Evil, Goodness, and the Best

Leibniz, Classical Theism, and the Problem of Evil - Chapter 3 (part 4)

Greetings, subscribers. As followers of Theological Letters know, I’m feverishly working to finish my forthcoming book on Leibniz and the problem of evil, and I have promised to post fresh installments of my progress every Sunday.

To date, I have posted the Introduction, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, and the first three parts of Chapter 3. Today, I post the final installment of Chapter 3, God and Evil in the Best.

If you have yet to read all that comes before, I recommend you do so for context. Links to all prior sections are below. Be watching for the first installment of Chapter 4 next Sunday. Enjoy!

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Chapter 3

Evil, Goodness, and the Best

At long last, we reach the much-anticipated query, Why would God permit evil? The question can be read in a couple of ways, one logical and the other practical. The logical question concerns the apparent contradiction, leveled by the pessimist, that a Good God who is also almighty cannot co-exist with evil. The practical question is what follows if one succeeds in answering the pessimist: Granting that such a God can permit evil, why would he? What purpose could it possibly serve? The answers to such questions are the final piece to the puzzle of Leibniz’s theodicy, putting flesh on the faith of his optimism. So with that, let’s begin with the logical problem. 

Rather than repeating Hume’s elegantly simple formulation, let us consider the more expansive case of Epicurus of Samos, which the Scottish skeptic summarizes:

God … either wishes to take away evils, and is unable; or He is able, and is unwilling; or He is neither willing nor able, or He is both willing and able. If He is willing and is unable, He is feeble, which is not in accordance with the character of God; if He is able and unwilling, He is envious, which is equally at variance with God; if He is neither willing nor able, He is both envious and feeble, and therefore not God; if He is both willing and able, which alone is suitable to God, from what source then are evils? Or why does He not remove them?¹

The dilemma is unquestionably the well-known and formidable anti-proof for the existence of God. The case attempts to demonstrate the incompatibility between evil and the being described by classical theism. By “incompatibility” I mean more than an awkward tension; the claim is that these are incompossible, forcing a strong disjunctive² — either God or evil, but never both.³

We already discussed the resolution in our section on divine choice and goodness. “Omnipotence” must be qualified. Logical contradictions, according to Leibniz and Christian tradition before him, are beyond the bounds of even omnipotence — not because they are “things” that God lacks the power to perform but because contradictions are not things at all. For this reason, the realities of incompossibility and concomitance are as much realities for God as they are for us. If two things are logically conjoined (concomitance) or logically exclusive (incompossibility), then not even God can violate such logical necessities.

We saw this in our thought experiment about the making of man. The mere existence of one man requires terrain (because he is bipedal), oxygen (because he is aerobic), food (appropriate to his digestive system), water (because he requires hydration), temperature appropriate to his body, and so on. And each of these entailments have their own requirements — atmosphere, pressure, photosynthesis, et cetera. The chain of entailments quickly grows into an entire cosmos. Hence, the choice to make just this one being unfurrows, by concomitance, into the choice of making (or at least permitting) the cosmos he requires. 

We saw the same with the making of a particular man. To will the existence of the prophet Samuel, for example, is to will (or permit) his parentage, which unfolds into an entire genealogy and history, all the way back to the dawn of creation. And we saw how such particularities — concomitance with a particular cosmos, genealogy, history, or set of monads — excludes every competitor, forcing a divine choice between these competing goods. And though it was not our focus in the first section, we brushed against the ways in which these entangled realities include evil. We saw this when considering King Josiah, the righteous ruler of Judah, whose reign is no doubt favored by God. But as we saw, King Josiah is the son of Amon, one of the most wicked kings of Judah. The fact that these two kings are conjoined by concomitance forces a divine choice. To refuse the existence of Amon, preventing his evil, is to refuse (consequently) Josiah. Conversely, to will the righteous rule of Josiah is to permit (consequently) the wickedness of Amon. 

