Experience and the Argument Against Human Freedom

Metaphysica, De Gruyter (26 September, 2017)

Introduction and Abstract

The heart of this essay, presented in part II, is an attempt to break the longstanding gridlock of the determinism/free-will controversy. Part I sets the table by examining recent attempts to refine and resolve this controversy.  For example, Fischer’s groundbreaking case for semi-compatibilism seeks to soften the devastating impact of incompatibilism by arguing that while metaphysical (libertarian) freedom is indeed incompatible with determinism, human responsibility is not.  But Fischer’s ingenious application of Frankfort-like examples simply cannot rescue any relevant notion of human responsibility.  Rather, Fischer’s resourceful argumentation guides us to a pivotal realization. Kane’s Principle of Alternative Possibilities (the longstanding “could have done otherwise” necessary condition for human freedom aka Fischer’s “Leeway Principle”) is false. Thus, any successful attack against metaphysical freedom must target the “source-hood” thesis—an indeterministic agency theory of metaphysical freedom—the very idea of which is rejected by Hume, Nietzsche, Fischer et al as simply incoherent.  But I argue that these philosophers are surely mistaken about the literal incoherence of the source-hood premise. Consequently, the current debate cannot move us beyond the frustration faced so squarely by Kant: we just can’t find a way to advance the case for or against metaphysical freedom.  

In Part II, I urge that an appeal to the a posteriori data of experience is sufficient to decisively resolve this recalcitrant impasse. This a posteriori evidence I argue, reveals that the thesis of metaphysical freedom is surely false. There is no human freedom; and neither are humans morally responsible for their choices. The supportive case supplied here will seek to rehabilitate Schopenhauer’s proclamation that while “man can do what he wants, he cannot will what he wants.” I believe this claim is importantly correct; but as it stands, it obviously begs the question. Therefore, this essay will attempt to present both a compelling defense of Schopenhauer’s dictum, as well as the supplementary insight which makes philosophical capital of that defense. My central thesis, universally confirmed by experience, is that what we want most causes us to choose accordingly. It is not physically possible to choose otherwise than in accord with what we desire most strongly; but this efficacious desire is never itself chosen; it is instead always already given. The full argument follows. 

Part I: Examination of the Classical and Contemporary Debate

Determinism is the thesis that all events are caused by past events together with the laws of nature. Given the past and the laws, then all present events—and future events—are fixed. The past is sufficient to guarantee all subsequent events. This thesis is prima facie incompatible with human freedom of the will—free-choice. For, given the past, any present or future choice has only one possible outcome. In order to alter this outcome, either some fact about the past or some law of nature would have to be changed. But it is not possible to alter the past, or the laws of nature. 

This argument, introduced by van Inwagen, is called the “consequence argument.”  It apparently entails the thesis of incompatibilism—viz., that determinism and metaphysical freedom are

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 Arthur Schopenhauer, On the Fourfold Root of the Principle of Sufficient Reason, (Open Court Publishing. 1979) p. 212. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Schopenhauer#Criticism, nt 34. 

 van Inwagen, Peter; An Essay on Free Will, (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1983), p 16. 

incompatible. Metaphysical freedom (which is to be distinguished from physical and/or political freedom) has long been held to entail that the free person has the power to choose otherwise than he did. But if determinism is true, then we don’t have this power; thus whether or not humans are physically or politically free, our choices are scripted in advance. We are not metaphysically free. A further consequence seems to be that since free choice is the condition upon which an agent can be held responsible for his choices, determinism is also incompatible with moral responsibility. For if John is caused to lie to Fred by forces beyond John’s control, there is nothing else that was in John’s power to choose. Whatever it is that we would have John do instead is beyond his power.  It appears absurd, even morally irresponsible, to hold John responsible for his choice if there was nothing else he could have chosen. 

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  An early, if not the first, formulation of this position is given by Thomas Hobbes, Of Liberty and Necessity, section 32. http://www.informationphilosopher.com/solutions/philosophers/hobbes/of_liberty_and_necessity.html 

 This argument has been challenged by David Lewis, "Are We Free to Break the Laws?,” (Theoria 47 1981), pp 113-121.  Lewis believes that the consequence argument fails since it entails that the exercise of a normal ability (to do otherwise) leads to the absurdity that the agent has extraordinary ability (to either change the past or break existing laws of nature). Hence, we don’t even have the ordinary ability—if determinism is true.  But Lewis’ argument is misses the point. The absurdity does not follow from the assumption of having ordinary ability (to do otherwise), but only from the exercise of that ordinary ability—which is precisely the power that determinism denies. 

 This particular strategy of resisting attributions of responsibility in cases where the agent has no options is known as the Kane/Wiedeker strategy. See Pereboom’s discussion of this tactic in Four Views on Free Will, (Blackwell Publishing, 2007), pp 87-90.

But compatibilists have countered with the claim that an agent often does have the power to do otherwise; i.e., he often could have chosen otherwise if he had wanted. Yet incompatibilists rightly point out that if the agent had in fact so wanted, then that fact about the past (that he did not so want) would have to be altered; thus, since the agent lacked the power to change the past, he did not have the power to choose otherwise. Incompatibilists insist that freedom makes sense only when the power to choose otherwise obtains given all past events and physical laws—which is precisely what determinism denies. The only other alternative to incompatibilism has seemed to lie in some sort of revisionary program through which the idea of freedom is reconceived in a way compatible with both responsibility and a deterministic world. But success here is a small victory; to redefine the crucial terms is just to change the subject. And thus the argument that libertarian freedom and responsibility—construed in terms of a “could have done otherwise condition”—is at once the condition for human responsibility but also incompatible with determinism, looks secure. 

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 To be sure, there are a number of varieties of compatibilism, among them that of P. F. Strawson. For Strawson, to have a practice of holding people responsible is sufficient justification for doing so. It is difficult to see how Strawson’s case can meet the above argument. Peter Strawson, “Freedom and Resentment,” (Proceedings of the British Academy, 48 1962). Pp 1 – 25. Alternatively, Wallace argues that reflective self-control is sufficient for responsibility. Metaphysical considerations are irrelevant. But he fails to produce a rationale by which to displace the source-hood condition addressed below. Wallace; R.J., Responsibility and Moral Sentiment, (Cambridge Mass: Harvard University Press, 1994).

 In line with Hobbes, Hume, Mill, and G. E. Moore’s formulation in his Ethics, see Austin, John. Austin’s distinctive approach is cure deep philosophical concerns through ordinary language analysis. “If’s and Can’s,” Berofsky ed., Free Will and Determinism (New York: Harper and Row, 1966). Pp 295-331.  

 See e.g., Emanuel Vargus, “Revisionism,” Four Views on Free Will, (Blackwell Publishing, 2007) pp 126 – 165. Also, see Daniel Dennett, “On Giving Libertarians What They Say They Want,” nt xxvii below. 

A referee has suggested that the Skinnerian view of responsibility is not ruled out, since praise and blame can still be used to shape behavior.  But I fear this misses the point; the appeal to this long-broken version of behaviorism not only begs the question, it seems oblivious to the argument just given. Accordingly then, the only hope for compatibilism lies with Fischer’s semi-compatibilism, which is the topic that follows. 

But J. M. Fischer has challenged this conclusion. Carving new territory which he christens as semi-compatiblism, Fischer invites us to see that responsibility does not require libertarian freedom after all. For while freedom and determinism remain incompatible, we can be fully responsible for our choices even though we are not free to choose otherwise. If this correct, this result removes much of the sting from the consequence argument. 

Now, at first blush, semi-compatibilism does not appear to be comprehensible. How is it exactly that one can be responsible for a choice while lacking the power to have chosen in any other way than one did? The appeal of Fischer’s argument is owed to the intuitive force of a type of example introduced by Harry Frankfurt, who modifies an illustration offered by John Locke. In all such examples, there are forces which relieve the agent of any alternative choice, but do not directly cause the agent to choose as he does. Fischer et al argue that once we grasp why it is proper to hold the Frankfurt agent accountable for his choice, we will see that Frankfurt agents differ in no relevant way from agents whose choice is causally determined. 

Killing Bill: Frankfurt-type Examples

Compare the following two examples, the second of which is a Frankfurt-style example.

#1. Ace is told by his captors that he must kill the man strapped to a chair in the next room by pressing a button, before time t, that will electrocute innocent Bill. He is further informed, and knows, that if he does not do this, then they will kill Bill anyway—immediately following the slaughter of Ace’s family. Now Ace may perfectly well reason that since Bill will die regardless of what he does, then Ace will be off the hook should he decide to kill Bill. Ace will merely have hastened the inevitable with a move that also was intended to save his otherwise doomed family. 

But most will not buy this. If Ace presses the button, then unless we know that Ace did not do so freely, we will obviously hold him responsible for killing—murdering—Bill, even though 

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 Fischer, John Martin; Four Views on Free Will, (Blackwell Publishing, 2007), pp 44 – 84, 184 – 190.

 Frankfurt, Harry; “Alternatives Possibilities and Moral Responsibility” Journal of Philosophy 66, (1969), pp 829 – 39. For Locke’s example see An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Book II, “Of Power,” (New York: Prometheus Books, 1995), p 173. But, significantly, Locke’s example is framed in terms of action, not choice.

 Early Frankfort-style examples posit an intervener; mine does not. See Kane’s excellent discussion of Frankfurt-style examples in Kane, Robert; A Contemporary Introduction to Free Will, (New York: Oxford, 2005), Chapter 8. 

mitigating factors may be considered upon sentencing. Nevertheless, while tragic, becoming a murderer is the price Ace pays for the life of his family. 

