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Moral Arguments for the Existence of God

Moral arguments for God’s existence form a diverse family of arguments that reason from some feature of morality or the moral life to the existence of God, usually understood as a morally good creator of the universe. Moral arguments are both important and interesting. They are interesting because evaluating their soundness requires attention to practically every important philosophical issue dealt with in metaethics. They are important because of their prominence in popular apologetic arguments for religious belief. Evidence for this can be found in the amazing popularity of C. S. Lewis’s Mere Christianity (1952), which is almost certainly the best-selling book of apologetics in the twentieth century, and which begins with a moral argument for God’s existence. Many ordinary people regard religion as in some way providing a basis or foundation for morality. This fact might seem to favor religious arguments for morality rather than moral arguments for religious belief, but if someone believes that morality is in some way “objective” or “real,” and that this moral reality requires explanation, moral arguments for God’s reality naturally suggest themselves. The apparent connection between morality and religion appears to many people to support the claim that moral truths require a religious foundation, or can best be explained by God’s existence, or some qualities or actions of God.

After some general comments about theistic arguments and a brief history of moral arguments, this essay will discuss several different forms of the moral argument. A major distinction is that between moral arguments that are theoretical in nature and practical or pragmatic arguments. The former are best thought of as arguments that begin with alleged moral facts and argue that God is necessary to explain those facts, or at least that God provides a better explanation of them than secular accounts can offer. The latter typically begin with claims about some good or end that morality requires and argue that this end is not attainable unless God exists. Whether this distinction is hard and fast will be one of the questions to be discussed, as some argue that practical arguments by themselves cannot be the basis of rational belief. To meet such concerns practical arguments may have to include a theoretical dimension as well.

1. The Goals of Theistic Arguments

2. history of moral arguments for god’s existence, 3. theoretical moral arguments for god’s existence and divine command theories of moral obligation, 4. arguments from moral knowledge or awareness, 5. arguments from human dignity or worth, 6. practical moral arguments for belief in god, 7. conclusion, other internet resources, related entries.

Before attempting to explain and assess moral arguments for the existence of God, it would be helpful to have some perspective on the goals of arguments for God’s existence. (We shall generically term arguments for God’s existence “theistic arguments.”) Of course views about this are diverse, but most contemporary proponents of such arguments do not see theistic arguments as attempted “proofs,” in the sense that they are supposed to provide valid arguments with premises that no reasonable person could deny. Such a standard of achievement would clearly be setting the bar for success very high, and proponents of theistic arguments rightly note that philosophical arguments for interesting conclusions in any field outside of formal logic hardly ever reach such a standard.

More reasonable questions to ask about theistic arguments would seem to be the following: Are there valid arguments for the conclusion that God exists that have premises that are known or reasonably believed by some people? Are the premises of such arguments more reasonable than their denials, at least for some reasonable people? Arguments that meet these standards could have value in making belief in God reasonable for some people, or even giving some people knowledge of God’s existence, even if it turns out that some of the premises of the arguments can be reasonably denied by other people, and thus that the arguments fail as proofs.

A major issue that cannot be settled here concerns the question of where the burden of proof lies with respect to theistic arguments. Many secular philosophers follow Antony Flew (1976) in holding that there is a “presumption of atheism.” On this view, believing in God is like believing in the Loch Ness Monster or leprechauns, something that reasonable people do not do without sufficient evidence. If such evidence is lacking, the proper stance is atheism rather than agnosticism.

This “presumption of atheism” has been challenged in a number of ways. Alvin Plantinga (2000) has argued that reasonable belief in God does not have to be based on propositional evidence, but can be “properly basic.” On this view, reasonable belief in God can be the outcome of a basic faculty (called the sensus divinitatis by theologian John Calvin) and thus needs no support from arguments at all. In response some would argue that even if theistic belief is not grounded in propositional evidence, it still might require non-propositional evidence (such as experience), so it is not clear that Plantinga’s view by itself removes the burden of proof challenge.

A second way to challenge the presumption of atheism is to question an implicit assumption made by those who defend such a presumption, which is that belief in God is epistemologically more risky than unbelief. The assumption might be defended in the following way: One might think that theists and atheists share a belief in many entities: atoms, middle-sized physical objects, animals, and stars, for example. Someone, however, who believes in leprechauns or sea monsters in addition to these commonly accepted objects thereby incurs a burden of proof. Such a person believes in “one additional thing” and thus seems to incur additional epistemological risk. One might think that belief in God is relevantly like belief in a leprechaun or sea monster, and thus that the theist also bears an additional burden of proof. Without good evidence in favor of belief in God the safe option is to refrain from belief.

However, the theist may hold that this account does not accurately represent the situation. Instead, the theist may argue that the debate between atheism and theism is not simply an argument about whether “one more thing” exists in the world. In fact, God is not to be understood as an entity in the world at all; any such entity would by definition not be God. The debate is rather a debate about the character of the universe. The theist believes that every object in the natural world exists because God creates and conserves that object; every finite thing has the character of being dependent on God. The atheist denies this and affirms that the basic entities in the natural world have the character of existing “on their own.”

If this is the right way to think about the debate, then it is not obvious that atheism is safer than theism. The debate is not about the existence of one object, but the character of the universe as a whole. Both parties are making claims about the character of everything in the natural world, and both claims seem risky. This point is especially important in dealing with moral arguments for theism, since one of the questions raised by such arguments is the adequacy of a naturalistic worldview in explaining morality. Such accounts need to explain without watering the categories of morality down or otherwise domesticating them and thereby depriving them of their most interesting features. Evidentialists may properly ask about the evidence for theism, but it also seems proper to ask about the evidence for atheism if the atheist is committed to a rival metaphysic such as naturalism.

Something that resembles a moral argument for God’s existence, or at least an argument from value, can be found in the fourth of Thomas Aquinas’s “Five Ways” (Aquinas 1265–1274, I, 1, 3). Aquinas there begins with the claim that among beings who possess such qualities as “good, true, and noble” there are gradations. Presumably he means that some things that are good are better than other good things; perhaps some noble people are nobler than others who are noble. In effect Aquinas is claiming that when we “grade” things in this way we are, at least implicitly, comparing them to some absolute standard. Aquinas believes this standard cannot be merely “ideal” or “hypothetical,” and thus this gradation is only possible if there is some being which has this quality to a “maximum” extent: “so that there is something which is truest, something best, something noblest and, consequently, something which is uttermost being; for those things that are greatest in truth are greatest in being, as it is written in Metaph. Ii.” Aquinas goes on to affirm that this being which provides the standard is also the cause or explanation of the existence of these qualities, and such a cause must be God. Obviously, this argument draws deeply on Platonic and Aristotelian assumptions that are no longer widely held by philosophers. For the argument to be plausible today, such assumptions would have to be defended, or else the argument reformulated in a way that frees it from its original metaphysical home.

Probably the most influential versions of the moral argument for belief in God can be traced to Kant (1788 [1956]), who famously argued that the theoretical arguments for God’s existence were unsuccessful, but presented a rational argument for belief in God as a “postulate of practical reason.” Kant held that a rational, moral being must necessarily will “the highest good,” which consists of a world in which people are both morally good and happy, and in which moral virtue is the condition for happiness. The latter condition implies that this end must be sought solely by moral action. However, Kant held that a person cannot rationally will such an end without believing that moral actions can successfully achieve such an end, and this requires a belief that the causal structure of nature is conducive to the achievement of this end by moral means. This is equivalent to belief in God, a moral being who is ultimately responsible for the character of the natural world. Kant’s arguments will be discussed later in this article.

Kant-inspired arguments were prominent in the nineteenth century, and continued to be important right up to the middle of the twentieth century. Such arguments can be found, for example, in W. R. Sorley (1918), Hastings Rashdall (1920), and A. E. Taylor (1945/1930). Although Henry Sidgwick was not himself a proponent of a moral argument for God’s existence, some have argued that his thought presents the materials for such an argument (see Walls and Baggett 2011). In the nineteenth century John Henry Newman (1870) also made good use of a moral argument in his case for belief in God, developing what could be called an argument from conscience.

Besides those luminaries from the history of the moral argument, several other figures made contributions of various sorts to the discussion, including Arthur Balfour (1915), Andrew Seth Pringle-Pattison (1920), Clement Webb (2012), W. G. de Burgh (1938), W. R. Matthews (1921), Austin Farrer (2012), and H. P. Owen (1965). A chronicle of much of this history was published by Walls and Baggett (2019). Recovering such history is a helpful antidote to the ahistorical character of much contemporary analytic philosophy.

In recent philosophy there has been a revival of divine command metaethical theories, which has in turn led to new versions of the moral argument found in such thinkers as Robert Adams (1987), John Hare (1996), and C. Stephen Evans (2010). Work on divine command theory, both in favor and against, has experienced a recent resurgence of interest. This work has encompassed both motivations for and formulations of divine command theory, as well as extensive discussion of both old and new objections to it.

However, it is important to see that there are versions of the moral argument for God’s existence that are completely independent of such a divine command theory, and this possibility can be seen in arguments developed by Angus Ritchie (2012) and Mark Linville (2009). Perhaps the most extensive and developed account of a moral argument for God’s existence in recent philosophy is found in David Baggett and Jerry L. Walls (2016). This book examines a comprehensive cumulative form of moral argument and extensively explores underlying issues. It goes without saying that these renewed arguments have engendered new criticisms as well. Theoretical moral arguments for God’s existence can be understood as variations on the following template:

• There are objective moral facts.
• God provides the best explanation of the existence of objective moral facts.
• Therefore, (probably) God exists.

As we shall see, there are a variety of features of morality that can be appealed to in the first steps of the arguments, as well as a variety of ways in which God might be thought to provide an explanation of those features in the second steps. The use of the somewhat vague phrase “objective moral facts” is intended to allow for this variety in Premise 1. The similarly vague notion of God providing the best explanation of such facts allows for the variety of ways moral features may depend on God—divine commands one salient option among them. Both types of premises are obviously open to challenge. For example, the first premise of such an argument can be challenged by popular metaethical views that see morality as “subjective,” or “expressive,” rather than something that consists of objective facts. Moral skeptics and “error theorists” also challenge the first premise. The second premise can be challenged on the basis of rival explanations of the features of morality, explanations that do not require God. Arguments about the second premise then may require comparison between theistic explanations of morality and these rival views, with an attentive eye on the relevant evidence in need of explanation.

It is easy to see then that the proponent of a moral argument has a complex task: She must defend the reality and objectivity of the feature of morality appealed to, but also defend the claim that this feature can be best explained by God. The second part of the task may require not only demonstrating the strengths of a theistic explanation, but pointing out weaknesses in rival secular explanations as well. Both parts of the task are essential, but it is worth noting that the two components cannot be accomplished simultaneously. The theist must defend the reality of morality against subjectivists, constructivists, and “moral nihilists.” Assuming that this task has been carried out, the theist must then try to show that morality thus understood requires or at least is most plausibly understood by a theistic explanation.

It is interesting to observe, however, that with respect to both parts of the task, the theist may enlist non-theists as allies. The theist may well make common cause with ethical naturalists as well as ethical non-naturalists in defending moral realism against “projective” theories such as expressivism. However, the theist may also enlist the support of error theorists such as J. L. Mackie (1977), and moral nihilists such as Friedrich Nietzsche (1887) in arguing that God is necessary for objective morality. Nietzsche, for example, explicitly holds that God does not exist, but also claims that God’s non-existence undermines the reality of traditional western morality. The fact that theists can enlist such unlikely allies does not mean the moral argument for God’s existence is sound, but it does suggest that the argument is not obviously question-begging, since both premises are sometimes accepted by (different) non-believers.

One easily understandable version of a theistic moral argument relies on an analogy between human laws promulgated by nation-states and moral laws. Sovereign states enact laws that make certain acts forbidden or required. If I am a U. S. citizen, and I earn more than a small amount of money I am obligated to file an income tax return each year. I am also forbidden, because of the laws that hold in the United States, to discriminate in hiring on the basis of sex, age, or race. Many people believe that there are moral laws that bind individuals in the same way that political laws do. I am obligated by a moral principle not to lie to others, and I am similarly obligated to keep promises that I have made. (Both legal and moral laws may be understood as holding prima facie , so that in some situations a person must violate one law in order to obey a more important one.)

We know how human laws come into existence. They are enacted by legislatures (or absolute monarchs in some countries) who have the authority to pass such laws. How then should the existence of moral laws be explained? It seems plausible to many to hold that they must be similarly grounded in some appropriate authority, and the or best candidate to fulfill this role is God. Some philosophers have dismissed an argument of this type as “crude,” presumably because its force is so obvious that no special philosophical training is necessary to understand it and see its appeal. The fact that one can understand the argument without much in the way of philosophical skill is not necessarily a defect, however. If one supposes that there is a God, and that God wants humans to know him and relate to him, one would expect God to make his reality known to humans in very obvious ways (See Evans 2010). After all, critics of theistic belief, such as J. L. Schellenberg (1993), have argued that the fact that God’s reality is not obvious to those who would like to believe in God is a grave problem. If an awareness of moral obligations is in fact an awareness of God’s commands or divine laws, then the ordinary person who is aware of moral obligations does have a kind of awareness of God. Of course such a person might be aware of God’s laws without realizing that they are God’s laws; she might be aware of God’s commands without being aware of them under that description. The religious apologist might view such a person as already having a kind of de re awareness of God, because a moral obligation is simply an expression of God’s will (or God’s command or motivation, preference or desire).

How can such an awareness be converted into full-fledged belief in God? One way of doing this would be to help the person gain the skills needed to recognize moral laws as what they are, as divine commands or divine laws. If moral laws are experienced, then moral experience could be viewed as a kind of religious experience or at least a proto-religious experience. Perhaps someone who has experience of God in this way does not need a moral argument (or any kind of argument) to have a reasonable belief in God. This may be one instance of the kind of case that Alvin Plantinga (2000) and the “Reformed epistemologists” have in mind when they claim that belief in God can be “properly basic.” It is worth noting then that there could be such a thing as knowledge of God that is rooted in moral experience without that knowledge being the result of a moral argument .

Even if that is the case, however, a moral argument could still play a valuable role. Such an argument might be one way of helping an individual understand that moral obligations are in fact divine commands or laws. Even if it were true that some ordinary people might know that God exists without argument, an argument could be helpful in defending the claim that this is the case. A person might conceivably need an argument for the second-level claim that the person knows God without argument.

In any case a divine command metaethical theory provides the material for such an argument. The revival of divine command theories (DCT) of moral obligation is due mainly to the work of Philip Quinn (1979/1978) and Robert Adams (1999). Adams’ version of a DCT has been particularly influential and is well-suited for the defense of the claim that moral knowledge can provide knowledge of God. Adams’ version of a DCT is an account of moral obligations and it must be distinguished from more general “voluntarist” views of ethics that try to treat other moral properties (such as the good) as dependent on God’s will. As explained below, by limiting the theory to obligations, Adams avoids the standard “ Euthyphro ” objection, which claims that divine command views reduce ethics to arbitrariness.

