VOL . 11, N O. 3 Nova et Vetera Summer 2013 • Volume 11, Number 3 The English Edition of the International Theological Journal C OMMENTARIES Presenting the Chalice of God Nova et Vetera SUMMER 2013 A IDAN N ICHOLS, O.P. Walker Percy and the New Evangelization C LINTON S ENSAT D OCUMENTATION Journet and Gaudium et Spes ROGER W. N UTT A RTICLES The Authentic Renewal of Catholic Spirituality ROMANUS C ESSARIO, O.P. Hierarchy, Humility, and Holiness A DAM G. C OOPER St. Thomas’s Use of Dignitas L AWRENCE D EWAN, O.P. Theology and Philosophy: Inhabiting the Borderlands D OUGLAS FARROW Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way E DWARD F ESER Ought We to Revere Non-Rational Natural Beings? M ARIE I. G EORGE Toward the Renewal of Mariology ROCH K ERESZTY, O.C IST. Mary, Woman, and Mother W ILLIAM S. K URZ , S.J. The Beatitudes and Moral Theology W ILLIAM C. M ATTISON III Aquinas and Aristotle’s Teleology S IMON O LIVER “Turning” and “Returning” in Aquinas C YRUS P. O LSEN III R EVIEW A RTICLE The Enlightenment and the Academic Bible Augustine Institute J EFFREY L. M ORROW B OOK R EVIEWS Nova et Vetera Summer 2013 • Volume 11, Number 3 The English Edition of the International Theological Journal S ENIOR E DITOR Georges Cardinal Cottier, O.P. C O -E DITORS Reinhard Hütter, Duke University Divinity School Matthew Levering, Mundelein Seminary M ANAGING E DITOR R. Jared Staudt, Augustine Institute A SSOCIATE E DITORS Holly Taylor Coolman, Providence College Gilles Emery, O.P., University of Fribourg Paul Gondreau, Providence College Timothy Gray, Augustine Institute Thomas S. Hibbs, Baylor University Christopher Malloy, University of Dallas Bruce D. Marshall, Southern Methodist University Charles Morerod, O.P., Bishop of Lausanne, Geneva, and Fribourg John O’Callaghan, University of Notre Dame Chad Pecknold, Catholic University of America Michael Sherwin, O.P., University of Fribourg Thomas Joseph White, O.P., Dominican House of Studies B OARD OF A DVISORS Anthony Akinwale, O.P., Dominican Institute, Ibadan, Nigeria Khaled Anatolios, Boston College Robert Barron, Mundelein Seminary John Betz, University of Notre Dame Bernhard Blankenhorn, O.P., Angelicum Stephen Brock, Pontifical University of the Holy Cross Peter Casarella, University of Notre Dame Romanus Cessario, O.P., St. John’s Seminary Boyd Taylor Coolman, Boston College Lawrence Dewan, O.P., Dominican University College Archbishop J. Augustine Di Noia, O.P., Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith Douglas Farrow, McGill University Anthony Fisher, O.P., Bishop of Parramatta, Australia Paul J. Griffiths, Duke University Divinity School Scott W. Hahn, Franciscan University of Steubenville Russell Hittinger, University of Tulsa Paige Hochschild, Mount St. Mary’s University Andrew Hofer, O.P., Dominican House of Studies Matthew L. Lamb, Ave Maria University Joseph Lienhard, S.J., Fordham University Steven A. Long, Ave Maria University Guy Mansini, O.S.B., Saint Meinrad School of Theology Francesca Aran Murphy, University of Notre Dame Thomas Osborne, University of St. Thomas (Houston) Trent Pomplun, Loyola University Maryland R. R. Reno, First Things Richard Schenk, O.P., University of Eichstätt Michele Schumacher, University of Fribourg Janet Smith, Sacred Heart Major Seminary Christopher Thompson, St. Paul Seminary Thomas Weinandy, O.F.M. Cap., United States Conference of Catholic Bishops William Wright, Duquesne University Instructions for Contributors 1. Address all contributions, books for review, and related correspondence to Matthew Levering, mjlevering@yahoo.com or Reinhard Hütter, rhuetter@div.duke.edu. 2. 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NOVA ET VETERA The English Edition of the International Theological Journal ISSN 1542-7315 Summer 2013 Vol. 11, No. 3 C OMMENTARY Presenting the Chalice of God . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A IDAN N ICHOLS, O.P. 601 A Call Unheeded: Walker Percy and the New Evangelization. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . C LINTON S ENSAT 609 D OCUMENTATION Gaudium et Spes and the Indissolubility of the Sacrament of Matrimony: The Contribution of Charles Cardinal Journet . . . . . . . . . . ROGER W. N UTT 619 A RTICLES Miscere colloquia: On the Authentic Renewal of Catholic Spirituality . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ROMANUS C ESSARIO, O.P. 627 Hierarchy, Humility, and Holiness: The Meaning of Ecclesial Ranks according to Dionysius the Areopagite . . . . . . . . . . A DAM G. C OOPER 649 Some Notes on St. Thomas’s Use of “dignitas”. . . . . L AWRENCE D EWAN, O.P. 663 Theology and Philosophy: Inhabiting the Borderlands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . D OUGLAS FARROW 673 Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . E DWARD F ESER 707 Thomistic Considerations on Whether We Ought to Revere Non-Rational Natural Beings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . M ARIE I. G EORGE 751 Toward the Renewal of Mariology . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ROCH K ERESZTY, O.C IST. 779 Mary, Woman and Mother in God’s Saving New Testament Plan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . W ILLIAM S. K URZ , S.J. 801 The Beatitudes and Moral Theology: A Virtue Ethics Approach. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . W ILLIAM C. M ATTISON III 819 Aquinas and Aristotle’s Teleology. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . S IMON O LIVER 849 The Acts of “Turning” and “Returning” in Aquinas . . . C YRUS P. O LSEN III 871 R EVIEW A RTICLE The Enlightenment University and the Creation of the Academic Bible . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . J EFFREY L. M ORROW 897 B OOK R EVIEWS Did Aquinas Justify the Transition from “Is” to “Ought”? by Piotr Lichacz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . K EVIN K EISER 923 We Have Seen His Glory: A Vision of Kingdom Worship by Ben Witherington, III . . . . . . . . . . . . . . PAUL J EROME K ELLER , O.P. 930 La Trinitaire Théologie de Louis Bouyer by Guillame Bruté de Rémur . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . K EITH L EMNA 935 Thomism and Tolerance by John F. X. Knasas . . . . . . . V ICTOR V ELARDE -M AYOL 939 Predestination: Biblical and Theological Paths by Matthew Levering . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . M ICKEY L. M ATTOX 944 Genesis by R. R. Reno . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . C LAIRE M ATHEWS M C G INNIS 948 The English edition of Nova et Vetera is published quarterly and provides an international forum for theological and philosophical studies from a Thomistic perspective. Founded in 1926 by future Cardinal Charles Journet in association with Jacques Maritain, Nova et Vetera is published in related, distinct French and English editions. The English edition of Nova et Vetera welcomes articles and book reviews in theology, philosophy, and biblical studies that address central contemporary debates and discussions. We seek to be “at the heart of the Church,” faithful to the Magisterium and the teachings of the Second Vatican Council, and devoted to the work of true dialogue, both ecumenically and across intellectual disciplines. Nova et Vetera (ISSN 1542-7315) is published by Augustine Institute, 6160 S. Syracuse Way, Suite 310, Greenwood Village, CO 80111. 