Imagine that you are struggling to finish a project, with the deadline fast approaching. Nearly done, you are about to print out what you have finished when a dialog box appears on your computer screen telling you that you must download and install an update for some piece of software. Frustrated, you try to make it go away, but it keeps reappearing. So you relent and click on ‘Install’, and your screen is filled with small print listing ‘Terms and Conditions’. You do not have time to scroll through the whole thing. So you click ‘Agree’. The installation begins, and you are relieved that it takes only a few minutes. Soon you are back at work and have finished your project.

Toot. Pass gas. Break wind. Cut the cheese. Float an air biscuit. Burp from behind. Blow the brown horn. The backfire, bant, bucksnort, booty bomb, colon cologne, drifter, fanny bubble, gasser, gurgler, moon beam, nether belch, pants puffer, pooh tune, rip-snort, sphincter whistle, thunder dumpling, tush tickler, and trouser cough. These are synonyms for a bodily function that is as natural as breathing, eating, or sleeping. Yet unlike other physiological functions, the ‘flatus’ is a source of endless humor – perhaps more so than any other subject in human experience. But why are farts funny? That is a question that is both serious and philosophically interesting.

The idea that all the entities in the world may be, for legal and moral purposes, divided into the two categories of ‘persons’ and ‘things’ comes down to us from the tradition of Roman law. In the law, a ‘person’ is essentially the subject of rights and obligations, while a thing may be owned as property. In ethics, a person is an object of respect, to be valued for her own sake, and never to be used as a mere means to an end, while a thing has only a derivative value, and may be used as a means to some person's ends. This bifurcation is unfortunate because it seems to leave us with no alternative but to categorize everything as either a person or a thing. Yet some of the entities that give rise to the most vexing ethical problems are exactly the ones that do not seem to fit comfortably into either category. For various, different, kinds of reasons, it seems inappropriate to categorize a fetus, a non-human animal, the environment, or an object of great beauty, as a person, but neither does it seem right to say of such things that they are to be valued only as means.

Christianity's claim of privileged access to correct morality has always been a key element in its ability to attract and retain adherents. Jesus' Sermon on the Mount has been considered the most complete and authoritative exposition of Christian ethics this side of the Ten Commandments. In this article I will argue that the moral authority of Jesus and some important aspects of Christian ethics can be called into question by a number of seriously flawed moral imperatives from the Sermon on the Mount.

When I purchased Verdict on Jesus: A New Statement of Evidence, published by SPCK in 2010, I hoped it would confront me with the very latest attempt to vindicate Christian doctrines. In fact the book turns out to be fundamentally a reissue of a very conservative apologetic work of that title, first published sixty years earlier by an Anglican – Leslie Badham, who later became Vicar of Windsor and chaplain to the Queen. Admittedly, he updated the book in 1971, and in 1983 his son, the Revd. Professor Paul Badham, further revised it after the author's death, and later reissued it as a fourth edition, with further revision, in 1995. The present edition is thus the fifth, and includes a new introduction by Paul Badham and three new chapters (one of which he has written himself) presented with his conviction that the book is ‘a religious classic’ and ‘its central argument of permanent validity’.

Why do we believe what we believe? The answer may seem obvious: we believe what we've assessed to be true. However, there's a surprisingly basic logical flaw in this theory. And even more surprising is the real answer to the above question.

This essay is about liberal and conservative views of marriage. I'll begin by mentioning that I would really, really like to avoid use of the terms ‘liberal’ and ‘conservative’, but when push comes to shove, I know of no better labels for the positions that will be discussed in what follows. I would like to avoid these labels for a simple reason: many people strongly self-identify as liberals or as conservatives, and this can undermine our ability to investigate the topic in a sane, rational way. Politics, at least in the contemporary English-speaking world, functions a lot like the world of sports. Many people have a particular team to which their allegiance has been pledged, and the team's successes and failures on the field are shared in the hearts and minds of its loyal followers. In my own case – and here, I ask for your pity – I am a fan of the National Football League's Cleveland Browns. As much as I might wish things were otherwise, I rejoice in the Browns' (rare) triumphs and suffer when they lose (which happens frequently). I do not wait to see what happens in the game before I decide which team to cheer for; if it's an NFL game, and I see orange and brown, I know where my allegiance lies. Furthermore, I identify with my fellow Browns fans in a way that I cannot identify with followers of, say, the Pittsburgh Steelers. Clevelanders are my people. We share something, and what we share unites us in opposition to Steeler Nation. Their victories are our defeats. It is a zero-sum game: for one of us to win, the other must lose.