#2. Ace will kill Bill iff Ace presses the button prior to t.  Yet Ace is also aware that the button will ignite at t iff Ace does not press the button prior to t. Here, it is again inevitable that Bill will be electrocuted. There is nothing that Ace can do to stop this; so thus far, the case offers us nothing more than did case 1. But now suppose that the mad scientist has infected Ace’s brain with a unique virus. Any neuropathway that leads to not pressing the button is blocked. So, not only is it evident that Bill will die, it is also inevitable that Ace will press the button.  He has no options—does not have the power to do otherwise. 

The Argument

Fischer thus argues that, in such cases as #2, Ace is not metaphysically free—Ace lacks the power to choose otherwise. But, he then argues furthermore that even if Ace presses the button without being caused by the virus to do so, then Ace is surely responsible for Bill’s death. Additionally, Fischer urges, there is no relevant difference between this sort of case and one where Ace is hypnotically determined in advance to choose as he did. There, the hypnotist’s intervention is causally sufficient to guarantee Ace’s choice. Yet, in case 2, causal forces nonetheless structure the scenario such that, without causing Ace to choose to kill Bill, Ace is left with no option other than to choose to kill Bill. So in each case (the hypnotist and the scientist), Ace’s decision is scripted by factors beyond his control and which guarantee the outcome. So absent any alternative scenario in which Ace has the power to choose otherwise, Ace is not free.  But he is responsible.

Fischer’s last point seems to have merit. At least our intuitions tend to agree that Ace, should he press the button, may well be responsible for Bill’s death. And so semi-compatibilism surges to the fore.  Determinism, while incompatible with freedom, may yet be fully compatible with human responsibility. 

The Challenge

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 This example is inspired by the beautifully crafted example offered by William L. Rowe; yet it contains one important difference as will be apparent below. See Rowe, William L.; “Free Will, Responsibility, and the Problem of Oomph,” The Journal of Ethics, Vol. 10, No 3, (Aug. 2006), 295-313.

 In Fischer’s terminology, Ace has guidance control (which renders him responsible) but lacks regulative control (alternative possibilities). “Compatibilism,” Four Views, 56 -61.

Among the most interesting challenges to Fischer’s argument is that advanced by William L. Rowe. Following a professed insight of the great libertarian Thomas Reid, Rowe argues (using his own examples) that we must grant that someone in Ace’s position has just a little bit of an alternative, and therefore just a little bit freedom, after all. For on Reid’s view, having the power to do otherwise—a necessary condition of freedom—entails that the agent has the power to not agent-cause the actual choice.  So in our example, even though Ace does not have the power to choose an alternative, he may yet have the power to not choose to press the button, given that Ace was not directly caused to press it.  Thus, depriving Ace of the power to choose any alternative does not thereby deprive Ace of freedom. 

Fischer’s well-known response (again, I extrapolate from Fischer’s examples) is that there is no option carved out by the power to not-choose as one did that is sufficiently robust to ground our sense that someone like Ace is responsible for his choice. For the power to not-choose X is not the power to agent-choose not-X.  Certainly, instances of the latter would be genuine alternatives, but Ace does not have this power. Thus the power to not choose as Ace did offers only a “flicker of freedom”; but without robust options, Ace is not free. 

Rowe’s counter is that we hold Ace-agents responsible precisely because it is he, not the virus, that caused Bill’s death. Had he not chosen to kill Bill, the virus (or its perpetrator) would be responsible for Bill’s death.  But since Ace caused it, he is surely responsible.  The flicker of freedom that Ace does possess truly has sufficient “oomph” to ground responsibility.  Hence, semi-compatibilism fails. Either Ace is free, which is why we hold him responsible; or Ace is not free, and Fischer must surrender semi-compatibilism. 

The Result

I find Rowe’s argument both compelling and puzzling. It is the former because, should he press the button without being caused to do so, surely Ace looks to be causally responsible for the killing and for some reason yet appears to be morally responsible as well. It is puzzling because as I will argue below, Rowe’s case for holding Ace morally responsible cannot be traced, as Rowe imagines, to a power to “not-choose” as Ace did. I believe that is traced instead to the 

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 Rowe, William L.; “Oomph,” 295-313. 

 Georg Olms Verlag, The Works of Thomas Reid, D.D. 8th Edition, William Hamilton (ed.) (Edinburgh, James Thin, 1895)

 Fischer, Four Views, pp 59 – 61.

intuition that Ace may well be free, even lacking the power to not choose as he did. How can this be?

Our first verification of this suspicion is that, in our example #2, Ace does not have the power to not choose to Kill Bill. The express stipulation was that any option short of choosing to kill Bill is unavailable.  If we then stand firm that Ace is responsible, then we have arrived at the (perhaps startling) conclusion that having options to our choice is not a necessary condition for being free after all.  If so, then our justification for ascribing freedom to Ace will have to lie elsewhere. It may be that “could have done otherwise” is not only not entailed by the idea of libertarian freedom, but some other condition—perhaps satisfied by Ace—is entailed.  Or, let us put this in terms of the original Frankfort example. Just as Locke’s unwitting prisoner freely chose to stay in the locked room—independently of factors which deprived him of the option of leaving—, so Ace perhaps freely chose to push the button—quite independently of factors which deprived him of any alternative.  For now, I will let this intuition stand; momentarily, I will argue for it. 

Kane on Alternative Possibilities

But Robert Kane will disagree with the above analysis. Kane, a resourceful and imaginative proponent of the view that freedom requires alternative possibilities, has argued at length and repeatedly that Frankfurt-style examples in particular fail to discredit this thesis. For, he believes, the Frankfurt examples are either simply impossible, or they are self-refuting. Consider the possibilities. Frankfurt-style examples are those in which “designed” intervention (of the scientist, the devil, nature, etc.) co-opts any robust alternative to choose otherwise.  But the success of such intervention either requires a reliable sign which triggers whether or not appropriate intervention occurs, or it does not.  If there is no sign, then either intervention will occur too late (after the choice) and here there will be alternatives; or too early (before the choice) in which case the agent is not free.  On the other hand, if there is a reliable sign which guides the intervention, then even if the sign (and hence the intervention) occurs a very short time before the choice, intervention yet entails the absence of freedom. The intervention has caused the choice. If the intervention is post-choice, then there were alternatives.  Finally, now suppose that all alternatives, including the power to not choose as he does, are somehow engineered out in advance—as in example #2. Then there is not even a flicker of freedom attributable to the agent; so here, the Frankfurt chooser is simply not free.  His choice is as guaranteed as it would have been if directly caused by deterministic forces.  Therefore it is not possible for Frankfurt cases to succeed. Either there will be alternatives, or we are not free. 

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 Kane, Robert; Four Views on Free Will, (Mass: Blackwell Publishing), co-authored by John Martin Fischer, Derk Pereboom, and Manuel Vargas, pp 167 – 172; and Free Will, pp 87 – 88. 

This is a formidable argument, but it is difficult to see how it can be successful. For one thing, we are yet saddled with our intuition that Ace, even without options, may well be free. How can this be so?

Consider first the possibility that the choice to kill Bill may have been exactly the same even without the engineering which guaranteed it. If so, not only is the engineering not the cause of the choice, it doesn’t even appear relevant to the choice. We can even assume that Ace believed, falsely, that he had options, that he considered and then rejected them. Whether or not such options were imaginary, the integrity of Ace’s choice is assured. Is there then a more fundamental rationale by which to defend this intuition?

The Source-hood Condition

The condition that some have held to be more basic than that of the “leeway” position— the power to do otherwise—has been called “the source” condition. For certain libertarians, this is fundamental. It is the requirement that genuinely free choices are “up to us.” And to be up to us entails that the choice originates with the chooser. When free, we are the generative, sui generis cause of our own choice, which is not antecedently determined by any other factors. And if we have generated the choice “on our own,” without being caused to do so, then it simply does not matter if it turns out—unbeknownst to us—that the Devil, or God, or mad scientists, or even nature have “conspired” to render any apparent alternative illusory. It doesn’t matter whether there were genuine alternatives or not. This is precisely why we may believe that Ace, even absent alternatives, may be both free and responsible for his choice.

Kane labels this source-hood condition that of “ultimate responsibility” (UR).  Now Fischer has countered that this condition can only be realized within the parameters of determinism. All that is necessary is that the choice be voluntary and intentional—that it is uncoerced and what we deliberately decide to do.  But Kane and Pereboom have argued forcefully, and surely correctly, that in a deterministic setting it is impossible to see how any choice could be sui generis. Viewed deterministically, choices are links in a causal chain which began long before we were born and which quite obviously are both beyond our control and short of ultimate personal responsibility. 

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 This condition is discussed by each of the four authors of Free Will; see also Richard Taylor, Metaphysics, 4th ed., (New Jersey: Prentice Hall), 1992, Chapter 5, pp 45 - 6.

 Kane, Free Will, Chapter 11, pp 120-131.

 Pereboom, Robert, Four Views, 196 – 98.

But Kane complicates this straightforward result by arguing that ultimate responsibility entails alternative possibilities. For, sometimes we make choices solely based on our character; thus freedom requires that at some point, we are free to choose any number of character shaping acts. Without such character forming acts, we are again products of the past, and are not responsible for our choices.

Nonetheless, I think we can now see that Kane’s position here is deeply problematic. It first seems to illicitly create disjoint sets of choices—those mandated by character, and those that shape character. But why, if we are free, are not many of our choices both character-forming and free? (Think of Sartre’s notion of bad faith.) So when we cave in to e.g., passion, then rather than say we are not free, shouldn’t we instead argue with Aristotle that our moral character was too weak to sustain our convictions? 

Be that as it may, the main point that Kane overlooks, if I understand him, has already been addressed.  In order for character-shaping choices to occur, it is sufficient to consider alternatives that are merely believed to be real.  Therefore, our agent may for example believe that he also had the power to choose atheism instead of God when in fact these alternatives are blocked as in example #2, perhaps as a result of a decree issued by God Himself. The choice surely remains character shaping.