Presumably, there are countless such examples we could name throughout history — examples of a great good entangling with a great evil. To illustrate the point, Leibniz explores the interplay between God’s antecedent desire to create rational beings and his consequent consideration of their sin. The passage is worth quoting at length. He writes, 

One can conceive of a mean between an antecedent will altogether pure and primitive, and a consequent and final will. The primitive antecedent will has as its object each good and each evil in itself, detached from all combination, and tends to advance the good and prevent the evil. The mediate will relates to combinations, as when one attaches a good to an evil: then the will will have some tendency towards this combination when the good exceeds the evil therein. But the final and decisive will results from consideration of all the goods and all the evils that enter into our deliberation, it results from a total combination.… God gives reason to the human race; misfortunes arise thence by concomitance. His pure antecedent will tends towards giving reason, as a great good, and preventing the evils in question. But when it is a question of the evils that accompany this gift which God has made to us of reason, the compound, made up of the combination of reason and of these evils, will be the object of a mediate will of God, which will tend towards producing or preventing this compound, according as the good or the evil prevails therein. But … it might still be the case that it was more in accordance with the perfection of the universe to give reason to men, notwithstanding all the evil consequences which it might have with reference to them. Consequently, the final will or the decree of God, resulting from all the considerations he can have, would be to give it to them. And, far from being subject to blame for this, he would be blameworthy if he did not so. Thus the evil, or the mixture of goods and evils wherein the evil prevails, happens only by concomitance, because it is connected with greater goods …. (G 6:170-1/H 189-90)

In this passage, we see a more anthropomorphic depiction of the movement from God’s antecedent to consequent will, which brings into sharp relief Leibniz’s intentions. When considering whether to make rational beings, without any regard for the world they require, such beings hold great appeal to God, since they are the most Godlike of all possible creatures. But as God considers the creation of such beings, this single good begins to unfurrow into a world, which God no doubt seeks to optimize, and to this world attaches a history — actions by the possible beings within it. Amongst these actions are sins, evils that begin to mingle with the good of rational beings. Hence, this mingling of good and evil unfolds in the realm of the possibles, God weighing the goods he can draw from these evils and the evils themselves. When the results are laid bare, God must assess whether the evils that attach to such a world outweigh the good of it, such that it would be better to prevent such evils by never granting the world existence. If, in the final assessment, the admixture is of a good superior to all other worlds, then this world wins God’s favor as best, despite the evils that attach to it by concomitance. Such, Leibniz believes, is precisely the story of our world.

Key to this solution is that God’s disposition towards goods foregone or evils permitted never changes. Rather, the realities of incompossibility and concomitance make it impossible for even God to bring about every good and prevent every evil. Hence, such entanglements force choices that mingle God’s desired goods with undesirable evils. One analogy Leibniz uses to illustrate the point is of a guard who must choose between his duty to a town and his desire to prevent a deadly altercation:

Concerning sin or moral evil, … [it] must only be admitted or permitted in so far as it is considered to be a certain consequence of an indispensable duty: as for instance if a man who was determined not to permit another's sin were to fail of his own duty, or as if an officer on guard at an important post were to leave it, especially in time of danger, in order to prevent a quarrel in the town between two soldiers of the garrison who wanted to kill each other. (G 6:117/H 137)

The hypothetical guard desires to prevent the two soldiers from killing one another, but he knows that doing so requires him to abandon his post, failing in his duty to the town, and possibly leading to the death of far more, should the enemy invade. The purpose of such illustrations is twofold. First, God’s antecedent love of good and hatred for evil is no less real than his consequent will, which permits such things. Second, such entanglements prove there is no fault in God for permitting evil. As Leibniz’s interlocutor, Pierre Bayle, points out: One is only ever justified in permitting evil if the prevention of it would introduce a greater evil (G 6:116/H 137). Leibniz agrees. And this is precisely what plays out in God’s consequent will. His duty to his own Wisdom, Justice, and Goodness demands that he consider the world as a whole, judging what world is best — a consideration that does not necessarily mean a world void of sin (G 6:117/H 138).

On this point, there is a crucial claim to which Leibniz returns again and again, like a chorus reverberating throughout his works:

For as a lesser evil is a kind of good, even so a lesser good is a kind of evil if it stands in the way of a greater good. (G 6:107/H 126, bold added) 

… [O]ne cannot disapprove that God, through his exceeding power, derive from the permitting of sins greater goods than such as occurred before the sins. (G 6:109/H 129, bold added) 

… [O]ne may say of physical evil, that God wills it often as a penalty owing to guilt, and often also as a means to an end, that is, to prevent greater evils or to obtain greater good. (G 6:116/H 137, bold added) 

For we must always presume that God is prompted towards the good we know, until the event shows us that he had stronger reasons, although perhaps unknown to us, which have made him subordinate this good that we sought to some other greater good of his own designing, which he has not failed or will not fail to effect. (G 6:134-5/H 155, bold added) 

The point is indispensable to Leibniz’s thinking: To forgo a greater good for a lesser one is an evil. To bring the matter into sharp relief, consider an obvious contrast: A world comprised of only rocks would guarantee a world without sin. Yet, the good of such a world would pale in comparison with the goodness of our own, despite its moral blemishes. No doubt the prevention of sin is a good — Leibniz admits it. But there are more goods for God to consider than the prevention of evil.⁴ God’s duty is to bring about the greatest good.