Adams’ account of moral obligations as divine commands rests on a more general social theory of obligations. There are of course many types of obligations: legal obligations, financial obligations, obligations of etiquette, and obligations that hold in virtue of belonging to some club or association, to name just a few. Clearly these obligations are distinct from moral obligations, since in some cases moral obligations can conflict with these other kinds. What is distinctive about obligations in general? They are not reducible simply to normative claims about what a person has a good reason to do.

J. S. Mill (1874, 164–165) argued that we can explain normative principles without making any reference to God. He contends that the “feeling of obligation” stems from “something that the internal conscience bears witness to in its own nature,” and thus the moral law, unlike human laws, “does not originate in the will of a legislator or legislature external to the mind.” Doubtless Mill had in mind here such normative logical principles as “it is wrong to believe both p and not-p at the same time.” Mill argues that such normative principles hold without any requirement for an “authority” to be their ground, and he thinks this is plausible for the case of moral principles as well. Mill’s view is plausible at least for some normative principles, though some theists have argued that metaphysical naturalists have difficulty in explaining any kind of normativity (see Devine 1989, 88–89). However, even if Mill is correct about normativity in general, it does not follow that his view is correct for moral obligations, which have a special character. An obligation has a special kind of force; we should care about complying with it, and violations of obligations appropriately incur blame (Adams 1999, 235). If I make a logical mistake, I may feel silly or stupid or embarrassed, but I have no reason to feel guilty, unless the mistake reflects some carelessness on my part that itself constitutes a violation of a moral obligation. Adams argues that “facts of obligation are constituted by broadly social requirements.” (ibid, 233) For example, the social role of parenting is partly constituted by the obligations one assumes by becoming a parent, and the social role of citizen is partly constituted by the obligations to obey the laws of the country in which one is a citizen.

All obligations are then constituted by social requirements, according to Adams. However, not all obligations constituted by social requirements are moral obligations. What social relation could be the basis of moral obligations? Adams argues that not just any human social relation will possess the requisite authority: “A morally valid obligation obviously will not be constituted by just any demand sponsored by a system of social relationships that one in fact values. Some such demands have no moral force, and some social systems are downright evil.” (ibid, 242) If a good and loving God exists and has created all humans, then the social relation humans have to God has the right features to explain moral obligations. For if moral obligations stem from God’s requirements, they will be objective, but they will also be motivating, since a relation to God would clearly be a great good that humans would have reason to value. Since a proper relation to God is arguably more important than any other social relation, we can also understand why moral obligations trump other kinds of obligations. On this view we can also explain why moral obligations have a transcendent character, which is important because “a genuinely moral conception of obligation must have resources for moral criticism of social systems and their demands.” (ibid, 242–243)

Notice that the DCT Adams defends in his later work is ontological rather than semantic: it is a claim that moral obligations are in fact identical with divine commands, not a claim that “moral obligations” has the same meaning as “divine commands.” On his account, applying the work of direct reference theorists like Hilary Putnam and Saul Kripke to the arena of ethics, the meaning of “moral obligation” is fixed by the role this concept plays in our language. That role includes such facts as these: Moral obligations must be motivating and objective. They also must provide a basis for critical evaluation of other types of obligations, and they must be such that someone who violates a moral obligation is appropriately subject to blame. Adams argues that it is divine commands that best satisfy these desiderata. God’s existence thus provides the best explanation of moral obligations. If moral obligations are identical with divine commands (or perhaps if they are grounded in or caused to exist by divine commands) an argument for God’s existence from such obligations can easily be constructed:

• There are objective moral obligations.
• If there are objective moral obligations, there is a God who explains these obligations.
• There is a God.

This argument is stated in a deductive form, but it can easily be reworded as a probabilistic “argument to the best explanation,” as follows:

• God provides the best explanation of the existence of moral obligations.
• Probably, God exists.

Obviously, those who do not find a DCT convincing will not think this argument from moral obligation has force. However, Adams anticipates and gives a forceful answer to one common criticism of a DCT. It is often argued that a DCT must fail because of a dilemma parallel to one derived from Plato’s Euthyphro . The dilemma for a DCT can be derived from the following question: Assuming that God commands what is right, does he command what is right because it is right (assuming that “right” here means “morally required” and not just “morally permissible.”)? If the proponent of a DCT answers affirmatively, then it appears the quality of rightness must hold antecedently to and thus independently of God’s commands. If, however, the proponent denies that God commands what is right because it is right, then God’s commands appear arbitrary. Adams’ version of a DCT evades this dilemma by invoking the good/right distinction and holding that God is essentially good and that his commands are necessarily aimed at the good. This allows Adams to claim that God’s commands make actions obligatory (or forbidden), while denying that the commands are arbitrary in any problematic sense.

Although Adams’ version of a DCT successfully meets this “ Euthyphro ” objection, there are other powerful criticisms that have been mounted against this metaethical theory in the literature. These objections can be found in the writings of Wes Morriston (2009, 2016), Erik Wielenberg (2005, especially part 3, 2014, and chapter 2, 2020), Oppy (2014, especially ch. 3), and Nicholas Wolterstorff (2007), among others. Besides arbitrariness, objections raised against DCT include autonomy objections, a variety of epistemic objections, a psychopathy objection, supervenience objections, prior obligations objection, and other Euthyphro objections, which include grounding, vacuity, and counterpossible objections.

Wielenberg explicitly defends as an alternative to divine command metaethics a view he calls “godless normative realism.” This is essentially the view that moral truths are basic or fundamental in character, not derived from natural facts or any more fundamental metaphysical facts. It thus seems similar to the view often called “ethical non-naturalism.” This view certainly provides a significant alternative to divine command metaethics. However, it is worth noting that some of the criticisms that metaphysical naturalists have against theistic metaethics may apply to Wielenberg’s view as well. Specifically, philosophers such as J. L. Mackie (1977) find non-natural ethical qualities of any kind “queer” since they are so unlike the realities discovered by science. The “brute moral facts” posited by Wielenberg as necessary truths seem vulnerable to this same criticism. In fact, the criticism may be sharper against Wielenberg’s view than against theistic views, since ethical truths may appear less odd in a universe that is ultimately grounded in a person. Responses to the objections of Wielenberg, Morriston, and others have also been given (see Evans 2013, Baggett and Walls, 2011, 2016, Flannagan, 2017, 2021a, 2021, Pruss, 2009, Davis and Franks, 2015). Clearly the version of a moral argument for God’s existence that rests on divine command theory will only be judged powerful by those who find a DCT plausible, and that will certainly be a minority of philosophers. (Although it is worth noting that no single metaethical theory seems to enjoy widespread support among philosophers, so a DCT is not alone in being a minority view.) Nevertheless, those who do find a DCT powerful will also see moral obligations as providing strong evidence for God’s reality.

A variety of arguments have been developed that God is necessary to explain human awareness of moral truth (or moral knowledge, if one believes that this moral awareness amounts to knowledge). Richard Swinburne (2004, 218), for example, argues that there is no “great probability that moral awareness will occur in a Godless universe.” On Swinburne’s view, moral truths are either necessary truths or contingent truths that are grounded in necessary truths. For example, it is obviously contingent that “It is wrong to drop an atomic bomb on Hiroshima,” since it is contingent that there exists a city such as Hiroshima. But one might hold that this proposition is true (assuming it is) because of some other truth such as “It is wrong intentionally to kill innocent humans” which does hold universally and is necessarily true. Swinburne does not think that an argument to God’s existence from moral facts as such is powerful, increasing the likelihood of theism only a little. However, the fact that we humans are aware of moral facts is itself surprising and calls for an explanation.

It may be true that creatures who belong to groups that behave altruistically will have some survival advantage over groups that lack such a trait. However, moral beliefs are not required in order to produce such behavior, since it is clear that “there are many species of animals that are naturally inclined to help others of their species, and yet do not have moral beliefs.” (Swinburne 2004, 217) If God exists, he has “significant reason to bring about conscious beings with moral awareness,” since his intended purpose for humans includes making it possible for them freely to choose good over evil, since this will make it possible for them to develop a relation to God. Swinburne does not think that this argument provides very strong evidence for God’s existence by itself, but rather that it provides some inductive support for belief in God. It is one of several phenomena which seem more probable in a theistic universe than in a godless universe. As we consider more and more such phenomena, it will be increasingly improbable that “they will all occur.” (ibid, 218) All of these inductive arguments together may then provide substantial support for theistic belief, even if no one of them by itself would be sufficient for rational belief by demonstrating that theism is likely true.

Swinburne’s version of the argument is quite brief and undeveloped, but some claims that could be used to support a more developed version of the argument (one that will be described below) can be found in a well-known and much cited article by Sharon Street (2006). Street’s argument, as the title implies, is in no way intended to support a moral argument for theism. To the contrary, her purpose is to defend anti-realist metaethical theories against realist theories that view moral truth as “stance-independent” of human attitudes and emotions. Street presents the moral realist with a dilemma posed by the question as to how our human evaluative beliefs are related to human evolution. It is clear, she believes, that evolution has strongly shaped our evaluative attitudes. The question concerns how those attitudes are related to the objective evaluative truths accepted by the realist. If the realist holds that there is no relation between such truths and our evaluative attitudes, then this implies that “most of our evaluative judgments are off track due to the distorting influence of Darwinian processes.” The other alternative for the realist is to claim that there is a relationship, and thus that is not an accident or miracle that our evaluative beliefs track the objective truths. However, this view, Street claims, is scientifically implausible. Street argues therefore that an evolutionary story about how we came to make the moral judgments we make undermines confidence in the objective truth of those judgments. Street’s argument is of course controversial and thinkers such as Erik Wielenberg (2014) have argued against evolutionary debunking arguments. Still, many regard such arguments as problematic for those who want to defend moral realism, particularly when developed as a “global” argument (Kahane, 2010).

Street’s argument has also been challenged by such critics as Russ Shafer-Landau (2012). However, her argument, and similar arguments, have been acknowledged by some moral realists, such as David Enoch (2011) and Erik Wielenberg (2014) to pose a significant problem for their view. Enoch, for example, even though he offers a response to Street’s argument, evidently has some worries about the strength of his reply. Wielenberg, to avoid the criticism that in a non-theistic universe it would be extremely lucky if evolution selected for belief in objectively true moral values, proposes that the natural laws that produce this result may be metaphysically necessary, and thus there is no element of luck. However, many philosophers will see this view of natural laws as paying a heavy price to avoid theism. It might appear that Street is arguing straightforwardly that evolutionary theory makes it improbable that humans would have objective moral knowledge. However, it is not evolution by itself that predicts the improbability of objective moral knowledge, but the conjunction of evolution and metaphysical naturalism. A good deal of the force of Street’s argument stems from the assumption that naturalism is true, and therefore that the evolutionary process is one that is unguided. Since it is not evolution by itself that poses a challenge to moral realism but the conjunction of evolution and metaphysical naturalism, then rejecting naturalism provides one way for the moral realist to solve the problem. It does appear that in a naturalistic universe we would expect a process of Darwinian evolution to select for a propensity for moral judgments that track survival and not objective moral truths. Mark Linville (2009, 391–446) has developed a detailed argument for the claim that it is difficult for metaphysical naturalists to develop a plausible evolutionary story as to how our moral judgments could have epistemological warrant. However, if we suppose that the evolutionary process has been guided by God, who has as one of his goals the creation of morally significant human creatures capable of enjoying a relation with God, then it would not seem at all accidental or even unlikely that God would ensure that humans have value beliefs that are largely correct.

Some philosophers believe that the randomness of Darwinian natural selection rules out the possibility of any kind of divine guidance being exercised through such a process. Some thinkers, including both some atheists and some proponents of what is called “creation science,” believe that evolution and God are rivals, mutually exclusive hypotheses about the origins of the natural world. What can be explained scientifically needs no religious explanation. However, this is far from obviously true; in fact, if theism is true it is clearly false. From a theistic perspective to think that God and science provide competing explanations fails to grasp the relationship between God and the natural world by conceiving of God as one more cause within that natural world. If God exists at all, God is not an entity within the natural world, but the creator of that natural world, with all of its causal processes. If God exists, God is the reason why there is a natural world and the reason for the existence of the causal processes of the natural world. In principle, therefore, a natural explanation can never preclude a theistic explanation. Any argument that natural explanations preclude or are in tension with theistic explanations will in fact be theological in character, since they will be grounded in assumptions about the kind of world God would create.

But what about the randomness that is a crucial part of the Darwinian story? The atheist might claim that because evolutionary theory posits that the process by which plants and animals have evolved is one that involves random genetic mutations, it cannot be guided, and thus God cannot have used evolutionary means to achieve his ends. However, this argument fails. It depends on an equivocation in what is meant by “random.” When scientists claim that genetic mutations are random, they do not mean that they are uncaused, or even that they are unpredictable from the point of view of biochemistry, but only that the mutations do not happen in response to the adaptational needs of the organism. It is entirely possible for a natural process to include randomness in that sense, even if the whole natural order is itself created and sustained by God. The sense of “randomness” required for evolutionary theory does not imply that the evolutionary process must be unguided. A God who is responsible for the laws of nature and the initial conditions that shape the evolutionary process could certainly ensure that the process achieved certain ends.

Like the other moral arguments for God’s existence, the argument from moral knowledge can easily be stated in a propositional form, and I believe Swinburne is right to hold that the argument is best construed as a probabilistic argument that appeals to God as providing a better explanation of moral knowledge than is possible in a naturalistic universe.

• Humans possess objective moral knowledge.
• Probably, if God does not exist, humans would not possess objective moral knowledge.

There is a kind of argument from moral knowledge also implicit in Angus Ritchie’s book From Morality to Metaphysics: The Theistic Implications of our Ethical Commitments (2012). Ritchie presses a kind of dilemma on non-theistic accounts of morality. Subjectivist theories such as expressivism can certainly make sense of the fact that we make the ethical judgments we do, but they empty morality of its objective authority. Objectivist theories that take morality seriously, however, have difficulty explaining our capacity to make true moral judgments, unless the process by which humans came to hold these capacities is one that is controlled by a being such as God.

The moral argument from knowledge will not be convincing to anyone who is committed to any form of expressivism or other non-objective metaethical theory, and clearly many philosophers find such views attractive. And there will surely be many philosophers who will judge that if moral objectivism implies theism or requires theism to be plausible, this is a reductio of objectivist views. Furthermore, non-theistic moral philosophers, whether naturalists or non-naturalists, have stories to tell about how moral knowledge might be possible. Nevertheless, there are real questions about the plausibility of these stories, and thus, some of those convinced that moral realism is true may judge that moral knowledge provides some support for theistic belief.

