Single Issue?

DarwinCatholic has an excellent post up about what would be involved in supporting a candidate who is pro-choice in today's electoral mix.

However, it seems to me that in discussing the upcoming election, several Catholics in public and intellectual life (Kmiec very much among them) have attempted to make the case that one should support Obama not despite his stand on abortion, but rather because an Obama administration will be able to make progress towards a more truly pro-life society in a way that recent Republican administrations have not been able to. I disagree with people who take the former position, though I can certainly respect them, but I take serious objection to those who take the latter, and this post is intended to address them.

There follows a remarkably clear-sighted analysis of what it is these people are really saying, and why it is morally banal. Highly recommended reading.

Finally

Archbishop Joseph Naumann has done the right thing. According to a story at Catholic.org he has instructed Governor Kathleen Sebelius of Kansas to stop presenting herself for Communion, because she has scandalized the faithful in her support of abortion. She is, it seems, latae sententiae excommunicate. This is good news for the real Catholics out there, who have been wondering when somebody in a position of authority was going to stand up for those of us who are powerless to prevent our secular leaders from making a mockery of our religious beliefs. It's bad enough when the pagans do it, but when people who claim to be Catholics do it as a matter of "principle", evidently regarding positive legal principles as higher than moral and religious ones, then things have really gotten out of hand.

There are some who hold the (mistaken) view that religious scruples should play no part in the formation of public policy. As laughably naive (not to mention banal) as this view is, there is nevertheless a solution for those who hold it. They may take a lesson from their buddies who put bumper stickers on their cars that read "Against abortion? Don't have one!" and adopt the position of "Don't think religious views have any place in politics? Then get out of politics!" Sebelius's duty is quite clear. If she seriously believes that she has no right to defend the human lives she claims to govern, then she should either stop receiving Communion, or resign her position as governor of Kansas. I predict she will do neither, thus forcing Archbishop Naumann to take further pastoral action on her behalf.

Those of us who have been waiting for this day, however, have some small cause for celebration.

Via Squalida

Among the many pleasant diversions here in beautiful southern Ohio are the various street parties that crop up around Athens in May and June. This past weekend was the occasion of one such party (really, parties, for many different streets were involved) known locally as Palmerfest, named for Palmer Street, where it had its humble origins God knows how many years ago (it has been an institution here since before I was hired in 1996). I almost always forget that these things are going on until too late. In this particular instance I had no idea that Saturday evening was the beginning of Palmerfest until I tried to drive over to Christ The King Parish, one of the local Catholic Churches, for Confession. Getting there requires driving down Palmer Street, which I did without pause, only to find myself navigating through the Athenian version of Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras. Hundreds of already intoxicated students (well, sure, it was nearly 4:00 in the afternoon, after all, and I suppose anybody would be well into their cups by then) were wandering aimlessly about in the street, which is all of 300 feet long. Fortunately I did not have any new sins to add to my Confession after arriving at my destination, even though many of these students were very scantily clad.

When I got to Confession I found that my usual Confessor was not there, and the substitute was a priest from another city. It was then that I remembered that it was Pentecost, and the Bishop was in town for Confirmation. All of the local priests were up at Saint Paul's, the other Catholic Church in town, getting ready for the 6:00 Mass. I went home by a different route and reminded my wife about Confirmation, and we decided to go to the Vigil Mass because the daughter of one of my colleagues was being confirmed at that Mass.

Now, my most tenacious fans may remember reading this post from October of 2005, in which I noted that the two Catholic parishes in Athens are only a couple of blocks from each other, both on Mill Street, which runs orthogonally to Palmer Street. Palmer Street is closer to Christ the King than to St. Paul's, but it basically bisects Mill Street and, hence, the Fest really ought to be called PalmerMillFest or something like that, because all of Palmer and most of Mill Street are student rental housing, and it's just one Big Party pretty much all of the time, but especially during PalmerFest. At any rate, because of the Fest I couldn't find any place to park near St. Paul's, and we wound up having to park in a parking structure in downtown Athens. As we walked over to the Church we were passed, in all directions, by many scantily clad party-goers, many of them staggering as they waddled about in their spiky shoes or dirty sneakers.