If this is correct, then the leeway condition is simply logically irrelevant to freedom. Instead, at the core of metaphysical freedom is the source-hood condition by which we are ultimately responsible for generating our choice and hence morally responsible for its consequences. But the incompatibilist has it right as well; a condition of being free, and being ultimately responsible, is that determinism is false. There is no deterministic freedom, and pace Fischer, no compatibilistic responsibility. 

Indeterminism and Libertarianism

So then, a necessary condition for human freedom is indeterminism. But is indeterminism sufficient for freedom?

Many have held that not only is indeterminism not sufficient for freedom, it too is logically incompatible with freedom. The view that neither determinism nor indeterminism is conceptually compatible with libertarian freedom and responsibility, a position developed by Derk 

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 Kane, Free Will, 129 – 130.

Pereboom, is called “hard incompatibilism.”  On this view, compatibilists and incompatibilists alike have argued that indeterministic libertarianism falls prey to what, since Hume, has become known as the “luck” objection. So, before turning to the common sense approach referred to in the opening comments, I want first to consider whether this is correct, and whether libertarian freedom can be dismissed as incoherent.

There are two main varieties of libertarianism to consider: event-causal libertarianism, and agency libertarianism. In the former case, the agent’s choice (which may cause the chosen act) is just an event preceded, but not determined by, other events. So imagine that events in Carrie’s life have cornered her in such a way that she must, apparently, choose between being involuntarily institutionalized for life, or instead become a traitor. In preparation for her choice, she reviews her options and reflects on recent events. So far, the choice, yet unmade, is undetermined by these considerations and events. Carrie is inclined toward institutionalization, but she resists this and wrestles with the alternative. Then, at some point, another event occurs—viz., Carrie’s choice to betray her country.   

But now, the question becomes that of whether an agent, e.g., Carrie, can exercise sufficient control over the act of choosing such that it is more than a random, arbitrary accident.  For, if the previous events of Carrie’s life perhaps incline but do not cause the choice, thereby insuring that options remain open up to the instant of the choice itself, it seems that the actual choice can only occur as a matter of chance. Once Carrie has reviewed and fought her way through all of her options, there is simply nothing more that the agent can contribute.  How did the free event of choice get to the particular act of choosing betrayal? The result of the particular choice remains shrouded in mystery as to why this option, rather than its alternative, has come to pass. It was either caused, or it was merely an arbitrary aberration.  This is not freedom. 

Kane believes that the proper response is that the chooser does in fact make a further contribution toward the outcome of the choice—viz., effort. The chooser, in the attempt to come to a decision, is clearly a participant in an activity. As we then try to bring the effort to resolution, we maintain control throughout this effort. Kane insists that the effort is not itself an event separate from the choice; effort is endemic to the act of choosing. Thus, choice need not be arbitrary in any way. 

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 Pereboom, Robert, Four Views, pp 85-125.

 See Four Views for the illuminating debate on this issue between Pereboom and Kane, esp. pp 191 – 96.

Kane is surely correct to hold that effort plays a key role in some acts of decision making. Yet it is it is unclear how such an appeal resolves the problem. Suppose that you are attempting to decide whether to buy a new or a used car. You have gone through the pro’s and con’s and yet the choice remains open. None of the preceding evaluations deterministically causes you to choose one option or the other. So, the actual choice looks as if a particular outcome is embraced as a matter of chance. Undecided until the instant of decision, it could have gone either way. Yet suppose we are now reassured that our effort to make the choice is what prevents our choice from being arbitrary. But then the problem of which option to choose remains just as unresolved as ever. The objective of our effort is that we bring the dilemma to a close; it is not an effort to decide specifically one way rather than another.  To construe effort as directed toward a targeted outcome is to already have decided which outcome we prefer.  We have already chosen. But if we have not chosen, the appeal to effort does not help us understand what elements of personal control the efforts of the agent contribute to the specific outcome. 

It is for this reason—the need to incorporate a control factor—that the appeal to agency-libertarianism seems promising.  Accordingly, a special substance—not an event—is interposed as the cause of a particular decision. This is the second variety of libertarianism. The agent, without being caused to do so, originates—self-generates—the action of choosing while 

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 Galen Strawson, Freedom and Belief, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986). Strawson’s counter to the luck objection seems to intensify the dilemma by placing the indeterminacy in the choice itself. 

 Ginet argues that “  . . . I make my own free, simple mental acts occur, not by causing them, but simply by being their subject, by their being my acts.” But is this coherent? If we are only the subject, non-cause of the event, then the event just happens to us. If we do nothing to bring it about, we are only a witness, not a genuine agent. Carl Ginet, http://www.informationphilosopher.com/solutions/philosophers/ginet/

 Kane refers to this strategy as the “extra-factor” appeal, Kane Free Will, p 45. The substance position is scrutinized by Kane, Free Will pp 44 - 49 ; Pereboom, Four Views pp 110-114, and Taylor, Metaphysics, p 51.  For a thorough and resourceful development and defense of agency-libertarian, inspired by Roderick Chisolm, see , O’Connor, Timothy; Persons and Causes: the Metaphysics of Free Will, (New York: Oxford, 2000). 

maintaining control over the process throughout. Unlike the compulsive scratching of a persistent itch, free choice is something that we cause to happen when no set of antecedent events is sufficient to bring it about. Moreover, when we say that we caused something to happen, we at least sometimes mean that our choice is initiated in the context of what we, as agents, find relevant to the outcome—e.g., our  reasons, our passions, our inclinations, etc.  But then it is unclear why the choice must be arbitrary or random. We sometimes try to choose what makes the most sense. Here it seems far less of a stretch to suppose that we are sometimes also responsible for choosing as we do. 

Now, I once found this last line of argumentation to be meritorious. For as Pereboom emphasizes, ‘indeterminism’ is a technical term which merely signifies the simple denial of determinism. Thus, as Chisolm argues, indeterminism does not entail randomness.  There do appear to be indeterministic alternatives to randomness, as suggested above. If so, then there is some ground for holding that the dismissal of libertarian freedom is unwarranted. Moreover, in freely initiating the act of decision-making, the agent has already exercised freedom—which is held to remain in play throughout the process. Accordingly, the appeal to agency renders the luck objection very difficult to defend.

Is then the idea of libertarian agential freedom credible and plausible after all? There is one more step to take before tendering a preliminary assessment. 

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 Well known agency theorists include Thomas Reid (Works) and Roderick Chisolm “Agents, Causes and Events: The Problem of Free Will,” in Agents Causes and Events: Essays on Indeterminism and Free Will, (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995). See also William L. Rowe, “Oomph.”

 Ibid, Chapter 5. See O’Connor’s comments on this issue in conjunction with his discussion of Chisholm. 

 There are of course other objections to agency libertarianism, among them that it leads to infinite regress of self-initiated choices, and that the appeal to agent-causation is merely a stipulation and thus cannot survive as an answer to the luck objection. But the first objection misunderstands the concept of agency. The agent’s control consists precisely of the self-caused process of decision making. A regress can’t get started. The second also fails since agency theory need not “seal the deal” in order to map out a conceptually coherent theory of how we might be free. The “luck objection” simply does not foreclose the possibility of freedom.   See Kane’s discussion of these views in Free Will, pp 48-51. 

Internal Coherence

Nietzsche has famously labeled the very idea of agential freedom as the most blatant contradiction ever conceived. Fischer, among others, certainly concurs. For the idea of agential freedom requires that a substance has the power to self-cause, to self-generate, a process of causation. It relocates the problem from the absence of cause to self-causation. But it is argued that the only concept of causation that we can begin to explicate is the familiar concept of one event causing another. We are lost with the idea of self-causation.  Agency libertarianism, as agency self-causation, is nonsensical metaphysics at its worst. The very notion of sui generis causation is silly. 

O.K., perhaps it is silly.  But we might well wonder whether it be true.  There is surely very little about the idea of radical causation that we understand, but we may be well-served to keep the concept in play.  It will continue to shadow us even against our disdain. We know this because of the well-known paradox/antinomy that is long-associated with any idea of a radical beginning. Did the universe begin at some point in time, or is it eternal—beyond temporality? Here we simply have no answer; each alternative seems conceptually mind-boggling.  Yet, as the recent Higg’s boson confirmation may remind us, we should be careful about closing out the possibility that we may someday make sense of a self-generating universe. And to say that we may be free is to say that the solution to the enigma of radical beginnings may be precisely as close, and as distant, as the quotidian notion of human choice.  

Preliminary Assessment

It seems mere dogma then, to dismiss agential freedom on a priori conceptual grounds. It at least seems possible that we are free. But is there evidence by which libertarian freedom emerges as a plausible alternative? No, and neither is such evidence on the horizon. And notice that the appeal to science does not itself seem capable of deciding the issue one way or the other. While the notion of “something from nothing” has achieved some protection from a priori attacks, genuine comprehension remains numb. Further, there is absolutely no data about the brain that 

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 Nietzsche, “Twilight of the Idols, ”The Portable Nietzsche, (New York: Viking Press) pp 499 – 501. This is the last of the “four great errors.” 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Higgs_boson

illuminates the issue of free will.  Justifiably, skepticism abounds regarding the ability of future science to confirm or disconfirm either the hypothesis of freedom or of agency. By what neural experiment or observation could this possibly be achieved?   Moreover, I have independently argued, pace reductionist programs, that the opacity of supervening properties of psychological attitudes render the prospect of any “science of intentions” beyond reach. If all this is correct, then while it is surely certain error to rule out freedom a priori, the appeal to science offers no clue as to how it is to be ruled either in or out a posteriori. 

But then, are we not then back to Kant after all? Is the comprehension of the incomprehensibility of freedom the best that we can expect to achieve? If I understand it, this is precisely where the historical discussion leaves us.  But, I am not convinced we should settle here. So now let me turn to why I believe there is experiential data that brings the problem to a resolution. 

