Why God Stays Hidden | Metaphysical Necessity & the Problem of Divine Hiddenness

Part 2 of 7 — Theological Letters

The following piece is adapted from a podcast series on the Problem of Divine Hiddenness. While my typical written work includes extensive citations, I have not added references to this particular post. In addition, I have largely preserved my manner of speech, which can be a bit more colloquial than my usual writing style. Perhaps, when time permits, I’ll revise this piece to accommodate a more formal tone with proper citations. But in the meantime, I trust my body of work should suffice to instill confidence that the philosophical, theological, and historical claims presented here are sound and can be verified by an investigation of the figures and sources referenced. If you have yet to read the first piece in this series, I recommend you do so — link below.

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Part 1: The Problem of Divine Hiddenness | When God Seems Silent

As noted in my prior post, the two most common tactics when tackling the problem of divine hiddenness is to take either a negative or a positive angle. The former attacks the premises of the argument as flawed (negative), while the latter offers reasons why hiddenness may, in fact, be in some ways necessary and even beneficial to the creature. Last time, we considered reasons why the presumptions of the problem may be flawed. Today, we will take the positive road, exploring reasons why hiddenness may be necessary or beneficial to the creature.

Before diving in, one point worth repeating is this. These initial considerations — in part 1 and here again in part 2 — are reflective of common points within the literature. As we progress, however, I will look to additional considerations from the Eastern Church fathers, which do not presently play a role in the literature. But before highlighting these untapped resources, I think it’s worth giving the more common considerations their due.

The Epistemic Distance Argument: Love Without Coercion

One common place to begin the positive case is with free will. I hinted at this sort of consideration when noting that we should ask: If the present state of affairs is undesirable, then what is the more desirable state of affairs that God should have initiated? What would this alternative world look like, and what would be the ramifications of such a state of affairs? The question brings us to an argument leveled by John Hick.

Hick is known for his book Evil and the God of Love. He’s also known for other things as well, such as his religious pluralism. But his work on the problem of evil is the most relevant for our purposes here. In Evil and the God of Love, Hick develops his theodicy, or defense of God in the face of evil, and a critical feature of his case is what he calls his “epistemic distance” argument. The argument was meant to address the problem of divine hiddenness. Here, in the context of Hick’s theodicy, we see how hiddenness is often treated as a subset of the problem of evil.

Hick’s epistemic distance argument suggests that if God wants creatures to grow to maturity, if he wants them to have free will, if he wants to have a loving relationship with them, then there's a need for him to create some level of distance between him and his creatures. The presumption, of course, is that if God were to manifest to creatures in his full glory, not only would belief be necessary, but there would be a certain level of fear that would result in the coercion of choice. Hence, in order to preserve freedom of the kind that God desires — the sort that allows a creature to choose or reject him — epistemic distance is a necessary condition.

Now, notice that this argument spills into sub-arguments. One sub-argument is that there are necessary conditions for love. Whatever those conditions may be, they exclude coercion. This is indeed one of the arguments you find not only in John Hick but in folks like Paul Moser. The claim is that love is inherently free, something one willingly enters into. For this reason, it cannot be predicated on fear or produced by threat of punishment.

Recall that Schellenberg had as one of his premises that a loving God would not hide himself. But if it is true, as Hick argues, that unveiling himself would result in fear of a kind that wades into coercive waters, then it may well be that hiding himself is a necessary condition for a loving, non-coercive relationship with his creatures.

For my part, I think there’s something fair about this argument. We can see it on full display in certain genres of storytelling — to use an old example, the film Sleeping with the Enemy, or a more recent example, like 10 Cloverfield Lane. In this genre, a person is trapped in a relationship, held by fear, and the abusive nature of the arrangement is evident. The viewer never wonders whether the relationship is loving. The very fact that the relationship is asymmetrical — being one-sided, rooted in coercion — strikes the viewer as prime facie repugnant. Why? Because we recognize that the relationship is warped. If the aim is love, then non-coercion is an essential feature: The other party must freely reciprocate.

All of this points to the truth of Hick’s claim: Yes, if God desires a loving relationship with his creatures, then there are necessary conditions, and if God’s unveiled presence is coercive, then hiddenness may be one such condition.

But is it true that the divine presence is inherently coercive? To address this question, let’s consider whether the biblical evidence supports the claim.

