The Inevitability of Leibniz

Leibniz, Classical Theism, and the Problem of Evil - Chapter 8 (1 of 3)

Greetings, subscribers. As followers of Theological Letters know, I spent much of this last year writing a forthcoming book on Leibniz and the problem of evil, and I have been posting fresh installments from that work every Sunday.

To date, I have posted the Introduction and all of Part I — Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7. Today, I post the first installment of the final chapter, Chapter 8, The Inevitability of Leibniz.

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 7 next Sunday. Enjoy!

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The Inevitability of Leibniz

“What’s optimism?" asked Cacambo. "I’m afraid to say,” said Candide, “that it’s a mania for insisting that all is well when things are going badly.”

— Voltaire¹

Although Leibniz is often maligned for his “optimism,” we have seen that the theory of the best is not his invention. The view was common amongst ancient advocates of providence, pagan and Christian alike. And when looked at in the light of his antecedents, Leibniz’s views are hardly novel. Yes, he litters the landscape of his defense with a host of idiosyncrasies, but the core elements of his case are far from idiosyncratic. Were we to catalog the essential elements of his optimism, we would arrive at something like the following:

1. Every truth has a reason why it is so and not otherwise — that is, the Principle of Sufficient Reason.

2. The search for reasons sufficient to ground contingent truths (and perhaps necessary truths) leads back to God, who is the foundation of all truth.

3. From the concept of God’s perfection follows the conclusion that God only ever does what is best.

4. The Goodness of God and an examination of good and evil point to the same conclusion, namely, that being is good (or a positive reality) while evil is a privative phenomenon (or the negation of some original good).

5. God articulates his own Goodness in the act of creation by filling up the world with a diverse array of beings, stretching from the most humble to the most sublime, each of which articulates in its own unique way some aspect of God’s perfection.

6. This Chain of Being, as it is sometimes called, is part of what it means for God to do the best when creating the world: To wit, filling up the world with a maximal expression of the goodness of being in a harmonious whole.

7. Though we often say casually that “God can do anything,” the classical conception of omnipotence understands the law of contradiction to have its grounding in God, and thus contradictions are beyond even an omnipotent Being, representing confused ideas that are not possible in any meaningful way.

8. Because contradiction is beyond the bounds of omnipotence, God must often forgo goods that he wills or permit evils that he wills not, either because certain goods conflict with one another (incompossibility) or because certain goods and evils enmesh with one another (concomitance).

9. The Goodness of God requires that God only ever will good and repel evil, which is why God only ever permits evil, never willing it affirmatively.

10. The nature of God, therefore, leads us to conclude both that our world is the best of all possible worlds and that the evils within it attach, not by divine pleasure, but by divine permission due to the complexities of incompossibility and concomitance.

Candidly, these essentials are so uncontroversial, at least within the Christian tradition, that finding grounds for an objection is rather difficult. As we have seen, none of the above commitments are unique to Leibniz. Yes, at every turn, the philosopher of Leipzig wishes to fill up the road to optimism and the best with more and more material. He expands on the Principle of Sufficient Reason; he strives to “complete” the ontological argument; he looks to fill up the Chain of Being with a maximal measure of goodness that leads to his theory of organisms and monads; these theories expand the notions of incompossibility and concomitance beyond what was contemplated by his predecessors; and this exploration spills into an innovative theory of possible worlds. Such additions are no doubt unique. But in all such matters, Leibniz is populating well-trodden territory. Neither the road to optimism nor his advocacy of the best requires such additions, which is why I see these idiosyncrasies as accidental, rather than essential, to his case.

