based on what they presume God as the ultimate moral authority would believe or want. The central feature of a compass, however, is that it points north no matter what direction a person is facing. This research suggests that, unlike an actual compass, inferences about God’s beliefs may instead point people further in whatever direction they are already facing.27
The grand takeaway: we ought to be very wary of anyone who claims that God-based morality is objective. It is anything but—given that everyone interprets God’s will differently, and all too subjectively.
Which brings us back to Stephen Davis. He is certain that genocide is morally wrong. And he is equally certain that the God he believes in would never approve of genocide—even when the Bible clearly says otherwise. So why does Professor Davis interpret God’s nature the way he does, as a deity who would never command or commit genocide? Because Professor Davis is a good, ethical person who finds genocide morally abhorrent. In fact, he is so ethical—and is so intrinsically horrified by the very possibility of genocide—that he projects his own internal moral orientation out into the imaginary heavens and up onto the presumed God he worships. Professor Davis dismisses the passages of the Bible in which God both commits and commands genocide because he can’t help but construct a deity that fits his own moral outlook—even as he simultaneously insists that his moral outlook comes from God.
Professor Davis thinks that he is good because he believes in a moral God, but it is actually the other way around: the God that Professor Davis believes in is constructed as good because he—Stephen Davis—is moral. As Paul Kurtz explains in his book Forbidden Fruit, such a religious person is often engaged in a flagrant form of self-deception, wherein he or she doesn’t even see the true source of his or her own morality and mistakenly places it in the hands of an imaginary deity.
My friend Professor Davis does what all God-believers do: interpret their deity in a way that aligns with their own proclivities and orientations. Theists generally believe in exactly the kind of God they want to believe in, or have been socialized to believe in, or at least the kind of God others in their community want and expect them to believe in. Which means that interpretations of God’s will are always and invariably projections of people’s own inner dispositions, or justifications of political goals, or collective communal constructs, or subjectively self-serving—or a combination of all four. And thus, “God” cannot comprise a sound, solid, or objective basis for our morals and ethics, because theism inevitably and invariably involves interpretation to such a high degree as to make it essentially useless.
But let’s say—just for the sake of being open to the possible claims of traditional theism—that all of the differing, contradictory, and irreconcilable interpretations of God’s will could somehow, some way, be worked out. Hard as it may be, let’s imagine that someone, somehow has the indisputably correct interpretation of God’s will for humanity—and that this person could somehow convince everyone that her interpretation was indeed exactly correct. That is, let’s imagine a situation in which all God-believers were somehow on the same page concerning what the Lord requires. Would this then make theistic morality feasible? No. In fact, even if there was incontrovertible evidence that God existed, and even if everyone could actually agree on his will, this would not enhance or sustain human morality.
If anything, it would denigrate and destroy it.
The next chapter will explain why.
You’ve only been in Vietnam for a few weeks. It is hot and the air is heavy and you are nineteen years old and it is 1968. And now you’re on patrol, in the jungle, with your platoon. You are unfamiliar with the terrain, fearful of booby traps and mines, skittish about getting ambushed, anxious about fulfilling your obligations and not letting your comrades down, and you’re scared to die.
Fortunately, there’s Sergeant Rex. He’s already been in Vietnam for over two years. He’s a thick-skulled, chiseled-chested Midwesterner: sturdy, sharp, and seasoned. And he’s in charge of your platoon—which is a damn good thing because he knows what he’s doing, he handles stress like a boulder, he’s deft at making quick decisions, and he’s more than familiar with the ins and outs of your platoon’s mission. Recognizing that he is smarter than you, stronger than you, and more experienced than you, and given all that you have learned about conformity, teamwork, and duty while in basic training, you are ready and willing to submit to Sergeant Rex’s orders. Hell, you eagerly and happily acquiesce to his authority, and you find it deeply comforting to know that he’s in charge and that he’ll do everything in his power to protect you.
One day, while on patrol just south of Da Nang, Sergeant Rex gathers you and your platoon mates together and makes an announcement: “This afternoon we’re going to be going into a small village that needs our help. We’re going to deliver food supplies, bottled water, and first aid kits. We’re going to repair some huts and fix a well. The people in this village have been hit pretty hard lately, and we’re going to go in there and do what we can to help them. Got that?”
“Yes, sir!” you and your fellow soldiers obediently reply. And you subsequently do just what Sergeant Rex instructs: you go into that village and bring much-needed supplies and spend hours helping the people there. It’s an altruistic, feel-good day.
Two days later, while on patrol, Sergeant Rex gathers you all together again and declares the following: “This afternoon we’re going to be attacking a small village. Our enemies are there, and we must completely destroy them. And we can’t take any chances. So we’re going to go into that village and kill everything that moves or breathes—men, women, children, animals. Everything. And then we’re going to set fire to the place and burn it all down. Got that?”
“Yes, sir!” you and your fellow soldiers obediently reply. And you subsequently do just what Sergeant Rex ordered: you go into that village and kill everything—every man, woman, and child. It’s a bloody, murderous day.
This pattern just continues, day after day: whatever Sergeant Rex commands, you do. Whatever orders Sergeant Rex issues, involving this or that act or deed, you carry out. Willingly. Obediently. You do this because you have full faith in his wisdom and judgment, and you have granted him full authority, deciding to follow his orders. When he tells you to slit someone’s throat: “Yes, sir!” When he asks you to write a letter home on behalf of a comrade who’s been injured: “Yes, sir!” When he orders you to torture a captured villager: “Yes, sir!” When he tells you to clean some boots: “Yes, sir!” Whatever act it is—be it kind or sadistic, pain-relieving or pain-inducing, charitable or harsh—you do it.
Week after week, month after month: you commit violent or benevolent acts. And in doing so, you have proven yourself a reliable soldier, a dependable private of a well-functioning platoon, a dutiful citizen heeding your country’s call. You may certainly be all of these things—but there’s one thing that you most definitely are not: a moral agent.
By deciding to so completely obey Sergeant Rex, by totally resigning yourself to his discretion, by willingly submitting to his every command, you have fully and wholly abdicated your own personal role as an ethical being who makes his own decisions and choices predicated on his own conscience. In purposefully handing over all decision-making to Sergeant Rex, you have given up your role as a moral contemplator: someone