The Mass itself was absolutely beautiful (though, like any Mass at which a Bishop is presiding, the Homily was both dreadful and forgettable at the same time--the only thing I remember about it now is that it was too long), and I literally got tears in my eyes watching my friend's daughter get Confirmed. The place was packed, and my family and I had to stand at the back, but in a way that gave us something of an advantage, because standing around back there gives one a pretty good view of what's going on everywhere else. After Mass we waited out in front of the Church to say hi to my colleague and his family, and, of course, a lot of other people were doing the same thing (well, mutatis mutandis, of course--they weren't all waiting to greet my colleague and his family). I expect that many of these people, having come to see their young relations/friends getting Confirmed, were from out of town, which is why it was particularly unfortunate that Pentecost occurred on the same day as PalmerFest (I'll bet those liturgical types really regret getting rid of occurrences and concurrences now!). One of the first things I saw, upon emerging from the Church, was a young man lying with his back up against a telephone pole, listening to two young girls saying such things as "I thought Church was on Sunday" and "What is all this shit?" When the Bishop emerged, wearing his bright red Pentecost vestments, there were peals of derisive laughter all around (the irony was, of course, totally lost on the bumpkins who had come into town dressed as though for a high school prom when in fact all they were going to do was get blasted and soil their thongs).

I didn't learn until later that, as bad as this scene was, it had actually been much worse earlier in the afternoon. Remember how I noted that St. Paul's is up Mill Street from Christ the King. In my post from 2005, linked to above, I described a Eucharistic Procession from St. Paul's to Christ the King, lead by this self-same Bishop right down Mill Street. That was on a Sunday morning, however, when most of the locals are still sleeping it off. It turns out that on Saturday afternoon, when things were just getting cranked at the big Fest, there was another procession, this time of Confirmands from Christ the King up to St. Paul's. As one parishioner recounted the event:

I had a long talk by phone with Mayor Wiehl this morning regarding the general sense that the 'fests' are growing into a much larger problem. My family personally experienced this on Sat. night before (6pm) and after (7:45pm) at St. Paul's Church which was located too close to Palmerfest. Our 35+ kids to be confirmed actually walked from CTK up Mill to St. Paul's before the service. It was an embarrassingly surreal experience and out of town relatives who aren't desensitized as we are were appalled.

Some people sure are testy about a few moonings and boob displays on the way to Mass. Get over it, people, hedonistic pagans have rights too, you know.

Talk about running the gauntlet. The thought of parading past house after house overflowing with debauched immoralists while all dressed up as for Church rather than for prom at the age of 15 is something that I hope does not come to haunt my dreams. I suppose some of the kids may have thought the whole thing was a hoot, but my experience has been that other kids find such things rather distasteful, and most parents certainly do too (or ought to). Ohio University has little control over such things, and I doubt that there's much that city government can do, either. But Ohio University has been working pretty hard to overcome its reputation as a "party school", and one hopes that embarrassments such as this will provoke an even great effort to find ways to maintain some sort of decorum, at least when people are looking.

Nuts to You, Boys!

When I was coming up as a budding classicist, it was still traditional to take a term during one's studies of the Latin language for the reading of Catullus, a perennial favorite among schoolboys because of his capacity for making even the raunchiest ideas seem learned and urbane. One of his poems, in particular, was especially popular when I was in school, because it was filled with exquisitely nasty invective against a pair of men whom Catullus singled out for some of his best abuse. All of my Latin-savvy readers out there already know that I'm referring to poem 16, which reads:

Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo,
Aureli pathice et cinaede Furi,
qui me ex versiculis meis putastis,
quod sunt molliculi, parum pudicum.
Nam castum esse decet pium poetam
ipsum, versiculos nihil necesse est;
qui tum denique habent salem ac leporem,
si sunt molliculi ac parum pudici,
et quod pruriat incitare possunt,
non dico pueris, sed his pilosis
qui duros nequeunt movere lumbos.
Vos, quod milia multa basiorum
legistis, male me marem putatis?
Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo.

What could be more beautiful than that, I ask you. Let it not be said that Latin is not the language of God himself (an old joke has it that some Enlightenment Pope or other averred as to how "I speak Latin when I am speaking to God, I speak French when I am speaking to a lady, I speak Italian when I am speaking to a gentleman, and I speak German when I am speaking to my dog.") nor that Latin poetry is not the finest aesthetic achievement of mankind. Note, in particular, that first line:

Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo

That means, basically, "I will fuck you up the ass and make you suck my cock", and it is every bit as raunchy in the Latin as I have made it in English.