Many philosophers find Immanuel Kant’s moral philosophy still offers a fruitful approach to ethics. Of the various forms of the “categorical imperative” that Kant offers, the formula that regards human beings as “ends in themselves” is especially attractive: “Act in such a way that you always treat humanity, whether in your own person or in the person of any other, never simply as a means, but always at the same time as an end” (Kant 1785 [1964], 96). Many contemporary moral philosophers influenced by Kant, such as Christine Korsgaard (1996), see Kant as offering a “constructivist” metaethical position. Constructivism is supposed to offer a “third way” between moral realism and subjectivist views of morality. Like subjectivists, constructivists want to see morality as a human creation. However, like moral realists constructivists want to see moral questions as having objective answers. Constructivism is an attempt to develop an objective morality that is free of the metaphysical commitments of moral realism.

It is, however, controversial whether Kant himself was a constructivist in this sense. One reason to question whether this is the right way to read Kant follows from the fact that Kant himself did not see morality as free from metaphysical commitments. For example, Kant thought that it would be impossible for someone who believed that mechanistic determinism was the literal truth about himself to believe that he was a moral agent, since morality requires an autonomy that is incompatible with determinism. To see myself as a creature who has the kind of value Kant calls “dignity” I must not see myself merely as a machine-like product of the physical environment. Hence Kant thought that it was crucial for morality that his Critical Philosophy had shown that the deterministic perspective on humans is simply part of the “phenomenal world” that is the object of scientific knowledge, not the “noumenal reality” that it would be if some kind of scientific realism were the true metaphysical view. When we do science we see ourselves as determined, but science tells us only how the world appears, not how it really is. Recognizing this fact suggests that when Kant posits that humans have this intrinsic value he calls dignity, he is not “constructing” the value humans have, but recognizing the value beings of a certain kind must have. Humans can only have this kind of value if they are a particular kind of creature. Whether Kant himself was a moral realist or not, there are certainly elements in his philosophy that push in a realist direction.

If the claim that human persons have a kind of intrinsic dignity or worth is a true objective principle and if it provides a key foundational principle of morality, it is well worth asking what kinds of metaphysical implications the claim might have. This is the question that Mark Linville (2009, 417–446) pursues in the second moral argument he develops. Linville begins by noting that one could hardly hold that “human persons have intrinsic dignity” could be true if human persons do not exist. Clearly, some metaphysical positions do include a denial of the existence of human persons, such as forms of Absolute Monism which hold that only one Absolute Reality exists. However, it also seems to be the case that some forms of Scientific Naturalism are committed to the denial of “ persons as substantive selves that essentially possess a first-person point of view” (See Dennett 2006, 107). Daniel Dennett, for example, holds that persons will not be part of the ultimately true scientific account of things. Dennett holds that to think of humans as persons is simply to adopt a certain “stance” toward them that he calls the “intentional stance,” but it is clear that the kind of picture of humans we get when we think of them in this way does not correspond with their intrinsic metaphysical properties. It is not clear how systems towards which we adopt an “intentional stance” could be truly autonomous and thus have the kind of value Kant believes human persons have.

The argument from human dignity could be put into propositional form as follows:

• Human persons have a special kind of intrinsic value that we call dignity.
• The only (or best) explanation of the fact that humans possess dignity is that they are created by a supremely good God in God’s own image.
• Probably there is a supremely good God.

A naturalist may want to challenge premise (2) by finding some other strategy to explain human dignity. Michael Martin (2002), for example, has tried to suggest that moral judgments can be analyzed as the feelings of approval or disapproval of a perfectly impartial and informed observer. Linville (2009) objects that it is not clear how the feelings of such an observer could constitute the intrinsic worth of a person, since one would think that intrinsic properties would be non-relational and mind-independent. In any case, Linville notes that a “Euthyphro” problem lurks for such an ideal observer theory, since one would think that such an observer would judge a person to be intrinsically valuable because the person has intrinsic value.

Another strategy that is pursued by constructivists such as Korsgaard is to link the value ascribed to humans to the capacity for rational reflection. The idea is that insofar as I am committed to rational reflection, I must value myself as having this capacity, and consistently value others who have it as well. A similar strategy is found in Wielenberg’s form of ethical non-naturalism, since Wielenberg argues that it is necessarily true that any being with certain reflective capacities will have moral rights (Wielenberg, 2014, chapter 4). It is far from clear that human rationality provides an adequate ground for moral rights, however. Many people believe that young infants and people suffering from dementia still have this intrinsic dignity, but in both cases there is no capacity for rational reflection.

Some support for this criticism of the attempt to see reason as the basis of the value of humans can be found in Nicholas Wolterstorff’s recent work on justice (2007, especially Ch. 8). Wolterstorff in this work defends the claim that there are natural human rights, and that violating such rights is one way of acting unjustly towards a person. Why do humans have such rights? Wolterstorff says these rights are grounded in the basic worth or dignity that humans possess. When I seek to torture or kill an innocent human I am failing to respect this worth. If one asks why we should think humans possess such worth, Wolterstorff argues that the belief that humans have this quality was not only historically produced by Jewish and Christian conceptions of the human person, but even now cannot be defended apart from such a conception. In particular, he argues that attempts to argue that our worth stems from some excellence we possess such as reason will not explain the worth of infants or those with severe brain injuries or dementia.

Does a theistic worldview fare better in explaining the special value of human dignity? In a theistic universe God is himself seen as the supreme good. Indeed, theistic Platonists usually identify God with the Good. If God is himself a person, then this seems to be a commitment to the idea that personhood itself is something that must be intrinsically good. If human persons are made in God’s image, as both Judaism and Christianity affirm, then it would seem to follow that humans do have a kind of intrinsic value, just by way of being the kind of creatures they are.

This argument will of course be found unconvincing to many. Some will deny premise (1), either because they reject moral realism as a metaethical stance, or because they reject the normative claim that humans have any kind of special value or dignity. (Maybe they will even think that such a claim is a form of “speciesism.”). Others will find premise (2) suspect. They may be inclined to agree that human persons have a special dignity, but hold that the source of that dignity can be found in such human qualities as rationality. With respect to the status of infants and those suffering from dementia, the critic might bite the bullet and just accept the fact that human dignity does not extend to them, or else argue that the fact that infants and those suffering mental breakdown are part of a species whose members typically possess rationality merits them a special respect, even if they lack this quality as individuals. Others will find premise (2) doubtful because they find the theistic explanation of dignity unclear. Another alternative is to seek a Constructivist account of dignity, perhaps regarding the special status of humans as something we humans decide to extend to each other. Perhaps the strongest non-theistic alternative would be some form of ethical non-naturalism, in which one simply affirms that the claim that persons have a special dignity is an a priori truth requiring no explanation. In effect this is a decision for a non-theistic form of Platonism.

The proponent of the argument may well agree that claims about the special status of humans are true a priori , and thus also opt for some form of Platonism. However, the proponent of the argument will point out that some necessary truths can be explained by other necessary truths. The theist believes that these truths about the special status of humans tell us something about the kind of universe humans find themselves in. To say that humans are created by God is to say that personhood is not an ephemeral or accidental feature of the universe, because at bottom reality itself is personal (Mavrodes 1986).

As already noted, the most famous and perhaps most influential version of a moral argument for belief in God is found in Immanuel Kant (1788). Kant himself insisted that his argument was not a theoretical argument, but an argument grounded in practical reason. The conclusion of the argument is not “God exists” or “God probably exists” but “I (as a rational, moral agent) ought to believe that God exists.” We shall, however, see that there are some reasons to doubt that practical arguments can be neatly separated from theoretical arguments.

Kant’s version of the argument can be stated in different ways, but perhaps the following captures one plausible interpretation of the argument. Morality is grounded in pure practical reason, and the moral agent must act on the basis of maxims that can be rationally endorsed as universal principles. Moral actions are thus not determined by results or consequences but by the maxims on which they are based. However, all actions, including moral actions, necessarily aim at ends. Kant argues that the end that moral actions aim at is the “highest good,” which is a world in which both moral virtue and happiness are maximized, with happiness contingent on virtue. For Kant “ought implies can,” and so if I have an obligation to seek the highest good, then I must believe that it is possible to achieve such an end. However, I must seek the highest good only by acting in accordance with morality; no shortcuts to happiness are permissible. This seems to require that I believe that acting in accordance with morality will be causally efficacious in achieving the highest good. However, it is reasonable to believe that moral actions will be causally efficacious in this way only if the laws of causality are set up in such a way that these laws are conducive to the efficacy of moral action. Certainly both parts of the highest good seem difficult to achieve. We humans have weaknesses in our character that appear difficult if not impossible to overcome by our own efforts. Furthermore, as creatures we have subjective needs that must be satisfied if we are happy, but we have little empirical reason to think that these needs will be satisfied by moral actions even if we succeeded in becoming virtuous. If a person believes that the natural world is simply a non-moral machine with no moral purposiveness then that person would have no reason to believe that moral action could succeed because there is no a priori reason to think moral action will achieve the highest good and little empirical reason to believe this either. Kant thus concludes that a moral agent must “postulate” the existence of God as a rational presupposition of the moral life.

One problem with this argument is that many will deny that morality requires us to seek the highest good in Kant’s sense. Even if the Kantian highest good seems reasonable as an ideal, some will object that we have no obligation to achieve such a state, but merely to work towards realizing the closest approximation to such a state that is possible (See Adams 1987, 152). Without divine assistance, perhaps perfect virtue is unachievable, but in that case we cannot be obliged to realize such a state if there is no God. Perhaps we cannot hope that happiness will be properly proportioned to virtue in the actual world if God does not exist, but then our obligation can only be to realize as much happiness as can be attained through moral means. Kant would doubtless reject this criticism, since on his view the ends of morality are given directly to pure practical reason a priori , and we are not at liberty to adjust those ends on the basis of empirical beliefs. However, few contemporary philosophers would share Kant’s confident view of reason here, and thus to many the criticism has force. Even Kant admits at one point that full-fledged belief in God is not rationally necessary, since one could conceivably seek the highest good if one merely believes that God’s existence is possible (Kant, 1781–1787, 651).

Another way of interpreting Kant’s argument puts more stress on the connection between an individual’s desire for happiness and the obligation to do what is morally right. Morality requires me to sacrifice my personal happiness if that is necessary to do what is right. Yet it is a psychological fact that humans necessarily desire their own happiness. In such a state it looks as if human moral agents will be torn by what Henry Sidgwick called the “dualism of the practical reason” (1884, 401). Reason both requires humans to seek their own happiness and to sacrifice it. Sidgwick himself noted that only if there is a God can we hope that this dualism will be resolved, so that those who seek to act morally will in the long run also be acting so as to advance their own happiness and well-being. (Interestingly, Sidgwick himself does not endorse this argument, but he clearly sees this problem as part of the appeal of theism.) A contemporary argument similar to this one has been developed by C. Stephen Layman (2002).

The critic of this form of the Kantian argument may reply that Kantian morality sees duty as something that must be done regardless of the consequences, and thus a truly moral person cannot make his or her commitment to morality contingent on the achievement of happiness. From a Kantian point of view, this reply seems right; Kant unequivocally affirms that moral actions must be done for the sake of duty and not from any desire for personal reward. Nevertheless, especially for any philosopher willing to endorse any form of eudaimonism, seeing myself as inevitably sacrificing what I cannot help but desire for the sake of duty does seem problematic. As John Hare affirms, “If we are to endorse wholeheartedly the long-term shape of our lives, we have to see this shape as consistent with our happiness” (1996, 88).

The critic may reply to this by simply accepting the lamentable fact that there is something tragic or even absurd about the human condition. The world may not be the world we wish it was, but that does not give us any reason to believe it is different from what it is. If there is a tension between the demands of morality and self-interest, then this may simply be a brute fact that must be faced.

This reply raises an issue for all forms of practical or pragmatic arguments for belief. Many philosophers insist that rational belief must be grounded solely in theoretical evidence. The fact that it would be better for me to believe p does not in itself give me any reason to believe p. This criticism is aimed not merely at Kant, but at other practical moral arguments. For example, Robert Adams argues that if humans believe there is no moral order to the universe, then they will become demoralized in their pursuit of morality, which is morally undesirable (1987, 151). The atheist might concede that atheism is (somewhat) demoralizing, but deny that this provides any reason to believe there is a moral order to the universe. Similarly, Linda Zagzebski (1987) argues that morality will not be a rational enterprise unless good actions increase the amount of good in the world. However, given that moral actions often involve the sacrifice of happiness, there is no reason to believe moral action will increase the good unless there is a power transcendent of human activity working on the side of the good. Here the atheist may claim that moral action does increase the good because such actions always increase good character. However, even if that reply fails the atheist may again simply admit that there may be something tragic or absurd about the human condition, and the fact that we may wish things were different is not a reason to believe that they are. So the problem must be faced: Are practical arguments merely rationalized wish-fulfillment?

The theist might respond to this kind of worry in several ways. The first thing to be said is that the fact that a naturalistic view of the universe implies that the universe must be tragic or absurd, if correct, would itself be an important and interesting conclusion. However, apart from this, it makes a great deal of difference how one construes what we might call the background epistemic situation. If one believes that our theoretical evidence favors atheism, then it seems plausible to hold that one ought to maintain a naturalistic view, even if it is practically undesirable that the world have such a character. In that case a practical argument for religious belief could be judged a form of wish-fulfillment. However, this does not seem to be the way those who support such a practical argument see the situation. Kant affirms that the limits of reason established in The Critique of Pure Reason would silence all objections to morality and religion “in Socratic fashion, namely, by the clearest proof of the ignorance of the objectors.” (1781, 1787, 30. See also 530–531) In fact, the situation actually favors theism, since Kant holds that theoretical reason sees value in the concept of God as a regulative ideal, even though God’s existence cannot be theoretically affirmed as knowledge. If we appeal to God’s will to explain what happens in the natural order, we undermine both science and religion, since in that case we would no longer seek empirical evidence for causality and we would make God into a finite object in the natural world (1781, 1787, 562–563). However, as a regulative ideal, the concept of God is one that theoretical reason finds useful: “The assumption of a supreme intelligence, as the one and only cause of the universe, though in the idea alone, can therefore always benefit reason and can never injure it” (1781, 1787, 560). There is a sense in which theoretical reason itself inclines towards affirmation of God, because it must assume that reality is rationally knowable: “If one wishes to achieve systematic knowledge of the world, he ought to regard it as if it were created by a supreme reason.” (Kant 1786, 298) Although theoretical reason cannot affirm the existence of God, it finds it useful to think of the natural world as having the kinds of characteristics it would have if God did exist. Thus, if rational grounds for belief in God come from practical reason, theoretical reason will raise no objections.

