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    The Devil and Philosophy: The Nature of His Game
    The Devil and Philosophy: The Nature of His Game
    The Devil and Philosophy: The Nature of His Game
    Ebook491 pages10 hours

    The Devil and Philosophy: The Nature of His Game

    By Open Court

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    In The Devil and Philosophy, 34 philosophers explore questions about one of the most recognizable and influential characters (villains?) of all time. From Roman Polanski's The Ninth Gate to J.R.R. Tolkien's The Silmarillion to Bram Stoker's Dracula to Darth Vader to Al Pacino's iconic performance in The Devil's Advocate, this book demonstrates that a little devil goes a long way. From humorous appearances, as in Kevin Smith's film Dogma and Chuck Palahniuk's novels Damned and its sequel Doomed, to more villanous appearances, such as Gabriel Byrne's cold outing as Satan in End of Days, The Devil in Philosophy proves that the Devil comes in many forms.

    Through the lenses of Jung, Kant, Kundera, Balkan, Plato, Bradwardine, Aristotle, Hume, Blackburn, Descartes, Lavey, Thoreau, and Aquinas, The Devil and Philosophy take a philosophical look at one of time's greatest characters. Are there any good arguments for the actual existence of the Devil? Does demonic evil thrive in Gotham City? Can humans really be accountable for all evil? Which truths about the Devil are actual facts? Is Milton correct, in that the Devil believes he is doing good?
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Court
    Release dateJul 21, 2014
    ISBN9780812698800
    The Devil and Philosophy: The Nature of His Game

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      The Devil and Philosophy - Open Court

      I

      The Devil Defined

      1

      Can You Guess My Name?

      NICOLAS MICHAUD

      When dealing with the Devil, it’s a good idea to know who you’re dealing with. When you start thinking about all of the names we use to identify his Royal Evilness—Satan, Beelzebub, the Lord of the Flies, Lucifer, just to name of a few—it’s easy to confuse them. In fact, you might even get them wrong! After all, if you simply must sell your soul for talent, fame, sex, or some other fun (though fleeting) amusement, you wouldn’t want to make the mistake of selling it to one of his low-level minions.

      And for those of you who are preparing to do battle with El Diablo himself, wouldn’t it be helpful to know who is just a one-horned low-level mischievous imp, and who is the sulfur-belching tub-o’-evilness likely to suck the marrow out of your bones after beating you with them? There is, after all, quite the hellish pecking order. . . . So pick up your fiddle, put on your fire-resistant undies, and let’s figure out who exactly is who downstairs. Because in naming them, we might come to know their nature—for better or worse!

      Keep in mind that we’re dealing with a pretty powerful idea. Sometimes we forget what power names have. We’re told that summoning a demon requires knowing its name (not that that ever goes well!). But even just in our day-to-day lives, think about how powerful a name can be. If you have access to someone’s name, you have access to them. So, as we consider these names, we have to realize that names are somehow fundamental—they determine what something is. Think about a time when you remembered someone’s name but they didn’t remember yours. Didn’t that give you the upper hand in the relationship? Names are no joke, especially when they come to the Devil. In fact, I’d be willing to argue that what name we use for the Devil determines whether or not he’s a good guy, or a bad guy.

      Incubi, Succubi, and Familiars . . . Oh, My!

      Let’s start with just a basic catalogue. After all, there are numerous kinds of demons who have been catalogued in books, comics, movies, and TV shows. Some of you may remember the game Dungeon Keeper: In it, you play the demonic lord of a dungeon who has to kill off the heroes who try to steal your gold. I remember that one particular demon you would summon to do your bidding in the game was the Dark Mistress—she was a succubus and the only character in the game that would scream with delight when you threw her in the torture chamber. So, to put it simply, there are a bunch of different kinds of demons, ranging from lowly imps all the way up to arch demons.

      The Catholic Bishop Alfonso de Spina (who lived around 1430–1491) put together a pretty useful little guide in 1467. He classified numerous kinds of demons; the most well-known to us are goblins, incubi, succubi, and familiars. There were also drudes, cambions, and mischievous demon-like imps. He included discussion of demons that specifically attack saints and demons that try to sucker little old ladies into attending a Witches’ Sabbath. I can’t imagine what would tempt a happy old grandmother to such a demonic event, but I assume they must have promised them free punch and little hard candies.