Needless to say, that's not the sort of thing that's going to make muster in one of those classically oriented homeschooling schemes, but Back in The Day when everyone had to read Catullus in order to pass one's O-levels there was something of a quandary as to how to translate this poem for the use of the tenderhearted young boys who needed a crib to get through the thing. If you look up the words in the old Latin dictionary that was long standard among scholars (Lewis and Short) you will find that, rather than translating the terms they give instead such phrases as "Membrum virile in os inserere." One early 20th century translation, found in the old Loeb edition of Catullus, began with the line:

Nuts to you, boys, nuts and go to hell!

That's telling them! Why didn't Catullus write that to begin with, I wonder? Deucedly more devastating than the original, after all!

Well, all of this intellectual enlightenment is intended as background for the reference that I really wanted to pass along to you. The verb in that first line up there (irrumabo) has a related noun, irrumator, the meaning of which can be rather easily inferred from my translation of the verb (since this is a family blog, I'll leave it to the reader to make such inferences for himself). With all of that in mind, have a look at this story about Eric Lu, a senior at West Geauga High School in Ohio. It's a rather nice photo of Eric, but I wonder whose idea it was to superimpose that Latin text on it, leaving the lascivious label right above the poor fellow's head? A disgruntled classmate? A frisky editor at The Plain Dealer? Somehow I doubt that either possibility is very likely, since I doubt that anyone really knows enough Latin to put together such a howler. One thing I'm sure of, though: as soon as somebody with any sense is made aware of the thing, it will be taken off the net, so be sure to check it out soon.

But don't worry, I've saved a copy to my computer, just in case.

Bob the Builder for President

Last week James Taranto of the Wall Street Journal poked fun, in his online column Best of the Web Today, at one of Hilary Clinton's little campaign slogans ("We're going to knock balls out of the country's park for the home team, which is America"), comparing it (rather unfavorably) to past pronouncements of Democratic Party Personages ("Ask not what your country can do for you...", etc.). The very next day he did the same thing with one of Bill Clinton's little speeches.

Continuing in the fine tradition of Bill and Hilary Clinton, Obama for America sent me a mailing yesterday with a slogan proudly printed in huge letters right on the front of the envelope, for all the world to see: "Yes we can." In smaller print, right underneath that, was the citation: "Barack Obama, January 8, 2008", as though the bon mot were a significant utterance that would be remembered for years to come as an Obama original, to be esteemed right up there with "I shall return" and "I have a dream".

Well, it will certainly be remembered, but mostly by toddlers, who hear their buddy Bob the Builder saying it every day on TV. The rest of us are mostly going to scratch our heads and wonder, "We can what?" The banalification of American politics continues apace.

The Ivory Tower

I was struck recently by an exchange in the online review Bryn Mawr Classical Reviews between Lowell Edmunds, on the one hand, and David Fitzpatrick on the other. Edmunds is a professor of classics at Rutgers University, Fitzpatrick a professor in the history department of Trinity College, Dublin. The occasion for the exchange was a review that Fitzpatrick wrote of Edmunds's recent book, Oedipus: Gods and Heroes of the Ancient World, published by Routledge in 2006. While it is not exactly a glowing review, it is, in the main positive, and concludes with:

Notwithstanding my misgivings on certain points, I think Edmunds' Oedipus is a good contribution to series. The volumes are all presented very attractively: a casual bookshop browser could be tempted to pick up a copy. There is enough depth and breath in Edmunds' offering for such a customer to be happy with his/her purchase.

This apparently did not satisfy Edmunds, however, who felt moved to write a response to the review in a subsequent issue of the online journal (BMCR is one of the few review journals that prints responses to its reviews). The response is decidedly more prickly than the review had been, with such comments as the following:

His estimate of the intelligence of this readership [those to whom the book is addressed] is clearly lower than mine was....

Fitzpatrick seems to know something that even the experts, whom I cited, don't know, and I wish that he had told us what it is....

In order to grasp the relevance of the illustrations, one must first grasp the peculiarities just referred to and second look at Figs. 6 and 7. In writing as I did and in using these illustrations (which are quite remarkable), I had not thought that I would overtax anyone's intelligence....