Biblical Considerations, Counter Evidence, and Counters to Counters

Rather than beginning with evidence in support of Hick’s case, let’s begin with the most obvious strike against it. First, the angels do not appear to experience epistemic distance from God, and yet, a faction of them fell. Hence, the case that epistemic distance is required for freedom seems problematic.

Along similar lines, it seems like Adam and Eve also have access to God in Eden. The point is problematic on two fronts. The First is that, like the Fall of angels, this access apparently did not hinder the Fall. Second, this would seem to be prime facie proof that our present experience of divine hiddenness is a product of the Fall, not a divine desire to protect freedom.

An additional difficulty is that the epistemic distance argument appears to set love and fear at odds with one another, while Scripture does not. Fear of God is identified as the beginning of wisdom. Yes, it also speaks about perfect love casting out fear, but it does not put love and fear at odds with one another.

So, in the light of such considerations, what are we to make of the epistemic distant argument? In reply, I would offer several points.

First, I think it’s important to acknowledge — as I will when I explore the contributions of the Eastern Church fathers — that our current epistemic distance is not, in fact, natural. However, I do not think this means there is no legitimacy to the argument. Rather, I think a case can be made for balancing pre-Fall epistemic access to God with the need for epistemic distance — even in Eden.

Notice that in the Eden account, even though Adam and Eve have access to God, during the time of testing, God is absent. The point is obviously made anthropomorphically — they hear God approaching as he walks in the garden — but the image indicates some sort of withdrawal by God, which creates room for the testing by temptation, and only after the test is complete does God’s presence return.

Concerning the Fall of angels, Scriptures do not provide an account of the original state of the angels before the demonic rebellion. However, Scripture does speak — in Job, for example — of the angels entering and leaving the presence of God. Like in Eden, the language is anthropomorphic, but it indicates the same truth: Despite their access to God, the divine presence was not constant.

We see the point further reinforced in other places after the Fall as well. For example, with Cain and Abel, the offspring of Adam evidently retained access to the presence of God. Yet, God withdraws, and Cain commits the first murder upon the earth. After the deed is done and the blood-soaked earth cries out to its Maker, God returns to inquire of Cain about his brother. Like in Eden, the narrative indicates that God withdraws his presence, allowing his creatures to act freely, and then returns afterwards.

Sinai (or Horeb), too, offers another notable example. As God descends on the mountain, the people cry out, begging Moses to speak to God and tell him to stop talking. The unbridled manifestation of the divine presence was too terrifying. Moses’ reply to the request is telling: He did this to make you fear, so that you won’t sin against him. Moses here acknowledges the terrifying nature of the divine presence and its instrumental utility to induce fear, holding back sin.

Worth noting is that this particular manifestation is not even a full unveiling, since God descends veiled in smoke and flame. This is something seen throughout the Old Testament, where clouds or fire are veils for the presence of God. God is not the cloud but within the cloud; God is not the fire but within the flames. But even this veiled presence is too much for the children of Israel, and the fear this veiled presence excites has a purpose: To instill fear that they might not sin.

In this light, I think it fair to conclude that the biblical testimony supports the notion that God’s presence is fear-inducing in a manner that could be deemed coercive. Hence, even in Eden, the presence of God is withdrawn to create room for a test of free choice. But as I said, the point needs to be qualified, since the particular type of divine hiddenness we presently experience is unnatural — a fact to which we’ll return.

Now, as for fear, I think it fair to say that the biblical text has a more nuanced view of fear than the replies to hiddenness admit. Yes, the biblical text — such as 1 John — speaks about perfect love casting out fear. But the claim, as far as I can tell, does not set love and fear at odds with one another. Rather, there is an acknowledgement that though one may be driven to God by fear, these first spiritual steps are infantile in nature. The goal is that the believer comes to see the goodness and wisdom of God’s commands for himself, embracing them out of love for God and neighbor — a love that, when perfected, casts out fear.

Such nuance, to my mind, does not nullify the epistemic distance argument. For it still indicates that the types of creatures God wishes to produce are creatures who freely embrace his commands because they recognize the goodness and wisdom within them. Hence, even if this nuance leaves room for fear of God in the training of creatures, the aim is still to train the creature to freely embrace God’s commandments.

Like in the withdrawal of God’s presence, then, the aim is the same: That the creature might become spiritually mature, learning to freely embrace divine wisdom even with the corrective hand is removed.