      De Spina’s goblins are still pretty popular today. Generally, they are considered to be ugly as sin, mischievous, and greedy. J.R.R. Tolkien used them in The Lord of the Rings (they are those little freaky dudes that like to scurry around dark places). Spider-Man deals with a special kind of Green Goblin whose qualities—maniacal laughter, envy, and bloodlust—capture the nature of the demon he names himself after. I assume that it is their greed and deviousness that inspired J.K. Rowling to employ goblins as bankers in the Harry Potter stories.

      Incubi are male demons and succubi are female demons who appear in dreams and seduce their victims through their sexual powers. It was said that having too much sex with a succubus wasn’t a good thing and would eventually drain the victim of life. The Dark Mistress from Dungeon Keeper was a succubus (dressed in all black leather and carrying a whip). Today you find gamers summoning succubi in World of Warcraft—ironically enough—to fight evil. It was incubi and succubi, according to de Spina, who were responsible for cambions, the children of humans and demons.

      Drudes and familiars were pretty common in European folklore. Drudes most often appeared as little old ladies who were obese (it was not a good time to be a granny when de Spina was writing). They were said to sneak into tiny cracks in peoples’ houses while they were sleeping and sit on the victims’ chests, giving them nightmares and possessing them. Familiars were fairy-like creatures that would help witches with their evil magicks. Often the witches thought the familiars were helpful or good, but more often than not they were malicious little creatures that would take the shape of a friendly animal like a cat or bird. If you remember The Smurfs, Gargamel’s cat, Azrael probably comes to mind when you think of a familiar.

      I Laid Traps for Troubadours

      There’s also the question of where the different categories of demons live. Dante Alighieri (1265–1321) wrote The Divine Comedy. The only part of the book that anyone seems to care to remember is the Inferno. In the Inferno, Dante writes that he is given a tour of Hell, which has nine levels. Each level corresponds to worse and worse sins starting with Limbo (which isn’t as fun as it sounds) and ending with Treachery, the worst of sins. Between the two you find Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Anger, Heresy, Violence, and Fraud. And in each level of Hell, sinners are found being tormented in the way most appropriate. Those who indulge in lust, for example, are eternally buffeted by a horrible storm representing their inability to control their naughty urges. Today, Dante’s Inferno most often brings to our mind a pretty awesome video game where Dante has to battle the demons of Hell to save his lost love.

      The original Dante’s Inferno gives some interesting information about its demonic inhabitants. In the Eighth Level the Malebranche (Evil Claws) can be found—you’ll love this—keeping the politicians boiling in a lake of super-heated tar. The leader of these demons is named Malacoda (meaning Evil-Tail, which is a good deal less intimidating a name than one would hope for an archdemon). Malacoda and his evil troop are pretty darned evil and they do their damnedest to trick Dante and his guide Virgil, hoping to capture them in Hell for eternity. Thankfully, our heroes manage to escape.

      And All the Sinners Saints

      Now that we’ve gotten around to the names of one of the nastier demons, let’s consider some of the others. We find that many of the names that we normally attribute to the Devil originally belonged to various high-level demons identified by medieval scholars. Some thought that these archdemons each corresponded to a particular month, others a particular kind of person or evil occupation. And of course, there is a demon for each of the seven deadly sins.

      Peter Binsfeld (1545–1598), a German bishop, put together his classification of the big bad guys according to the seven deadly sins. I’m sure you’ll recognize some of the names:

      PRIDE: Lucifer

      GREED: Mammon

      LUST: Asmodeus

      ENVY: Leviathan

      GLUTTONY: Beelzebub

      WRATH: Satan

      SLOTH: Belphegor

      So it’s Beelzebub who laughs throatily when I stuff my face with too much cake! These seven princes of Hell, answering to the Devil himself, tempt humans with the sins.

