When confronted with the problem of evil - i.e., why a loving God allows pain and suffering to exist - theists of the Western traditions often invoke the "free will" defense, that God wanted us to be truly free and that such freedom necessitates evil; we must have the option to either choose him or reject him.
However, this argument cannot by itself solve the problem of evil, in part because it cannot explain the existence of natural as opposed to human-caused evils (see "All Possible Worlds" for more on this). Additionally, a strong case could be made that human behavior is not entirely free. The way a person acts and thinks is undeniably affected by environment and upbringing - personality is the product of nurture as well as nature, and no human being is completely free of outside influences. It could well be argued that our nature is the product of conditioning and circumstance, perhaps even that all human behavior is ultimately deterministic, even if all the relevant factors are too numerous and subtle for any outside observer to ever measure completely (although I do not subscribe to this extreme view).
But more important is the objection that, according to the monotheist religions' own beliefs, humans are not free. What they claim to be free will is really a hollow mockery, a choice that is not a choice at all.
Imagine you are accosted one night by a mugger in a dark alley. He jabs the business end of a pistol into your back and demands your wallet and valuables. Understandably, most people in that situation would hand them over. Now imagine the mugger was caught and brought to trial. On the witness stand, could he legitimately claim this? "I didn't commit any illegal act; I offered my victim a choice to hand over his wallet or not and he chose to give it to me. He acted out of his own free will. He could have chosen to refuse if he had wanted to."
Would any rational jury accept such a defense? Of course not, because the mugger's claim that you acted out of free will is false. There are several qualifications for a decision to be genuinely free, one of which is that it be an informed choice - the party making the decision must fully understand the options and the likely ramifications of each. But another, more relevant one in this instance is that the decision not be coerced. If undue force, pressure or intimidation is applied to steer you towards a particular choice, then you're not acting out of free will.
Such is the case in the monotheist worldview. According to its proponents, God has offered humans a choice: to accept and worship him, or to reject him. People who choose to worship him will ascend to Heaven when they die, where they will receive an infinite reward. People who choose to reject him will be cast into Hell, where they will receive an infinite punishment.
This choice is not free at all - it is the most transparent and blatant attempt at coercion imaginable. One of our two options will earn us eternal torment; the other will not. God is like the mugger in the dark alley with the gun shoved into our back. Of course you could theoretically refuse to hand over your wallet (and likely get your brains blown out), if you were that stubborn or that perverse. But that doesn't mean your choice is free; the mugger can't claim at trial that you acted of your own volition. You were given a choice that was not a choice at all.
contd;
I have been searching for a poem to post with some piccies to make a Midsummers Day post in the forums and came across this epic by David Hazell. It is written about the area in which I live and I see the hill it mentions every time I go into town - it does indeed stand like a massive great whale in the landscape.
Theres a tiny village at the foot of this hill and I once stayed there to look after a friends aged granny when she came out of hospital, walking the dog out there was an eerie experience cos the village is famed for witchcraft - The Pendle Witches story makes for good reading if anybody likes their history of England.
Heres the poem;
On The Witching Hill At Midsummer.
The path was steep but stepped for ease, as we mounted the flank of ‘The Whale’.
Our mission was to test the truth, of another old Pendle tale.
For Pendle hill is a mound of myths, and fantasys and dreams,
Where witches ride, and ghosts abide, and a wind whipped Bean Sidhe screams.
With noble and forbidding brow, and broad of back and shoulder,
The ancient altar hill was shaped by mighty ‘frost giant’ moulder.
Looming up from England’s heart, as if it heaves with pride
The ‘Old Man’ glowers sternly oe’r the pastured riverside.
We pegged our sheet on the plateau, with the sky still full of light
And waited on the magic hill to greet the Gods of night.
A massive Moon swept the southern sky, like honey in a jar.
A groaning glow, that challenged, the light of the evening star.
The Sun slid into the western sea, throwing up colours and shade;
Amber, gold and cobalt blue; coral and beige and jade.
Then as the arc celestial dimmed, to navy blue, from grey
The marchers of the heavens came to boldly stride their way.
Mirfak elbows clear a path for Perseus to steer.
She goat, Capella’s glistening bleat heralds the Charioteer.
A bright eye gleams on Lyra’s harp; Vega , the eagle of stone.
Cassiopeia, still vain in her chain, spins on her captive throne.
I sat musing on the summit mound, and watched the starlight bloom,
And remembered that my haunches rested on an ancient tomb.
I thought of how those bronze age folk, buried at this site
Must have seen those self-same stars, on long gone, Midsummer nights.
There were two of us at the vigil; yet I’d read how in days gone by,
A healthy host of hundreds had gazed at the morning sky.
Dear old Jessica Lofthouse; had written the tale of tradition.
And she’d told the tale of the dubious sight that had brought us on the mission.
From Pendle’s height at Midsummer sunrise, she’d claimed one would behold,
York Minster windows, reflecting the Sun, shining a reddish gold.
It’s seventy miles from Pendle to York, so like many we had pondered,
And wondered if old Jessica’s mind, just like her feet had wandered.
But come the dawn, if skies were clear, we’d put it to the test.
And we fixed a compass point to York, at the highest point of the crest.
A steady chill had gripped the air, there were wisps of cloud and rain.
So we brewed some tea, and I took a stroll around the upper terrain.
I could see the glow of great cities, and towns, making orange, the sky;
Manchester, Liverpool, Burnley and Blackburn, easy to pick with the eye.
But to the north, just the darkened shape of the dreaming Bowland fells.
And north and east in the purple night, the limestone moorland swells.
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