Part II: Argument from Common Sense

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 Dennett of course disagrees.  See e.g., “On Giving Libertarians What They Say They Want,” Brainstorms, (Cambridge Mass: MIT Press, 1981), pp 286-299. Dennett adheres to a version of the luck objection. But he also makes the case that free will is an illusion—a conclusion which he believes is underwritten by science.  But it is not. It is instead a consequence of Dennett’s own reductionist metaphysics which renders consciousness an illusion as well.  My critique of this program can be found in David K. Clark, Empirical Realism:  Meaning and the Generative Foundation of Morality, (Lanham: Lexington Books, 2004), Chapter 6.   

 See O’Connor, Timothy; Persons and Causes: The Metaphysics of Free Will, (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), p 123 – 5; Pereboom, Four Views, pp 111 – 113; Kane, Free Will, pp 132 – 145. Pereboom goes on to argue that while determinism undercuts freedom, it does not undercut morality (i.e., moral rightness and wrongness are independent of whether we freely act in accordance with either).  I concur (see Clark, Empirical Realism, Part III, esp. Chapter 8). But it does undercut moral responsibility as we continue to see. 

 Clark, Empirical Realism, Chapter 5. I argue that intentions, and thus the conceptual content of a choice, supervenes on tokens of brain processes. Not only can we not differentiate the attitudes themselves as types of brain processes, such brain processes are also type-individuated by their unique contents. See esp. pp 125 – 150. 

 Kant, Immanuel; Metaphysics of the Groundwork of Morals, Patton trs., (New York: Harper Tourchbooks, 1964), p 131.

A Posteriori Evidence 

Now the first key premise of my argument is that: our desires—what we want— are never “up to us.”  We don’t manufacture them or order them up.  What we find desirable, and to what extent, is not within our control.  Even if we cultivate certain desires by means of a second order desire (e.g., we want our first order desires to conform to biblical edicts), we find ourselves unable to will as we want to will. We just can’t manipulate what it is that we desire as a matter of will. Consider some examples.   

You thought you’d like your first taste of a cigarette, but you didn’t; this dislike was quite beyond your control.  Or, we anticipated that this philosophical discussion would probably be a waste of time; we were sure we would hate it, but then found ourselves fascinated.  Or, as in the depiction of Laurence of Arabia, we were certain we would detest killing another human; but we enjoyed it. You thought you’d like the Food Channel recipe, but you don’t. Your mother’s is better (it really is!).  We want to embrace a vegan diet, but . . . we’ve lost our tolerance for all the vegetables. You want the diet, but just can’t choke down another pasta dinner. Or, you are a champion of egalitarianism, yet you struggle to shake the unpleasant visceral reaction you experience every time you encounter a woman in a position of power. 

Our desires are never chosen; they are given. We can only discover that we already have them— or not. 

The second key premise is that, no matter how hard we try, we always choose what we want most to do (or try to do).  Consider three illustrations.  

First, you inform your spouse that if you had your druthers, you’d stay at home and watch the game rather than go visit your annoying sister-in-law. But then you choose to go. Why? For some reason, the preferred alternative, what you most desire (e.g., not angering your spouse?) has overtaken your druthers.  

Second, Euripides’ Iphigenia nicely illustrates how we often are shocked, even shamed, upon discovering what we are committed to—what we want most.  Agamemnon righteously prepares to send his thousands of warriors home rather than sacrifice his daughter to the Gods to win their favor.  Yet wily Odysseus has anticipated him. Thus as Agamemnon steps out of his king’s tent to tender the dismissal announcement to his troops, their coaxed wild cheers of adulation first give 

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 This line of argumentation also serves as a reply to Frankfort’s (semi-compatibilist) “hierarchical theories” of free will.  See Kane’s discussion of these theories in Free Will, pp 93 – 106. 

him pause, and then he is sickened as the realization settles in.  He desires the glories of war more than he values the life of his beloved daughter. Yes, although he is loath to do so, he will sacrifice Iphigenia. What we want most is not always apparent to us, and may even be abhorrent to us; but it is nonetheless what we will choose. 

Here is the final case.

You want your spouse to live; you love her beyond words. Yet you do not want her to suffer; she has asked, begged, for your assistance. You fear prosecution; you fear no one will believe you; you fear living without her and being alone; you want desperately to do the right thing. You wrestle with what you ought to do vs what you can live with, or can’t live with. In the end however—after you figure out what you ought to do—what you need to figure out is what you really want to do—what you want most to do. Suppose you are able to discern the correct moral answer.  Then the question remains; do you desire most to do the morally right thing, or is it that something else has already claimed your allegiance? 

Suppose now you finally realize that what you want most to do in this instance is whatever it is that you believe your spouse wants most.  The commitment to so act aligns nicely with our premise. So now suppose that your unfortunate drama is complicated by an irritating analytic philosopher who assures you that your choice will always simply be that of what you want most to do. You will choose what you most fervently desire (here, what your wife wants most), and then let the chips fall. Yet, you resent this; you sense a challenge to your integrity; so now you want him to be wrong. Will you change your mind? If you will not, then he is right; you will be doing what you want most. If you do change your mind—in order to foil the unwelcome arrogance now confronting you—your second order desire (that other desires conform to foiling the philosopher) is itself what you most desire.  The philosopher is right again. Don’t you hate them? 

We always choose what we want most to do.  We can’t get around it. Try it. See for yourself. We may see a plethora of alternatives, but we will not be able to choose any of them—unless it turns out that by considering them, one of these emerges as what we most desire—even if that desire is directed merely toward the piece of chocolate in your right hand rather that the left. We may fathom very little of “reasons” which undergird the desire, but it does not seem even possible to choose in any other way. Even if we postpone our decision in the attempt to test out hypothesis, we are again doing what we most want to do.  We just can’t possibly (physically) choose independently of, and other than, what is directed by that strongest desire. That is how nature tricks us; it is how nature determines us; our choice is never “up to us.” 

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  Iphenigia, Mihalis Kakogiannis, dir., (Greek Film Center. Nov. 20, 1977).   

So now we have our final and crucial premise. If it is not physically possible to choose independently of our strongest desire, then there can be no generative act of freedom for which we are responsible—no choice which is up to us.  

Interestingly, much of our folk wisdom regarding freedom lines up with our examples. It percolates to the surface in such familiar exclamations as:  “I need to figure out what I really want to do here.”  When faced with making a choice, at some level we recognize that this comes down merely to ascertaining, discovering, what it is that we want to do most. And so again, we find the familiar: “O.K., let me see what I want to do now.” And if all of this is correct, then we are not free. Yet the extent to which causation or chance remains covert, we will certainly continue to experience ourselves as free.  

Here is the argument in full.

1. Whatever our desires, we never choose to have them or not; such desires are always given and can only be discovered. 

2.  Each of these desires, including the strongest, is either causally determined, or random (notice: determinism may be false). 

3. All choices are the choice to enact, or try to enact, whatever turns out to be given as our strongest desire.  

4. We are not capable, try as we may, of choosing independently of, or against, our strongest desire–whether that desire be given causally or as a random occurrence.  

5. If we are not capable, try as we may, of choosing independently of our strongest desire, then we are not capable of generating a sui generis choice that either conforms with or is contrary to what we want most to do. 

6.  If we are not capable of generating a sui generis choice then, none of our choices are caused by us (sui generis). 

7.  If none of our choices are caused by us, they are caused by our strongest desires. 

8. If choices are caused by our strongest desires, then, neither humans nor their choices are free. 

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 A referee objects that this premise seems to be a mere tautology, thereby undermining the full argument. In reply, the obvious need to argue for this premise shows that it is far from clear that the truth status of this claim is a priori. Better to accept the more conservative construal that our choices are physically caused by our strongest desires. Regardless, the objection misunderstands the argument. If the premise is tautological, then it is logically true! And the soundness of the argument is all the more assured. Since this desire is given, not chosen, the fate of metaphysical freedom and human responsibility is sealed. 

9. If humans are not free, then they are not morally responsible for their choices or actions (semi-compatiblism is false). 

Therefore,

9. Humans (their choices) are not free.

Therefore,

10. Humans are not morally responsible for their choices or actions. 

Notice, we just do not know whether hard incompatiblism is true. Freedom may well be logically compatible with indeterminism. But it doesn’t matter. To insist on conceptual coherence or incoherence to supply a verdict is to miss the point. And it is equally clear that the perennial focus on the Principle of Alternative Possibilities—whether the chooser “could have done otherwise”—also leads to a dead end.  And finally, it is decidedly unhelpful, as well as misleading, to unveil the mere platitude that it is manifestly difficult to square the idea of metaphysical freedom with a predominately deterministic world view. Rather, what breaks the back of the libertarian position is that all of our experience, all of the a posteriori evidence, mandates that given our strongest desire, we are physically incapable of any sui generis choice. Thus, not only are we powerless to choose what it is that we happen to want, we are not capable of choosing independently of, or in opposition to, what it is that we happen to want the most. To defend and rephrase Schopenhauer’s insight in this way is to see not only why we are not metaphysically free; it further undergirds the conviction that we also are not morally responsible for our choices.

David K. Clark

Philosophy Department

University of Montana

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 O’Conner, p 125. This last point is forcefully made in his concluding remarks. But the insight overlooks the decisive contribution of experience and instead relies on the physical sciences for ultimate clarification. 

 See Pereboom’s intriguing discussion of why our knowledge of the absence of ultimate moral responsibility is a helpful moral tool. Four Views: pp 202-3.

Reference List

Austin, John, “Ifs and Cans,” Free Will and Determinism, New York: Harper and Row, 1966

Clark, David K., Empirical Realism: Meaning and the Generative Foundation of Morality, Lanham: Lexington Books, 2004.