I wasn't the only one to find Edmunds's response "prickly", for Fitzpatrick wrote a further response to Edmunds's response in which he, too, thought that somebody had gotten up on the wrong side of the bed:

His prickliness is due, perhaps, to an unfortunate conflation of two distinct points: a supposed difference of opinion between us about the level of intelligence of the intended readership and my (footnoted) comments on the handling of illustrations and iconography in Oedipus.

There follows a measured, if pointed, reply to Edmunds's criticisms. He was unable, however, to resist the temptation to conclude his response in this way:

Towards the end of his response, Edmunds declares that he makes "some original points". If I were to adopt, momentarily, the condescension towards the general reader which Edmunds imputes to me, I wonder would the general reader identify the points in question as original ones. We'd have to consult the general reader here, but I think the declaration betrays that Edmunds had another level of readership in mind too.

Well, such is life in the rarefied air of academia. The exchange came as no surprise to me, really, because I worked with Lowell Edmunds in the classics department at Rutgers during his first year there, 1988-89. I was there for a one-year position working for Project Theophrastus, fresh out of grad school (well, relatively fresh, anyway); he had just been hired in as full professor with tenure. We got along fairly well at first, and he even rented me a room in his condo, which was literally right next door to the department. Since I was only there for the academic year I had not moved much of my stuff to New Brunswick, and Edmunds kindly allowed me to use the computer he had in his office to read my email and write my papers.

During that academic year, the department was engaged in a search for a new faculty member with an interest in feminst approaches to classics. Since I was just a visiting appointment, I had no role in the selection process, other than to attend the colloquia that the candidates gave during their campus visits. One evening, after all of the candidates had visited, I was working late in my office and Edmunds came into the department with William Fortenbaugh, who was chair of the department at that time. They were talking rather loudly about the candidates, and even after I closed my office door I could still hear what they were saying. Now, Fortenbaugh was something of a curmudgeon, and the prospect of him hiring someone with interests in "feminist approaches" is already something of a hoot. When he hired me, for example, he explained my low salary by telling me that the college was being run by a "feminist lesbian dean" who did not like him and punished him by not supporting his projects. This was my very first day on campus, and he had never met me before, so arguably he didn't care what my own views of such matters might be. When he came into the department with Edmunds that evening, Edmunds was attempting to sell him on one of the candidates and, perhaps knowing his audience, Edmunds said about the candidate "She's a good feminist, and, unlike most feminists, she's actually attractive."

Well now. Strong words, even by the Cro-Magnon standards of 1989. In the end, they hired the "attractive" candidate. No surprise there. What was surprising, however, was my last interaction with Edmunds. As I said, he was very kind to let me use the computer in his office. On one occasion I left some papers on his desk when I left, and he brought them to me the next day and told me that it was OK for me to use his computer, but please don't leave anything in his office. I explained that it was just a mistake, and I wouldn't do it again. Then, about three weeks before the end of the academic year, I was in his office printing out a paper I had written. I wanted to put some paper in his printer to replace what I had used, so I fetched one of those bundles of 500 sheets of paper that are often stacked in the vicinity of copier machines, and I refilled his printer. Then I left. Apparently I also left the bundle of paper on his desk, because the next day he came up to me in the middle of the department, with several colleagues standing around, and he brandished the bundle of paper (now containing a mere 450 sheets, approximately, but still rather hefty). He yelled at me in a rather loud voice, "I told you not to leave any of your fucking crap in my office!" and he then threw the bundle of paper at me. It did not hit me, but I decided to maintain a low profile around him anyway, just to be on the safe side.

Life isn't always that exciting in classics departments, but the "attractive" feminist eventually quit working at Rutgers before coming up for tenure, and I've often wondered whether there weren't more things flying around that department than just bundles of paper. At any rate, if BMCR is any indication, academics will always find ways to irritate one another. It beats working for a living.

Steampunk!

I am so there!

Read the article at the New York Times.

So Why Not Do Us All A Favor?

I was browsing through the Oxford University Press philosophy catalog, and I came across this description of Better Never to Have Been: The Harm of Coming into Existence by David Benatar:

Better Never to Have Been argues for a number of related, highly provocative, views: (1) Coming into existence is always a serious harm. (2) It is always wrong to have children. (3) It is wrong not to abort fetuses at the earlier stages of gestation. (4) It would be better if, as a result of there being no new people, humanity became extinct.