On Spiritual Development and Maturity

In one of Basil of Caesarea’s works, he fields questions about spirituality. One such question asked of him was this: Can you teach us to love God? His answer was No. The reply might not be surprising but his rationale may well be. Why can he not teach them this? Because they already love God.

Stunning though the claim may be, Basil’s point is a classical one. Plato concluded that all of the particular goods of our world have a common source, The Good. From this transcendent source cascades the various samplings of goodness that populate the realm of being and the world generally. And later Platonists would conclude that The Good is in fact the transcendent God. Something similar echoes in the Christians and this echo is the root of Basil’s claim.

Unlike their pagan counterparts, Christianity has always insisted that evil is a shadow phenomenon. All that God has created is good. Evil arises from a twisting of something that is originally good. What draws a person to sexual perversions is the goods of sexual pleasure or intimacy. What draws one to the vice of gluttony is the goods of eating. In all such cases, the allure of the vice is not the twisting but the good that is twisted.

In this light, every deed — be it good or bad — is done from a love of goodness. The good of the thing chosen is what draws us to it. And like Plato, Basil believes that every particular good is merely a refraction of The Good — God himself. Hence, one need not learn to love God. He already does, which is why he chases after good things. What he lacks is spiritual simplicity.

The term recognizes that our pursuit of various goods often runs into conflict. We may desire the goods of ease and relaxation but also the goods of health and strength that require physical exertion. We may desire the good of the single life as well as the good of the married life. We may desire the goods of wealth and power while also desiring peaceful simplicity. Hence, our pursuit of lesser goods often pulls us in conflicting directions, precisely because we cannot have every good that might stir our desires. One who is spiritually simple, however, has come to see that every particular good is an expression of The Good. And having set his heart on this source of all goodness, he is able to enjoy lesser goods as they come, not as his chief end but as transient expressions of his Chief End.

Yet, the type of spiritual maturity here described is anything but instantaneous. According to the early Christians generally and the Eastern fathers specifically, all of created reality begins in potential and moves toward actuality. Our ability to walk began in potential, and we had to work through growth pains — stumbling, strengthening our legs, and rehearsing unfamiliar movements in order to walk. Our capacity for language began in potential and required us to listen and observe, fumbling about with strange noises until obtaining mastery of those sounds, of grammar, and of communication.

Spiritual maturity is no different. Virtues are additive traits that one acquires through struggle, while vice reflects an absence of moral goods. One cultivates courage, but the same cannot be said of cowardice. One acquires wisdom, but the same is not said of folly.

Now, the importance of the point is that many harbor an odd notion that belief in God — which seems to be a placeholder for whatever God requires of me to avoid Hell — should be acquired overnight, if not instantaneously. But no substantial good in human experience works this way. None of our linguistic, intellectual, artistic, or other powers came without effort. Each one was acquired by struggle and repetition. And if Christianity is to be believed, such is the nature of creatureliness per se. Hence, whatever the spiritual maturity God desires for us is likewise born from struggle.

The point is central to Moser’s rebuttal to the problem of divine hiddenness. He argues — rightly in my estimate — that spiritual maturity requires struggle, choice, and repetition. The sort of relationship God desires with his creatures is not one in which we see a proof in the sky that he exists, we believe, and then we go to Heaven.

In part 1, I noted a series of questionable presuppositions. One such presupposition that I left unaddressed was the conflation of faith and belief — though I mentioned it in passing. But here, we see the conflation in sharp relief. The hiddenness objection does not simply presume that if one had sufficient proof of God that he would believe. It takes the far bolder position that sufficient proof would yield faith. But as St. James points out, the demons believe and tremble. Belief and faith are two very different things.

Let’s grant, for a moment, that God could unveil himself to such a degree that it satisfies the objector’s demand for proof. And let’s say that this unveiling, though fear-inducing, does not suffice to override the objector’s freedom. The result may well restrain sin. But as noted in the prior section on the relationship between fear and love, this restraint would be an infantile form of faith at best — a child frightened that he might get a spanking if he does not take a bath. But this is not yet the mature faith that sees the wisdom in the parental instruction to bathe. The latter requires the child to grow in wisdom himself. Without such growth, the relationship still falls short of what God desires.

Admittedly, in saying this, I betray the fact that I am not a Protestant but an Eastern Orthodox philosopher. I think it evident that most formulations of the problem of divine hiddenness presume a Protestant understanding of the Christian gospel, wherein a person mentally assents to certain propositions and his eternal destiny is remedied. Suffice it to say that the Eastern Church fathers have a far more robust understanding of the destiny God intends for the human person. Before exploring such matters, however, let’s first begin with why the Eastern fathers believe that development is a necessary feature of creaturely existence.