      You might have seen the movie Seven. In it a serial killer punishes violators of the seven deadly sins. The film is pretty friggin’ terrifying, and when a glamor model kills herself rather than live with having her face horribly disfigured, we realize those sins are still pretty popular today. It’s a good piece of advice, though, to not try to indulge in all of them; in today’s busy world we simply don’t have enough time. If you must indulge, pick one and excel! Just be prepared for some unpleasant consequences.

      Notice that many of the names Binsfeld uses are names that we generally treat as interchangeable with The Devil. But back in the day different names were often used to identify different entities. For example, the Hebrews did not identify the serpent in the Garden of Eden with the Devil, and they did not believe in Hell in the same way many Christians do today. Satan was, to the Hebrews, often best described as the adversary. We assume that means God’s adversary. But many Hebrews believed it was the role the angel was given, to be our adversary. Basically, you could think of Satan as the prosecutor in God’s trial of your life. . . . Kind of makes you hope you can hire Perry Mason, doesn’t it?

      I’ll Lay Your Soul to Waste

      You might be wondering, though: Weren’t the demons fallen angels? Sebastien Michaelis (1543–1618) certainly thought so. He identified three hierarchies of demons as coming directly from the hierarchies of angels. The first hierarchy was made up of demons who used to be Seraphim, Cherubim, and Thrones. According to Michaelis, Beelzebub was a fallen seraph who tempts humans with pride, second in command to Lucifer. Leviathan was also a prince of the Seraphim, tempting people with heresy. Seraphim were the highest of God’s angels in the Catholic tradition, attending God’s throne directly. The other two hierarchies including Powers, Dominions, Virtues, Principalities, Archangels, and Angels, which were, generally, farther from direct contact with God—though it was also possible for an Archangel to be a seraph, as in the case of Michael the Archangel (Yes, as portrayed by John Travolta!).

      Not all ideas of demons come from a Catholic tradition. Really, we don’t need to look any further than the nearest comic book store or movie theater to find categorizations of demons. In the Hellraiser series, there are the cenobites, which to this day still make my skin crawl. Originally written as extra-dimensional beings, the cenobites are sexless creatures that indulge themselves in extreme sadomasochism as a form of pleasure. By torturing themselves and others, they find physical fulfillment resulting in scars covering their bodies and disturbing piercings. Pinhead, whose piercings cover his head like a steroidal hedgehog, becomes increasingly evil through the series and eventually becomes a demon bent on enslaving all of humanity.

      Not all portrayals of demons in pop mythology are quite so evil, though. There’s always the gruff but funny Hellboy, whose goal is specifically to prevent Hell on Earth. Hellboy, who is basically what de Spina would describe as a cambion (a human demon crossbreed), goes so far as to file his horns down to look more human while fighting off minions of evil. There are also demons that were initially human, like Spawn, who sold his soul to a demon in order to see his wife again after his death. Because of his deal with the devil, Spawn gains extraordinary powers that he uses to fight the minions of Hell (and occasionally Heaven). Despite gaining superpowers, though, being destined for Hell doesn’t seem to go well for anyone who can’t play the fiddle; Spawn leads a seriously tragic life/death. The advice the movies and comics seem to give us seems to be to be good, don’t sell your soul, and quit smoking. Just ask Constantine. . . .

      What’s Puzzling You Is the Nature of My Game

      So what’s in a name? After all, I did seem to promise at the beginning that I could prove that there was more to all of this than just learning a few names. It’s ironic, though, that anyone reading a book about the Devil would expect me to keep my promises. . . . But I shall, though you may not like it! We are doing something here called ontology, which isn’t nearly as occultish as it sounds—it is the study of what it means to be and to exist (okay, so maybe it’s a little occultish!).

      I hinted originally at the possibility that knowing names gives us power. And that’s true, at least to a degree. When we know someone else’s name we can, literally, call them—summon them, in other words. For example, I once was a waiter at a restaurant . . . I always wanted to bring a pox down on the people who would snap their fingers at me and say, Hey Nick. They knew my name because I had a nametag. I of course didn’t know their names, so I would have to answer, Yes sir, how can I help you? That damnable customer had a power over me, and because he could use my name he could summon me, though I could not summon him. But names are even more important than that.