Dennett, Daniel, “On Giving Libertarians What They Say They Want,” BrainStorms, Cambridge Mass: MIT Press, 1981

Frankfurt, Harry, “Alternative Possibilities and Moral Responsibility,” Journal of Philosophy, 1969

Ginet, Carl, http://www.informationphilosopher.com/solutions/philosophers/ginet

Hobbes, Thomas, Of Liberty and Necessity, Cambridge University Press, 1999

Kakagiannis, Mihalis, Iphenigia, Greek Film Center, 1977

Kane, Fisher, Pereboom, Vargus,  Four Views on Free Will, Blackwell, 2007

Kane, Robert, A Contemporary Introduction to Free Will, New York: Oxford, 2005

Kant, Immanuel, Metaphysics of the Groundwork of Morals, Patton trs., New York: Harper Tourchbooks, 1964 

Lewis, David, ”Are We Free to Break the Laws?” Theoria, 1981

Locke, John, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, New York: Prometheus Books, 1995

Nietzsche, Friedrich, “Twilight of the Idols,” The Portable Nietzsche, New York: Viking Press, 1969

O’Connor, Timothy, Persons and Causes: The Metaphysics of Free Will, New York: Oxford  University Press, 2003)

Rowe, William, L., “Free Will Responsibility, and the Problem of Ooomph,” The Journal of Ethics, 2006

Schopenhauer, Arthur, On the Fourfold Root of the Principle of Sufficient Reason, Open Court Publishing, 1979.

Strawson, Galen, Freedom and Belief, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986

Strawson, Peter, “Freedom and Resentment,” Proceedings of the British Academy, 1962

Taylor, Richard, Metaphysics, New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 1992

Van Inwagen, Peter,  An Essay on Free Will, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1983

Verlag, Georg Olms, The Works of Thomas Reid, Edinburgh: James Thin, 1895

Wallace, R.J., Responsibility and Moral Sentiment, Cambridge Mass: Harvard University Press, 1994

Betting on Jesus: The Resurrection Well-Lost

The original version of the essay was delivered at the Society and Faith Conference, AZ State University, 2013)  Other versions have been printed in Free Inquiry (2014) and in my Atheism, Morality, and the Kingdom of God, Cambridge Scholars Publishing, (2019) 

Part I: the Wager

You have almost certainly contemplated your own version, however informally, of Pascal’s classical wager. Nearly everyone has. And the wager is a no-brainer, isn’t it? How can you lose by going with God? Betting on God—we are informed—ensures your future throughout eternity if you are right. And if you are wrong, what’s the real difference? 70 years?! But failing to bet on God risks everything, not just for a few years, but forever and ever! Take God and run; it seems like a win-win. 

Yes, that’s the classical “wisdom”; but it is rather easy to see that such wisdom misses the crucial point. Doesn’t it? It is not merely that the recommendation is unsettlingly mercenary. It is worse. For, if this life, this world, is indeed “everything there is,” then our time here is far too precious to be frittered away chasing down trumped-up versions of non-existent alternatives. Indeed to bet on God may well be to have insulted and spurned the best that reality has to offer—the beauty of the world, the unique and special qualities of our loved ones, our noblest personal aspirations, our best sense of what reality offers us—by relegating our efforts and attentions toward an other-worldly fantasy. If we dedicate our lives to a fairy tale, we will have thereby wasted our only chance to achieve a full and meaningful life—one of which we can stand proud. And, if we sell-out—if our insecurities are converted into fear and trembling before a God we do not even know exists (there is only faith; blessed are the faithful)—then we will have surrendered our integrity. This is not how you want to die; nor is it how you want to live—or is it? 

Is there some way to cut to the chase—someway to know whether God really will be there for us in the end? When one is attempting to decide what to believe, then integrity demands that one is on the prowl for evidence. And so with everything at stake, we need to know what conclusion the evidence demands from a responsible and honest person.   

So, what could stem the tide of doubt? In the clear absence of anything like full-fledged rational proofs for or against the existence of a loving God, what could illuminate the controversy in such a way that you could see the truth for yourself? Is there anything—any empirical discovery—that might decisively tip the scale in one direction rather than another? There must be something! Your salvation—your personal fulfillment and that of those whom you love—is crucially at issue. 

But how exactly could your doubts be resolved by an appeal to evidence? Is such evidence even possible, and if so, is it available? 

My answer is an unequivocal “Yes” to both questions.

Part II: The Thesis

The thesis of this essay is: we can know that Jesus was not the resurrected Son of God. More precisely, it is not difficult to establish—utilizing nothing more than the gospels themselves—that Jesus nowhere taught or prophesized his resurrection; that Jesus was not resurrected and thus he was not the resurrected Son of God. But then betting on Jesus to save us is a clear mistake. 

Paul himself framed the challenge crisply enough.

[I]f Christ has not been raised, then our proclamation has been in vain and your faith has been in vain. . . . If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.

Paul is surely correct about this much. Without the resurrection of Jesus, there is no reason to believe that he was the Son of God, and thus no reason to suppose that he will return to resurrect the faithful on That Great Day. Indeed, without the resurrection, faith is futile and “in vain.” 

While Paul is among the first of his time to parade the importance of the resurrection, he is certainly not the last. The resurrection is also afforded preeminent status by the gospels, which are designed to engineer the realization that the event of the resurrection is, well, gospel. Nevertheless, these very writings instead serve to reveal the very opposite result. While the controversy is one which has now raged for over two millennia, it is astounding to realize that it is the gospels themselves which shatter the very cornerstone of faith to which they stand vanguard.

How is it then that we will be brought to see that the gospel accounts of the resurrection are stripped bare of all credibility?  Here the reader must be cautioned.

Options

For those who have sought to oppose the authenticity of the resurrection, options have been appallingly few.  Bultmannians—seeking to reinvest the Gospels with non-historical credibility—relegate the status of the resurrection to that of myth-building. This is of course intolerable to mainstream Christians—whether Catholic, evangelical or fundamentalist. It immediately undercuts the Pauline message of judgement-day salvation by threatening to strip the historical Jesus of Divinity.

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 The New Oxford Annotated Bible, (NOAB)‘I Corinthians’ 15: 17-19  (New York: Oxford, 1991). 

 Bultmann, Jesus Christ and Mythology. Prentice Hall, 1997. 

Meanwhile, non-Christians typically grasp at one of two remaining horns. Either Jesus swooned and was prematurely removed from the cross, only to have been later sighted walking about and perhaps preparing for a quiet life with Mary of Magdelena. Or, it is alleged that the disciples perpetrated a grave-robbing hoax.  Crossan has decisively marginalized these already desperate attacks. The Romans, very able practitioners of their craft, afforded no burial rites to dissident trouble-makers. Jesus, if crucified, surely never made if off the cross alive, and the body was likely routinely burned on the rotting piles of other corpses who met the same fate.  No burial, and no resurrection. 

However this may be, please notice that the approach taken in this chapter is completely independent from and has absolutely nothing to do with the above controversies. Engagement with these will not bring us closer to achieving our aim. And let us not lose sight of it.  The question before us is whether there is decisive evidence against the resurrection—and hence the divinity—of Jesus.  

Upon completion of this task, be assured that a final salvo will yet arrive from those who would seek to restore the gospel accounts of a literal resurrection straight from the annuls of history. But by then it will also be clear that this tactic cannot succeed.  And so even though I address this issue separately in the succeeding chapter, we will shortly know exactly why no success will be forthcoming from appeals to history. 

So, returning then to the original question, we will see that the fatal weakness of the gospel message lies at the very heart of the passion narrative itself. The gospels themselves provide the means of exposing the deception that lurks therein.

Part III: Inside the Gospels 

In order that we might more fully appreciate this point, let us engage in a thought experiment—one in which we ride the energy of our imaginations back to a much earlier time, one in which we are part of a conquered people, living around the Palestinian territories just east of the Mediterranean Sea. Most of us are Jewish, but not all. We are each members of a larger and diverse culture. Most of us do share some common features; we are likely very poor, as well as illiterate. Life is difficult; we are often at odds with the established powers within our own religion; we grouse about how they exploit and are otherwise insensitive to us. We find ways to make do; some of the women have become prostitutes; the men, criminals. There are many, many among us who are diseased. There are small joys, but life is typically tedious, often grueling, and devoid of hope. We are without good ideas about how to improve either our society or our individual lives. And then there are the Romans. God, how we hate the Romans. They are, so often, unbelievably cruel; and the crucifixion of troublemakers, of dissidents—or of anyone 

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Crossan, J.D., Who Killed Jesus (WKJ)? (New York: HarperCollins, (1995) Not all agree. But for Crossan’s circumspective and compelling discussion, see Chapter Six.

they might care to so target—is a way of life for them. Their soldiers make sport of us, their government taxes us; and from this persecution there seems no respite. 

Still, we have dreamed, and occasionally dare to do so again, of a “redeemer,” of someone who will arise and vanquish our enemies, quash Roman authority, remedy internal injustices, deliver the “Promised Land” into our hands once again, and simply, well, transform the world. While we have long ceased to bother to actually exchange expressions of such hope, scattered thoughts remain. But mostly, these ideas just seem surreal; such change cannot really happen—at least not naturally. What would it really take? Our own stories, reaching far back into our tradition, seem to provide the only answer. We know it would require Divine intervention—an act of God Himself—something like the arrival of the promised Jewish Messiah. 

It would take a miracle. 

And even though we barely dare to hope, of late you are becoming increasingly aware that something rather extraordinary is apparently occurring—right in your midst. You’ve heard talk of some itinerant, Jesus? son of ? brother of? but you think that he is actually—if you’ve got it right—moving about the countryside speaking, of all things, about the “Kingdom of God?!” Evidently, he has been doing this now for some time, and is attracting crowds. Various people seem to know about him. There is talk of great miracles—of healing, of feeding, of communing openly with God. His wisdom appears refreshingly at odds with that of Jewish leadership, and seems to harbor a renewed authenticity. 