Focusing on the essential core, his commitments are relatively standard within the Christian tradition. Christians have long advocated arguments from contingency, which forms the basis for PSR. In echo of Holy Scripture and in accord with the testimony of reason, the Christian tradition has long traced the rational order of nature, and thus truth itself, to God, the Wisdom or Logos that orders the world. Christians have often followed the optimal nature of God to his irreproachable providence, advocating that he does things in the best possible way. The metaphysics of good and evil, which identify being with goodness and evil as a privation, has been a staple of Christian thought since its earliest days. In keeping with such thinking, Christianity has often echoed with affirmation the Great Chain of Being as an unbroken expression of divine perfection in our world — one that lacks nothing, even if not filled with every possible being. Equally consistent is the Christian insistence that our world is originally good, and evil is a privation or corruption of that goodness, which originates with creatures, never with God. Divine omnipotence has always been understood by Christians to reflect the rational order of nature, repelling contradiction. Such logical limits have formed the basis for the free will defense, which dates back to the earliest Christian writers. This defense has always presumed that, though God, in his Goodness, repels every evil, nonetheless permits free creatures to operate freely, even when violating his will. But God consistently aims at correcting creatures, drawing the world back to himself and bringing as much good as possible out of the evils of men. And as we have seen, these various elements have led a number of Christian writers to espouse some form of optimism.

So, in this light, is there any real alternative to Leibniz? One could easily answer that the foregoing only demonstrates Christian commitments that lead to optimism. Surely one could abandon Christianity and, with it, the optimistic road. However, as we saw in Chapter 5, the commitment to optimism is even more pronounced in the classical theisms of the pagans. Ironically, Christianity, with its advocacy of divine freedom, offers perhaps the only escape from the Leibnizian conclusion amongst the ancients — perhaps God could choose something other than the best. So to turn away from Christian theism to classical theism of some other kind does not necessarily carry one away from optimism; it may bring one nearer to it. Again, I have in mind here the essentials of Leibniz’s case. One can reject his monadology, or take issue with his philosophy of organism, or contest his model of predetermination, or disapprove of his theory of possible worlds. But this is not a rebuttal of the theory per se, only a squabble with its details. One could reject all of these and still arrive at the best based on the classical divine attributes — echoing Plato, Aristotle, the Stoics, or others. So, again, is there any real alternative to Leibniz for the classical theist, Christian or otherwise? To answer this question, let’s begin by looking at more recent “defenses of God” to see what, if any, alternative they offer.²

Leibniz and the Contemporary Task of Theodicy

Neither the problem of evil nor its refutations have slowed in contemporary philosophy.³ So, in our search for alternatives to Leibnizian optimism, let’s consider four contemporary defenses from Eleonore Stump, Alvin Plantinga, John Hick, and Richard Swinburne, respectively. Stump represents a classical defense, which looks back to resources within the Christian tradition for aid, drawing especially on the work of Thomas Aquinas. Plantinga and Swinburne represent the more contemporary analytic approach to the problem, which seeks to alleviate any logical difficulty in the pairing of God and evil. Hick, by contrast to all, represents a proper attempt at theodicy, building a fully orbed explanation of the role of evil in the world that coheres with the Goodness of God. Given Leibniz’s vast dependence on the Christian tradition, let’s begin with the work of Stump.

In Stump’s essay on providence and evil, she builds on a previous essay that establishes three claims she takes to be basic to the Christian narrative: (1) man fell into sin by free choice and passed corruption to his progeny; (2) natural evil occurs because of the Fall; (3) depending on a man’s condition at the time of death, he goes to Heaven or Hell.⁴ Her discussion of providence and evil builds on this case in two ways, only one of which is of concern here, namely, to show that she rejects the view that God wills evil in order to produce the best of all possible worlds. In short, she wishes to distance her position from Leibniz.⁵

Stump succinctly summarizes a number of claims foundational to the Augustinian tradition, such as the goodness of being and the identification of God with the Good, following from divine simplicity.⁶ In addition, she establishes Aquinas’ rather traditional view of the relationship between divine sovereignty and creaturely freedom: God faces limitations in his dealing with creatures but only because he chose to make them free and interact with them according to certain rules.⁷