      Names reveal what we believe about a person or thing. And they determine how we’ll act. For example, when Christopher Columbus arrived in the Americas he used to torture natives, force them to find him gold, cut off their hands, have dogs tear them to pieces, and hang them in the town square while lighting them on fire. Columbus died a rich man by basically starting the slave trade in the Americas. If someone deserves his own little festering corner of Hell, it’s Columbus. But think about it: this devilish man has cities and countries named after him. In fact, Washington DC (the District of Columbia) is in part named after him! So are Colombia, in South America, and the Costa Rican currency, the colon. He has his own damned holiday. And if you ask the natives, what did Columbus discover? Nothing! They were already there! You can’t discover something someone already lives on.

      So why does Columbus have his own holiday? Why do little children all around the US learn to revere rather than revile this demon? Because we named his invasion a discovery. Discovery takes all of the teeth out of what he did; it’s such a friendly word, and it shows whose side we have chosen. He discovered the land and the natives, rather than running into it and meeting them. The natives became his because he found them. And so we give him, and ourselves, power over the people who lived here long before us!

      Just Call Me Lucifer

      So what about the Devil himself? Surely naming can’t have an impact on our view of incarnate evil. Well, I beg to differ! If we can find a way to make a mass-murdering, genocidal, slave-trading maniac a national hero, we can find a way to make our red-bottomed foe not such a bad guy. We’ve already hinted at one way of doing this. The Devil, to the Hebrews, was known as the adversary. He didn’t choose to take up the mantle of prosecutor (or persecutor); he was appointed that task as an angel. The Hebrew translation of Satan’s name makes him sound far more like our opponent than the incarnate evil opponent of God. In fact, it makes him sound like the guy who’s doing God’s bidding by prosecuting those who deserve it.

      But the naming problem gets even worse. Lucifer, today, is synonymous with the Devil, though it has not always been. The translation of Lucifer means bringer of light. It was a reference to the morning star that comes right before the dawn. The Lu in Lucifer shares with it words like luminous, luminescent, and lumens, all words meaning light. If we look at the book of Genesis, the fall of Lucifer is the verbal equivalent of light-bringing. And what happens as a result of Lucifer’s fall? Well, we’re all damned, but also, we’re granted knowledge: tremendous knowledge of Good and Evil. In other words, the darkness of our minds is illuminated!

      The Greeks had a story a lot like this one. Prometheus, a Titan, defies the gods and gifts humanity with—go figure—fire . . . light! As a result, he’s damned to a daily dose of torture by having his liver ripped out by an eagle. But the Greeks looked at Prometheus in a very different way than we look at Lucifer; for better or worse they were grateful for the knowledge they were granted, even though both they and Prometheus were punished mightily. We, on the other hand, are ashamed of our ill-gotten, demon-granted knowledge. The Greeks took that knowledge and thought it made them special, believing in the amazing ability of humans to overcome any obstacle. Today, we seem pretty afraid of illumination. We’re terrified of the dangers knowledge can bring. We’re wary of scientists who interfere in God’s domain by cloning and genetic engineering, we’re suspicious of philosophers who question our deeply-held beliefs, and more and more politicians are suggesting college isn’t necessary and just leads our children astray.

      So, why do names matter? Because they determine how we think of what we know. The way we think about knowledge, the way we understand that knowledge—as a blessing or as a curse—depends on a name. Was it gifted to us by a light-bringer, helping us cast out the darkness of ignorance? Or was it afflicted upon us by the Devil, a foul temptation meant to lead us astray?

      2

      My Long-Lost Lover the Antichrist

      SHARON M. KAYE

      When I was a girl I dreamed that the Antichrist came to my bed and kissed me on the lips.

      Yep.

      It was a long, hard, hot, and heavy kiss, so vivid that, even after I woke up, I couldn’t help wondering if it was somehow real.

      Bothered by the experience, I told my older sister. She remains to this day convinced that it was real and that it was meant to convey a very important message to me. I have since decided, however, that the dream was caused by the high fever I had that night.

      Still, I suppose my sister was right in a way since I went on, some fifteen years later, to write my PhD thesis about the Antichrist. It felt like a fresh encounter by then. I was minding my own business in college studying philosophy when I came across a strange debate: three of the greatest minds of the fourteenth century passionately discussing some crazy question about the Antichrist.