The Metaphysical Necessity of Creaturely Development

In 2015, I published an article on the Free Will Defense — a common staple of Christian responses to the problem of evil. In that article, I highlighted a deficiency of the argument as formulated by its contemporary proponents, namely, they presume that free will entails the ability to do good or evil. Yet, according to Christian tradition, God has free will without any “capacity” for evil. Now, in the context of the free will defense, this raises a rather thorny question: If it’s possible for a being to be incorruptibly good and also possess free choice, then why doesn’t God make creatures who are incorruptibly good and free?

Within that article, I explain that there are very good metaphysical reasons why, according to the Eastern Church Fathers, God cannot do this. I will not belabor the present piece with an over-abundance of metaphysics. Readers who wish to see the details can read that article. But the long and short of the matter is this.

What it means to be created, according to the Eastern fathers, comes to light in the midst of the Arian dispute — the first dispute to occasion an Ecumenical Council and the first draft of the Nicene Creed. As is well known, the dispute concerned whether or not the Son of God is divine or a creature. Arius believed him to be created, while Athanasius argued he is divine — begotten, not made. Given the nature of the dispute, the Eastern patristic go into great detail about what differentiates the divine from the created.

Within the dispute, it becomes apparent that the mark of creatureliness is the very thing noted in the previous section. A creature is something that comes to be, or moves from a possible thing to a real thing, or transitions from potentiality to actuality. And for this reason, change and process is inherent to creatureliness. For its first moment of existence is marked by transition and change. God, by contrast, does not come into being, nor progress actualization, nor become what he is over time. Instead, he is fully realized yesterday, today, and forever.

Within the Arian dispute, the contrast was on full display. For Arius wished to say that the Son of God was created. When the charge returned that the Son is not, then, a perfect image of his divine Father but is like every other creature, Arius pivoted, claiming that God created him unchanging and perfect. At this, the Eastern fathers scoffed. Why? Because not even God can create a second God. For the very act of creation entails transition, progress, and change. Such are the very marks of creatureliness.

Now add to this the presumption of free will. A human person is not merely a creature but a free or self-determining creature. The term literally means self-substancing — determining for himself how he will develop. Unlike plants or animals that simply develop and play their part in the cosmos, man has the extraordinary capacity to discern the created order and then decide whether or not to honor this order. This capacity is the very thing that gives rise to moral properties, his knowledge of what he ought and ought not do along with the choice to do or not. Such is the reason man is praised or blamed for his actions.

Bringing these points together, we can see why God cannot create a being that is both perfectly good and free. For to create a being is to make something that is not perfectly good at its inception but something that develops or progresses toward its good. And to create a moral being is to create a being that is self-determining, deciding for himself the course of his development. In the case of God, free choice is an expression of perfection already realized. But in the case of a creature, self-determination is an instrument to achieve moral perfection not yet acquired. This is why, in the case of God, freedom leaves no room for evil, but in the case of a creature, freedom necessitates the possibility of evil — and not even God can make it otherwise.

The point makes for a much stronger claim merely suggesting that God desires a relationship of a certain kind or that his creatures tread a certain road. Instead, the Eastern Church fathers argue that progress and development are inherent to creatureliness — of metaphysical necessity.

Here, we wade into the waters of realism, and the Eastern fathers are realists. That is to say, they believe that the structures of reality — genera, species, common properties, logic, and so on — are not mental fictions but features of reality as such. Hence, realism.

For this reason, when classical realists speak about divine omnipotence, they grant that God can do anything, but the point is qualified. Not every semantic combination refers to a thing. Contradictory pairings, like a square without four sides or a free creature whose actions are determined by God, have no referent. They are meaningless noises. So it is no insult to divine omnipotence to say that God cannot do such a “thing,” since these are not things at all; they are unintelligible babble. And such is the Eastern patristic stance on God making creatures who are perfectly formed from the start, immune to development and progression. The very notion is a contradiction in terms.

So, while we might wish for God to make our world otherwise — perhaps bringing us into being fully perfect and in the type of relationship with God that he desires for us without need for development or progress — such a wish may be nothing more than fantasy. For according to the Eastern fathers, progress and development is the nature of creaturely existence of metaphysical necessity. And not even God can make it otherwise.