The Allure of Privation

Human Goodness, Corruption, and the Prideful Quest for Divine Recognition

In an era dominated by psychological self-help and therapeutic culture, the privation theory of evil (rooted in ancient philosophy and Christian theology) offers a profoundly appealing vision of humanity. This theory, famously articulated by Augustine, posits that evil is not a substantive entity but a privation boni, a privation or absence of good. Humanity, in its essence, is created good, reflecting the image of a benevolent Creator, yet becomes corrupted through defect—free choices that turn away from the ultimate Good. This framework resonates deeply with modern humanistic pride, which insists on viewing ourselves as inherently virtuous individuals subjected to external or circumstantial corruptions, rather than fundamentally flawed. At its core, this attraction stems from a primal need for recognition as divine, a desire that echoes the serpent's temptation in Eden: to be "like God" (Genesis 3:5). By weaving moralism into this narrative, privation theory flatters our ego while subtly masking the deeper biblical diagnosis of sin as rebellion.

The privation theory begins with an optimistic anthropology that aligns seamlessly with contemporary self-esteem movements. Scripture affirms humanity's original goodness: "So God created mankind in his own image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them" (Genesis 1:27). This imago Dei establishes an inherent dignity and potential for goodness, unmarred at creation. Evil enters not as a created force but as a deficit; a turning away from God's order. As Augustine elaborates in Confessions, evil is "a defect in good," much like darkness is the absence of light. In this view, human corruption arises from poor choices that deprive the soul of its proper orientation toward God. The Fall exemplifies this: Adam and Eve, created perfect, choose disobedience, introducing defect into paradise (Genesis 3:6-7). Yet, the theory preserves the core goodness; we are not evil by nature but corrupted by defection.

This perspective captivates because it dovetails with humanistic pride; the modern conviction that humans are fundamentally good people ensnared by bad influences, systems, or mistakes. Humanism, as an heir to Enlightenment optimism, demands we affirm our innate worth without the humbling weight of original sin. Privation theory supplies this affirmation: we start good, and any evil is an aberration, a "corruption from poor choices" rather than an intrinsic poison. Moralism amplifies this appeal, framing ethical lapses as correctable errors in an otherwise noble trajectory. We become tragic heroes (victims of environment, upbringing, or societal pressures) rather than willful rebels. This narrative absolves personal responsibility while upholding self-image; it allows us to moralize against "defects" in others (poverty, ignorance, oppression) without interrogating our own hearts.

Central to this allure is the fundamental human need for recognition as a god, a drive scripted in Genesis 3. The serpent tempts Eve: "For God knows that when you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil" (Genesis 3:5). This is no mere promise of knowledge but of autonomous divinity; self-definition without submission. Adam and Eve's choice reflects prideful self-exaltation: "When the woman saw that the fruit of the tree was good for food and pleasing to the eye, and also desirable for gaining wisdom, she took some and ate it" (Genesis 3:6). Their eyes open not to truth but to shame, for in grasping at godhood, they alienate themselves from communion with the true God (Genesis 3:7-8). Paul later connects this to all humanity: "Although they claimed to be wise, they became fools and exchanged the glory of the immortal God for images made to look like a mortal human being" (Romans 1:22-23). The need for divine recognition persists; we crave to be seen as the arbiters of good and evil, authoring our own moral reality.

Privation theory indulges this by locating evil externally or incidentally (in "defects" like bad choices) while preserving our god-like core. It enables a moralism that judges the world harshly but spares the self: systemic evils corrupt the good person, not vice versa. Yet, this is a half-truth that inflates pride. Jesus exposes the deception: "For out of the heart come evil thoughts—murder, adultery, sexual immorality, theft, false testimony, slander" (Matthew 15:19). The heart itself is the defect's source, not merely its victim. True recognition comes not in self-deification but in humility: "God opposes the proud but shows favor to the humble" (James 4:6, quoting Proverbs 3:34).

The imago Dei is the linchpin of this debate, but its meaning is often inverted. Humanistic privation theory treats the imago as the locus of value; an intrinsic spark of divinity that makes us worthy in ourselves. Scripture, however, locates all worth in the Dei: "Then the Lord God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being" (Genesis 2:7).

We are dust animated by divine breath; our beauty, goodness, and value are borrowed, not owned. The psalmist marvels: "When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers… what is mankind that you are mindful of them, human beings that you care for them?" (Psalm 8:3-4).

Our dignity is not self-generated; it is a gift of covenantal love. God declares Israel precious not because of inherent merit but because "I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with unfailing kindness" (Jeremiah 31:3). Even our election as image-bearers flows from divine initiative: "You did not choose me, but I chose you" (John 15:16).

This relational ontology upends humanistic pride. We are beautiful because He is beautiful; "One thing I ask from the Lord… to gaze on the beauty of the Lord" (Psalm 27:4). We are loved because He is love; "We love because he first loved us" (1 John 4:19). Even redeemed goodness is derivative: "For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do" (Ephesians 2:10).

The moment we claim intrinsic value apart from the Source, we repeat Eden’s theft; eating the fruit to become like God rather than receiving life from Him. True recognition, then, is not self-assertion but covenantal response: "Here am I" (Isaiah 6:8).

Humanistic privation theory offers a seductive mirror: a self that begins good, suffers external corruption, and needs only better choices to reclaim its god-like core. It flatters the imago and fuels moralism without repentance. An alternate view, rooted in Scripture, offers a cruciform mirror: a self that is dust enlivened by divine breath, valued only because the Dei has covenanted to love it. Here, corruption is not incidental but radical, requiring not self-rescue but divine re-creation: "If anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come" (2 Corinthians 5:17).

One vision crowns the creature; the other bows before the Creator. Only the latter can bear the weight of glory without shattering under pride.