For Kant the argument from practical reason for belief in God is not a form of wish-fulfillment because its ground is not an arbitrary desire or wish but “a real need associated with reason” (Kant, 1786, 296). Human beings are not purely theoretical spectators of the universe, but agents. It is not always rational or even possible to refrain from action, and yet action presupposes beliefs about the way things are (For a good interpretation and defense of this view of Kant on the relation between action and belief, see Wood 1970, 17–25). Thus, in some cases suspension of judgment is not possible. The critic may object that a person may act as if p were true without believing p. However, it is not clear that this advice to distinguish action on the basis of p and belief that p can always be followed. For one thing, it seems empirically the case that one way of acquiring belief that p is simply to begin to act as if p were true. Hence, to begin to act as if p were true is at least to embark upon a course of action that makes belief in p more likely. Second, there may well be a sense of “belief” in which “acting as if p were true” is sufficient to constitute belief. This is obviously the case on pragmatist accounts of belief. But even those who reject a general pragmatic account of belief may well find something like this appealing with respect to religious belief. Many religious believers hold that the best way to measure a person’s religious faith is in terms of the person’s actions. Thus, a person who is willing to act on the basis of a religious conception, especially if those actions are risky or costly, is truly a religious believer, even if that person is filled with doubt and anxiety. Such a person might well be construed as more truly a believer than a person who smugly “assents” to religious doctrines but is unwilling to act on them.

Perhaps the right way to think of practical moral arguments is not to see them as justifying belief without evidence, but as shifting the amount of evidence seen as necessary. This is the lesson some would draw from the phenomenon of “pragmatic encroachment” that has been much discussed in recent epistemology. Here is an example of pragmatic encroachment:

You: I am about to replace the ceiling fan in the kitchen. Spouse: Did you turn off the main electrical power to the house? You: Yes. Spouse: If you forgot you could electrocute yourself. You: I better go back and check. (See McBrayer 2014, Rizzieri 2013).

A plausible interpretation of this scenario is that ordinarily claims such as the one I made, based on memory, are justified, and count as knowledge. However, in this situation, the stakes are raised because my life is at risk, and my knowledge is lost because the pragmatic situation has “encroached” on the normal truth-oriented conditions for knowledge. Pragmatic encroachment is controversial and the idea of such encroachment is rejected by some epistemologists. However, defenders hold that it is reasonable to consider the pragmatic stakes in considering evidence for a belief that underlies significant action (see Fantl and McGrath 2007). If this is correct, then it seems reasonable to consider the pragmatic situation in determining how much evidence is sufficient to justify religious beliefs. In theory the adjustment could go in either direction, depending on what costs are associated with a mistake and on which side those costs lie.

In any case it is not clear that practical moral arguments can always be clearly distinguished from theoretical moral arguments. The reason this is so is that in many cases the practical situation described seems itself to be or involve a kind of evidence for the truth of the belief being justified. Take, for example, Kant’s classic argument. One thing Kant’s argument does is call to our attention that it would be enormously odd to believe that human beings are moral creatures subject to an objective moral law, but also to believe that the universe that humans inhabit is indifferent to morality. In other words, the existence of human persons understood as moral beings can itself be understood as a piece of evidence about the character of the universe humans find themselves in. Peter Byrne (2013, 1998) has criticized practical arguments on the grounds that they presuppose something like the following proposition: “The world is likely to be organized so as to meet our deepest human needs.” Byrne objects that this premise is likely to be false if there is no God and thus arguments that assume it appear circular. However, it is not clear that only those who already believe in God will find this premise attractive. The reason for this is that humans are themselves part of the natural universe, and it seems a desirable feature of a metaphysical view that it explain (rather than explain away) features of human existence that seem real and important.

It seems likely therefore that any appeal to a practical argument will include some theoretical component as well, even if that component is not always made explicit. Nevertheless, this does not mean that practical arguments do not have some important and distinctive features. For Kant it was important that religious beliefs stem from practical reason. For if religious belief were grounded solely in theoretical reason, then such belief would have to conform to “extrinsic and arbitrary legislation.” (Kant 1790, 131) Kant thinks such a religion would be one grounded in “fear and submission,” and thus it is good that religious belief is motivated mainly by a free moral act by which the “final end of our being” is presented to us. (1790, 159) For any practical argument makes religious belief existential; the issue is not merely what I believe to be true about the universe but how I shall live my life in that universe.

It seems clear that no version of the moral argument constitutes a “proof” of God’s existence. Each version contains premises that many reasonable thinkers reject. However, this does not mean the arguments have no force. One might think of each version of the argument as attempting to spell out the “cost” of rejecting the conclusion. Some philosophers will certainly be willing to pay the cost, and indeed have independent reasons for doing so. However, it would certainly be interesting and important if one became convinced that atheism required one to reject moral realism altogether, or to embrace an implausible account of how moral knowledge is acquired. For those who think that some version or versions of the arguments have force, the cumulative case for theistic belief may be raised by such arguments.

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• –––, 2010, “On the Evolutionary Debunking of Morality,” Ethics 120(3): 441–464.
• –––, 2014, Robust Ethics: The Metaphysics and Epistemology of Godless Normative Realism , Oxford: Oxford University Press.
• –––, 2020, “Divine Command Theory and Psychopathy,” Religious Studies 56(4): 542–57.
• Wolterstorff, N., 2007, Justice: Rights and Wrongs , Princeton: Princeton University Press.
• Wood, A., 1970, Kant’s Moral Religion , Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
• Zagzebski, L., 2004, “Does Ethics Need God?” Faith and Philosophy , 4: 294–303.

How to cite this entry . Preview the PDF version of this entry at the Friends of the SEP Society . Look up topics and thinkers related to this entry at the Internet Philosophy Ontology Project (InPhO). Enhanced bibliography for this entry at PhilPapers , with links to its database.

• Byrne, Peter, “Moral Arguments for the Existence of God”, Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Spring 2013 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.), URL = < https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/spr2013/entries/moral-arguments-god/ >. [This was the previous entry on moral arguments for the existence of God in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy — see the version history .]
• Divine Command Theory , entry by Michael Austin, in the Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy.

Aquinas, Thomas | Darwinism | Kant, Immanuel: and Hume on morality | Kant, Immanuel: philosophy of religion | -->Mackie, John Leslie --> | metaethics | Mill, John Stuart | moral anti-realism | moral epistemology | moral non-naturalism | moral realism | naturalism: moral | Nietzsche, Friedrich | Platonism: in metaphysics | pragmatic arguments and belief in God | religious experience | Sidgwick, Henry | voluntarism, theological

Acknowledgments

The authors wish to thank Trent Dougherty and Mark Linville for reading a draft of this essay and making many useful suggestions. Matthew Wilson also deserves thanks for tracking many bibliographical references and page numbers.

Copyright © 2022 by C. Stephen Evans < C_Stephen_Evans @ baylor . edu > David Baggett < dbaggett @ hbu . edu >

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existence of God

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existence of God , in religion , the proposition that there is a supreme supernatural or preternatural being that is the creator or sustainer or ruler of the universe and all things in it, including human beings. In many religions God is also conceived as perfect and unfathomable by humans, as all-powerful and all-knowing (omnipotent and omniscient), and as the source and ultimate ground of morality .

Belief in the existence of God (or gods) is definitional of theism and characteristic of many (though not all) religious traditions. For much of its history , Christianity in particular has been concerned with the question of whether God’s existence can be established rationally (i.e., by reason alone or by reason informed by sense experience) or through religious experience or revelation or instead must be accepted as a matter of faith . The remainder of this article will consider some historically influential arguments that have been advanced to demonstrate the existence of God.

Arguments for the existence of God are usually classified as either a priori or a posteriori —that is, based on the idea of God itself or based on experience. An example of the latter is the cosmological argument , which appeals to the notion of causation to conclude either that there is a first cause or that there is a necessary being from whom all contingent beings derive their existence. Other versions of this approach include the appeal to contingency—to the fact that whatever exists might not have existed and therefore calls for explanation—and the appeal to the principle of sufficient reason , which claims that for anything that exists there must be a sufficient reason why it exists. The arguments by St. Thomas Aquinas known as the Five Ways—the argument from motion, from efficient causation, from contingency , from degrees of perfection, and from final causes or ends in nature—are generally regarded as cosmological. Something must be the first or prime mover, the first efficient cause, the necessary ground of contingent beings, the supreme perfection that imperfect beings approach, and the intelligent guide of natural things toward their ends. This, Aquinas said, is God. The most common criticism of the cosmological argument has been that the phenomenon that God’s existence supposedly accounts for does not in fact need to be explained.

The argument from design also starts from human experience: in this case the perception of order and purpose in the natural world. The argument claims that the universe is strongly analogous , in its order and regularity, to an artifact such as a watch; because the existence of the watch justifies the presumption of a watchmaker, the existence of the universe justifies the presumption of a divine creator of the universe, or God. Despite the powerful criticisms of the Scottish philosopher David Hume (1711–76)—e.g., that the evidence is compatible with a large number of hypotheses , such as polytheism or a god of limited power, that are as plausible as or more plausible than monotheism —the argument from design continued to be very popular in the 19th century. According to a more recent version of the argument, known as intelligent design , biological organisms display a kind of complexity (“irreducible complexity”) that could not have come about through the gradual adaptation of their parts through natural selection ; therefore, the argument concludes, such organisms must have been created in their present form by an intelligent designer. Other modern variants of the argument attempt to ground theistic belief in patterns of reasoning that are characteristic of the natural sciences, appealing to simplicity and economy of explanation of the order and regularity of the universe.

Perhaps the most sophisticated and challenging argument for the existence of God is the ontological argument , propounded by St. Anselm of Canterbury . According to Anselm, the concept of God as the most perfect being—a being greater than which none can be conceived—entails that God exists, because a being who was otherwise all perfect and who failed to exist would be less great than a being who was all perfect and who did exist. This argument has exercised an abiding fascination for philosophers; some contend that it attempts to “define” God into existence, while others continue to defend it and to develop new versions.

It may be possible (or impossible) to prove the existence of God, but it may be unnecessary to do so in order for belief in God to be reasonable. Perhaps the requirement of a proof is too stringent, and perhaps there are other ways of establishing God’s existence. Chief among these is the appeal to religious experience—a personal, direct acquaintance with God or an experience of God mediated through a religious tradition. Some forms of mysticism appeal to religious tradition to establish the significance and appropriateness of religious experiences. Interpretations of such experiences, however, typically cannot be independently verified.

The Abrahamic religions ( Judaism , Christianity , and Islam ) also appeal to revelation, or to claims that God has spoken through appointed messengers to disclose matters which would otherwise be inaccessible. In Christianity these matters have included the doctrine of creation, the Trinity , and the Incarnation of Jesus Christ . Various attempts have been made to establish the reasonableness of the appeal to revelation through the witness of the church and through signs and miracles , all of which are thought to herald the authentic voice of God. (This is the context in which Hume’s classic critique of the credibility of reported miracles—that no amount or kind of evidence can establish that a miracle has occurred—must be understood.) Yet appeals to revelation by the various religions conflict with each other, and the appeal to revelation itself is open to the charge of circularity.

The Existence of God: Key Arguments Essay

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The existence of God has been a big subject in philosophy, and attempts to prove or disprove his existence have been made since time immemorial. Famous philosophers such as Rene Descartes, St. Thomas Aquinas, and William Paley have all conceived arguments to prove the existence of God. Although there are many other arguments trying to prove the existence of God, nevertheless, the arguments proposed by the three above-mentioned thinkers have the most significance in philosophy. This essay is going to provide two arguments for the existence of God.

The anthropic principle is an argument of the existence of a reasonable plan for the structure of the Universe. According to this argument, only God may create the complex structure of nature, universe, and life on the Earth. Such phenomena as a fixed distance of Earth from the Sun, the presence of the Earth’s rotation, the existence of a satellite of certain sizes, minerals and resources could be created only under the control of someone mighty.

The cosmological proof of the existence of God was developed by the ancients (in particular, by Aristotle) and is most often found in the following form. Everything in the world and everything, the entire universe as a whole, has a reason for its existence. Furthermore, the argument states that it is impossible to continue this sequence, the chain of causes indefinitely – somewhere there must be a root cause that is already no other is conditioned (Reichenbach, 2022). Otherwise, everything turns out to be groundless, hanging in the air.

Finally, the transcendental proof of the existence of an ideal world and God was partially discovered by Kant and can be presented as follows. There is a world outside of space and time – the spiritual world, the world of intelligence, thought, and free will, which is proved by the presence in every person of thoughts. According to the argument, this world can relate to the past and the future, that is, ‘travel’ into the past and the future, as well as being instantly transported to any point in space.

Reichenbach, Bruce. (2022). Cosmological Argument. The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (2022 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.). Web.

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Academia Bees

Acknowledgement to God for Project and Thesis (5 Samples)

October 18, 2023

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By Mohsin Khurshid

In the journey of our academic endeavors, it’s crucial to acknowledge the divine guidance and inspiration that have been our silent companions. This article delves into acknowledging God in your project and thesis.

Table of Contents

• 1.1 Acknowledgement to God
• 1.2 Acknowledgement for God
• 1.3 Acknowledgement to God for Project
• 1.4 Acknowledgment to God for Thesis
• 1.5 Sample Acknowledgement Letter to God
• 3 Conclusion

Five Samples of Acknowledgement for God

Below, you’ll find five heartfelt samples that reflect the deep appreciation and gratitude felt towards the Almighty for His unwavering support throughout the project journey.

Acknowledgement to God

In this profound journey of knowledge and self-discovery, I extend my heartfelt gratitude to the Almighty, the divine architect of my life. His guiding light has permeated every facet of my project, illuminating my path with wisdom and inspiration.

I acknowledge His boundless grace, which has been the cornerstone of my perseverance. It is with profound humility that I express my gratitude to God, who, through His unwavering support, has made this academic achievement possible.

Acknowledgement for God

Throughout this academic pursuit, I offer my deepest acknowledgments to the Creator of the universe. His divine wisdom and benevolence have been my unwavering sources of strength and inspiration. In the journey of this project, His presence was palpable, guiding me through every challenge.

With profound gratitude, I acknowledge God’s role in my success, for it is through His blessings that I have found unwavering determination and the ability to surmount academic hurdles.

Acknowledgement to God for Project

I humbly express my heartfelt gratitude to the Lord, whose presence has been the guiding force behind my academic endeavors. His divine blessings, unwavering support, and boundless inspiration have sustained me throughout this project. In every step, His hand has been a beacon of light, steering me towards success.

I acknowledge the Lord’s gracious influence with profound humility and gratitude, as it is through His divine intervention that I have triumphed in my academic journey.

Acknowledgment to God for Thesis

In composing this thesis, I find it paramount to acknowledge the divine presence of God. His guidance, which transcends human understanding, has been paramount throughout this academic journey. In acknowledging God in this thesis, I am reminded of His omnipotence and benevolence.

His wisdom and blessings have transcended the pages of this work, inspiring me to delve deeper into knowledge. It is through acknowledging God in this thesis that I seek to embody the values of faith and humility in my academic accomplishments.