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For subscription inquiries, email us at nvjournal@intrepidgroup.com or phone 970-416-6673. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 11, No. 3 (2013): 601–608 601 Presenting the Chalice of God A Theological Manifesto for the Contemporary Church, where I ask, what is theology, what form should it take, what content should it have? A IDAN N ICHOLS, O.P. Blackfriars Cambridge, England W HAT FOLLOWS was my attempt, in 2012, at an explanation of this recently published work, with a view to introducing it to possible readers in three Australian cities. I’d always wanted to write a book like this one, but I’ve taken a long time to getting round to it: about forty years.1 It started when I was a Dominican student, when I realized, owing to the somewhat bitty character of our studies in the rather disoriented immediate aftermath of the Second Vatican Council, that there were such things as options in theology. Theology is not a catechism. Theology has room for variety: Thomas’s theology is not Newman’s, Athanasius’s theology is not Augustine’s. On the other hand, as a convert who, though nominally an AngloCatholic, had been exposed to a very wishy-washy Anglicanism (because there was no Anglo-Catholic parish anywhere near my home town) and living in a city and university as proudly Anglican as the Oxford establishment was and to a degree still is, I also realized that not just anything can count as soundly Catholic theology: the variety, which is historically undeniable, co-exists, surely, with certain constants—or should do. Perhaps as a Dominican student I ought to have set myself not to be a Catholic eclectic, which I suppose is what I am, but instead to master the specifically Thomist tradition in theology, which after all is not only recognized as a legitimate member of the family of Catholic theologies but has 1 See Aidan Nichols, O.P., Chalice of God:A Systematic Theology in Outline (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2012). 602 Aidan Nichols, O.P. also been singled out by popes and a recent ecumenical council (Vatican II) for especially favorable mention. But though Thomas was highly spoken of in the English Dominican study-house, a consistent Thomist approach was not on offer, and, to be honest, when one opened the pages of some of the manuals of philosophy and theology “according to the mind of the divine Thomas” which the library there contained, they did seem extraordinarily uninspiring. It was not easy to imagine them giving anyone much in the way of spiritual nourishment, which the major theologies of the past—including there Newman, Athanasius, Augustine— have done, and were in fact doing for me when I looked at their writings. Few people then were reading Thomas’s biblical commentaries, or his commentary on The Divine Names of the Syrian father who wrote under the pseudonym of St. Paul’s Athenian disciple Denys the Areopagite (a classic of mystical as well as philosophical theology). Nor, except for some outstanding teachers, at Toulouse and in Rome, for instance, did they read the major historic commentators on Thomas’s own Summa theologiae. It was in the manuals, which the Swiss theologian Hans Urs von Balthasar said made him angry because they had reduced the glory of revelation to dust and ashes, a dish of dry dog biscuits, that Thomism as a system seemed to have ended up. So for better or worse I started to piece together a theological mosaic of my own. By the time of my ordination to the priesthood in 1976, I already knew a few things about it: that it would be Christ-centered, that it would seek to marry theology and spirituality, that it would draw on the spirit of worship, that it would learn from the Christian East as well as the Christian West, and that it would try to be cosmic or all-encompassing. Those were only intuitions, or aspirations, though they were given some concrete form in my first book, The Art of God Incarnate, in 1980. What were otherwise rather vague musings had to become more focused, though, when in 1983, in the middle of writing a doctoral thesis on Russian Orthodoxy, while also being chaplain to students in Edinburgh, I was asked to go to the Angelicum in Rome and take over the lengthy course entitled “Introduction to Theology,” given, as its name indicates, to first-year students: certainly “lengthy” because I think it was fifty-six lectures in one semester, or if it wasn’t it definitely felt like it! It was a very useful experience because it meant sitting down and thinking out what are the constants that should be present in any Catholic theology simply as such, whether Thomas’s or Newman’s, Athanasius’s or Augustine’s. The result was my book The Shape of Catholic Theology, published in 1991. There, after defining theology as the disciplined exploration of revelation, I proposed that there are seven main constants in all Catholic theology worth the name. Presenting the Chalice of God 603 The first is a role for philosophy in the preamble of faith—the build-up toward Christian belief, where a spot of philosophy is needed so as to show the congruence of the initial act of faith with rational reflection on the world around us. That is not, however, the only way philosophy enters the set of constants. It would generally be agreed that philosophy, or at any rate rationality, also has a role to play in helping theology to organize its own materials, once the human subject has got beyond the initial act of faith and has started exploring the revealed content of faith. That was the second constant, which I called the philosophical “principle of order” in theology. Next, an absolutely irreplaceable constant is Holy Scripture, which is the primary source for all that revelation teaches. Just how Scripture enters into theology can seem quite a complex question; there are so many different exegetical tools in the modern academy, and some of them can be used with inappropriate philosophical presuppositions: for example, when the historic-critical method is combined with a philosophical prejudice against there being any possibility of direct divine action in history. Catholic theology cannot in any case be restricted to the literal sense of Scripture, what was going through the hagiograph’s mind at the time he sat down to write. So I also had something to say about the spiritual sense of Scripture, found in the first instance by placing the literal sense in the context of the canon of Scripture as a whole. So Scripture was the third constant. Then again, and here we come to a fourth invariable, for Catholics as for the Orthodox and for Anglo-Catholics too, for that matter, Scripture has to be read within Tradition, so an appeal to Tradition will have to join the series of constants at this point. Tradition, I explained in The Shape of Catholic Theology, doesn’t come neat. We find what it has to say by scanning a whole range of different monuments, from the Creeds and the writings of the Fathers to the Liturgies and sacred art. So far, then, among our constants or