You feel the lure, and are compelled to learn more and judge for yourself. When you do, you hear him speak; you finally catch a clear view of the man; you watch him interact with others. He is eating, drinking, sharing and partaking—and exhorting others to do the same. He is earnest and intense; yet he enjoys people; he teaches without pretense; his insightful sincerity immediately exudes trustworthiness. In his presence, religious and social distinctions fall away. And as he speaks of the Kingdom of God, his eloquence is unparalleled. He is a commanding presence. 

And now perhaps he even directly looks you in the eye. It is a stunning moment. Others are affected in a similar way. People sometimes clamor about—act foolishly—just to touch him, as if his very clothing embodied healing power. And while stories of the Kingdom are strange and provocative, they are delivered with a clear sense of authority. Uncertain as to their precise meaning, you do not doubt that they are full of promise about God’s Kingdom and of your place in it. And, if Jesus is right, you do have a place in it—or at least, you could have if you so chose. You are mesmerized. You are hooked. You want in! 

You have now begun to think of him in Messianic terms—but in a very unexpected and enigmatic way. There is a buzz; you struggle with the very ideas which seem too fantastic to fathom with a clear mind. For perhaps he is a different sort of Messiah than the one for which you had once yearned. Some are apparently suggesting that he is not just any Messianic Son of God, but the literal Son of God! You’ve heard the disciples speak of him in just this way. You know that Jesus has sometimes invoked God himself as he performs his miracles. And the religious authorities are furious with him, and accuse Jesus of blasphemy—of usurping the role of God as he forgives sins. But, they also seem to respect and even fear him. You’ve heard also that he seems to speak directly to God, using a very intimate form of address—Abba—father. Who is this man? 

And there is something else. It is obvious that as Jesus nears Jerusalem, the disciples are becoming increasingly agitated. They are worried. Heedless of the disciple’s warnings, Jesus has spoken openly about what awaits him. He is predicting his betrayal, his death, and his resurrection—on the third day after his death!

What this could mean is barely fathomable. Not only are some arguing about whether resurrection is even possible, others are struggling to grasp this new idea of a Messiah—one that does not fit the wineskins of old. The disciples themselves seem incapable of coping with the idea; they instead prefer to hush it up, or change the subject. They—as do you—apparently remain unclear about why Jesus would need to die. Yet Jesus has promised not only his death, but his resurrection.

Jesus makes a triumphant arrival in Jerusalem; almost immediately, there is a confrontation in the temple. Thereafter, he departs; but you do not have long to wait—only a matter of a few hours—before the definitive crisis emerges. Soon, too soon, you will hear Jesus’ own response to his challengers. He will return to judge the world! And with this announcement, you then see the deep anger within the establishment powers; you know that if Jesus can be taken at his word, your very salvation depends upon such a resurrection. 

You are alternatively filled with exhilaration, confusion, and dread. Jesus is seized by the Jewish ruling body, beaten, turned over to the Romans, and is ordered to die by crucifixion. It is an ugly, brutal, scene; and while a few clamor around the base of the cross, all you can do is to watch helplessly, at a suitable distance. Finally, you turn away, struck dumb with anguish, and disbelief. Sick at heart, his death witnessed by hoards, you slowly trudge away.

Meanwhile, what you do not realize, is that someone has arranged to have Jesus buried in his private tomb. A small group of women follow to see where the body is located; they leave, intending to return so as to properly anoint it for burial. And it is then, upon that return, that the truth begins to dawn upon an unsuspecting world. Jesus is not there; he is gone—resurrected—

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 In the synoptic gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke) Jesus’ ministry lasts about a year, with one trip to Jerusalem. In John, the ministry lasts over 3 years.  

 NOAB, Mark 14: 62. 

Part IV: Initial Assessment

Is this story believable—even on its own terms? Does the basic account of the resurrection itself rise to any acceptable level of credibility? 

To see that the answer is clearly “No,” we must first weed out all troubling and question-begging assumptions. So, we will not assume then, that God does not really exist; and neither will we assume that resurrections are not possible. And most of all, we will not assume that miracles are not possible. Indeed, we should—far rather—grant all these possibilities; none of them are germane to our assessment. In order to conduct our evaluation, we need only to entertain exactly one question. 

At the time Jesus was to rise up from the dead, exactly where was everyone? At just that magic moment, the one where the most stunning of all miracles was to have occurred, the one in which the new kingdom was to be inaugurated—the one which would include you, and which would lead to the vanquishing of your enemies and which would transform your world—where were the people? Where were you? Where were the Pharisees, the Romans, and all of those whose futures were thought to be at stake in the outcome? It is obvious that the prospect of such an event would raise the excitement level off the charts. This is a dream-come-true for ticket-scalpers; but instead—there was no one. No one at all. Why? The answer is that the very idea of the resurrection of Jesus had occurred to no one. No one, absolutely no one, anticipated any such event—not even you. Otherwise, you would have been there—along with everyone else. 

Therefore, the claim that Jesus was going to be resurrected was simply not a part of his teaching. If it had been, Resurrection Day would have been well attended. The very writings which were designed to legitimate the idea of a resurrected Jesus are an obvious hoax.

Part V: The Emergence of “the Messiah”

For some, the impact of this realization will be considerable. The block-buster result is hard-hitting, not just because it may come as a stunning surprise (as it will to many) but also because the conclusion is, really, so painfully obvious. How could anyone, indeed, everyone, miss this? The very notion of the heralded Resurrection Day without the requisite audience is silly! 

That the populace was taken-in, there should be no doubt. However, if the fraud stands out in such clear relief, we need to ask how anyone was ever misled. I repeat. If the deception is so obvious, why was anyone misled? And the provision of this answer for those clinched within the throes of deeply entrenched beliefs, requires that the entire charade be unmasked. Otherwise, the result that has just been won will be squandered as true believers will insist that they have been 

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 Jesus informs his disciples, at their evening meal, that they are to meet with him in Galilee following his resurrection. See NOAB, Mark 14: 28.

victimized by some, unspecifiable, cheap trick. So it is only once we understand how this challenge is to be met that the issue can confidently be laid to rest by all who have the courage to work through it. 

So the question requires an answer; and, there is an answer! The first step of providing it requires that we clearly grasp the desperation which faced Jesus’ followers upon his death. For from that very instant—unless something dramatically changed—the hour of the Parable was over. And it was within just this crisis-charged moment that the solution began to take shape. The resurrection-based construal of the life and death of Jesus lay right there in front of the followers, needing only the ingenuity of Mark’s later (post-Pauline) inspired “passion narrative” to deliver it. Accordingly, it would then become crucial for the early Christian writers that they sell, promote, the idea that Jesus was the literal Son of God. Why? How do we know that the gospel writers were intent upon presenting Jesus as the literal Son of God, even if they had to fabricate stories to do so?

The short answer to this question then is that, otherwise, Jesus was simply, dead. Dead! Hence, Jesus was neither a Messiah nor was he the vehicle of anyone’s future salvation. For some, this was not an option. The significance of Jesus had to be salvaged—there must be a way. How could the last be first, and the first be last—how could the most downtrodden and apparently forsaken of peoples, God’s own chosen people, become recipients of the kingdom of which Jesus so eloquently spoke—the Kingdom of God—if Jesus was left a mere rotting corpse? His inspiration, the hope which invigorated those who knew him, had to be restored—somehow.

From here, we do not know the details, and can never know them. But it is not difficult to fathom and then confirm the outlines. Thus we can be assured that the search for a satisfactory answer to this quandary led, soon enough, to an appeal to what the people knew best—their tradition. Our tradition.  For those intent upon crafting an answer, the script by which Jesus was to emerge as the Messiah was hardly arbitrary, and was in fact within their hands—the storied tradition—right down to being buried in a rich man’s tomb.  Think! Hadn’t Hosea assured us of God’s love for us, informing us that God will marry us just as He instructed Hosea to marry his whore? And hadn’t Isaiah instructed us that God’s magnificent suffering servant (a conquered Israel) would need to suffer and die, and in so doing bear the iniquities of us all? These same stories tell us that God would raise His servant (Israel) on the third day—the longest time before which a body will decompose. The resurrection narrative has already begun to take shape.

It is crucially augmented by the many well-known stories about sacrifice—beginning with Cain, then Noah, then Abraham and the other patriarchs. Indeed, we know that the entire culture of the temple had developed around the practice of ritualistic sacrifice. It is precisely these underlying stories which are also laced with tales of atonement—practices wherein one would give of his best in order to shield and protect loved ones (as Job prayed and sacrificed for his children) who might have neglected their duties of piety. The transgressions of those we care about most may be atoned through acts of sacrifice. 

Perhaps then that was the answer?! Someone—Yes, Someone—God Himself! was making atonement on our behalf. Thus, He was sacrificing His best for the transgressions of those prostitutes whom He loved. Us—Israel: Then He really does love us! Israel does not then have to die. Rather, it was Jesus then who was served up as Israel’s sacrificial servant—the Lamb of God. This of course would mean that if Jesus was also to be our Savior—the Messiah—he would certainly be another “Son of God.” Any King would be; Psalms 2 assures us of that. But Jesus—as God’s special gift to us—would not be just one king, one Son of God among others; Jesus would have to be the literal Son of God. Only then could He serve as an offering of God’s best—a sacrificial atonement for our shortcomings. But then—as our Messiah—having been stricken with the transgressions of our people, he would also have to be resurrected. He would have to be raised from the dead—on the third day, just as the prophets had proclaimed—and then return to us as our Christ and Savoir. Yes, that must be it!

It is not long before some will claim to have sighted Him. Jesus was dead, but now is risen; Christ is born. 