      How extraordinary! I thought. Is this really what smart people spent their time thinking about in those days? Who is this Antichrist anyway? And could he really exist? Perhaps my pubescent rendezvous subconsciously fueled my determination to get to the bottom of the issue.

      The Issue

      So, I learned Latin, Greek, and paleography, sat a few exams, wrote a few term papers, and then buried myself in research. I found out the Antichrist is the man charged with the task of bringing about the end of the world. First-ranking servant of the Devil, perhaps even the Devil’s son, he’s expected to appear on Earth and seduce the nations into the final, apocalyptic rebellion against God.

      This, at any rate, is what Jesus himself is believed to have prophesied and what prompted my medieval philosophers’ intense debate. They were panicking, you see, because they realized the foretold coming of the Antichrist revealed a contradiction so glaring that it could damage their religion beyond repair.

      The contradiction arises through the following three assertions:

      1.Jesus prophesied that the Antichrist will come.

      2.Jesus can speak only the truth.

      3.The Antichrist is free to choose not to come.

      In other words, what happens if the Antichrist has a change of heart? If he’s a man—and therefore responsible for what he does—then he has the right to choose. What if he decides to bag the Apocalypse and do something else instead? For instance, just for instance, what if he meets me, sweeps me off my feet, and we live happily ever after? That would leave some serious egg on Jesus’s face.

      And so, three great medieval minds, who could have been busy—I don’t know—inventing penicillin or something, threw their considerable energy into this issue. Did they do it because they really wanted to solve the problem or because they wanted to show the world (in the only way they could, without being burned at the stake or whatever) that, in fact, the problem can’t be solved?

      You decide.

      Solution One

      Before we get to Peter Aureoli, fourteenth-century French philosopher, and first contender in our debate, I have to tell you right now that I’m completely convinced that the end of the world will be upon us within the next twenty to thirty years. Come on—with all the nuclear bombs, global warming, and super germs floating around, we’re already living on borrowed time.

      One thing I always admired about the medievals is they never took it for granted that they would live to see another day. Ironically, the measly four-hundred million people on the planet in those days really had no basis for worrying, while we seven billion can’t be bothered. (I have an iPod and an Xbox—what could possibly go wrong?)

      Anyhow, I mention this in order to explain why I speak as though the Antichrist is already living and breathing among us. No spring chicken is gonna be in a position to seduce the nations. He’ll have to be at least a little bit gray around the temples, already well into his career, yep, right around my age. . . .

      So let’s take a moment to consider the most crucial question of all: Does the Antichrist wear boxers or briefs? It’s got to be one or the other, right?

      Wrong! I’m sorry—I swear you can trust me about everything else, but that last bit was a devil’s snare. The truth is that the Antichrist may very well go commando—with nothing on at all—under tight designer jeans.

      I set you up on that one to illustrate the Fallacy of False Dilemma, a very common logical error human beings are prone to make. (Republican or Democrat? Coffee or tea? Men or women?) When someone tries to force a choice like that down your throat, your job, as philosopher, is to say, neither! or both!

      Even philosophers are human, however, and there is one either/or to which they have almost always remained loyal, namely, bivalence. Bivalence is the logical law that every well-formed statement has to be either true or false.

      Consider the following statement: The Antichrist locked lips with Sharon Kaye at midnight on February 7, 1983. While we may not know whether it’s true or false, most of us think that it has to be one or the other. Aureoli is happy to agree so far. He argues, however, that statements about the future, though perfectly well-formed, are neither true nor false. In other words, he boldly rejects the law of bivalence.

      So, suppose that, back in 1982, I made the following prediction: The Antichrist will lock lips with me at midnight on February 7th, 1983. This sentence was not true, according to Aureoli, because the future is contingent—it hadn’t been decided yet. Facts about the world make sentences true. If there is no fact yet, then there is no truth yet.

      So, what happens if the Antichrist chooses not to come? According to Aureoli, Jesus’s words, which represented God’s perfect knowledge without being true or false, must not have meant what they seemed to mean.

