(Another brilliant/cynical contribution from my liberal Episcopalian friend. Have fun, as I do, arguing with him!).

Hearing Voices

Harry T. Cook

3/08/09

Genesis 22: 1-14

It goes by the name of “the near sacrifice of Isaac,” this familiar text from Genesis. I have heard a world-renown scholar of Judaica say what an unprintable name the deity of his religion was to have dealt with Abraham and his son in such a way — convincing Abraham that it was god’s will for him to murder his own son to prove faithfulness, only to relent as the knife was at the child’s throat. By contrast, I have heard some of those considered to be great preachers in the Christian tradition use this text as support for their homiletic scolds about the necessity of trusting god so thoroughly that even such a command as Abraham heard from the god in whom he believed should be acted upon without question. I tussled with a professor in my graduate school days about Søren Kierkegaard’s take on this text. My professor was wed to Kierkegaard’s convoluted theory of “the teleological suspension of the ethical” by which is meant that on occasion one can and even should do a thing one would otherwise never do in order to serve a higher purpose.

If you were a member of the French Resistance in 1942 hiding Jews in your cellar, would you lie to the Gestapo when they asked you if you were harboring Jews? In such a case, the higher purpose for bearing false witness would be to save lives. But being willing to murder your own son because you heard a voice telling you to do so does not come close to achieving any higher purpose. My argument with the professor was that there existed no accepted criteria by which one could judge the higher purpose of anything like premeditated murder under such conditions, even on a dare. The argument continued for years after I had completed my work, after my degree was conferred and he was retired. Neither of us ever conceded to the other. Several years later, I was invited to be a panelist in a symposium at a university on the subject of “A Civic Ethic.” The concern was the then-current issue of conscientious objection to combat service in the Vietnam war — the draft still being in existence at the time. You may remember that millions of Americans opposed that war on moral grounds.

One other member of the clergy appeared on the panel. He expressed Olympian disdain for what he termed “unpatriotic and godless scoundrels,” referring not to draft dodgers (interestingly enough) but to those who stood their ground, spoke out against the war, refused to serve and took the consequences. And wouldn’t you know it? He injected Kierkegaard’s “teleological suspension of the ethical” into his argument. He insisted that the need to drive the Communists from the Indo-Chinese peninsula rose to the level of divine command, and those who resisted obedience to the call of the draft board courted divine displeasure and the punishment that went with it. It remained for me to inquire of him, of my fellow panelists and of the audience (mostly students and faculty) if, as in Abraham’s case, one goes forth determined to commit murder on the strength of hearing a voice commanding it, is it reasonable to conclude that the person is at the very least psychotic? I asked further whether or not it was permissible for one ever to act on an imperative ascribed to an inner voice affirming some kind of religious conviction when such an act would have a deleterious effect upon an innocent human being. My opposite number in the clerical collar took the bait and brightly shot back: “When it is the will of God.” I had then to inquire how one was a) to know there was such a deity and b) if so, how the will of that deity was to be known. His answer was what you might have expected: One knows the will of God through the Bible as taught by the church in its catechism and in the sermons of its ordained ministers.

Having in mind the notorious Crusades of medieval times said to have been “holy wars,” as well as the biblical justification of slavery proffered by the Southern clergy in the 19th Century, I had finally to ask if a more rational approach to ethical decision making might be a moral consensus among people of good will — such a consensus to be based on the values of peace and stability secured by a common code centered on respect for the dignity of every individual. “But what about God?” my clergy colleague cried out in dismay — the “g” of his “god” presumably in the upper case.

I said in return that it was his god that had been depicted as demanding that a father kill his only son to prove his faithfulness.

“Who needs such a god?” I asked.

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© Copyright 2009, Harry T. Cook. All rights reserved. This article may not be used or reproduced without proper credit.