Finally, Stump argues that God’s dealings with creatures reflect his Goodness, which means willing the creature’s proper end, or τέλος. The ultimate end of free creatures is union with God. Hence, God aims at reuniting us with himself. For simplicity’s sake, she identifies both God’s designs and their execution as “providence.”⁸

Now, Stump acknowledges a problem. If God’s will aims at directing men back to God, then it seems that men are capable of frustrating the will of God. For not all turn to him.⁹ She addresses the difficulty by distinguishing God’s antecedent will from his consequent will — John of Damascus’ distinction, which echoes in Aquinas. As explained in previous chapters, the antecedent will considers isolated goods and evils and wills every good proportionate to its goodness and repels every evil proportionate to its lack of goodness.¹⁰ So, we can say with full surety that God antecedently wills that all men are saved.¹¹ Yet, the consequent will considers the complex web in which particular goods appear, and God may consequently permit something he does not will antecedently. — All of this should sound very familiar. — Her chosen illustration is the prophet Jonah. Jonah, she argues, contravenes God’s antecedent will, but not his consequent will. For, although God desires Jonah’s obedience (antecedently), God permits Jonah’s sin (consequently).¹²

Does such permission indict God’s Goodness? Stump’s answer appeals to medieval ethics. According to Aquinas, to let good ends justify evil means is immoral. Or phrased in a manner reflective of Aquinas, to let good ends justify evil means is to have a good end but a bad object (i.e., the chosen course of action), which is morally impermissible.¹³ No one is justified in doing evil because they can compensate with a good outcome. Permitting evil is upright only when evil attaches to all available choices. In such a case, the lesser evil is the best object available and the only means of preventing a greater evil — what is called the doctrine of double effect. Unlike in the first instance (or utilitarian scenario), the prevention of evil is the aim (or object) of the will, not the permission of evil.¹⁴ Stump’s point is that we can interpret the permissive will of God in only one of two ways. The utilitarian reading makes God wicked. But the second interpretation, according to which God’s aim is to prevent and minimize evil, is morally upright. So, the permissive will of God must be understood in the latter sense, lest we attribute immorality to God.

For this reason, Stump disapproves of any suggestion that God’s permissive will is “mysterious,” a claim that appears in the work of Plantinga, for example.¹⁵ On the one hand, Stump admits that we do not know the Mind of God and, thus, cannot claim to know all of his designs. However, she believes we can know the general character of God’s permissive will — a generality that holds in every instance of permitted evil. The distinction between God’s antecedent and consequent will demands that God wills every good and repels every evil, and whenever evil is permitted, such permission is always to prevent a greater evil. What precisely that greater evil is may be a “mystery” — this she admits — but why God permits the evil is not.¹⁶

In Stump’s more recent work, she delves deeper in the specifics of the problem of evil, exploring whether there is a morally sufficient reason for God to allow suffering — here, moving beyond the problem of moral evil to include physical evil.¹⁷ Stump is explicit that her goal is to bring to light resources from Aquinas, demonstrating how those resources offer a theodicy or defense. She explains,

For those who share [Aquinas’] worldview, his position yields a powerful theodicy. For those who do not, it can nonetheless constitute a defense, a description of a possible world in which God and human suffering coexist. As I explained at the outset, my purpose in this book is just with his worldview and theodicy considered as a defense.¹⁸

Her general thesis is that a person suffers when something undermines one’s flourishing or hinders the acquisition of one’s heart’s desire. Much like in moral matters, her answer lays bare the necessary conditions for the permission of suffering. According to Stump, suffering is justified if the good of the suffering defeats its badness. Such a defeat occurs only if (a) the benefit goes to the one who suffers, (b) that benefit outweighs the suffering, and (c) that benefit could not be obtained apart from the suffering. Much like in her description of God’s permissive will, this description lays bare the necessary character of God’s allowance for suffering. God allows suffering when that suffering enables one to flourish or have the desire of one’s heart and the suffering is the best available means to achieve that end.