      As an infallible predictor (unlike the rest of us schmucks), Jesus gets to mean whatever ends up happening. For him, the statement The Antichrist is going to come can mean "The Antichrist is NOT going to come."

      Hmmmmm . . .

      On the one hand, we have to give Aureoli credit for recognizing that prophecies are supposed to be vague and mysterious. Think of an example from your favorite astrology column: You will be lucky in love this week. This could mean absolutely anything and the true believer can easily match it up with something that actually happens. Likewise, Aureoli insists, the passages in the Bible in which Jesus is supposed to predict the coming of the Antichrist are open to a wide variety of interpretations.

      On the other hand, it’d be hard to defend Aureoli from the charge that his view is self-defeating. Saying someone could mean the exact opposite of what they seem to mean has a way of undermining their ability to communicate anything at all.

      I should know, because I’m a mom and children practice this mind-bending form of communication all the time. Consider the following exchange between my daughter and me:

      ME: Would you like cheesie pizzies or yum burgers for dinner?

      HER: Cheesie pizzies!

      ME: Okay! [Two minutes later] Here’s your cheesie pizzie!

      HER: [Pouty face] Mom! I wanted a yum burger!

      ME: But you said you wanted cheesie pizzies.

      HER: No, I didn’t! [Look of genuine outrage] I meant I didn’t want that.

      Who am I to question my daughter’s ability to retroactively mean whatever she pleases? But when you start playing the game that way, no one’s gonna wanna play with you. I’ve stopped asking my daughter what she wants for dinner. Would anyone bother reading the Bible if they knew God was acting like a three year-old?

      Aureoli earned the title Doctor Facundus (Eloquent Teacher) for his contribution. I don’t know about you, but I’ll take meaningful over eloquent any day.

      Solution Two

      Thomas Bradwardine, our second contender, was a fourteenth-century English philosopher with a flair for physics, astronomy, and mathematics. Helping to formulate fundamental laws of nature that Galileo later took credit for, he earned the title Doctor Profundus (Deep Teacher). His magnum opus—a treatise more than eight-hundred pages long—was an effort to save human free will within an omnipotent God’s master plan. It may have been a more challenging mental exercise for him than his pioneering work in trigonometry.

      Suppose, just for a moment, that the Antichrist is driving his Mercedes convertible to the airport so that he can fly his private jet to Hollywood (well, he would have to be very rich as well as very handsome in order to seduce the nations, wouldn’t he?) and he rear-ends my Mazda on my way home from work. It’s just a scratch . . . no problem . . . he’s very apologetic and charming . . . he buys me a drink . . . we get to talking . . . things lead to things . . . and before you know it, we decide to ditch our lives and run away together. . . .

      Now, if this should happen, say, next week—or, how about tomorrow?—then that’s what God always knew. But—oooops!—that’s not what Jesus said. Does this mean it can’t happen? The Antichrist isn’t free to choose me over the Apocalypse after all? Bradwardine insists on preserving this choice. The Antichrist is still free because God has the power to bring it about that Jesus’s prophecy never happened.

      What?!

      At first it may sound like Bradwardine is saying God can change the past. Like the editor of a movie, he can go back to the beginning and cut out a scene here or there without doing any damage to the storyline. But that can’t be right. In real life, even one tiny change in the past could have untold effects into the future. For instance: if Jesus never made that prophecy, then I wouldn’t have come across it as a girl, and wouldn’t have had that dream about the Antichrist kissing me, and wouldn’t have been so intrigued by the fourteenth-century debate I ran across later, and so I would have become a hair stylist or something instead of a philosophy professor.

      No, when Bradwardine says God can bring it about that the prophecy never happened, what he means is that God can switch the movie.

      What?!

      You better believe it. If the Antichrist decides to become a lover rather than a fighter, then God will switch the movie to the one in which Jesus makes no prophecy and I become a hair stylist.

      Do you really think God would make just one dinky movie of the history of the world? Come on! We’re talking about an omnipotent being here. Naturally, he produced a myriad of movies—hey, why not an infinite number? Each one is a possible world. Which movie becomes the actual world depends on our choices.