invariables, we have two sets of two: two roles for philosophy, and two sources for revelation. Now comes a third set of two. The constants in my last duo were what I termed “aids to discernment” in interpreting the sources of theology, Scripture and Tradition, to which we have access through a faith for which philosophy has prepared the way and helped to organize the disciplined exploring of the sources. These aids to discernment I described as, first, Christian experience, the fifth constant, which I equated in effect with the “sense of the faithful,” the sensus fidelium, and second, the magisterium of the Pope and bishops, whose task it is to (as it were) discern the discernment carried out by Christian experience, so as to ensure that the sources of revelation are not 604 Aidan Nichols, O.P. distorted by the claims of such experience but really illuminated by it.The Holy Spirit makes possible Christian experience, but he also gives the bearers of the magisterium a charism to judge the deliverances of that experience: what people say by virtue of their own account of it. The final constant I identified was what I called a theological principle of order, paralleling at its own level the philosophical principle of order already described. Just as different philosophies are more focused on some aspects of reality than are others, so different theologies seem to be more interested in some aspects of revelation than are others. All philosophies should seek to do justice to the whole of reality, of course, just as all theologies should seek to do justice to the whole of revelation. But somehow one gets the impression that this is a counsel of perfection: total coverage may be aimed at but it is never fully achieved, nor, one supposes, will it be until, like Dante at the end of the Divine Comedy, we see all things in the light of the Beatific Vision. So that was in 1991. In The Shape of Catholic Theology, I had identified, to my own satisfaction at least, the set of constants that any Catholic theology should have. But of course that left open the question of the variables, which is equally important, or indeed, more important if we are thinking of the concrete character of theology as distinct from its abstract form. Where was the flesh and blood to go on this skeleton? In one sense the answer to that is straightforward; it is found at its most readily accessible in any good Catechism, and one very good one got the seal of approval of Pope John Paul II in 1992. But as I said at the start, a theology is not a Catechism. Instead, it is a way of conceiving—and here “conceiving” should not be counterposed to “imagining”—what the disciplined exploration of revelation should look like if it is to be systematically coherent and (think of Balthasar’s fury at the manuals) engagingly attractive as an expression of the everlasting Gospel here and now. How best to do this, each would-be theologian has to decide for himself or herself: there is no alternative. So I wanted to make my own attempt to produce a theology, knowing—aware as I was of my own limits as a thinker—that it would not be on the grand scale: not an ocean-going liner like Thomas’s or the German theologian Karl Rahner’s, but only a little tug. However, though modest, it could make a contribution to the regatta of vessels, the fleet of Catholic theologies, not all of which are at parity in terms of performance, though in terms of aspiration they may well be. Chalice of God is a very short book, so short that the first publishers I approached said it fell below the required minimum limit for publishing a book as distinct from a pamphlet. But I wanted it to be short because I wanted its overall vision Presenting the Chalice of God 605 to come over to the reader, which was more likely to happen if it took only a few hours to read it through. And to be honest with you, if it takes only a few hours to read it, it took me only a few days to write it. I actually felt quite inspired when doing so, although I know that is a dubious thing to claim, and no doubt any lingering sense of afflatus I still have will soon be deflated by the first reviews! I also wanted it to be in large print that was easy to read, in hardback and printed on fine paper so it was good to handle, and illustrated with icons, so it was beautiful to look at. The reason for that is, divine revelation deserves the best. I was proposing to give my own reading of the truth, goodness, and beauty of divine revelation. Hence I had a responsibility it should emerge as well as possible even as an object, never mind as an an act of thought. Fortunately, the publisher I eventually found agreed with me. Anyway, the main thing is of course not the craft object but the act of thought. So what is distinctive about my approach? The easiest way to answer this question is to go through the chapters, which are only six in number, and as I said, this is a very short book. So by way of conclusion I’d like to draw your attention to a couple of things in each chapter. In the first chapter, which begins with an icon of the fourth-century Church father St. Gregory Nazianzen, called by the Greeks ho theologos, “The Theologian,” under whose patronage I put this project, I set out the main constants of sound theology at large, which I’ve already described to you. But I add emphases that imply an option for a theology of a specific kind: thus I stress how theology should use both concepts and images, should be, then, both rational and imaginative, thus feeding not only our minds, through conceptual clarification, but also our hearts, through eliciting emotional response and in that way sparking spiritual effort and moral action. Under the heading of Christian experience, I give a privileged place to the spirituality of the saints, which suggests theology should be devout and make people want to pray. Then again, a very different point this time, I take from the German Catholic theology of the mid-nineteenth century the key idea that in systematic theology everything should be related to everything else, which is why I adopt a system of numbers so as to be able to refer forwards and backwards in the text to do just this. And above all, I make my option for philosophical and theological principles of order, reflected in the title of the book, Chalice of God: philosophically, I see the world’s being as what I call a receptacle for divine action to fill up in appropriate ways, and theologically, I see the divine action recorded in Scripture as doing just that. Then in the second chapter, which starts with the icon of the Old Testament Trinity (the visit of three “angelic” strangers to Abraham at the 606 Aidan Nichols, O.P. Oak of Mamre, where the angel figures, representing Father, Son and Spirit, gesture toward a chalice on a table spread for guests), I outline my basic metaphysics, which I would call a concrete metaphysics, taking as key ideas cosmos, history (the extension of the cosmos in the story of man), form (the different configurations that entities, including human beings, have at various stages of their existence), and person (since by personhood human beings go beyond cosmic nature and signal their unique place in the world). These