It's difficult to know whether the guy's just angling for a chance to get himself interviewed by Bill Maher, but the description raises some rather delicious possibilities. If it's always a "serious harm" when a new human comes into existence, perhaps the elimination of one of these harmful beings--say, David Benatar--would be a serious boon. One wonders whether David Benatar practices what he preaches: if it is wrong not to abort fetuses, perhaps there is a duty to abort them oneself by force when one finds women stubbornly attempting to carry their fetuses to term. If David Benatar is not out there right now poking pregnant women in the stomach then he's a hypocrite.

While I can't agree that it would be better if humanity as a whole became extinct, books like this make me heartily agree that it would be better if certain elements of humanity became extinct. Sadly, my own Weltanschauung prevents me from working to bring about such an end.

Continuing Lefevbrists

If Anglicans who sign the CCC are struggling to find a way to remain distinctively Anglican, one can only imagine the difficulties the Society of Saint Pius X will have maintaining anything like an identity worth maintaining. According to a story at Catholic.org, members of the schismatic group are not satisfied with BXVI's motu proprio allowing wider use of the so-called "Tridentine Rite" form of the Mass, because the guy "still supports the reforms of the Second Vatican Council".

So, before any kind of "reunification" can occur, apparently, VCII will have to be scrapped. In short, reunification is formally impossible, as far as these guys are concerned. If VCII were "scrapped" in the way required by SSPX, that would signal the end of the teaching authority of Ecumenical Councils and, hence, the Catholic Church as it has existed since the Council of Jerusalem. So either VCII is retained, in which case SSPX stays out; or VCII is scrapped, in which case SSPX is still out, because they will have reunified themselves with something other than the Roman Catholic Church.

So long, SSPX! Enjoy the bizarre world of Catholic Protestantism.

Continuing Anglicans

There's some interesting stuff going on at The Continuum. There has been some discussion there the past few days of what it would mean for someone claiming to be within the Anglican Communion (of their specifically "continuing" variety) to endorse the CCC in its entirety, which, apparently, some Anglicans claim to do. There is a post discussing the Society of Saint Michael (one of said groups), a post discussing the question whether some Anglican bishops formally signed a copy of the CCC at a public Mass in Rome; and a post rehearsing the contents of the CCC teachings on Papal primacy (880-887). For your added delectations, there is a comment in the discussion section of that first one in which Fr. Robert Hart (a frequent contributor to First Things!) disses yours truly in a delightfully snotty fashion. (But then, I deserved it.)

The question of whether, and if so, to what extent, an Anglican may comfortably subscribe to the teachings of the CCC came up at this blog recently, in my discussion with Tobias Haller (see the comments section of this post). Clearly, Papal primacy is the major sticking point (to quote Hart: "the teaching in the CCC about the papacy is one of only a very few places where Anglicans cannot agree with the content"), but given the way most Roman Catholics understand the nature of Papal Primacy--especially in the developed West--it is not clear that there is really all that much at stake. If one is willing to accept most of what is in the CCC--including, I suppose, such things as the content of the teachings on, say, the Immaculate Conception, the Church's indefectibility, etc., then the teachings about Papal Primacy simply disappear in the mix. If, by contrast, one were to say that one accepted all of the teachings in the CCC except those on Papal Primacy and all other teachings that could reasonably be traced to an inordinate amount of influence on the part of the Papacy, then one would have a uniquely non-Roman point of view; but then one would not, in such a case, be able to say that "the teaching in the CCC about the papacy is one of only a very few places where Anglicans cannot agree with the content".

The long and the short of it is simple: the Papacy, whether or not one regards its influence over the various parts of the Roman communion as overweaning, has not exercised anything like the degree of influence in terms of de fide doctrine that some folks have imagined, if it is possible to agree with most of the CCC except for 880-887. If this is right, then the real dispute is not over Papal Primacy, but about Church polity, and this is something that Roman Catholics themselves are constantly bickering about, and indeed, have done for centuries, even prior to the rather sudden invention of the Anglican communion (as an entity distinct from the Roman communion).