Locke's analysis of the origins of meaning is clear, coherent, cogent and devastating to our commonsense beliefs. His analysis establishes that in the last resort the meaning, he would say ‘Signification’, of words is ineluctably private, subjective, personal. Where meanings are concerned we are, Locke judged, irremediably solipsistic. ‘Words’, he notes, ‘in their primary or immediate Signification stand for nothing but Ideas in the Mind of him that uses them.’

In this paper I will put forward a brief argument against abortion rights. The argument concerns itself with the two main ways in which defenders of abortion rights develop their position. The first strategy through which they tend to do this is by arguing against the personhood of the fetus. The second strategy, made famous by Judith Jarvis Thomson, is to argue that, even if the fetus were a person, its right to life would not entail the right to draw upon the resources of the woman in pregnancy, and so the pregnancy can be terminated (even if the fetus loses its life in the process). My argument will provide reasons to suspect that attacks on fetal personhood are based on a questionable notion of personhood, and that the most common attempts to show that the fetus does not have the right to draw on the resources of the woman in pregnancy also have considerable problems. This will buttress the case for the view that the fetus is a person and that it has the right to draw on the resources of the woman in pregnancy.

‘The soul hypothesis’ (the belief that souls exist and humans have them) enjoys near unanimous support in the general population. Among philosophers and scientists, however, belief in the soul is far less common. The purpose of this essay to explain why many philosophers and scientists reject the soul hypothesis and to consider what the non-existence of the soul would entail.

Some logic textbooks say, as if it were the received wisdom, that inductive arguments are partly defined by the thinker's intentions. The claim is that an inductive argument is one where the premises are intended to make the conclusion likely. This contrasts with a deductive argument, where the premises are intended to entail the conclusion. However, since entailing is one way of making more likely, a further way to distinguish induction is needed. The addition offered is that the premises are not intended to entail the conclusion. Taken together, the result is:

On 28th September 2008, Frank McGarahan was viciously attacked, receiving fatal injuries, after intervening when he saw two homeless people being attacked in Norwich city centre. He had been out with friends and relatives and was waiting to go home when the incident occurred. A relative said later: ‘Frank was a fair- minded person. He wouldn't see anyone treated unfairly.’ There have, tragically, been several other incidents of a similar kind in recent years. The case of Jamie Mizen springs to mind – the teenager who was fatally stabbed in the throat with a broken plate for refusing to fight outside the shop where he had gone to buy his first lottery ticket on his 16th birthday. Many of us are profoundly moved to pity and sorrow when we learn of such incidents; frequently we are horrified.

The central question of ethics is ‘How should I live?’. It covers not only actions (‘what should I do?’), but more broadly, our reactions and our characters, questions of what we should feel and how we should be as people. This has been the central concern of theories of virtue. Aristotle claimed that a virtue is a character trait that enables us to ‘stand well’ in relation to our desires and emotions. To be virtuous with regard to a type of emotion – anger, sadness, joy, fear, etc. – is to feel that type of emotion ‘at the right times, with reference to the right objects, towards the right people, with the right motive, and in the right way’ (Nicomachean Ethics, Book 2, Ch. 6, 1106b).

Preface: Of course it is recognized that miscarriages of justice do occur, innocent people are wrongly punished, even executed. This can never be excused or justified. Never. But this is not the issue here. Rather, I am positing, for the sake of the inquiry, that the punishment imposed pertains to only those who are truly guilty of their crimes.

Bishop John A.T. Robinson's Honest to God was exceptionally successful. In the decade following its publication more than a million copies were sold in seventeen different languages. Robinson was aware that numerous awkward questions were being asked about traditional Christian beliefs, which it was no longer possible to ignore. His purpose was not so much to question traditional ideas of God as to suggest alternatives for those who found them unsatisfactory (8). He wanted to convince such persons that an inability to believe what is stated in the Bible or the prayer book does not disqualify them from calling themselves Christians and presenting themselves at church. He speaks of traditional Christian beliefs, as stated in the New Testament, as a ‘language’ (24) and thinks that Christianity should be conveyed to people in a variety of languages. By employing, as he does, the language of such Christian scholars as Bonhoeffer, Tillich and Bultmann, an atheist may find himself able to call himself a Christian. But the old familiar language of the Bible remains more pleasing to most of God's children, particularly to his ‘older children’ (43), so we must not give it up, although he allows that it is becoming increasingly unpopular, so that without ‘the kind of revolution’ he is advocating, ‘Christian faith and practice … will come to be abandoned’ (123).