four topics—cosmos, history, form (in the special sense I give this word), and person—sum up, it seems to me, what people care about when they seek to reflect as widely as possible on life, but I also add that thinking about them needs to be underpinned by Thomas’s account of sheer being: the wonder of the gift of being as such, simply existing, in dependence on an ultimate Source (and that is where I situate my claim to be, as a Dominican, still in the Thomist tradition). And I frankly admit that, in outlining this philosophical principle of order, I’ve also been thinking ahead to what a specifically Christian metaphysic will look like, when in the light of revelation it comes to consider creation, salvation, transfiguration, which are new forms for cosmic and, in the case of human beings, historical and personal existence. Then in the third chapter, which opens with an icon of the Transfiguration of Christ, I say how the divine activity unfolds through what I call the ‘Christological determination of biblical history’: in other words, when the Bible is read as the book of the new Israel, the Church, and not just as a haphazard collection of texts from the ancient world, it is seen to have Christ as its center, and when it is read realistically, that is, as an account of real events and not just some people’s religious projections onto reality, the Christ who centers the Bible can also be seen to center the narrative that attests what the Source of all being is doing with the beings that are in the world. I set out my Christology as a Christology of the mysteries of life of Christ, as St. Thomas does in the third part of his great Summa, but unlike him, I offer my account of the divinity of the One sent by the Father afterwards, as a reflection on what it is that enables us to say that his mysteries, from the Annunciation to his Ascension, sitting at the Father’s right, and sending of the Holy Spirit from the Father, bring about the definitive salvation and prospectively the transfiguration of the world. Chapter four, initiated by an icon of Pentecost, deals with Tradition, where I emphasize the primacy of the Liturgy as the chief monument of Tradition, the way the meaning of the biblical revelation is passed down in all its wonderful novelty over time. And I portray the Church as essentially the bearer of Tradition. We love the Church because, as the Tradition-bearer, she alone can give us access to the full meaning of the events Presenting the Chalice of God 607 which saved and will transform, by transfiguration, the world. This she could not do of course unless more than human powers were at work in her, thanks to the Holy Spirit. It is through the Holy Spirit, moreover, that Tradition points us forward to the consummation of all things in Christ: above all, through the Liturgy, which habitually looks forward to the life of the Kingdom. Chapter five opens with a fresco image of St. Basil (Gregory Nazianzen’s great friend) celebrating the divine Liturgy, and this chapter is the most original in format. The title I give it is “the mysteric pattern of Christian existence,” and my basic idea is this: the entire Christian life, which covers everything from leading a life of prayer to having friendships or starting a family, from practicing politics to writing poetry or practicing natural science or just trying to live out the virtues day by day, takes its distinctive character from what I call the “transposition of the mysteries”: when the mysteries of the life of Christ become transposed into our lives and have a transforming effect there. So my theology of grace—how grace is about redeeming and completing our human nature, and yet is itself freely given and unexpected—is based on how suitable it is, yet also how amazing it is, that the mysteries lived out by the incarnate Word should also enter our own lives. The last chapter ends with the Holy Trinity, introduced by a Russian icon of the kind called in the West the Trinity as “Throne of grace”: the Son sitting on the Father’s lap with the Dove of the Spirit between them. Whereas most theological expositions of doctrine would prefer to locate the Trinity close to the beginning, I end with the Trinity, because it’s only when we have reminded ourselves of the full range of what the triune God has done, is doing, and will do that we can do most justice to his being. I call the Trinity the “matrix of persons and the world,” because, so it turns out from Scripture and Tradition, persons and the world issue from this all-encompassing Source. (In creation the entire Trinity is at work, each Trinitarian person in his own mode.) And I call the Trinity, further, the “goal of persons and the world”: the goal of the world because through history issuing in the Age to come, when the Spirit will complete the work of the Son on the Father’s behalf, the cosmos is to receive a new form in what we call the general Resurrection; and the goal of persons, with their more than cosmic or physical powers of understanding and love, because for them, uniquely, this goal has an enhanced meaning: it is the Beatific Vision when we shall, we hope, see all things in the triune God and in no other way. That cosmic yet personal end is summed up in the concluding icon, of the kind called “The Mother of God in whom all creation rejoices.” 608 Aidan Nichols, O.P. It shows the ingathering, the homecoming of creatures in God, with the Bearer of the incarnate Word holding out her Child, the Mediator between God and man, Mediator between God and the world, as the center of the praise of the saints and of all creation. So that’s my message to the Church, and I hope it may do something to enliven the Christian minds of others, and also to encourage other people to “have a go” at formulating insights of their own—tutored of course by the constants of sound reason; Scripture, read in Tradition; Christian experience; and the magisterium of the Church. This we can do best if we position ourselves, as a medieval writer put it, as dwarves sitting on the shoulders of giants—like the quartet of Thomas, Newman, Athanasius, Augustine, that I mentioned. This is how we make sure that, like theirs, our theology will not damage the communion of the Church but be at its service: at the service of understanding her faith a little better, loving it a little more. N&V Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 11, No. 3 (2013): 609–18 609 A Call Unheeded: Walker Percy and the New Evangelization C LINTON S ENSAT St. Thomas More Catholic Church Eunice, LA A BENIGN gray spirit broods within the Church. This spirit bears within it the term “new evangelization.” It seethes and oozes with ambiguity and unfocused goodwill. It has produced ardent conversation, but only sporadic action. It is a reflective spirit, an open spirit, but not a decisive spirit. It awaits guidance. On October 11th, 1962, Bl. John XXIII opened the Second Vatican Council, invoking a “New Pentecost” upon the Church.1 Now, if the first Pentecost is any guide, a “New Pentecost” should logically flower into a “New Evangelization.” And certainly the past fifty years have borne witness to various attempts to spark such a new evangelization.Ven. Paul VI, Bl. John Paul II, and Pope Benedict XVI have all put their hands to the plow. We can expect Pope Francis to follow suit. And yet, despite all this, there is a hazy air that seems still to plague the new evangelization. I believe some words from a member of my family sum it up admirably: “We want to help the new evangelization, but what is it? What are we supposed to do?” Walker Percy (1916–90) was a novelist, amateur philosopher, former physician, enthusiastic bourbon drinker, and Catholic convert. He was neither saint nor apostle. As far as I know, the phrase “new evangelization” nowhere appears in his writings. And yet, his novels and essays are filled with the idea, the reality of the thing. His reflections are poignant 1 For the place of the concept of the “new Pentecost” as the hermeneutic key to Pope John’s actions, see Thomas Hughson, S.J., “Interpreting Vatican II: A ‘New Pentecost,’ ” Journal of Theological Studies 69 (2008): 3–37. 