Eleonore Stump

Professor Penelhum has argued that there is a common error about the history of skepticism and that the exposure of this error would significantly improve our understanding of a current confusion in the philosophy of religion with regard to the issue of the rationality of religious beliefs. Penelhum considers certain contemporary philosophers of religion such as Plantinga skeptics because he reads Plantinga (for example) as arguing that religious beliefs are properly groundless in virtue of the fact that none of our beliefs have any ultimate grounds, and Penelhum argues that this sort of defense of religious belief is both limited and dangerous for religion. I argue that on the interpretation of ancient skepticism which Penelhum gives ancient skepticism is just what it has often been claimed to be: either practically untenable or incoherent or both. I show that in any case the confusion in philosophy of religion which Penelhum wants to sort out with the help of ancient skepticism is not one of which its alleged proponents are guilty. The views of Plantinga and others who take his line are more complex and powerful than Penelhum's presentation makes them seem; these views do not constitute an acceptance of skepticism but a denial of a certain sort of foundationalism. Contrary to Penelhum, then, I argue that ancient skepticism does not serve as a significant corrective for certain trends in contemporary philosophy of religion.

Alvin Plantinga’s “Advice to Christian Philosophers” had the effect of getting contemporary Christian philosophers to recognize themselves as a part of a community with a worldview different from that found in the rest of Academia, and to take seriously in their work their commitment to that distinct worldview. I argue that in the current climate of opinion, generated at least in part by Plantinga’s advice, it would be worthwhile for contemporary Christian philosophers to consider that we also belong to a community of Christians that extends across centuries, and to ask what we are committed to by our participation in that larger community.

The claim that God is maximally present is characteristic of all three major monotheisms. In this paper, I explore this claim with regard to Christianity. First, God’s omnipresence is a matter of God’s relations to all space at all times at once, because omnipresence is an attribute of an eternal God. In addition, God is also present with and to a person. The assumption of a human nature ensures that God is never without the ability to be present with human persons in the way mind-reading enables; and, in the indwelling of the Holy Spirit, God is present in love.

The major Western monotheisms, and Christianity in particular, are often supposed to be committed to a substance dualism of a Cartesian sort. Aquinas, however, has an account of the soul which is non-Cartesian in character. He takes the soul to be something essentially immaterial or configurational but nonetheless realized in material components. In this paper, I argue that Aquinas’s account is coherent and philosophically interesting; in my view, it suggests not only that Cartesian dualism isn’t essential to Christianity but also that the battle lines between dualism and materialism are misdrawn.

In a preceding issue of Faith and Philosophy Stewart Goetz criticized a paper of mine in which I try to show that libertarians need not be committed to the principle of alternative possibilities (PAP) and that Frankfurt-style counterexamples to PAP are no threat to libertarianism. In my view, the main problem with Goetz’s arguments is that Goetz does not properly understand my position. In this paper, I respond to Goetz by summarizing my position in as plain a way as possible. Goetz’s charge against my position has two parts, first, that it isn’t libertarian and, second, that it provides no good reason for libertarians to abandon PAP. This paper briefly presents my answers to these two parts of Goetz’s charge.

‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here’ is, as we all recognize, the inscription over the gate of Dante's hell; but we perhaps forget what precedes that memorable line. Hell, the inscription says, was built by divine power, by the highest wisdom, and by primordial love. Those of us who remember Dante's vivid picture of Farinata in the perpetually burning tombs or Ulysses in the unending and yet unconsuming flames may be able to credit Dante's idea that Hell was constructed by divine power; and if we understand ‘wisdom’ in this context as denoting an intellectual virtue only, then we might agree that only divine wisdom is capable of making something like Dante's hell.