Now, one further matter of note is a something previously touched on by Stump. The Highest Good or chief end of man is union with God. Stump reiterates the point in her treatment of suffering. Building on this premise, she, once again, echoes a rather standard insight from the Augustinian tradition — one touched on in Chapter 3 above.¹⁹ So the case goes, human flourishing in its highest form requires union with God, and suffering offers bitter medicine to facilitate this union — either turning those who are far from God back to him or bringing those who love God into greater intimacy with him. The language of “medicine” is intentional. Stump points out that one’s heart’s desire can be inimical to their own flourishing, if turned away from God to lower goods. Hence, suffering is often the bitter pill required to correct our condition, healing the desires of one’s heart in order that he might be suited to the flourishing that comes only from union with God.²⁰

Much of Stump’s work aims at illustrating the point by means of narrative, offering empirical evidence in defense of this rather traditional view — ranging from biblical stories, such as Abraham or Job, to tales from the life of John Milton.²¹ And the case is very much like her case concerning evil. The Goodness of God demands that evil and suffering only be permitted under very specific conditions, conditions that cohere with God’s moral perfection. Evil and suffering are never the object of God’s will; rather, they are only ever permitted and only under very specific conditions aimed at the minimizing of evil and the maximizing of goodness.

Looking beyond Stump’s more traditional defense, let’s consider the more innovative defenses within analytic philosophy, specifically in the work of Plantinga and Swinburne. The analytic approach is set against the backdrop of current formulations of the problem of evil in figures, such as J. L. Mackie, H. J. McCloskey, William L. Rowe, and J. L. Schellenberg.²² The analytic problem identifies a triad of premises that appear to be incompatible, but must all be affirmed by the classical theist:

1. God is omnipotent.

2. God is omnibenevolent.

3. Evil exists.

Mackie frames the problem in a way that harkens back to Hume’s paraphrase of Epicurus.²³ He argues that a contradiction emerges when affirming the above three premises, so the theist must abandon one of his claims. Mackie takes the point to be reflected in the solutions ranging from Manicheism, which denies (1), to the denial of evil as an illusion, which denies (3). In the end, the conclusion of Mackie and his ilk is that, given the reality of natural evils (e.g., earthquakes), extreme evils (e.g., the holocaust), and superfluous evils (e.g., the rape of a child), no justification for evil can be offered by the theist, and so it is likely, if not absolutely certain, that God does not exist.²⁴

Plantinga is perhaps the most well known respondent to these contemporary formulations. He frames his reply as a “defense” rather than a “theodicy,” since he understands the former to be a more modest task. That is to say, a theodicy, as Plantinga understands it, offers a set of normative claims meant to explain the reasons for evil. A defense, by contrast, merely shows that an answer can be given to the analytic problem, thereby demonstrating that the anti-proof fails.²⁵

The particular defense Plantinga crafts is a “free-will defense,” which he sets against the backdrop of Mackie’s work, who suggests that God and evil are incompossible. Because evil exists, God does not. Plantinga highlights the fact that if the argument aims at proving God’s non-existence, it must demonstrate a formal contradiction between the attributes of God (traditionally understood) and the existence of evil. For only if God’s omnipotence and omnibenevolence lands in a formal contradiction with the existence of evil is the case proven. The free-will defense aims at undermining this so-called proof by showing that the classical attributes can be paired with evil if conjoined with the premise that God creates free creatures.²⁶

A key objection to this defense, however, is the logical possibility that free creatures never sin. If God can create a sinless world with free beings, then the incompossibility between God and evil remains.²⁷ We touched on Plantinga’s reply in Chapter 7. His rebuttal posits transworld depravity — a sinless world with free beings may not be available to God if free beings sin in every world. Plantinga recognizes that he cannot claim that there is no logically possible world in which free beings never sin. However, he argues for a distinction between logically possible worlds and actualizable worlds — and further distinguishes creating from actualizing.²⁸ So the case goes, God can create things unilaterally. But to actualize a state of affairs in which a free creature freely does something requires that the creature cooperate.²⁹