Sample Acknowledgement Letter to God

I pen this letter with the utmost gratitude and humility. As I reflect on the completion of my academic journey and the creation of this thesis, I am compelled to express my profound appreciation for Your divine guidance. Your unwavering presence has been my beacon, transcending the realms of human understanding.

This acknowledgement letter to God represents my heartfelt thanks for Your wisdom and blessings that have shaped every word and thought within this work. May Your divine light continue to illuminate my path as I endeavor to acknowledge You in all aspects of my life. With deepest gratitude and reverence.

Yours faithfully,

[Your Name]

Why is it important to acknowledge God in a thesis or project?

Acknowledging God in a thesis or project is essential as it represents the acknowledgment of a higher power that transcends human knowledge. It shows humility and gratitude for divine guidance throughout the academic journey, reminding us that our abilities are limited, and there is a greater force at play. This acknowledgment helps to inspire faith, motivation, and a sense of purpose in one’s academic endeavors.

How to acknowledge god effectively in a thesis or project?

To effectively acknowledge God in a thesis or project, one can include a dedicated section expressing gratitude and recognizing God’s role in providing guidance, wisdom, and blessings during the academic journey. It should be a sincere expression of faith and humility. Additionally, using simple and heartfelt language can make this acknowledgment meaningful and resonate with readers.

In all your academic paths, remember to acknowledge the Lord in all your ways. It’s a reminder of the divine presence that guides our steps.

Acknowledgement for Practical File (7 Samples)

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The son of either Poseidon or Aegeus and Aethra , Theseus was widely considered the greatest Athenian hero , the king who managed to politically unify Attica under the aegis of Athens . Son of either Aegeus , the king of Athens , or Poseidon , the god of the sea, and Aethra , a princess, Theseus was raised by his mother in the palaces of Troezen . Upon reaching adulthood and finding out the identity of his father, he set out on a journey to Athens, during which he managed to outwit and overpower few notorious brigands: Periphetes, Sinis, Phaea , Sciron, Cercyon, and Procrustes. In Athens, after thwarting Medea ’s attempts to eliminate him and capturing the Marathonian Bull, he volunteered to be one of the fourteen young Athenians sent to Crete as a sacrifice to the Minotaur so as to be able to kill the monster inside his Labyrinth. With the help of Ariadne who gave him a ball of thread to navigate himself inside the maze, Theseus managed to find and slay the Minotaur , after which he set sail back to Athens. There he ruled admirably for many years before an unsuccessful attempt (taken with his friend Pirithous ) to abduct Persephone from the Underworld resulted in his deposition and, consequently, treacherous murder by Lycomedes of Scyros.

Theseus in Troezen: Foreshadowings of a Hero

The night Theseus was conceived, his mother Aethra slept with Aegeus, the king of Athens, and Poseidon, the god of the sea. Whoever his father had been, Theseus’ exceptional parentage was evident even in his early years. Soon after Theseus reached adulthood, Aethra sent him to Athens.

The Story of Theseus’ Birth

Even after two wives – Meta and Chalciope – Aegeus, the esteemed king of Athens, was still childless. Fearing the intentions of his three brothers, he headed off to Pythia to learn from the Oracle if he will ever produce a male heir. As always, the advice was all but straightforward: “The bulging mouth of the wineskin, o best of men, loose not until thou hast reached the height of Athens.” Aegeus didn’t understand any of this and sorrowfully set out on a journey back home. On his way to Athens, however, he did make one stop: calling at Troezen , he didn’t miss the chance to ask its king Pittheus if he would help him decipher the Oracle’s ambiguous reply. Pittheus , wise as he famously was, understood it perfectly, but chose to use the knowledge to his benefit: wishing for a nephew with Aegeus’ blood, he got his guest drunk and then introduced him to his daughter Aethra; Aegeus slept with her, a few hours before Poseidon, the mighty god of the sea, did the same. Nine months later, Aethra gave birth to a beautiful child: Theseus.

Heracles’ Lion Skin

Whether the son of a god or an exceptional mortal, Theseus was discernibly unlike his peers even as a child, outshining them in every category. One time, when Heracles visited Pittheus’ kingdom and took off his lion-skin before sitting at the dinner table, the children of the palace, mistaking it for a real lion, all fled in fear and alarm. Theseus calmly took an ax and attacked the skin; even back then, watching the scene with eyes full of love and awe, Aethra already knew what she was supposed to do in few years’ time.

The Sword and the Sandals

Because, you see, before Aegeus left Troezen, he hid his sword and a pair of sandals under a great rock. “If you bore a son in nine months,” he told Aethra, “and if he is able to lift this rock once he reaches manhood – then send him to Athens with this sword and these sandals, for then I’d know that he is, indeed, my son, the future king of Athens.” When the time came, Aethra led Theseus to the rock and relayed to him his father’s message. Theseus lifted the rock with ease and, equipped with Theseus’ tokens of paternity, hit the road to Athens.

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On the Road to Athens

Sending him off to Athens, Aethra begged Theseus to travel by sea and, thus, bypass all the dangers which, by all accounts, lay on the land-route ahead of him. Theseus, however, wanted to earn himself a reputation worthy of a formidable hero before meeting his father. And by the time he reached Athens, he had vanquished so many famous villains – each with a memorable modus operandi – that people were already eager to compare him to his childhood idol, Heracles .

Periphetes, the Club-Bearer

Wielding a bronze club, Periphetes haunted the road near Epidaurus, threatening to savagely beat any traveler daring to cross paths with him. But Theseus wasn’t just any traveler: before Periphetes could realize, he managed to grab the club out of his hands and beat him to death with his own weapon. Emulating Heracles’ actions (who barely slipped out of the skin of the Nemean lion after completing his first labor), Theseus appropriated Periphetes’ club and, soon enough, it became the most recognizable piece of his equipment.

Sinis , the Pine-Bender

Before leaving Peloponnese, Theseus happened upon Sinis, the Pine Bender, so called because of his notorious habit of tying casual travelers to bent-down pine trees, which, upon release, instantaneously tore in two anyone unfortunate enough to be caught by this brutish bandit. However – and somewhat expectedly – Sinis was no match for Theseus: once again, the Athenian hero prevailed using his enemy’s own method of destruction.

Phaea, the Crommyonian Sow

An offspring of Typhon and Echidna , the Crommyonian Sow was either a huge wild pig which troubled the lands around Corinth and Megara or a vicious female robber nicknamed “The Sow” because of her appearance and vulgar manners. Either way, Theseus had no problems dealing with her as well.

Sciron, the Feet-Washer

Not much further, on the rocky coastal road of the Isthmus of Corinth , Theseus encountered Sciron, a mighty brigand who would force passing travelers to wash his feet – only so that he is able to kick his kneeling victims off the cliffs into the sea where a giant sea turtle waited to devour them. Recognizing the danger, once he bent down, Theseus grabbed Sciron by his foot, lifted him up, and then hurled him into the sea. The turtle got its meal either way.

Cercyon, the Wrestler

Compared to the other five malefactors Theseus came across on his road to Athens, Cercyon of Eleusis was somewhat old school: he challenged passersby on a win-or-die wrestling match. Not a good idea when your opponent is Theseus! Needless to say, it was Cercyon who got the wrong side of the proposed bargain. Or as a Greek poet put it in both humorous and oblique manner: Theseus “closed the wrestling school of Cercyon.”

Procrustes, the Stretcher

At first sight, Procrustes seemed a kind man: he offered his house as a shelter to any traveler in need who happened to run into him. The house had two beds, a short and a long one. However, once the ill-fated traveler would choose and lay down in one of them, Procrustes made sure to make him fit the bed ( not the other way around), either by using his infernal apparatus to elongate his extremities or by hammering down his length. As it should be evident by now, Theseus eventually dealt with his host in the same way he did with his guests. And even though we don’t know which one of Procrustes’ two beds spelled the end for Procrustes, it couldn’t have been a pleasurable experience either way.

Theseus in Athens: An Unwelcomed Guest

In Athens, Theseus was quickly recognized by Medea , the wife of his father, Aegeus. So, before Aegeus could make out Theseus’ identity, the hero had to prove his worth and capture the Marathonian Bull.

Aegeus and Medea

When Theseus arrived in Athens, he had the misfortune of being recognized by the wrong person: not by his father Aegeus, but by his then-wife, the sorceress Medea. Obviously, Medea didn’t want Aegeus to be succeeded in his throne by a son from a previous marriage, so she resolved to kill Theseus. She had no problem convincing Aegeus to her side, since the Athenian king still feared that he would be killed by one of his brother’s sons or, even worse, by an outsider. So, soon after arriving in Athens, Aegeus sent Theseus to capture the Marathonian Bull.

The Marathonian Bull

Now, the Marathonian Bull is actually the same bull Heracles managed to capture for his seventh labor. Formerly known as the Cretan Bull , the creature was either set free by Heracles or escaped from Tiryns by itself. After traversing the Isthmus of Corinth, it arrived at Marathon and bothered its inhabitants for years before Theseus finally managed to master it. After showing it to Aegeus and Medea, Theseus killed the Bull and sacrificed it to Apollo .

The Cup of Poison: Theseus Recognized

Medea didn’t expect Theseus to emerge victorious from his clash with the Marathonian Bull; nevertheless, she did have a Plan B, which included a feast and a cup of poison. Fortunately, barely a second before the poison touched Theseus’ lips, Aegeus recognized his sword and his sandals – and, moreover, Medea’s cruel intentions. Two proclamations followed, one naming Theseus as Aegeus’ rightful successor to the throne, and another banishing Medea from Athens forevermore.

Theseus in Crete

Soon after Theseus’ return to Athens, it was due for Aegeus to pay the third yearly tribute to Minos , the king of Crete . Namely, in recompense for the death of Minos ’ son, Androgeus – once savagely killed by the Athenians out of jealousy and envy – Athens obliged to regularly send fourteen of its noblest young men and women to Crete, where each of them was destined to meet the same end: to be thrown into Daedalus ’ Labyrinth and be devoured by the monstrous half-man half-bull Minotaur.

Ariadne and the Minotaur

Always in pursuit for fame and glory – and now deeply despaired over the gruesome fate awaiting the innocent young Athenians – Theseus resolved to do something about this. So, when the time came, he volunteered to go to Crete, where Ariadne , Minos’ beautiful daughter, fell in love with him upon arrival, the very moment she laid eyes on the muscular Athenian prince. Determined to assist him, she begged Daedalus to tell her the secret of the Labyrinth, which, eventually, the old craftsman agreed to. And when the time came for Theseus to enter the Labyrinth, Ariadne gave him a ball of thread (provided by Daedalus) that was supposed to help him navigate himself inside the structure and guide him safely out of it.

Comforted by the fact that he would always be able to find his way out, Theseus delved deep into the Labyrinth and found the Minotaur haunting its innermost depths. As beastly as he was, the Minotaur was no match for Theseus’ strength and determination: after a brief fight, the Athenian killed the monster and followed the thread back to safety.

Theseus and Ariadne

Now, Theseus had promised Ariadne to marry her before even making his first step inside the Labyrinth; and, that’s the first thing he did after coming out of it safe and sound. After the brief marital ceremony, he took Ariadne with him and, together with the other young Athenians, left Crete. Strangely, his marriage with Ariadne lasted no more than just a few days: as soon as his ships reached the island of Dia (later called Naxos), Theseus left the sleeping Ariadne behind him and sailed away. Some say that he did this because he had fallen in love with another girl in the meantime (Panopeus’ daughter Aegle); others – because he had no choice but to obey the will of Dionysus who wanted Ariadne for himself. The latter claim that the god arrived on the island of Dia just moments after Theseus had left it, and swiftly carried Ariadne off in his chariot to be his beloved and immortal wife.

Theseus, the King of Athens

A broken promise.

Before setting off for Crete, Theseus had promised his father that, if he survived the Minotaur, he would change his ship’s black sail to a white one. Thus, Aegeus would be able to discern from some distance whether his son was still alive. Unfortunately, he either forgot his promise altogether or was too distraught to make the change on time. Watching from a vantage point, Aegeus couldn’t bear the sight he had most dreaded to see, so he hurled himself to his death straight away.

Unification of Attica

Theseus was now the king of Athens – and what a king he was! The list of his achievements is rather lengthy, but most authors agree that the greatest among them was the successful political unification ( synoikismos ) of Attica under Athens. In addition, Theseus is credited with instituting the festival of the Panathenaea and the Isthmian Games.

Phaedra and Hippolytus

From his expedition against the Amazons (see below), Theseus brought back to Athens one of their queens – either Antiope or Hippolyte – and she subsequently bore him a son, Hippolytus . After some time, he grew bored with his wife, so he found himself another: strangely enough, none other than Ariadne’s sister, Phaedra ! Phaedra gave Theseus two children – Acamas and Demophon – but, then, to her surprise, fell madly in love with her stepson, Hippolytus . After Hippolytus rejected her advances, she told Theseus that he had tried to rape her. Theseus cursed Hippolytus and, before long, his curse came true: Hippolytus was dragged to death by his horses. Either out of grief or because her treachery was exposed in the meantime, Phaedra hanged herself.

Theseus and Pirithous

While a king, Theseus befriended the king of the Lapiths, Pirithous . He shared numerous adventures with him, the most famous among them being the hunt for the Calydonian Boar , the Centauromachy, and an expedition among the Amazons , from which – to the utter dismay of the women warriors – both returned with new wives. Some years later, the two friends attempted a similar raid in the Underworld, but the abduction of Hades ’ wife, Persephone , didn’t go according to plan: instead of getting Persephone out of there, Theseus and Pirithous remained stuck inside, fixed immovable to two enchanted seats. On his way to capturing Cerberus , Heracles noticed and recognized the heroes ; even though, with some effort, he managed to free Theseus, the earth shook when he tried to do the same with Pirithous; so, Heracles had no choice but to leave Pirithous in the Underworld forevermore.

The Death of Theseus

Once freed from the Underworld, Theseus hurried back to Athens only to find out that the city now had a new ruler: Menestheus. He fled right away for refuge to Lycomedes, the king of the island of Scyros. A tragic mistake, since Lycomedes was a supporter of Menestheus! After a few days of feigned hospitality, Lycomedes took the unsuspecting Theseus on a tour of the island; the second they reached its highest cliff, he violently pushed Theseus to his death.

The Aftermath

Generations passed without much thought being given to Theseus. Then, during the Persian wars, Athenian soldiers reported seeing the ghost of Theseus, clad in bronze armor and in full charge, and came to believe that he was responsible for their victories. The Athenian general Cimon received a command from the Oracle at Delphi to find Theseus' bones and return them to Athens. He did so, and the gigantic skeleton of Theseus was reburied in a magnificent tomb in the heart of Athens, which thereon served as a sanctuary for the defenseless and the oppressed of the world.