      Points for creativity. But this infinite possible world scenario—even if we manage to get our minds around it—has a serious defect. It feels to us humans, as we move through time, that the past is real, closed, over and done with, while the future is wide open. If Bradwardine is right, then this experience of time passing is a massive illusion. God ultimately picks the winning movie as a timeless whole from his eternal vantage point.

      Perhaps the passage of time is an illusion. Fine. I could deal with that, I really could, if it didn’t render choice itself an illusion. Which movie God picks is supposed to depend on our choices, but choice itself requires the passage of time. Think about how you make a choice: first you’re thirsty, then you take a drink of beer. One state is succeeded by another.

      Bradwardine tried to claim that you could have a succession in nature without a succession in time. Two instants of nature for every instant of time. But he just made that up to keep from losing the game.

      I don’t go for ad hoc. Do you?

      Solution Three

      Fortunately, we have a third contender. John of Mirecourt, another fourteenth-century French philosopher, asserts that, if the Antichrist chooses not to come, then (against Aureoli) Jesus spoke a falsehood, and (against Bradwardine) it can’t be undone; therefore, Jesus must have lied.

      While the idea of Jesus lying may come as a shocker to some, it didn’t bother Mirecourt at all. He was part of a group of progressive thinkers who followed the lead of William of Ockham. You may have heard of Ockham due to his Razor. Ockham’s Razor is an epistemic principle—a tool theorists use to come up with better theories.

      What a useful thing to have! Because everything is theory, you know. From the weather forecast, to what you learn in chemistry class, to what your preacher proclaims from the pulpit, to what your psychologist advises, to the latest political analyses on TV, to what your doctor diagnoses, to what your mother taught you as a child. It’s all based on various made-up stories about the world. Some are better than others. The epistemic question is: How can we identify the better ones?

      Ockham’s Razor says that the simpler theory is more likely to be true. Simpler, meaning fewer assumptions. Every assumption, you see, is a liability because it could possibly be false. The more assumptions you have, the more likely your theory is false. For example, it could be that the name Antichrist refers, not to an individual man, but rather, to a lot of different people who freely conspire to bring on the Apocalypse. But adding more people doesn’t help at all. Since every single one of the conspirators is free, every single one could have a change of heart, still leaving us without anyone to fulfill the prophecy! So, it’s simpler just to stick with one man.

      The Razor is named after Ockham, not because he invented it (it can be found in earlier thinkers going back to Aristotle), but because he used it so often and with such devastating effect. Ockham slashed away the elaborate metaphysics his predecessors had built up to support their old-fashioned ideas. One of the things he attacked was the idea of universal moral laws. Right and wrong are a function of what God commands individuals to do, in Ockham’s view. God doesn’t need some higher principle in order to know what to command. He’s already God. His will is sufficient, and there’s no limiting it.

      So, God can lie and he can command someone else to lie, and whatever he commands is right. Moreover, God’s individual commands (which come to us mortals mostly through our conscience) can override anything he ever said in the Bible or to the Pope.

      Wow. Pretty gutsy for a couple of monks.

      While I applaud Ockham and Mirecourt for presenting the most realistic of the three solutions, I still can’t lay the problem to rest. Look at it this way: if God can reveal the future to Jesus, then he can just as easily write it on a rock. Last time I checked, rocks can’t lie. So, there sits the statement about what the Antichrist is going to do. And he hasn’t made that choice. Give the poor guy a chance!

      Once we start walking down this road, things start getting really sketchy really fast. Think about it. If God can write one thing about the future on a rock, then (being omnipotent) he can write everything. Give him a big enough rock (or, hell, a giant database, if you like) and he could nail down the whole history of the world for us before any of it ever happened. Every choice you ever think you’re making: already there. Not a choice after all. This would really take the fun out of carrying on, wouldn’t it?

      Mirecourt’s proposal not only fails as a solution, it was also condemned as heresy. Sadly, he didn’t earn any special titles and he disappeared from record shortly after his condemnation.

      No Solution

      So, the contradiction with which we began turns out to be a real stinker:

      1.Jesus prophesied that the Antichrist will come.

      2.Jesus can speak only the truth.

      3.The Antichrist is free to choose not to come.

      Aureoli and Bradwardine tried denying the first assertion and Mirecourt tried denying the second, creating a

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