610 Clinton Sensat and worthwhile. Even if his example has gone unheeded, I believe there is still a treasure to be found in the fields of his pages. It is my conviction that Percy can help us out of the muddle of the present time by teaching us two things: first, what evangelization is, and, second, why in our time it must be new. Eu-angelion: Evangelization as News Before one can engage in the new evangelization, one must have a clear concept of what evangelization itself is. After all, one cannot hope to play piano if one is liable to mistake a piece of a motor for a piece of music.This seems obvious. Walker Percy, however, thinks such a mistake about the fundamental character of evangelization is widespread. He addresses this case of mistaken identity in his essay “The Message in the Bottle,”2 nestling his view between the two pillars of Thomas Aquinas and Søren Kierkegaard.3 In this essay, Percy provides the following parable. A man is shipwrecked upon an island and loses his memory. Discovering himself in a new land, he finds employment, education, and entertainment. “He becomes, as the phrase goes, a useful member of the community.”4 Having attained all this, he picks up the hobby of walking upon the beach. As he does so, he begins to discover upon the beach a number of bottles with messages within them. The messages are, to say the least, strange. To offer some examples: “Lead melts at 330 degrees,” “The market for eggs in Bora Bora [a neighboring island] is very good,” “Being comprises essence and existence,” “A war party is approaching from Bora Bora,” and “The pressure of a gas is a function of heat and volume.”5 What is the poor castaway to do with all this? The castaway begins to order the messages. But what system to use for classification? Discounting a number of systems that arise from linguistic theories, Percy asserts that the castaway will arrive at a rather commonsensical one: some messages are true everywhere and always, and are independent of the present moment; other messages deal with the here and now, and impinge directly upon the present moment. The first group of messages can be called science. The second can be called news. There is a strong distinction between these two groups of messages. “Each has its own constraints and empowerments, its own verification 2 Walker Percy, “The Message in the Bottle,” in The Message in the Bottle: How Queer Man Is, How Queer Language Is, And What One Has to Do with the Other (New York: Picador, 1975), 119–49. 3 As is shown from his proffering their definitions of faith at the beginning of the essay. 4 Walker Percy, “The Message in the Bottle,” 119. 5 Ibid., 120–21. Walker Percy and the New Evangelization 611 procedures and canons of acceptance.”6 Scientific messages receive their value from their abstraction and objectivity. The statement “Lead melts at 330 degrees” is valuable if and only if this is true everywhere and always.7 When one deals with scientific messages, one takes one’s own particularity out of the picture. It is not so much important that lead melts for me at 330 degrees, as that lead has the essential quality of melting at 330 degrees. It must be known sub specie aeternitatis. Faced with scientific messages, the castaway becomes an observer, a watcher. He himself is abstracted from the situation, and the knowledge he arrives at is abstract. News is different. News receives its value from its particularity and relevance to the subject. Having distinguished news from science, Percy further divides news itself into two categories: “island news” and “news from across the seas.”8 “Island news” would be that news which is part of the working out of daily life. Percy offers the following examples: “there is fresh water in the next cove; the price of eggs is fifty cents a dozen; Nicaragua has invaded El Salvador; my head hurts; etc.”9 “News from across the seas” would be that which comes from elsewhere and erupts into, or at least interrupts, daily life—“A war party is approaching from Bora Bora.” For Percy, the Gospel is a type of “news from across the seas.” Walker Percy holds that the gremlin that bedevils attempts at evangelization is the mistaking of the Good News for either island news or science sub specie aeternitatis. When the Good News is mistaken for island news, the Gospel becomes another aspect of living a rich and productive life in this world. One is alerted to the Gospel in the same manner as one is alerted to the dress code for a party or the price of admission to a movie. It is a tool to fit into society, a help to human fulfillment. One thinks of Uncle Jules in The Moviegoer: Uncle Jules is the only man I know whose victory in the world is total and unqualified. He has made a great deal of money, he has a great many friends, he was Rex of Mardi Gras, he gives freely of himself and his money. He is an exemplary Catholic, but it is hard to know why he takes the trouble. For the world he lives in, the City of Man, is so pleasant that the City of God must hold little in store for him.10 6 Patricia Lewis Poteat, Walker Percy and the Old Modern Age: Reflections on Language, Argument, and the Telling of Stories (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1985), 123. 7 Under the correct conditions, of course. 8 Poteat, Walker Percy and the Old Modern Age, 140. 9 Walker Percy, “An Interview with Zoltán Abádi-Nagi,” in Signposts in a Strange Land, ed. Patrick Samway (New York: Picador, 1991), 388. 10 Walker Percy, The Moviegoer (New York:Vintage Books, 1998 [1st edition 1960]), 31. 