Part VI Re-energizing Paul

So now we too can recognize the very script from which the gospel accounts were lifted. And we do know from Paul’s writings—the earliest we have from the gospel times (the writing of the canonical gospels ranged from ten to forty years following Paul’s death)—that people did reason in precisely this way. We know, in particular, that Paul himself came to accept a very similar rationale—one in which God’s own Son was sacrificed for our sins. 

But outside the cult, this was not an easy case to make. For as those dissenters addressed by Paul would make clear, the Pauline account faced an intractable problem. For it simply presupposed,

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 NOAB, ‘Psalms’ 2: 7.

The details of how to structure the gospel edifice of the resurrection story are hardly arbitrary, since Old Testament stories serve as ready prompts for the elements of the gospel descriptions of Jesus—his ministry, unjust suffering, death and resurrection. Isaiah’s prophecy of a new world order made possible only when God’s suffering servant (Israel) first suffers great pain, injustice, and even death while bearing the iniquities of the unrighteous is now transformed into a prophecy regarding the suffering, death and resurrection of Jesus as that suffering servant.  He too will be exalted and his tomb made with the rich (Isaiah 53). And as Hosea’s God will surely raise the repentant Israel within three days (the longest time before which a corpse will decompose), so Jesus too will be “raised” in three days (Hosea 6). Additionally, the Divine promise that a new kingdom will eventually arise from the loins of David (II Samuel 7: 12-16) prompts a genealogy of Jesus. This genealogy however has problems of its own. First, Mark offered none. When a decade later, Matthew did, it overlooked Mary’s virginity by tracing the linage of Jesus back from Joseph---who obviously could not be the biological father of Jesus. Luke’s “correction” is either a different account altogether, or it can be construed as a genealogy through Mary.  Mary and Joseph would then be first cousins if Luke’s version is modified to read “son-in-law (not: son) of Heli.” Alternatively, one or both genealogies are fabrications.  See NOAB, ‘Matthew 1: and Luke 3.

 Paul’s multifaceted and protracted battles with the Corinthian Church is a case in point. NOAB, Corinthians I and II.  

dogmatically proclaimed, precisely what it needed to demonstrate. For how did Paul know that Jesus was the literal son of God?  

Paul’s answer? Another time-worn appeal to revelation. Paul’s own account—in conflict with the second-hand versions from Acts—offers no details. While Paul’s passionate and resourceful—even if inventive—argumentation was instrumental in the early years, the struggling early Christian cult which resulted was placed in serious jeopardy by Paul’s death. Absent the energy provided by Paul’s spirited claims about revelation, the Paladin of Christian theology seemed doomed to wither away like the now proverbial fig that Jesus himself had been said to curse. 

Everything was at stake—including the integrity of the divine promise itself—the promise that God would reward and protect his followers. Could promises about salvation be revitalized?

Marketing the Messiah

Enter Mark. Writing perhaps as early as 70 AD—almost a decade after the death of Paul—this earliest of gospel writers—as history has confirmed—was more than equal to the challenge. At a time when the world was brimming with apocalyptic thinkers, world-shakers, wisdom teachers, and healers, Mark understood all too clearly that if the Jesus movement was to prosper, Jesus would have to stand out from this background. The strategy for doing so is one which Mark signals early. And so, in Chapter one, and in distinction from the renown John the Baptist, Jesus is first recognized and then endorsed by God Himself. Moreover, as B. Mack and others have argued, Mark was not content with having the miracles allegedly performed by Jesus place Jesus in the company of a line of earlier prophets—e.g. Elijah, for whom the heavens also opened; or Moses, who had performed similar feats of controlling the waters (at the Red Sea) and of providing food and drink for huge numbers of people (in the desert). Jesus would do these things too, but that wouldn’t be enough.

Mark takes license with the available stories and conveys them as episodic accounts of a cosmic battle in which Jesus exorcised demons, wrestled with Satan, and experienced the weakness of, yet prevailed against, human frailty. And it is precisely this shift—from wisdom to magic—that the Gospel writers were intent upon exercising. And faith was the vehicle by which the magic was to arrive. 

But Mark is also careful to present Jesus as a very charismatic figure. People warm to him, and he to them, on a very direct and personal level. They respond to his typically quiet yet intriguing presence, and wallow in his elegant, biting, indictments of the Jewish leadership—one which is laced with extravagance, insensitivity and hypocrisy. They are spellbound and filled with hope upon hearing his message and upon witnessing Jesus’ concern for them. They sense his agony as 

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 Paul’s conversion is referenced in Paul’s own words in NOAB, ‘Galatians’ 1: 15-16. 

 Burton Mack, Who Wrote the New Testament? New York: (HarperSanFrancisco, 1995), 155.

he nears Jerusalem, and they fear for him—and themselves. The fate of both the divine and the human appear deeply, but precariously, intertwined. 

And so the stage is set for the ultimate miracle. Under Mark’s skillful orchestration, the picture snaps into focus precisely when this sympathetic and heroic figure is betrayed—by someone close, someone who ought to have been appreciative, devoted and trustworthy. And once fingered, then when Jesus gathers his courage, steps forth and not only identifies himself, but also gently curtails the outbreak of violence with first a word, then a healing gesture, the sense of Jesus’ greatness rushes to the fore. It is here that the imaginative power of Mark’s approach begins its crescendo. Rough treatment is followed by sharp interrogation from accusers whose questions are designed to spring an ingenious trap. There is really only one issue that is pertinent now that Jesus is in custody and unprotected. 

Asked directly whether he is the Son of God, any denial seems to expose Jesus as a cowardly fraud, and thereby bring a quick end to any further influence. The Jesus movement will be over. But if Jesus answers courageously—and of all the gospel writers, it is Mark and Mark alone who, in leading the way, sees the importance of having Jesus give a clear and emphatic affirmative answer—Jesus then falls prey to the charge of blasphemy. And since conviction of blasphemy carries the death penalty under Mosaic law, Jesus’ fate is quickly sealed. So when Jesus not only declares that he is the Son of God,  but then goes on to say that he will return, sitting on the right hand of the throne of God—effectively, to judge them—accusations turn to rage. 

Here, the gospel writers seize the moment to underwrite the Pauline rationale as to why salvation is now available to the gentiles. It is the Jews who, Paul has told us in in I Thessalonians, “killed the lord Jesus.” And so in Mark’s gospel scenes of betrayal and scandalous brutality, we know exactly why the gentiles are in and the Jews are out. Both Matthew and John will later further embellish the moment.

But it is the Markan gospel which will first etch out the details of a bitter and unbearable agony. Condemned to death, all will soon see, not only how he suffers, but how falsely Jesus has been accused and convicted. Meanwhile, we can only helplessly witness the horror that now unfolds. The condemned, suffering martyr is scorned, stripped, beaten, driven through the streets by the soldiers until he is finally stretched out—nails cruelly biting into the tender flesh—upon the 

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 NOAB, ‘Mark’ 14: 62 

 He is asked whether he is the Son of the “Blessed One,” a respectful way of referring to God without mentioning His name.  NOAB, ‘Mark’ 14:61. 

 NOAB, I Thessalonians 2: 14-15.

 Matthew embellishes the Lukan parable of the Great Banquet into an indictment of the entire Jewish culture. See NOAB, ‘Matthew’ 22: 1- 14; and ‘Luke’ 14: 15-24. And John reminds us all of how heartlessly Jesus was betrayed by the very people He had come to save: “He came unto his own, yet his own received him not.” ‘John’ 1: 11. And Mark lets us “feel the wisdom” of Jesus’ words to Pilate, written two decades later in the Gospel of John. “[T]he ones who have handed me over to you are guilty of a greater sin. ‘John’ 19:11.

cross. And it is only then that the true agony begins. Even today, with scores of millions having flocked to see “The Passion of the Christ,” it is difficult to imagine a more powerful drama.

Mark never loses touch with his objective. When we see this charismatic and gentle figure betrayed, castigated, humiliated and tortured because of alleged blasphemy, we no longer wonder whether he is the Son of God. We want him to be the son of God; justice demands it! We will have him on the cross only as a martyr, and we want him vindicated. And as his vindication is our salvation, we need him on the cross, and need him there as the Son of God. Vicarious crucifixion is revelation enough for us. 

So, in the aftermath of the crucifixion, we no longer really care that the Jews are excluded. Mark has displaced the urgency of the issue. We are readied for a “deeper” sense of justice. Thus when Matthew later tells us that the very cities of the killers of Christ are to be laid to waste, and thereafter adorns Mark’s characterization of a Jewish crowd by turning them into rabid mobs filling the streets, then the scales of justice have been transformed into a reckoning. It all feels right; it “feels like . . . victory.” The inclusion/exclusion problem can be laid to rest. 

Only grace remains. How sweet will be the resurrection!

But no one came.

And so, as we have seen, the story is hollow at the core. And while it is not difficult to grasp how the deception was orchestrated, it nonetheless collapses under its own weight. And once the narrative is distanced from its emotional impact, we also do not need to debate the formidable challenges of theology left in its train. The resurrection-based narrative has zero plausibility. The bulk of those who were either followers or enemies of Jesus would have certainly clamored to witness the ultimate phase of the drama. They did not; not a thought; not a whisper. And therefore we know that Mark’s story is a fabrication. It never happened.

Part VII: More Markan Duplicity?

We have seen that, without the audience, Mark’s story is stripped of its credibility. Unfortunately for the gospel writers, there really is no alternative ending. The one thing that Mark could not do is tell a resurrection story which included the mass of requisite witnesses—unless it actually happened. This masterful contrivance is layered upon others. E.g., when Jesus prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane, he was alone.  Yet Mark records every word. Matthew continues this trend when he reports every nuance of Jesus’ temptation by Satan during a time of solitude. 

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 I am reminded here, with the above comment, of the stunning surfing scene in Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now, (1979).

 NOAB Mk 14: 32-37.

 NOAB Mt 4: 1-11.