Now, the appeal to a “greater good” likely stirs images of heartless utilitarians who white wash heinous evils with appeals to higher ends. To be sure, neither Leibniz nor his God is a utilitarian. But the philosopher of Leipzig is easily misread as one, evident in the ubiquity of Voltaire-like caricatures of his optimism. In the interest of a fair portrait, then, let us begin by clearing away the debris of several misreadings of the claim in order to make room for a proper interpretation.

Perhaps the best foil is Leibniz’s friend and interlocutor, Bayle. In Part II of his Theodicy, Leibniz considers seven theological propositions and nineteen philosophical maxims from Bayle, which depict the permissive will of God in repugnant ways — ways utterly at odds with Leibniz’s meaning.⁵ Lest we project such repugnancies upon the philosopher of Leipzig, then, let’s begin by cutting off at the pass, as it were, any such misinterpretation. We need not explore them all, since Leibniz finds great redundancy in his opponents trumped up charges — so much so that he gripes at one point, “I am not yet half way through the nineteen maxims, and already I am weary of refuting, and making the same answer always” (G 6:178/H 197). Three general misrepresentations should suffice.

The first is that God is indifferent to the plight of individuals. Or as Bayle frames the concern, “To permit the evil that one could prevent is not to care whether it be committed or not, or is even to wish that it be committed” (G 6:181/H 200). The fact that God permits evils that he could prevent proves that he is indifferent to the sufferings that befall his creatures, if not favorably disposed toward their sufferings. Leibniz can appeal all he likes to some “greater good,” but this only explains God’s indifference. We are but pawns in a chess game or pixels in a larger image. Our individual pain is of no consequence to the Almighty, who looks at some larger whole of which we are a vanishingly small part.

Leibniz rejects outright any such inference. To cite one of his own analogies, in times of peace, the State may keep strict watch over irregularities in coinage. But during war, the very same government may permit irregularities they would otherwise police. “Can one conclude from this,” asks Leibniz, “that the State has no anxiety about this irregularity, or even that it desires it?” (G 6:181/H 200) Certainly not. The act displays the extraordinary nature of wartime, conditions that lead the State to permit irregularities they would otherwise prohibit. So it is with God and evil. The very point of distinguishing between God’s antecedent and consequent will is to say, in no uncertain terms, that God loves goodness and hates evil — full stop. The fact never changes. Only under extraordinary circumstances does God permit evil, despite its repugnance.

Such extraordinary circumstances are the object of God’s consequent will. Recall the vast web of concomitance explored in our first section. The interlocking puzzle of monads, beings, worlds, individuals, and histories form the “extraordinary circumstance” in which God must choose which goods to embrace and which to forgo, which evils to permit and which to prevent. But the fact that God is forced to choose amongst goods does not nullify his love of any good forgone or his hatred for any evil permitted. Far from suggesting that the individual recedes into indifference, Leibniz understands God to look on the whole in a way that includes his duty to each being. God’s providential care for the world considers how to fulfill his duty to every being he makes. According to Leibniz, God supplies to each of us whatever he is duty-bound to provide, and to the extent he can provide more without violating his obligation to the whole, he does.

Leibniz’s comments on salvation offer a clear illustration of the point. Concerning God’s disposition toward man, Leibniz could not be more clear: “God has care for men, he loves the human race, he wishes it well, nothing [is] so true” (G 6:176). The point is no platitude but a principle of providence. According to Leibniz, “To make men better, God does all that is due, and even all that can be done on his side without detriment to what is due” (G 6:180-1/H 200). In matters of salvation, this means that God supplies every man with the grace needed to be saved, so that none might blame God for having become a reprobate. How, after all, could God justly condemn one who does not repent unto salvation if he had no capacity to do so? Such grace does not guarantee that all will be saved. Choice is required, and God knows (presuming the falsehood of universal salvation)⁶ that many will reject his grace, making themselves worse off than if he had not offered it. But their good is his genuine desire, and to pursue that good is his providential duty. As Leibniz explains,