612 Clinton Sensat For Percy, this plague of seeing the Gospel as island news was the sickness that runs rampant through the evangelical South. In such a view, being a believer is of a piece with living successfully in this world. Perhaps worse than confusing the Good News for island news, though, is confusing it for abstract science. Then, as Percy frequently says, Christianity becomes “a member in good standing of the World’s Great Religions.”11 Christianity devolves into a theory before which one constantly stands as an observer and judge, but never a participant. Percy repeatedly makes the point that this lets the Gospel fall right back into modern man’s already overly abstracted view of the world—a view Percy satirizes mercilessly with Dr. Thomas More’s diagnosis of angelismbestialism in Love in the Ruins and The Thanatos Syndrome. An abstracted person who hears the shouted warning, “Fire!” is likely to contemplate the kindling temperature of drywall and concrete. This is the danger of confusing news for science, or science for news. What does this have to do with evangelization? Simply this: evangelization is relaying news, not science. It is not sub specie aeternitatis. It states a singular happenstance of history. God chose the Jews. God the Son became man in the womb of the Virgin Mary. He died outside Jerusalem under the rule of Pontius Pilate. He rose from the dead. He saves sinners. He has saved me. He can save you. Note here that there is no discussion of the divine nature, nor of the metaphysics of the Incarnation. These things are important. They are science. They are, in fact, objects of the science of theology. But science is not news, and theology is not evangelization.12 One of the great problems with the new evangelization is that too often the ministers of the Church confuse evangelization with catechesis, apologetics, or theology. One begins trying to explain the faith before announcing the news of the faith. Upon meeting an unbeliever, one compares Catholicism to Protestantism, Christianity to the other World Religions, faith to science. Of what use is this to one who does not yet believe, does not yet care? It is all theory; it is all science. News has not been offered. Is it surprising that people seem willing to study the subject “religion” and even the “teaching of the Church” without being moved 11 E.g. “Message in the Bottle,” 141, but also in The Moviegoer and elsewhere. 12 This is not to deny the place of the theological tradition in the broader work of the new evangelization. Certainly Christian wisdom and Christian doctrine are essential to Christianity. In my mind the deepening of the seed of evangelization almost certainly must rest on the work of an Augustine, a Bonaventure, an Aquinas. However, evangelizing is a different act from teaching theology, and it must be acknowledged that studying theology will not replace having the Good News proclaimed. (Of course, evangelization cannot replace theology either. Both are necessary. But my focus here is on evangelization.) Walker Percy and the New Evangelization 613 in the slightest in their own subjective commitments? The common practice today is for the evangelist to approach another as a fellow observer and lay the Gospel on the dissecting table, saying “Here, let us look at this together and theorize. Perhaps your views of the world will change based on this evidence.” Altogether different from this is that cry which shook Palestine, “The time is fulfilled, the kingdom of God is at hand; repent, and believe in the gospel,”13 or the cutting proclamation, “God has made him both Lord and Christ, this Jesus whom you crucified.”14 Such news is not in the least abstract. It burns with immediacy.15 But, once the news is announced, how does the hearer judge news? Will he or she accept it? Why, or why not? What are the canons for acceptance? The scientist has the experiment, or some form of verification, for the validity of scientific knowledge.What does the castaway have to judge news? Percy lists three canons for acceptance of news: relevance to one’s predicament, the credentials of the newsbearer, and the possibility of the news.16 Of these three, I wish to examine only the first. This is because the credentials of the newsbearer and the possibility of the news are perpetual problems. They are not new. But relevance? How will contemporary man judge the relevance of the Gospel? It is in treating of this that we will discover why today the news must be “new” as well. The End of the Old Modern Age— Why Evangelization Must Be New Walker Percy is convinced that contemporary man lives in a peculiar state. The Old Modern Age is over. Both Christendom and the Enlightenment have been played out. We walk through their ashes, still influenced by their categories, but with the silent recognition that they are anachronisms. We maintain them simply from lack of anything to replace them. In this time the evangelist faces a particular challenge. His hearers do not so much disbelieve him as regard his news irrelevant. “We’ve heard this before— tell us something new!” Why is this? I draw three reasons from Percy’s works: the loss of the sense of sin, the present malaise, and the exhaustion of religious terminology. 13 Mark 1:15, Revised Standard Version Catholic Edition (RSVCE). 14 Acts 2:36 RSVCE. 15 Percy offers an insightful critique of mistaking apologetics for evangelization in The Moviegoer. Here Binx has a list of things to remember for his search. This list includes the following: “The only possible starting point: the strange fact of one’s own invincible apathy—that if the proofs were proved and God presented himself, nothing would be changed. Here is the strangest fact of all” (146). 16 Walker Percy, “The Message in the Bottle,” 134–36. 614 Clinton Sensat The first reason the Gospel seems irrelevant is the loss of the sense of sin. Walker Percy portrays this in his novel Lancelot. In this novel, a cuckolded lawyer named Lancelot is in a psychiatric ward as a result of actions which he took on a “quest” to find that most mythical of beasts: a sin. Lancelot makes this clear in his words to his friend, the priest psychologist Percival: We’ve spoken of the Knights of the Holy Grail, Percival. Do you know what I was? The Knight of the Unholy Grail. In times like these when everyone is wonderful, what is needed is a quest for evil. You should be interested! Such a quest serves God’s cause! How? Because the Good proves nothing. When everyone is wonderful, nobody bothers with God. […] But suppose you could show me one “sin,” one pure act of malevolence. A different cup of tea! That would bring matters to a screeching halt. But we have plenty of evil around you say. What about Hitler, the gas ovens and so forth? As everyone knows and says, Hitler was a madman. And it seems nobody else was responsible. Everyone was following orders. It is even possible that there was no such order, that it was all a bureaucratic mistake. Show me a single “sin.” […] The mark of the age is that terrible things happen but there is no “evil” involved. People are either crazy, miserable, or wonderful, so where does the “evil” come in? There I was forty-five years old and I didn’t know whether there was evil in the world.17 The news of a Savior from sin is not terribly relevant if one no longer acknowledges sin.Without a sense of sin, it will not be accepted. If I throw a life preserver to someone sitting on a bench in Central Park, he or she would understandably look at me with befuddlement and perhaps a measure of anxious concern. If one is neither drowning nor in danger of drowning, a life preserver is rather irrelevant. If one does not seem to sin, and one has no thought of hell, then a Savior from sins is rather irrelevant. The second reason for the seeming irrelevance of the Gospel is closely related to the loss of a sense of sin. It is the malaise of contemporary society. Percy draws his ammunition for this attack from the existentialists. His thought can be seen to be rooted in Kierkegaard, Marcel, Jaspers, Nietzsche, and Heidegger, to name a few.18 Like them, he sees contem17 Walker Percy, Lancelot (New York: Picador, 1977), 138–39. 