Theseus Sources

Mentioned in both the “Iliad” and the “Odyssey,” Theseus is an important character in Euripides’ play “ Hippolytus .” Ovid recounts his conflict with Medea and the Minotaur in the seventh and the eighth book of his “Metamorphoses.” The first biography narrated in Plutarch’s influential “Parallel Lives” is that of Theseus .

See Also: Theseus Adventures , Minotaur, Aegeus, Aethra, Cretan Bull , Ariadne, Phaedra, Pirithous, Calydonian Boar

Theseus Q&A

Who was theseus.

The son of either Poseidon or Aegeus and Aethra , Theseus was widely considered the greatest Athenian hero , the king who managed to politically unify Attica under the aegis of Athens . Son of either Aegeus , the king of Athens , or Poseidon , the god of the sea, and Aethra , a princess, Theseus was raised by his mother in the palaces of Troezen .

What did Theseus rule over?

Theseus ruled over the Athens .

Where did Theseus live?

Theseus ' home was Athens .

Who were the parents of Theseus?

The parents of Theseus were Aegeus and Aethra .

Who were the consorts of Theseus?

Theseus ' consorts were Perigune, Antiope, Ariadne and Phaedra .

How many children did Theseus have?

Theseus had 4 children: Melanippus , Hippolytus , Acamas and Demophon .

Which were the symbols of Theseus?

Theseus ' symbol was the Club.

Theseus Associations

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The Kingdom of God

Other essays.

The kingdom of God is the rule of God over his people in his creation, established through his Messiah in the new covenant, which is now present in the world, though it is awaiting its fulfillment at the second coming of Christ.

The kingdom of God is central to the biblical story of redemption. The story follows the narrative of the fall of Adam and Eve, the calling of the nation of Israel, and the coming of the promised Messiah. When Jesus came as the Messiah, he established God’s kingdom in the new covenant through his death and resurrection, and now reigns from heaven. One day he will return to consummate the blessings of the kingdom, at which time he will set up the new Eden of God’s kingdom in the new heavens and new earth. In the meantime, we live in the already and not yet of the kingdom, serving our King and looking for his return.

“The kingdom is the King’s power over the King’s people in the King’s place” (see Patrick Schreiner, The Kingdom of God and the Glory of the Cross , 18). The kingdom of God has its roots in the Old Testament and is launched in Christ’s public ministry, as he teaches, performs miracles, and casts out demons (Matt. 13:1–50; 12:28). The life, death, and resurrection of Christ accomplishes the kingdom promises of a new covenant. When Jesus ascends to God’s right hand, the place of greatest power, the kingdom expands (Eph. 1:20–21), and thousands enter the kingdom through the apostles’s preaching (Acts 2:41, 47). The fullness of the kingdom awaits Christ’s return, when he will sit on his glorious throne (Matt. 25:31). Jesus will judge the world, inviting believers into the final stage of the kingdom while banishing unbelievers to hell (25:34, 41).

Kingdom of God, Past

The kingdom of God speaks of God’s universal rule (Ps. 103:17–22; Dan. 4:34–35; 7:13–14), but it is also his particular rule over his people. Even though the expression “kingdom of God” does not appear in the Old Testament, the concept does, with God reigning over his people Israel in a unique sense (Exod. 19:6). God creates humankind for his glory, making promises of a deliverer to Adam and Eve, a nation to come from Abraham that will bless the world, and an eternal kingdom to David and his descendants, which include the Messiah.

God creates for his glory and his people’s good. He creates human beings in his image to love and serve him and to rule his creation (Gen. 1:26–31). In the fall, Adam and Eve rebel against God’s goals, bringing in the rule of sin and death (Gen. 3). In mercy, God promises a deliverer (Gen. 3:15) and later enters into a formal relationship (a covenant) with Abraham, promising him a land and a people, through whom God will bless all families of the earth (Gen. 12:1–3). At Sinai, God gives the Ten Commandments and establishes the descendants of Abraham, the people of Israel, as the people of God.

God expands his promises to Abraham in a covenant with David, to whom God promises a dynasty and an eternal kingdom (2 Sam. 7:12–16). Isaiah foretells the coming of one who will be both God and man and will reign on David’s throne forever (Isa. 9:6–7). Finally, God promises a new covenant characterized by obedience to his word, widespread knowledge of God, forgiveness, and newness of life (Jer. 31:31–34). The Old Testament ends at the book of Malachi with God’s people continuing to turn away from him, but also with a promise of one who will come to prepare the way for the Messiah (Mal. 3:1).

So, although the kingdom of God appears in the Old Testament, both in God’s universal rule as well as in his particular rule over Israel, it comes with newness and power in the New Testament. Jesus, the Messiah, inaugurates the kingdom in his coming, expands it in his exaltation, and will consummate it at his return.

The Kingdom of God, Present

In the New Testament, the promised Messiah comes as “Jesus Christ, the Son of David, the Son of Abraham” (Matt. 1:1). Through his incarnation, sinless life, crucifixion, and resurrection, Jesus fulfills the messianic promises, accomplishes the messianic mission, and brings redemption to a lost world.

Jesus is the King whose words and deeds bring the spiritual kingdom of God. He proclaims the coming of the kingdom (Matt. 4:17; Mark 1:15; Luke 4:43), preaches the parables of the kingdom (Matt. 13:1–50), and declares the ethics and nature of the kingdom (Matt. 5–7). His deeds, especially his casting out demons by the Spirit, usher in the kingdom: “If I drive out demons by the Spirit of God, then the kingdom of God has come upon you” (Matt. 12:28; cf. Luke 11:20). Christ’s mission always leads “up to Jerusalem” and his death and resurrection, where he brings salvation through his sacrifice.

In his ascension, Jesus moves from the limited earthly sphere to the transcendent heavenly one. He sits at God’s right hand “in the heavens—far above every ruler and authority, power and dominion” (Eph. 1:20–21) now and forever. When Jesus pours out the Spirit on the church at Pentecost, God’s kingdom expands mightily as thousands come to Christ (Acts 2:41, 47; 4:4). Peter explains: “God exalted this man to his right hand as ruler and Savior, to give repentance to Israel and forgiveness of sins” (Acts 5:31). God rescues sinners “from the domain of darkness” and transfers them “into the kingdom of the Son he loves” (Col. 1:13–14).

The “kingdom,” as God’s reign over his people, will finally and ultimately “come at the end of the age in a mighty irruption into history inaugurating the perfect order of the age to come.” And yet this kingdom “has already come into history in the person and mission of Jesus,” and thus the “presence of the future” is already evident (see George Eldon Ladd, The Presence of the Future , 144–49). So, God’s reign is present and future, already and not yet, his active invasion of history now and his final establishment of the age to come. It is a sovereign rule, a dynamic power, and a divine activity. As the bearer of this kingdom, Jesus requires repentance to enter his kingdom community, since the present way of the world must be rejected and the new age of God’s rule and its corresponding way of life embraced. As such, repentance is not only the way into the kingdom but also the way of the kingdom.

The New Testament also proclaims that Jesus will return to reign as king, bringing justice, peace, delight, and victory. We live, then, in the tension between the “already” and the “not yet.” The kingdom was established with Israel, inaugurated with Christ in his coming, and achieved in the events of Christ’s death and resurrection. Even though the kingdom effects have begun, their full results await Christ’s return.

The Kingdom of God, Future

Although Jesus in his earthly ministry brings the kingdom, which expands exponentially at Pentecost, the fullness of the kingdom awaits until “the Son of Man comes in his glory” and sits “on his glorious throne” (Matt. 25:31). Then the angels will proclaim, “The kingdom of the world has become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ, and he will reign forever and ever” (Rev. 11:15). Jesus will judge the world, inviting believers to “inherit the kingdom” while consigning the lost to eternal punishment (Matt. 25:31–46). At “the end,” Jesus will hand “over the kingdom to God the Father” (1 Cor. 15:24).

Thus the new heavens and new earth will be the final stage of the kingdom of God. The kingdom of God will be at peace only in the end. Though Jesus’s victory has been won, the battle rages until his second coming (1 Pet. 5:8). God’s people conquer through Christ, who loves them and has given himself for them (Gal. 2:20). “The Lion from the tribe of Judah” who “has conquered” is the slain Lamb (Rev. 5:5–6). When the final installment of the kingdom arrives, the struggles of the present life will be past. By God’s grace, believers will reign with Christ. Human life will flourish, and human culture will thrive in the city of God (Heb. 2:5–10; Rev. 21:24–26). Jesus will return, deliver his people, and bring the final installment of his kingdom (Rev. 11:15).

Heaven involves God’s people serving their great King as subjects of his kingdom now and forever: “They are before the throne of God, and they serve him day and night” (Rev. 7:15). The Evil One is a defeated foe who will one day be thrown into the lake of fire (Rev. 20:10). Through Christ, believers overcome death, so that at death they go to be with him (Phil. 1:23), and in the resurrection, death will be banished (1 Cor. 15:26; Rev. 21:4).

The kingdom of God is central to the biblical story of redemption. The story follows the narrative of the fall, the calling of the nation of Israel, and the coming of the promised Messiah, while prophesying his return one day in the culmination of all things, at which time he will set up the new Eden of God’s kingdom in the new heavens and new earth. In the meantime, we live in the already and not yet of the kingdom, serving our King and looking for his return.

Further Reading

• Anthony A. Hoekema, The Bible and the Future
• Christopher W. Morgan and Robert A. Peterson, eds., The Kingdom of God
• George Eldon Ladd, The Presence of the Future: The Eschatology of Biblical Realism
• Graeme Goldsworthy, The Gospel and the Kingdom
• John Piper, “What is the Kingdom of God?”
• Patrick Schreiner, The Kingdom of God and the Glory of the Cross
• Peter J. Gentry and Stephen J. Wellum, God’s Kingdom through God’s Covenants: A Concise Biblical Theology
• R. C. Sproul, “What is the Kingdom of God?”

This essay is part of the Concise Theology series. All views expressed in this essay are those of the author. This essay is freely available under Creative Commons License with Attribution-ShareAlike, allowing users to share it in other mediums/formats and adapt/translate the content as long as an attribution link, indication of changes, and the same Creative Commons License applies to that material.

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The Conflict Thesis Reimagined: From Theological Reform to Secular Weapon

by James Ungureanu September 17, 2024

R ecent scholarship on the so-called conflict between science and religion has revisited the reception of John William Draper’s History of the Conflict Between Religion and Science (1875) and Andrew Dickson White’s A History of the Warfare of Science with Theology in Christendom (1896). [1] Indeed, contrary to common perception, Draper and White did not frame science and religion as inherently antagonistic; their positions were far more complex and nuanced.

This complexity is reflected in the diverse public responses to their works, where three predominant patterns emerge. [2] First, the more liberal press heralded Draper and White’s narratives as facilitating a “new Reformation.” They viewed the conflict rhetoric as instrumental in advocating for a distinction between religion and theology, and as a necessary step towards aligning faith with modernity.

In contrast, orthodox religious critics found such separation untenable. For them, faith was inseparable from doctrinal foundations, and they regarded Draper and White’s approach as a direct threat to Christianity, condemning their works as historically inaccurate and ideologically dangerous.

Meanwhile, secularists and atheists appropriated Draper and White’s conflict thesis to advance their own agendas. They interpreted it as an indictment of all religious belief, deploying the language of conflict to erode faith entirely, while finding it paradoxical that Draper and White themselves retained religious convictions.

In retrospect, the anxieties of conservative critics were not entirely misplaced. Here I will investigate how early twentieth-century skeptics appropriated and transformed the conflict thesis into a more secular narrative, significantly broadening its influence.

Organized Freethought in Victorian England

Liberal Protestantism, emerging from the Enlightenment and Romanticism, sought to align religion with contemporary values and scientific understanding. However, this modernization often led to a deeper questioning of religion’s relevance. As James Turner noted, religion was increasingly humanized, making it feasible “to abandon God, to believe simply in man.” [3]

While liberal Protestants adapted their faith, skeptics doubted whether religion retained any substantive value. Leslie Stephen, for instance, critiqued Matthew Arnold’s idea of preserving a “sublimated essence of theology,” questioning whether aesthetic judgments could sustain religious belief in the absence of doctrinal foundations. [4] By the late nineteenth century, these theological concessions helped pave the way for organized secularism to gain societal respectability.

Victorian freethought inherited diverse traditions, particularly the Enlightenment’s commitment to reason and Deist principles. In mid-nineteenth-century England, “secularism” emerged as a philosophical movement, deeply influenced by Thomas Paine’s The Age of Reason (1793). Paine denounced the church as enslaving humanity, advocating for faith in reason and a “Religion of Humanity.” His critique of the Bible as inconsistent and mythological laid the groundwork for radical freethought.

Freethought, tracing its roots to English Deists, found resonance with the Protestant Reformation’s spirit of liberating religious thought from clerical authority. [5] Figures like Richard Carlile, Robert Taylor, Robert Owen, and Charles Southwell were key advocates of freethought, pushing for self-improvement, education, and reform. Carlile, imprisoned for reprinting Paine’s The Age of Reason , saw the printing press as a tool to dismantle the “double yoke” of “Kingcraft and Priestcraft,” using publications to rally against religious and political institutions.

As public opinion grew more tolerant and English society became more stable, freethinkers adopted a less combative stance. By mid-century, leading figures institutionalized irreligion on an unprecedented scale, shifting from radical opposition to a broader, more accepted promotion of secularism.

The Rise of Radical Freethought in the Late Nineteenth Century

The late nineteenth century marked a golden age for radical freethought, during which freethinkers celebrated the liberation of humanity from religious constraints. This movement, led by figures such as George Jacob Holyoake, Charles Bradlaugh, Robert G. Ingersoll, and Joseph M. McCabe, extended its influence across both urban and rural areas through tracts, pamphlets, and magazines.

Interestingly, many freethinkers came from liberal Protestant backgrounds. Scholars like Leigh Eric Schmidt and Christopher Grasso have highlighted the complex relationship between American Protestantism and secularism. [6] For instance, Robert Ingersoll, raised by a liberal Presbyterian minister, eventually favored science over religious belief. Similarly, Samuel P. Putnam’s rejection of theism was shaped by liberal religious ideas from figures like Channing and Emerson. Many American Protestants, navigating from liberalism to infidelity, demonstrated the intersection of Protestantism and secularism, revealing a matrix of rivalry, alliance, and opposition.

In Britain, secularism advanced through both secularists and agnostics. As Bernie Lightman observed, while Thomas H. Huxley used agnosticism to distance himself from atheism, secularists increasingly employed the term to articulate atheistic views. Yet secularists recognized the influence of thinkers like Spencer, Huxley, and Tyndall, even as they criticized agnostics and religious liberals for compromising with religion.