It is true that these people become more criminal through their refusal than if one had offered them nothing, and that God knows this. Yet it is better to permit their crime than to act in a way which would render God himself blameworthy, and provide the criminals with some justification for the complaint that it was not possible for them to do better, even though they had or might have wished it. God desires that they receive such grace from him as they are fit to receive, and that they accept it; and he desires to give them in particular that grace whose acceptance by them he foresees: but it is always by a will antecedent, detached or particular, which cannot always be carried out in the general plan of things. (G 6:166-7/H 186)

On full display in such a passage is the fact that God’s obligation to the whole does not nullify his duty to the individual. Quite the contrary, God’s duty to the whole includes his duty to the would-be reprobate, a duty that impels God to offer him grace that would lead to salvation if only the creature made a right use of it. Such grace is not an empty gesture, but a genuine offering, expressing God’s good will and desire for the creature to attain happiness. But the creature is free to reject such grace. 

Now, were God’s sole duty to this one creature, then perhaps he could continue his pursuit in a manner that one day succeeds and wins this lost soul. And such a victory would be a good. But God’s duty is to more than just this individual. If a myopic pursuit of this kind leads to God’s neglect of other beings and to diminished care over the cosmos as a whole — that is, in a failure in God’s duties — then this good becomes an evil in the grand scheme of things. So, God does whatever can be done for the would-be reprobate without violating his duties to the world — that is, while carrying out “the general plan of things.” In the end, if God’s pursuit fails, the damnation that God permits is neither desired nor orchestrated — God supplied the grace needed to prevent it. The damnation was the creature’s choosing, and God permitted it because he could not prevent it without violating his obligations to the rest of his creation. To return to the language with which we began, this permission does not demonstrate a “lack of anxiety” over the evil God permits, nor a desire for it. It proves only the “extraordinary circumstance” that leads God to permit such damnation.

A second misconception wades into waters more blasphemous than the first. Rather than suggesting that God is indifferent to suffering, here the objector suggests that God desires it. Or to quote Leibniz, “He [Bayle] disputes the permission of this evil, he would wish one to admit that God wills it” (G 6:203/H 222). Bayle’s criticism is not without cause. He draws the point from Descartes’ letter to Princess Elizabeth, in which the French rationalist distinguishes God’s “absolute will” from his “independent will.”⁷ To illustrate the distinction, Descartes describes a king who forbids duels, knowing full well that a certain two men will engage in a duel nonetheless. After issuing his prohibition, the king covertly orchestrates a meeting between the two men, thereby ensuring their duel. So the explanation goes, the king is of two wills: One wills that men do not duel and the other that these men duel. On Descartes’ telling, so it is with God, who commands men to not sin while willing the sins that occur in our world (G 6:206-7). 

Bayle rejects the distinction as absurd. This hypothetical king does not have two wills but one — that the men duel. If such is the workings of God, then God, too, is of one will — that men sin. To expose the grotesque duplicity of the so-called distinction of wills, Bayle offers his own analogy. There are two princes, each of whom has a son, and each of whom desires that his own son poison himself. One prince knows his son is inclined toward suicide, specifically by poison, so the prince merely shows restraint, refusing any effort to dissuade his boy from killing himself. The other prince actively exacerbates his son’s grief in order to nudge him toward suicide. Whether by active encouragement or passive permission, Bayle sees little difference between the two princes. Both display only one will: The suicide of their own son. So, Bayle concludes, Descartes is “assuming an unreal fact” that does not resolve the difficulty of God’s permissive will (G 6:207).

To no surprise, Leibniz responds with disdain for such a depiction of the permissive will of God. He thinks Descartes speaks “crudely” of God’s will when he says that God, knowing our free determination toward evil, wished it in not willing to constrain us (G 6:207). Leibniz writes, 

He speaks no less harshly … saying that not the slightest thought enters into the mind of a man which God does not will, and has not willed from all eternity, to enter there. Calvin never said anything harsher; and all that can only be excused if it is to be understood of a permissive will. (G 6:207/H 225) 

Leibniz argues that ascribing sin to God’s “good pleasure” is entirely alien to the Christian scholastics and ancients. When commanding virtue and forbidding sin, God “wills indeed that which he ordains, but it is only by an antecedent will” (G 6:208/H 225). To imagine otherwise is to completely misunderstand — to the point of blasphemy — the will of God.