18 Cf. the chapter “Some Light from the Existentialists,” in Martin Luschei, The Sovereign Wayfarer: Walker Percy’s Diagnosis of the Malaise (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1972), 19–63. Walker Percy and the New Evangelization 615 porary dull and satisfied man to be horrific. He displays this especially in his books involving the character Will Barrett: The Last Gentleman and The Second Coming. In the first, Will cannot find what he is looking for from beautiful Kitty, philanthropic Rita, successful Mr. Vaught, or even religious Sister Val. No, only sardonic, failed, dark Sutter seems to have any answer. The ones who have everything have nothing; only the exile is on to something. By the time of The Second Coming, it is Will who is successful and philanthropic, involved in religious pursuits and in possession of every good thing, and yet subject to falling down on golf courses and disappearing on quests for days at a time. He has everything modern man could possibly want, and his life is utterly empty. A deep “deprivation” has occurred.19 He suffers that ultimate homelessness that comes into Percy’s writings when he deals with this malaise,20 and so takes to living in caves and greenhouses. What is the malaise? It is in some sense a spiritual dullness. What is at issue here is not sinfulness per se, but rather moral frigidity, a deadness that allows neither sin nor salvation. Contemporary man is numb. (One is reminded of the souls outside the gates of hell in Dante’s Inferno, who were neither good enough for heaven nor bad enough for hell. One gets the sense that Judas being munched by Satan suffers a lesser fate than these ambivalent souls.) To quote Binx from The Moviegoer: Christians talk about the horror of sin, but they have overlooked something. They keep talking as if everyone was a great sinner, when the truth is that nowadays one is hardly up to it. There is very little sin in the depths of malaise. The highest moment of a malaisian’s life can be that moment when he manages to sin like a proper human.21 When one can choose neither good nor evil, the call to reject Satan and follow Christ seems about as useful as the attempt to teach a hound to sing opera. Before news of a Savior can be acknowledged, one must acknowledge not only that one is a sinner, but also that one actually has sufficient power of will to sin or be saved. The third reason for the seeming irrelevance of the Gospel is the impoverishment of the language of salvation. In the novel The Thanatos Syndrome, the priest Fr. Smith has retreated to a watchtower in the forest. 19 Walker Percy, “Diagnosing the Modern Malaise,” in Signposts in a Strange Land. 20 Farrel O’Gorman, Peculiar Crossroads: Flannery O’Connor,Walker Percy, and Catholic Vision in Postwar Southern Fiction (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 2004), 41. 21 Walker Percy, The Moviegoer, 200. 616 Clinton Sensat Dr. Thomas More goes to evaluate whether he can return to the parish. Part of their conversation points to this problem of language: “Were you, are you, able to say Mass?” “Mass,” he repeats, frowning mightily. “Yes,” he says at last in his musing voice. “Oh yes.” “Could you preach?” “Preach.” Again the cocked head, the sly near-smile. “No no.” “No? Why not?” “Why not? A good question. Because— it doesn’t signify.” “What doesn’t signify?” “The words.”22 This same Fr. Smith had appeared earlier in Love in the Ruins, complaining that the signal could not get through. His preaching was blocked and locked and silenced. Percy himself faced the dilemma his character faces. “Christendom seems in some sense to have failed,” he writes. “Its vocabulary is worn out. This twin failure raises problems for a man who is a Christian and whose trade is with words.”23 The same problem faces the would-be evangelist. “For the traditional defense of the Catholic claim, however valid it may be, is generally unavailing for reasons both of the infirmity of language and the inattentiveness of the age. Accordingly, it is probably a waste of time.”24 Why is this? Due to the passing of the Old Modern Age, the death of both Christendom and the Enlightenment, the old terms for salvation have been twisted, overused, battered, and rendered little more than white noise. They no longer signify. They cannot be heard. What to do with this? In various places, Percy seems to be arguing that we may well need a new vocabulary to communicate the message of salvation.25 The message, of course, must remain the same, no matter the expression. If new words and images are minted, it is the same gold of faith that is used. To sum up, then: contemporary man is in danger of finding the Gospel irrelevant because of his absent sense of sin, his moral malaise, and the worn-out poverty of the words. What must be “new” about the new evangelization is its need to address these three barriers to relevance. 22 Walker Percy, The Thanatos Syndrome (New York: Picador, 1987), 117. 23 Walker Percy, “Notes for a Novel about the End of the World,” 116. 24 Walker Percy, “Why Are You a Catholic?” in Signposts in a Strange Land, 308–9. Though Percy writes often about what we would call the new evangelization, he cannot be termed sanguine about it. 25 Cf. the parable of the priest and the scientist in “Notes for a Novel about the End of the World,” 114–16. Walker Percy and the New Evangelization 617 Without this the Good News will not be heard. How would one go about addressing them? Percy states that what is needed is diagnosis. A patient must be diagnosed before he is open to receiving treatment. It is in fact how Percy saw his vocation. “The physician, insofar as he is a novelist, is in the business of diagnosis, not therapy.”26 But such a diagnosis is valid only if the patient agrees with it, for if he is unconvinced, he will not undergo treatment. The patient too must acknowledge his sickness, his need. He must acknowledge his sinfulness and malaise. How did Percy seek to accomplish this? What were his diagnostic tools? He frequently used two: the novel, and the question. In the novel, he sets forth an engaging story which simultaneously forces one to reflect on one’s own life and, perhaps, shatters one’s own self-security. I am presuming that most recipients of this essay, however, do not share Percy’s novelistic skills, and so are not able to employ this tool. His second tool was the question, used to such great effect by Socrates, and this tool can be used by many. Percy fills his essays and his novels with questions. He enters through the door of abstract questioning to open a door for news. One observes and reflects, and becomes able to hear and act. His odd but brilliant work Lost in the Cosmos:The Last Self-Help Book is peppered with questions and quizzes. (To give one example, “What does the saleslady mean when she fits a customer with an article of clothing and says: ‘It’s you’?”27 A set of multiple-choice answers follows.) In