Ehrman and Wright

Fr. Al Kimel has drawn my attention to an exchange at Blogalogue between N. T. Wright and Bart Ehrman on the so-called "problem of evil". Regular readers will remember that I, along with Dr. Michael Liccione of Sacramentum Vitae, have blogged frequently on the issues involved in theodicy, but having had a look at this most recent exchange I have to say that it continues to astound me how simplistic and thoughtless the popular treatment of the problem has become. To read Ehrman's piece is to hear a litany of the typical complaints one hears from a materialistic world: there is too much pain and suffering in the world, and, well, sorry folks, there's no way you're going to convince me that there's a caring God out there when I get tears in my eyes watching CNN. It's as if generations of sophisticated and complex theological and philosophical argument amount to nothing when compared to the emotional attitudes of a single individual living in a highly particularized time and place.

This, indeed, seems to be at least partly the point of Wright's reply, when he writes:

I want to ask: were you not aware, earlier, of the scale of evil in the world – the Holocaust, the dying babies, the inexplicable ‘natural’ disasters, and so on? You’re not implying, are you, that people (like me, for instance) who still hold to Christian faith are somehow failing to notice these horrors, or to reflect soberly and deeply on them? And if, as you say, your book (and your blog posting) do not actually constitute an argument against Christian faith (‘If you reflect on these issues you’ll see that the Christian claim is incredible’), might it not seem that the shift in your own position which you have described is a shift which came about, not because of logical argument, but because of other (unspecified) factors, with the problem of suffering providing a kind of intellectual backdrop to a journey whose main energy was supplied from elsewhere?

I think this is a rather important insight, and its importance is not diminished by its obviousness. Just as atheists and agnostics are often--perhaps way too often--tempted to assume that believers only believe for emotional or psychological reasons, so too, it seems rather obvious to me, every non-believer almost certainly has emotional and psychological reasons for not believing that will trump any and every legitimate argument posed against them. This is not to say, of course, that non-believers don't also subscribe to certain philosophical arguments that they think are in their favor, it is merely to note that the absence of such arguments would not deter many of them from continuing to believe what they believer.

The other elements of Wright's analysis are deployed more specifically against Ehrman's particular argument, which, it seems to me, is grounded not so much in deep theological introspection but in the fatuousness of his original religious foundation.

The second large, general point concerns your handling, and description, of the Bible and Christian faith. I want to take issue with your analysis of the biblical material. This is where I must refer to my own treatment of the same problem in Evil and the Justice of God, which forms part of the groundwork for my new book Surprised by Hope. I don’t know if you’ve read either of them, but in the former I give a very different account from you of the Old Testament material, seeing the call of Abraham not (as on your p. 66) as God simply calling Abraham ‘to be in a special relationship with him’ but as the moment when God launches the long-range plan to rescue the world from its misery. In other words, I read the story of Israel as a whole (not merely in its individual parts, which by themselves, taken out of that context, might be reduced to ‘Israel sinned; God punished them’, etc.,) as the story of theodicy-in-practice: ‘this is the narrative through whose outworking the creator God will eventually put all things to rights.’ Hence the promises of Isaiah 11 and so forth.

As Wright notes, Ehrman, like other Christians from his tradition, has (or, I suppose "had" is the better word) the tendency to spot-check individual parts of the Scriptures as though they are stand-alone commodities that can be tested independently of the multitude of variables that give them their substance and their meaning to actual believers (as opposed to casual readers, for whom they are merely texts).

Wright concludes with a simple, straightforward, and yet absolutely essential point:

In particular, of course, the resurrection of Jesus is absolutely central for me. Like many people ancient and modern, you don’t find it credible. If I didn’t believe it I wouldn’t have the beliefs I do about other things.

I don't suppose that any genuine Christian could disagree with these words. To me, the difficulty of making sense out of the Resurrection is far greater than the alleged difficulty of making sense out of suffering in the world. Indeed, to make sense out of the former just is to make sense out of the latter, and yet the former involves far greater empirical difficulties than the latter, which is relatively simple by comparison. Belief in the literal Resurrection of Jesus is a necessary condition on the truth of everything in the Gospel, and there is literally no reason to believe in it at all beyond one's capacity to take the word of Scripture at face value. The capacity to do that requires an act of supernatural grace, a further feature of our faith that takes it beyond the realm of the empirical. Ehrman has, of course, written about these issues, too, but his puzzlement about the problem of evil is far more mysterious than the problem of evil itself.