Foote’s Freethinker magazine ridiculed agnostics who attended church, and Bradlaugh condemned figures like Huxley and Spencer for “intellectual vacillation” in failing to promote materialism fully. [7] Darwin, too, faced Bradlaugh’s criticism for what was seen as pandering to religious norms, especially in securing his place in Westminster Abbey. [8]

Ultimately, figures like Bradlaugh were perplexed by agnostics who, in their view, remained too closely tied to religious traditions.

Responses from Agnostics and the Evolving Secularist Landscape

Agnostics often responded to critiques with sharp rebuttals. Thomas Huxley, a leading figure in the agnostic movement, expressed disdain for certain elements within the freethought community. He criticized much of its literature, dismissing what he saw as “heterodox ribaldry,” which he found more distasteful than orthodox fanaticism. Huxley argued that attacking Christianity with scurrilous rhetoric was counterproductive, particularly in England, where such methods were outdated. He harbored a “peculiar abhorrence” for Charles Bradlaugh and his associates.

Bernie Lightman has demonstrated that Huxley and his scientific naturalist peers were repelled by Bradlaugh’s coarse atheism. [9] In correspondence with agnostic Richard Bithell, Huxley declined to support Charles Watts, criticizing freethought literature as repetitive and tiresome. He lamented how such works alienated thoughtful readers, noting: “It is monstrous that I cannot let one of these professed organs of Freethought lie upon my table without someone asking if I approve of this réchauffé of Voltaire or Paine.” [10]

Even moderate freethinkers like George Jacob Holyoake faced discrimination from agnostics. Although Holyoake and Herbert Spencer were longtime friends, Spencer refused Holyoake’s proposal to travel together to America in 1882, fearing it would be seen as an endorsement of Holyoake’s ideas.

Despite this, Holyoake remained a central figure among secularists. Raised in a religious household, his path led him through Christian denominations and eventually to freethought and naturalism. Holyoake often referenced his Christian upbringing to bolster his credibility as a freethinker, using his religious past to enhance his standing as a critic of religion. [11]

Holyoake’s Secularism and Its Impact

During his studies, George Jacob Holyoake encountered Robert Owen’s teachings and joined the Owenite movement as a “social missionary.” By 1843, he had taken over The Oracle of Reason and later founded The Reasoner and Herald of Progress , which became one of the longest-running freethought publications. Throughout the 1850s, Holyoake traveled widely, advocating for social reform and engaging in debates with religious opponents.

In 1849, Holyoake designated The Reasoner as “secular,” and in 1851, coined the term “secularism” to describe his freethought philosophy. He saw secularism as focused on this life, differentiating it from atheism by attracting theists and deists while avoiding the negative connotations of atheism. Holyoake’s secularism centered on social reform rather than religious critique, arguing that salvation, if it existed, was achieved through works, not faith. By promoting secularism, Holyoake sought collaboration with Christian liberals to advance rational morality.

In 1855, Holyoake and his brother Austin established a printing house on Fleet Street to distribute secularist literature. As president of the London Secular Society, Holyoake first met Charles Bradlaugh. Unlike Bradlaugh, Holyoake advocated cooperation among unbelievers, deists, and liberal theists to promote social reform, encouraging atheists to collaborate with liberal clergy to bridge the gap between secularists and Christian liberals.

The Watts Legacy and Secular Propaganda

Most importantly, George Jacob Holyoake’s conciliatory approach to secularism was embraced by Charles Watts and his son, Charles Albert Watts. In 1884, Charles Albert took a significant step toward consolidating secularist efforts by publishing the Agnostic Annual , marking a shift toward greater coordination within the secular movement.

The story of the Watts family’s contribution to freethought is well-documented. [12] Charles Watts, originally a Wesleyan minister’s son, became involved with Bradlaugh’s National Reformer before distancing himself after the “Knowlton affair” and aligning with Holyoake’s ethical humanism. By the 1880s, he took over Austin Holyoake’s printing firm and became a leading rationalist publisher. He eventually left the business to his son, Charles Albert, who sought to attract middle-class unbelievers by promoting agnosticism through the Agnostic Annual . Despite an incident where Huxley publicly disavowed any connection to the Annual, Charles Albert’s relationships with scientific naturalists remained intact.

Charles Albert expanded his efforts by publishing The Agnostic and establishing the “Agnostic Temple” in 1885, offering literature and holding meetings grounded in Spencer’s ideas. That same year, he launched Watts’s Literary Guide , a monthly publication catering to working-class and lower-middle-class audiences. The Guide , which eventually became the New Humanist , featured works from notable figures like Spencer, Huxley, Darwin, and Draper, often depicting the conflict between theology and science in dramatic terms.

Charles Albert also established the Propagandist Press Committee to further the distribution of rationalist literature, successfully expanding both the subscriber base and the visibility of secular publications.

Charles Albert Watts and the Rationalist Press Association

By the late nineteenth century, Charles Albert Watts had founded Watts & Co., and in 1899, his group of rationalists formed the Rationalist Press Association (RPA). Evolving from the Propagandist Press Committee, the RPA sought to promote freedom of thought in ethics, theology, and philosophy while advocating secular education and challenging traditional religious creeds. The RPA published books on religion, biblical criticism, and intellectual progress, emphasizing the perceived conflict between science and religion and advocating secular moral instruction.

The RPA featured works from key figures like Joseph McCabe and John M. Robertson. McCabe, a former Jesuit and prolific author, predicted the downfall of Christianity through scientific naturalism and biblical criticism. His Biographical Dictionary of Modern Rationalists celebrated Draper and White, though he acknowledged that both were theists. McCabe viewed Draper’s work as rationalist literature and praised White’s contribution to rationalism while noting his aim to purify, rather than destroy, Christianity. [13]

John M. Robertson, in his History of Freethought in the Nineteenth Century (1929), referred to Draper’s Intellectual Development as a key contribution to rationalist culture. He argued that Draper’s theism was likely a result of social pressure but acknowledged the naturalistic approach in his work. [14] Other secularists like Joseph Mazzini Wheeler and Samuel P. Putnam similarly recognized Draper and White as freethinkers, with Putnam seeing the Reformation as a precursor to the eventual decline of Protestantism and Roman Catholicism. [15]

In the early twentieth century, the RPA expanded its influence by reprinting “Rationalist classics” using mass-production techniques. Charles Albert Watts collaborated with publishers like Macmillan to produce affordable editions of influential works, distributing six-penny editions of texts by authors such as Darwin, Huxley, Spencer, Paine, and notably Draper and White. Draper’s work, which he saw as a preface to a broader departure from “the faith of the fathers,” was integral to the RPA’s mission to reach a wider audience with rationalist ideas.

Origins of American Freethought

The roots of American freethought trace back to Thomas Paine, whose influence remains foundational. Freethought, as a movement, challenges established beliefs and seeks knowledge, empowering citizens to discern truth and strengthen democracy. Freethinkers advocate reason over passion or outdated customs, overlapping with rationalism, secularism, and skepticism.

Paine’s Common Sense (1776) electrified America and became a rallying cry for revolution. His later works, The Rights of Man (1791) and The Age of Reason (1794), more directly engaged with freethought, with The Age of Reason launching a bold attack on organized religion. Declaring himself a deist, Paine famously stated, “my own mind is my own church.” For his views, he was censored, ridiculed, and ostracized upon his return to America. Even Thomas Jefferson distanced himself. Paine died in 1809, nearly forgotten, his funeral attended by only a few. It was only after the Civil War that freethought gained new life in the U.S.

Secularism, though less organized than in Britain, grew in prominence after the Civil War. James Turner notes that agnosticism emerged as a self-sustaining phenomenon within twenty years. [16] Robert G. Ingersoll, known as the “Great Agnostic,” became the chief exponent of this movement, leading the “Golden Age of Freethought” (1875–1914). Ingersoll’s oratory revived Paine’s tarnished reputation, defending his legacy in essays like Vindication of Thomas Paine (1877). Ingersoll himself opposed religion, which cost him his political career, though he diverged from Paine on issues like socialism. [17]

Ingersoll’s freethought views were complex. Though the son of a minister, he grew to abhor religion, and this stance cost him his political career, which ended while he was still in his twenties. His story reflects the broader challenge faced by the freethought movement, which struggled to gain mainstream acceptance. A mere accusation of being anti-religious could destroy a political candidate’s chances. Ingersoll himself opposed socialism, diverging from some of Paine’s more progressive ideas.

Ingersoll’s death in 1899 marked the end of an era. Unlike Paine, he was neither poor nor forgotten, and even his critics admired his eloquence and ability to connect with audiences across the social spectrum.

Freethinkers Respond to Draper

Freethinkers like Joseph Treat and T. D. Hall seized upon Draper’s History of the Conflict Between Religion and Science as a powerful tool in their efforts to promote secularism and challenge Christianity. Treat, in correspondence with Draper, argued that Christianity had consistently hindered genuine scientific inquiry. He praised Draper’s work for exposing this historical antagonism, asserting that Draper had liberated science from the “bondage” of Christian influence.

Hall, in his pamphlet Can Christianity Be Made to Harmonize with Science? , echoed Treat’s appreciation of Draper’s clarity but critiqued him for stopping short of declaring an outright incompatibility between science and Christianity. Hall insisted that Draper lacked the boldness to acknowledge Christianity’s inevitable collapse in the face of scientific progress. Once Christianity’s central doctrines—such as the Fall, Atonement, and Resurrection—were stripped away, Hall believed, the religion would unravel entirely.

These voices were part of a broader American freethought movement, led by publications like Truth Seeker , founded by D. M. Bennett in 1876. Truth Seeker and groups like the National Liberal League united freethinkers, rationalists, and religious skeptics in advocating for the complete secularization of society.

Across the Atlantic, Draper’s narrative also resonated with British freethinkers, particularly through Charles Albert Watts and the Rationalist Press Association. Watts, via his Watts’s Literary Guide (later New Humanist ), treated Draper’s work as a cornerstone for promoting secularism and rationalism. The Rationalist Press Association published works that undermined traditional religious views, with prominent figures like John M. Robertson and Joseph M. Wheeler consistently citing Draper’s analysis to support their campaigns for secular education and religious criticism.

For Robertson, Draper’s naturalistic outlook made his work indispensable to the freethought movement, despite Draper’s own theological leanings. Similarly, Wheeler and Samuel P. Putnam integrated Draper’s arguments into their broader critiques of religion, using his historical analysis not merely as a chronicle of science but as a potent tool in the battle to free society from religious dominance.

Freethinkers on both sides of the Atlantic adopted Draper’s narrative to legitimize their belief in the fundamental incompatibility of science and religion. Through their publications, organizations, and correspondence, they transformed Draper’s work into a weapon for advancing a secular society, one free from the influence of religious institutions.

Freethinkers Respond to White

Freethinkers, as they did with Draper, appropriated Andrew Dickson White’s A History of the Warfare of Science with Theology in Christendom to further their secular agenda. Publications like The American Free Thought Magazine praised White’s work for illustrating the historical struggle to modernize Christian theology, framing it as a triumph of science over religious dogma. The magazine argued that White’s history was essential for any freethinker’s library, not merely for cataloging religious errors but for celebrating science’s victories.

In England, thinkers like Alfred W. Benn placed White alongside luminaries such as Buckle, Draper, and Lecky. However, Benn expressed frustration with White’s reluctance to fully reject Christianity, arguing that his conclusions logically pointed to the abandonment of its doctrines. For Benn and others, White’s work symbolized the deepening conflict between rational thought and religious belief.

White’s work also drew criticism from prominent atheists like Edward Payson Evans and Elizabeth Edson Gibson Evans. They were perplexed by White’s attempts to reconcile religion and science. Elizabeth criticized White’s refusal to fully disbelieve in religion, insisting that science had consistently debunked religious claims. Edward accused White of being overly generous to religion, contending that the conflict between science and faith was irreconcilable.

This tension was further evident in White’s interactions with Robert G. Ingersoll, the renowned agnostic orator. While Ingersoll appreciated White’s contribution to intellectual openness and his critique of religious authority, he saw White’s lingering religious sentiment as unnecessary. Ingersoll dismissed Christianity as not worth saving, sarcastically asking why God would make truth-seeking safe now after allowing it to be dangerous for centuries.

Despite White’s reluctance to fully embrace secularism, freethinkers eagerly adopted his work to undermine religious institutions. Charles Albert Watts, a prominent British secularist, published extensive reviews of White’s book in the Watts’s Literary Guide , encouraging White to write for the secularist Annual . Although White declined, secularists continued to use his work to advance their cause.

White himself was unsettled by this reception. He had aimed to provide a balanced critique, addressing both religious “scoffers” like Ingersoll and the religious “gush” of figures like John Henry Newman. In private, he expressed to his secretary George Lincoln Burr that he sought to present “the truth as it is in Jesus,” but both religious and irreligious readers often misinterpreted his work as an attack on faith itself.

In conclusion, while White’s intentions were more conciliatory than Draper’s, freethinkers and secularists embraced his narrative as part of their broader efforts to secularize society. Regardless of White’s personal beliefs, his work became a cornerstone in the intellectual campaign to discredit religious authority and advance rationalism.

Joseph McCabe and the “Land of Bunk”

One of the most significant secularists to appropriate Draper and White’s conflict thesis was Joseph McCabe, a former Franciscan monk turned outspoken atheist. McCabe believed that science and technology would not only solve society’s problems but also lead to a more rational and egalitarian world. His translation of Ernst Haeckel’s The Riddle of the Universe (1900) introduced Haeckel’s ideas to English-speaking audiences, and despite McCabe’s lack of formal scientific training, this association lent authority to his writings. A prolific author, McCabe produced over 200 books on science, history, and religion, championing evolutionary thought and forecasting Christianity’s inevitable demise in the face of modern science.

McCabe’s personal journey mirrored his intellectual transformation. Raised in a Franciscan monastery, where he took the name Brother Antony, McCabe was tormented by doubts about Christianity. His experiences in the monastery, marked by physical suffering and intellectual conflict, eventually led him to leave the priesthood in 1895. His account, Twelve Years in a Monastery (1897), detailed his disillusionment with the Church and marked his formal break with religion. From that point on, McCabe became a relentless advocate for atheism, insisting that science, not religion, held the answers to life’s great questions.

McCabe’s partnership with Kansas-based publisher Emanuel Haldeman-Julius was one of the defining collaborations of his career. Haldeman-Julius, known for his “Little Blue Books” series, provided affordable and accessible literature on topics ranging from politics to science. McCabe became the series’ most prolific contributor, writing 134 Little Blue Books and over 100 Big Blue Books . Haldeman-Julius praised McCabe as “the greatest scholar in the world,” crediting his works with advancing humanity’s cultural progress.

This partnership gave McCabe a renewed sense of purpose, especially after facing personal and professional setbacks in Britain. By 1925, after separating from his wife and severing ties with key British publishers, McCabe found both financial stability and intellectual validation through his collaboration with Haldeman-Julius. Over the following years, McCabe produced an immense body of work, earning substantial income while continuing to challenge religious orthodoxy.