Nevertheless, the gospel writers were perhaps aware that they needed to explain away the elephant in the room—i.e., why there is no audience. Without an adequate reply to this most fundamental of questions, we know that their deception cannot ultimately prevail. So, what can we expect by way of reply?  By what means will the Friends of the Gospels attempt to stave off our crushing critique?   

For openers, some will insist that confusion and misinformation prevented the gathering of an audience. The Jewish audience expected that their Messiah would be a warrior king, and had no expectation at all of a Messiah who would be resurrected from the dead. It may further be urged that the idea of the resurrection itself was so new and radical that a confused populace could not fathom its meaning. Not only did they not know what to expect, the idea of the resurrection is further complicated by talk of an enigmatic 3 day waiting period before the event itself. Numbers are often symbolic and no one could be expected to grasp what ‘3 days’ actually meant. 

But we know that such an argumentative ploy cannot gain purchase. For the text itself advises us that not only was the notion of a resurrection not new, the idea, if not the theology, was well understood. There are many textual attestations which confirm this. According to the text, the Romans themselves understood it perfectly. We are informed that 

[A]fter the day of preparation, the chief priests and the Pharisees gathered before Pilate and said: “Sir, we remember what that impostor said while he was alive, ‘After three days I will rise again.’ Therefore command the tomb to be made secure until the third day; otherwise his disciples may go and steal him away, and tell the people, ‘He has been risen from the dead. . .’”

Pilate, the chief priests and the Pharisees understood exactly what they needed to understand to in order to “be there” on the 3^rd day. It is also clear that they knew precisely where to go, for they sent guards to secure the tomb, and the text tells us the guards arrived.  The alleged grave site appears to be more of a spectacle of public concern than any sort of mystery or secret. This is exactly what we should expect. 

We also know that the Sadducees defining difference from the Pharisees was their position about whether resurrections were possible. Both understood the concept well enough. And according to the text again, we are informed that Joseph of Arimathea, and those who are said to have laid Jesus in Joseph’s tomb, and also all those who followed, all understood its location. And Peter understood the idea of the resurrection clearly enough, for he feared such talk was blasphemous

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 An embellished version of this tactic, promoted by both Craig and Wright is discussed in Chapter 4, where historical issues are addressed. But here I am indebted to my friend and colleague Terry Pence, NKU, for helping me to better appreciate the Markan strategy.

 NOAB, Mt 27: 62-64.

 NOAB, Mt 27: 66. 

and repeatedly urged Jesus to refrain from making such predictions. We know that the other disciples understood as well since, according to the text again, they argued as to which would be on the right and left sides of Jesus at his heavenly throne. And we are finally assured that the idea of resurrection is conspicuously anchored in the tradition as e.g., in Homer, who conveys to a Hellenized audience tales of deceased souls which, begging for the taste of blood, long to return from the dead.

And if we consider the story of Lazarus a credible representation of the Jewish understanding of resurrection prior to the time of Jesus death (Lazarus was dead, decaying, and wrapped in burial linens, but arose from the dead on Jesus’ command—similarly to what Jesus is said to have done on God’s command), then the idea of resurrection was probably clearer then, than now. Finally, when Jesus says “I am the resurrection and the life,” he calls attention to the deeper meaning of the idea of his own resurrection of which he is said to become the living embodiment. The significance of his resurrection is unlike that of any other tale thereof, and his audiences are so alerted.

Additionally, it might be urged that John 20:9, shows that Peter and the woman “. . . still didn’t understand the scripture—that he [Jesus] had to rise from the dead.”  So there is confusion after all. 

But here we must pause to specify what exactly this confusion is. There are two possibilities. 

First, this just means that these individuals failed to comprehend the “Divine Plan.” They couldn’t really fathom why it would be necessary that Jesus would have to be killed and then rise from the dead. But I don’t understand it either. Why couldn’t God have just sent the Messiah King, like so many thought? Or, why couldn’t God have just forgiven us? Why was it necessary for His Son to suffer, die and be resurrected?  No lock-down answer outside theological mantras—based on doctrines that had yet to be formulated? Nevertheless, the failure to understand the subtle intricacies of the Divine plan or its “necessity” has nothing to do with whether the forecast of crucifixion and resurrection was appropriately understood.  

And how well was the idea understood? Doubtlessly no better then than now. E.g., How could this be possible? What would the resurrected body look like, and why? Would it be corporeal, 

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 There are three predictions/explanations in Mark alone. NOAB, Mk 9: 27-33; Mk 9: 30-37; and Mk 10: 32-34. 

 NOAB  Mk 10: 37.

 The Odyssey, Homer, trs. Robert Fagles, (New York: Penguin Books, 1996), book 11

 NOAB, Jn 11: 1-46.

 NOAB, Jn 11: 25. 

 NOAB, Jn 20: 9.

ghostly, both of these, or something else. The questions abound and continue to do so. And the details? The need to know the x’s and o’s is further incentive to attend the main event.

Alternatively, we may be asked to suppose that at the time the prediction was made, the prediction was understood but not truly believed. The Jews anticipated their traditionally expected Messiah. Notice how quickly this disbelief will be altered once the first leg of the prediction comes to pass—despite Peter’s best efforts of swordplay, and that of the throngs of people—to prevent it. Why Jesus would have to die made no more sense to Peter and the other audience members than it does to us. But after the crucifixion and death, Peter will be at the resurrection site. We have seen Jesus’ miracles; we have felt the impact of his concern and inspiration, and we are powerless to stop this train. And if we are his enemies, we have seen the beliefs which define us and our positions of power threatened. We will be there. The ruse of the confusion strategy falls well short of its mark. 

What though should we say of the women who came to anoint Jesus’ body with oils?  If the women knew that Jesus was going to be resurrected, they wouldn’t have arrived with burial oils. They, the women, were confused.

But this claim simply begs the question. Properly understood, the account of the burial anointment simply trumpets the writer’s attempt to disguise the elephant. It assumes that if Jesus spoke of his resurrection, it wasn’t understood. But the previous arguments have decisively shifted the burden of proof. The women and their oils are just part of the resurrection duplicity orchestrated by Mark and then played out through the other Gospel writers. 

Finally we may be asked to consider an additional reason as to why we should expect that the audience would at least be depleted. Accordingly, it may be urged that no one knew where to go because no one was interested in hanging around—dragging out the experience—to witness either the death or the burial. The drama was over once Jesus was on the cross. 

Assume this is true, and assume you have been a follower of Jesus. Then you certainly don’t love him. If you did, you’d be there to support him, empathetically, through his worst moments. Otherwise, the proclamation of love for him is a sham. And even though your personal claim to love him is counterfeit, evidently others did love him; they would see it through to the bitter end. He is all they have thought about since encountering him. And they believe that somehow, their salvation depends on him. And as we saw earlier, the haters and mockers would go the extra mile to be there as well. 

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 For Funk’s discussion of these issues, see Honest to Jesus. Robert Funk, (New York: HarperSanFrancisco, 1996) pp 260-270.

 NOAB, Lk. 22: 49-51.

 Notice that Paul is not a character in the drama orchestrated by the gospel writers. According to Galatians 1: 11-17, Paul attributes his conversion to a revelatory event, prior to which, he persecuted the Christians.

Part VIII: The Overall Argument.

Here then is the structure of the overall argument, which I have maintained is sound.

Premise 1:  

If Jesus was resurrected, it was part of a Divine Plan of salvation; viz., the new resurrection-based covenant. 

Premise 2:

If Jesus’ resurrection was part of a newly disclosed plan for human salvation, he would have spoken of it—just as the gospel writers say he does. It makes no sense to suppose an event of this magnitude, about which his followers would at some point need to understand, would be left for someone else to tease out after the fact.

Premise 3.

If he had taught of it, believers and non-believers alike would have flocked to the gravesite to witness what happened on the 3^rd day 

Premise 4

No one came. No interest at all. 

Therefore, 5:

Jesus taught nothing about a resurrection-based new plan for human salvation. 

Therefore 6:

Jesus was not part of a resurrection based plan for human salvation.

Therefore 7:

Jesus was not resurrected. 

Conclusions

Christ?

Might Jesus still have been the Son of God? We now know there is absolutely no reason to think so. Mark’s story—crafted for the very purpose of providing us with the best evidence for so believing—through the account of the greatest miracle—simply fails to deliver.

What other options did Mark have for marketing the Messiah? Could he have, e.g., written a more believable story—a story with all the requisite witnesses of something truly unique and utterly miraculous? No. This is not a story he could sell, not unless it had happened that way. And everyone knew it didn’t. Hence, Mark had few options. The one thing he could not sell was a major miracle story in which all the Jews, Romans, other Gentiles, Joseph of Arimathea, family and disciples were actually present.

Mark’s only alternative then was to market a Messiah through the back door, through a story which deprived the key miracle scene of the very witnesses it required. That his effort was a success is a tribute to his genius. That we see through it, is our responsibility.

Jesus?

Still, there may well have been an historical Jesus who distinguished himself with a message about human salvation—through his parabolic talk about the Kingdom of God. But now, has not a new hermeneutic emerged?  For the answer to this question will depend upon what these parables and other “sayings” can tell us once they are freed from their theological trappings. This effort may bring us closer both to the inspirational message of the historical Jesus, and to a viable—and perhaps even secular—notion of the salvific, or good, life. If such an attempt is successful, then something of Jesus will have been saved; but Christ is gone. Pascal’s wager is lost. Christ shall not return; He was never here. 

David K. Clark

Chapter 3, AMC

 One reader, while acknowledging the originality of the argument of Chapter 3, suggests that it is reminiscent of Carrier’s point that, given a resurrection, the tomb-site would have been memorialized. Perhaps. But such Carrier-like points (discussion of which is reserved for Chapter 4) are lifeless absent the powerful argument of Chapter 3 which first requires the audience. See Carrier, R., The Historicity of Jesus, (Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2014)