible?, ably makes this case.

That is, in the present article, I have initiated an attempt to achieve a fair hearing for a third party in the debate between classical theism and religious skepticism. The presence of this third party alters what might be said in response to the following question: Is ethics without God possible? The fact that this third party to the debate includes a commitment to theistic metaphysics might be interpreted by the religious skeptic as evidence that theists—both classical and neoclassical—are ganging up on religious skepticism. But a different way to look at the matter can be found in the aforementioned quotation from Hartshorne, wherein neoclassical theism and religious skepticism have much in common: “if theism cannot be improved upon profoundly, then I for one have little desire to see it survive” (Hartshorne 1934, p. 92).

The improved concept of God that Hartshorne has in mind is one where the point is not that God cannot control events, but that events cannot be completely controlled. And it is not that God’s influence has limits, but that there are limits to the creatures’ ability to receive influence. The pervasiveness of power distributed throughout the cosmos explains evil at least as well as any other view could do, for the distribution of power brings with it certain risks. Of course, I have not proven the existence of the neoclassical God in this short article, but I hope I have given good reasons to think that the entire problem of God, including the question as to whether there can be a defensible ethics without God, must be viewed afresh. Otherwise, we are likely to be victimized by the mistakes of our ancestors, both theists and religious skeptics.