One of McCabe’s most influential works, The Conflict Between Science and Religion (1927), essentially echoed Draper’s narrative but with a tone of triumph. McCabe confidently predicted that future historians would regard the denial of the science-religion conflict as laughable. He argued that “science has, ever since its birth, been in conflict with religion,” with Christianity as its “most deadly opponent.”

McCabe’s critique extended beyond traditional religious beliefs. He reserved particular scorn for modernist and liberal theologians, dismissing their attempts to reconcile Christianity with science as “the veriest piece of bunk that Modernism ever invented.” In McCabe’s view, rejecting Christianity’s core doctrines—whether through scientific reinterpretation or otherwise—was tantamount to rejecting Christianity entirely. For him, “progressive religion” was a contradiction, and those who embraced it were deluding themselves.

Ironically, McCabe used arguments similar to those of conservative Christians, accusing liberal theologians like Shailer Mathews of undermining Christianity’s foundations. He argued that attempts to reconcile science with religion were futile, given that science operated as a unified field while religion had never achieved such coherence. McCabe quipped that applying science to religion would require addressing “three hundred different collections of religious beliefs,” making any reconciliation impossible.

In McCabe’s final analysis, whether one adhered to orthodox Christianity or its modernist variants, the conflict with science was inevitable. He contended that modernists, in reducing God to abstractions like “Cosmic Force” or “Vital Principle,” had gutted religion of any meaningful content. Both fundamentalists and modernists, McCabe concluded, inhabited the same “land of bunk,” unable to recognize the inherent incompatibility between science and religion.

Emanuel Haldeman-Julius and the Philosophy of the “Little Blue Books”

Emanuel Haldeman-Julius, later known as the “Henry Ford of publishing,” was born to Jewish immigrants in Philadelphia and grew up in a secular household. Though his formal education ended in the eighth grade, his passion for reading and self-education shaped his early worldview. Influenced by thinkers like Omar Khayyam, Voltaire, and Robert Ingersoll, he developed a deep rejection of religion, identifying as a materialist and dismissing the notion of an afterlife. His early exposure to cheap pamphlets like The Rubaiyat and The Ballad of Reading Gaol ignited his desire to make literature accessible to the masses.

In 1915, Haldeman-Julius moved to Girard, Kansas, where he worked for the socialist newspaper Appeal to Reason . After marrying Annie Haldeman, niece of social reformer Jane Addams, he purchased the paper and began distributing pamphlets, marking the beginning of his publishing empire. His vision of providing affordable, pocket-sized booklets on a wide range of topics took shape in the Little Blue Books series, which covered literature, philosophy, science, and religion, and initially sold for just five cents. These pamphlets aimed to provide a “university in print” for working- and middle-class readers, offering access to ideas traditionally reserved for the educated elite.

The Little Blue Books became a massive success, with over 500 million copies sold. Haldeman-Julius’s marketing genius—using sensational ads like “Books are cheaper than hamburgers!”—helped spread his freethought and socialist ideas. He published works by influential authors such as Shakespeare, Twain, Darwin, and Emerson, alongside freethought titles like Why I Am an Atheist and The Bible Unmasked , which challenged religious orthodoxy. His goal was to democratize knowledge and encourage critical thinking, particularly against religious and political authority.

Central to Haldeman-Julius’s success was his collaboration with Joseph McCabe, a former monk turned atheist and prolific writer. McCabe contributed significantly to the Little Blue Books , with works like The Story of Religious Controversy , a key text that attacked Christianity and promoted a rationalist worldview. Together, McCabe and Haldeman-Julius saw their work as a means to combat what they viewed as the intellectual stagnation of religious dogma.

Despite the series’ success, Haldeman-Julius faced criticism for the mixture of high-quality literature with less scholarly content. H. L. Mencken famously remarked that the Little Blue Books contained “extremely good books” alongside “unutterable drivel.” However, the series continued to thrive, offering over 2,000 titles on a range of subjects from classic literature to freethought.

Haldeman-Julius’s own contributions to the series often included sharp critiques of religion. He dismissed attempts to reform religion as futile, arguing that modernism was simply a way to escape the intellectual difficulties of faith without embracing rationalism. He viewed religion as “medieval” and atheism as “modern,” believing that science and the social sciences provided the tools to debunk religious beliefs. Pamphlets like Is Science the New Religion? and The Meaning of Modernism reflected his disdain for attempts to reconcile science and faith, which he saw as inherently contradictory.

At its peak, Haldeman-Julius’s publishing empire became the largest mail-order publishing house in the world, based in the small town of Girard, Kansas. By 1921, he was selling over a million Little Blue Books each month, reflecting the widespread appetite for accessible education and freethought. He argued that the success of his series demonstrated a growing tendency toward skepticism and intellectual independence in America.

However, the post-World War II rise of conservatism and the anti-communist fervor of the McCarthy era led to a decline in the influence of Haldeman-Julius’s publications. He continued to publish controversial pamphlets, including The F.B.I.: The Basis of an American Police State (1948), but faced increasing harassment from the government. In 1951, after being convicted of tax evasion, Haldeman-Julius was found dead under mysterious circumstances.

Despite his personal and financial struggles in his later years, Haldeman-Julius’s impact on American intellectual life was profound. His Little Blue Books brought sophisticated ideas and literature to the masses, helping to foster a culture of skepticism, critical thinking, and freethought in early twentieth-century America.

Thus by the early twentieth century, Draper, White, and the scientific naturalists had lost control of their attempts to reconcile science and religion. Their narratives, once intended to bridge the two fields, became powerful weapons for secularists in the battle for authority in public and political spheres, wielded against religion. Though some secularists later reconverted to forms of Christianity, the damage was done. The conflict narrative had taken hold, and many minds came to view the relationship between science and religion as one of perpetual antagonism. In time, historians of science would attribute to Draper, White, and the scientific naturalists the founding of what became known as the Conflict Thesis.

Reactions to Draper, White, and other scientific naturalists were varied and complex. Religious liberals were among the protagonists, many of whom went to great lengths to defend these figures against accusations of atheism and materialism. These liberal leaders sought to modernize Christianity, ensuring it remained in step with the emerging scientific worldview, hoping this would stem the erosion of belief. Some even argued that Christianity itself was outdated, suggesting that both physical and historical sciences had revealed a new religion or theology. Religious agnostics and scientific naturalists, in turn, were not only conciliatory toward liberal Christianity but also drew spiritual inspiration from its tenets, incorporating them into their own work.

The antagonists included not only conservative or orthodox theologians but also rationalists and secularists, all of whom rejected the so-called reconciliation between science and religion, though for different reasons. The efforts of the “peacemakers” ultimately failed. Secularists did not accept the redefinitions of religion and the reconstructions of Christianity that men like Draper and White proposed. A paradox emerged in their attempt to reconcile science and religion: narratives meant to demonstrate religion's progress through scientific investigation were instead seized by rationalists and secularists, who used them as a weapon against all religion, aiming to eradicate it entirely.

[1] See James C. Ungureanu, Science, Religion, and the Protestant Tradition: Retracing the Origins of Conflict (UPP, 2019).

[2] For a more detailed analysis, see James C. Ungureanu, “Science and Religion in the Anglo-American Periodical Press, 1860-1900: A Failed Reconciliation,” Church History , 88:1 (2019): 120-149.

[3] James Turner, Without God, Without Creed , 261.

[4] Leslie Stephen, Studies of a Biographer , 2 vols. (London: Duckworth and Co., 1898), 2.76-122.

[5] See Edward Royle, “Freethought: The Religion of Irreligion,” in D.G. Paz (ed.) Nineteenth-Century English Religious Traditions: Retrospect and Prospect (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1995), 171-196.

[6] Leigh Eric Schmidt, Village Atheists: How America’s Unbelievers Made Their Way in a Godly Nation (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2016); Christopher Grasso, Skepticism and American Faith: From the Revolution to the Civil War (New York: Oxford University Press, 2018).

[7] Louis Greg, “The Agnostic at Church,” Nineteenth Century , vol. 11, no. 59 (Jan 1882): 73-76; Freethinker , vol. 1 (Jan 15, 1882).

[8] Cited in James Moore, The Darwin Legend (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Books, 1994), 64-65.

[9] Lightman, Victorian Popularizers of Science , 264.

[10] Richard Bithell to T.H. Huxley, 20 Sept 1894 and T.H. Huxley to Richard Bithell, 22 Sept 1894, T.H Huxley Collection, Imperial College Archives, Box 11.

[11] See McCabe, Life and Letters of George Jacob Holyoake , 1.1-17, 18-36; George Jacob Holyoake, The Trial of George Jacob Holyoake on an indictment for blasphemy (London: Printed and Published for “The Anti-Persecution Union,” 1842), 20-21.

[12] F.J. Gould, The Pioneers of Johnson’s Court: A History of the Rationalist Press Association from 1899 Onwards (London: Watts & Co., 1929); A.G. Whyte, The Story of the R.P.A., 1899-1949 (London: Watts & Co., 1949).

[13] Joseph McCabe, A Biographical Dictionary of Modern Rationalists (London: Watts & Co, 1920), 221-222, 886-887.

[14] J.M. Robertson, A History of Freethought in the Nineteenth Century , 2 vols. (London: Watts & Co., 1929), 1.261-262. See also A Short History of Freethought: Ancient and Modern (London: Swan Sonnenschein & Co., 1899), 420. By 1906, Robertson revised and expanded this work into a massive two-volume edition (London: Watts & Co., 1906). In this edition Robertson listed Draper’s Intellectual Development and History of Conflict as general histories of freethought.

[15] J.M. Wheeler, A Biographical Dictionary of Freethinkers of All Ages and Nations (London: Progressive Publishing Co., 1889), 112, 332; S.P. Putnam, 400 Years of Freethought (New York: The Truth Seeker Company, 1894), 47-50.

[16] Turner, Without God, without Creed , 171.

[17] See Martin E. Marty, The Infidel: Freethought and American Religion (Cleveland: Meridian Books, 1961); Paul A. Carter, The Spiritual Crisis of the Gilded Age (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1971); and Eric T. Brandt and Timothy Larsen, “The Old Atheism Revisited: Robert G. Ingersoll and the Bible,” Journal of the Historical Society , vol. 11, no. 2 (2011): 211-238.

Featured Image: Udo Kepler, The last stand - science versus superstition, 1899; Source: Wikimedia Commons, PD-Old-100. 

James Ungureanu

James C. Ungureanu is Adjunct Professor at Carthage College, where he teaches in the Intellectual Foundations Program. He is the author of several books on science and religion, most recently, Science, Religion, and the Protestant Tradition: Retracing the Origins of Conflict .

Read more by James Ungureanu

A Catholic History of the Fake Conflict Between Science and Religion

May 04, 2020 | Christopher Baglow

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Thesis on God Kindle Edition

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• ASIN ‏ : ‎ B01CM7KEOK
• Publisher ‏ : ‎ A. Parthasarathy; 1st edition (March 5, 2016)
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A. parthasarathy.

A. Parthasarathy is an internationally acclaimed philosopher with a multi-disciplined academic base including postgraduation from London University. He has researched for over sixty years on the state of human beings and focused on the urgent need to revive, rehabilitate the human intellect. His resolve has emerged into four distinct avenues of service:

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The Enigma of the Kelpie in Greek Mythology

How it works

In the big, tangled web of Greek mythology, there are loads of mysterious creatures and gods popping up in different stories. One of these cool creatures is the Kelpie. It’s not just interesting but also kind of shows how humans deal with nature and the unknown. Even though the Kelpie is mostly known from Scottish stories, it also pops up in Greek mythology, though it doesn’t get as much attention as, say, the Minotaur or the Hydra. This essay is gonna dig into the Kelpie’s role in Greek myths, looking at where it comes from, what it means, and the hidden messages in its stories.

• 1 Origins and Characteristics
• 2 Cultural Significance
• 3 Allegorical Interpretations
• 4 Conclusion

Origins and Characteristics

The Kelpie is a shape-shifting water spirit that usually looks like a horse but can also turn into a human. Its roots in Greek myths aren’t as well-documented as in Celtic tales, but there are some cool links to other water beings like Naiads and Oceanids. The Greeks loved to give human traits to natural things like rivers and springs. The Kelpie is both beautiful and dangerous, showing how the Greeks both respected and feared water. It could be a source of life or a deadly force.

In Greek stories, the Kelpie often looks stunning and tricky. As a horse by the water, it lures people and kids with its charm. But if anyone tries to ride it, they get dragged underwater, never to be seen again. This mix of beauty and danger is a common theme in Greek myths, where gods and creatures are both good and bad.

Cultural Significance

Stories about the Kelpie in Greek mythology do a few things for the culture. First, they serve as warnings about the dangers of nature and human arrogance. The Greeks, being seafaring folks, knew well the risks of the natural world. The Kelpie, as a nasty water spirit, reminds them of how unpredictable and powerful water can be.

On another level, these stories touch on human emotions like trust and deception. The Kelpie’s ability to change shape and trick people fits with the Greeks’ love for themes of disguise and transformation. Zeus often changed forms to woo mortals, and Proteus shapeshifted to avoid getting caught. They saw the changing nature of beings as a sign of the world’s instability.

Moreover, the Kelpie in Greek myths shows how myths from different cultures are connected. The Greeks traded a lot and exchanged ideas, so they probably picked up and tweaked stories from other places. The similarities between the Kelpie and other water spirits in different cultures point to a shared human experience of nature, crossing borders.

Allegorical Interpretations

Looking deeper, Kelpie stories have hidden meanings. The Kelpie’s tempting looks and hidden danger can be seen as a metaphor for human desires and the bad things that happen when we give in to temptation. In many tales, those who fall for the Kelpie are often greedy or curious, which leads to their downfall. This matches Greek moral lessons where pride and unchecked desires usually end in disaster, like in the stories of Icarus or King Midas.

Also, the Kelpie’s home—the water—stands for the subconscious mind and the hidden depths of human feelings. The Greeks loved to explore human nature and emotions. Kelpie tales, with their focus on dangers beneath calm surfaces, reflect the complexities of human feelings and the risks of diving into them without care.

The Kelpie’s shape-shifting also symbolizes the fluid nature of identity and reality. In a world where looks can deceive and truth is often hidden, the Kelpie’s changes remind us to be wise and discerning. It challenges myth characters—and us—to look beyond appearances and find deeper truths.

In wrapping up, the Kelpie, though not as famous in Greek myths as other creatures, adds a rich layer to their stories. Its tales of trickery, danger, and the unknown fit well with Greek culture and philosophy. The Kelpie symbolizes the Greeks’ relationship with nature, their exploration of the human mind, and the ongoing quest to understand the world’s complexities. Through its mysterious presence, the Kelpie keeps on fascinating and intriguing, showing the lasting power of myth.

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