Apologia pro Derisu

On the Proper Use of Ridicule in Argument

Above: from the book cover of State of Ridicule: A History of Satire in English Literature by Dan Sperrin (Princeton Press: 2025).

Reasoning, said Jonathan Swift, will never make a man correct an ill opinion, which by reasoning he never acquired.

Satire is a funny, aggressive, and largely oppositional literature which is typically created by people who refuse to participate in a given [author’s perception of himself]. - Adapted from the publisher’s blurb for Sperrin’s book

Introduction

A recent essay of mine elicits a question: is it ever morally permissible to ridicule what someone says? Can a sharp tone, even sarcasm, be not only defensible but required under certain conditions? We know that mockery can be cruel and sarcasm uncharitable, and that public discourse should be conducted with due respect. But the question is not whether ridicule can be abused. Of course it can. The question is whether it can ever be rightfully used.

The answer, I think, is yes. Reason is not a pacifist, and the arsenal of rhetoric includes not only the gentle push of persuasion and the brute force of logic, but also the steel tip of biting wit.¹

The Moral Context of Ridicule

Start with the obvious: people make bad arguments—sometimes very bad ones. Now, when the argument is made in good faith and with sincere intent, the proper response is clarity and patience. But not all arguments are sincere, nor are all errors innocent. Some arguments are confidently made despite being manifestly shallow, built on rhetorical bluster or intellectual vanity. And some are accompanied by personal condescension—often toward people who actually know what they’re talking about.

Now suppose such discourse enters public view. Suppose, too, that its author postures as an authority, dismisses opposing views with insults and sneers, and shows little evidence of having understood the position he rejects. Suppose, finally, that this is not an isolated mistake, but part of a pattern. What then?

You could, of course, respond with patient exposition. But that carries a risk: by treating the argument as if it were serious, you may lend it more weight than it deserves. In doing so, you risk misleading the reader—not in what you say, but in how seriously you say it.

There are cases, then, where mildness misleads. And that is where ridicule comes in.

The Role of Ridicule

Ridicule, like any sharp instrument, is dangerous in the wrong hands. But when properly used, it serves a crucial function: it exposes absurdity not by refuting it (some things lie beyond that) but by revealing it. It lets the reader see what reason cannot compel. And for certain errors—especially those which reject the conditions for rational discourse itself—this may be the only effective tool.

This was Thomas Reid’s view. Reason, he said, helps us detect falsehood; ridicule helps us expose the absurd. Both serve truth. Absurdity, in his words, is marked out by nature for our mockery, and we are “furnished” by nature with a faculty for just that purpose. This is not a moral license for cruelty. It is moral clarity about what certain errors deserve.

The New Testament seems to affirm this principle in practice. Jesus does not speak gently to Pharisees who twist the law. Paul does not tiptoe around Elymas the sorcerer. Stephen, in his last speech, calls his accusers stiff-necked and uncircumcised in heart. These are not lapses in virtue. They are moments of moral and theological clarity. They show that truth is not always whispered.

The Grounds of Ridicule

So when is ridicule permissible? Four conditions may serve as a guide:

1. The argument is not just wrong, but manifestly wrong. That is, its flaws are obvious to anyone competent in the subject. We’re not talking about subtle errors in modal logic; we’re talking about mistakes that any freshman ought to catch.

2. The arguer adopts a tone of superiority. When the error comes cloaked in scorn or pretense, the usual appeal to charity loses its force. Arrogance invites exposure.

3. The argument is made in public. Private correction is one thing. But public error invites public response—especially when others are at risk of being misled.

4. The aim is clarity, not cruelty. The goal is to expose the absurdity of the view, not to humiliate the person. That distinction must be maintained, even in satire.

Now, some will say that any ridicule is uncharitable or unchristian. But this confuses categories. To call a bad argument ridiculous is not to attack the person; it is to treat the argument in proportion to its actual merit. And when the argument is made with confidence but without competence, satire is not a sin—it is a service.

The Risks of Avoiding Ridicule

Consider the alternative. Suppose we adopt a policy of rhetorical restraint in all cases, even those meeting the conditions above. What follows?

First, we reward pretension. If the only risk of shallow posturing is a polite reply, there’s no cost to bluffing. Second, we mislead readers—especially those less able to judge the argument themselves. By treating bad reasoning as if it were serious, we suggest that it might be.

Worse, we make truth appear timid. When falsehood struts and truth shuffles, the audience is not likely to be drawn to the latter. Some people are swayed by confidence—not because they are shallow, but because they reasonably assume that a man who speaks with boldness must have reasons for doing so. When those reasons are lacking, the only way to reveal it is to match the tone and expose the bluff.

Conclusion

There is, of course, a kind of person who reaches for ridicule too quickly, whose sarcasm conceals a shallow grasp of the issue. That is a vice. But the existence of this vice does not preclude the corresponding virtue: the restrained but judicious use of wit to expose error and protect truth.

In theology, as in philosophy, the intellect serves not only to understand but to defend. And the defense of truth sometimes requires a sharper tone. Sarcasm clarifies when rightly aimed and cleanly delivered. It reminds the reader that not every view deserves a solemn hearing, and that not every mistake is innocent.

There are times, then, when the proper response to an argument is not merely to refute it, but to hold it up to the light and let its absurdity speak for itself—perhaps with a raised brow and a well-placed phrase.

And of course, for some errors, the proper response is simply laughter.

1. The writings of Edward Feser and Alvin Plantinga have shaped my thinking about the proper use of ridicule in argument. In particular, Feser’s reviews (e.g., An Omnibus of Fallacies and One Long Circular Argument) and Plantinga’s writings against the New Atheists are masterclasses in how sarcasm and wit can serve reason. Feser has also written several helpful blog posts on the philosophical use of polemical writing.