an age perhaps shaped more by a shared educational system than anything else, such an approach can be highly effective. We may no longer be able to assert to contemporary man, “You are a sinner,” or “You need Jesus Christ.” But the new evangelist can ask questions. “Why do people like to look at car wrecks?” “Why are so many people depressed, when never before have the needs and wants of mankind been so easily met?” “Why do people suffer such loneliness in the age of social media?” Such questions can tear down the barriers to the Gospel. They can be one of the greatest tools of the new evangelization. They help people diagnose their sin, their malaise, their emptiness, and their need for a Savior. And so, what must be done is diagnosis through inquiry, and treatment through news. What is necessary is rejection of sin, Satan, and self-sufficiency, and belief in Christ. That is why it causes me such distress, as it seemed to cause Percy such distress, that in some quarters evangelization seems to hide sin, salvation, 26 Walker Percy, “Physician As Novelist,” in Signposts in a Strange Land, 195. 27 Walker Percy, Lost in the Cosmos: The Last Self-Help Book (New York: Picador, 1983), 24. Clinton Sensat 618 and ransoming from hell under the rug. In pushing aside these questions, one neglects both the relevance of the Gospel and its character of being news from across the sea. Such an approach, which neglects the very need for salvation, makes the new evangelization neither “evangelization” nor “new.” The more evangelists attempt to present the Gospel as another part of the good life, or another religious theory, the more and more people will be deaf to it. No, if evangelization is to be evangelization, it must be news, and news from across the sea at that. If it is to confront contemporary man, and so be “new,” it must strike root in relevance exactly by reviving the sense of sin, breaking the chains of malaise, and minting words of power and freshness suitable to the message of eternal life. Only when the Gospel is announced as news, and contemporary man is convicted of its relevance exactly because he is convicted of his sin, will the new evangelization be fruitful. The challenges are great. As of right now, the Gospel is a call largely unheeded, at least in the West. Percy’s call to reflection on this matter, decades old now, has gone unheeded as well. But a new Pentecost has been invoked, and so the opportunities too are great.The gray spirit needs only one breath of authority and direction to become blazing and seraphic. And behind all the challenges lies the conviction that looks to the kindly providence of God “who desires all men to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth.”28 For if the challenges are great, the Good News is greater. And so I close with the surprisingly optimistic words of Walker Percy to the graduates of St. Joseph Seminary-College in 1983: I have mentioned the challenge only to emphasize the opportunities. The opportunity is simply this: that never in history has modern man been in greater need of you, has been more confused about his identity and the meaning of his life. Never has there been such loneliness in the midst of crowds, never such hunger in the face of satiation. Never has there been a more fertile ground for the seed and the harvest the Lord spoke of. All that is needed is a bearer of the Good News who speaks it with such authenticity that it can penetrate the most exhausted hearing, revive the most jaded language. With you lies the future and the hope. You and the Church you serve may be only a remnant, but it will be a saving remnant. I salute you and congratulate you. God bless you.29 N&V 28 1 Tm 2:4 RSVCE. 29 Walker Percy, “A ‘Cranky Novelist’ Reflects on the Church,” in Signposts in a Strange Land, 325. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 11, No. 3 (2013): 619–26 619 Gaudium et Spes and the Indissolubility of the Sacrament of Matrimony: The Contribution of Charles Cardinal Journet ROGER W. N UTT Ave Maria University Ave Maria, FL Introduction I T IS NOT uncommon for interpretations of the documents of the Second Vatican Council to be couched in the language of political factionalism. One factor contributing to this tendency was the widespread presence of the media at the Council. As Matthew Lamb and Matthew Levering explain, “Never before was an ecumenical council of the Roman Catholic Church so extensively covered and reported by the modern news media as Vatican II (1962–1965).”1 “The impact of this coverage,” Lamb and Levering continue, “was pervasive and profound in its portrayal of the council in the ideological categories of ‘liberal versus conservative.’ ” As a consequence of this portrayal of the Council in political terms, the content was “reported as liberal or progressive accommodation to modernity that aimed to overcome Catholicism’s traditional, conservative resistance to modernity.”2 Further exacerbating this problem, as Lamb and Levering observe, “few [of the journalists at the Council] had any expertise in Catholic theology and so [the journalists] were dependent upon the popularized accounts of the council’s deliberations and debates offered by periti and theologians with journalistic skills.”3 Thus, after Vatican II “not a few commentators and Catholic theological experts at the council picked up this ideological 1 Matthew Lamb and Matthew Levering, eds., Vatican II: Renewal within Tradition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), from the “Introduction,” 3. 2 Ibid. 3 Ibid. 620 Roger W. Nutt framework.”This mentality led to an approach to the documents “as products of power struggles between liberals and conservatives, with one side winning this passage and the other side winning that.”4 The treatment of the teaching of the Pastoral Constitution on the Church in the Modern World, Gaudium et Spes, is a concrete example of this unfortunate, and one must say superficial, approach to the teaching of Vatican II. This essay focuses, in particular, on the Council’s clarification of the indissoluble nature of the Sacrament of Matrimony in sections 47–52 of Gaudium et Spes. The common interpretation of this section of the document is that the teaching on indissolubility was the result of a“damage control operation” that “was going on in the corridors of the Council.”5 This essay argues the contrary point: namely, that the “damage control” thesis on the question of indissolubility lacks any substantial foundation. In short: the teaching of Gaudium et Spes on matrimonial indissolubility, as presented by Cardinal Charles Journet in his September 30th, 1965 speech from the floor of the Council, represents, simply, the widespread sentiments of the Council Fathers, as well as the common faith of the Catholic Church. Any appearance of “damage control” on this issue is the result, rather, of the presentation of the media of an alleged fissure among the Fathers, an account perpetrated, originally at least, by a single bishop and a few periti at the Council. The continuity between the draft schema, Journet’s speech, and the final text promulgated by the Council clearly indicate the falsity of the “damage control” thesis. Cardinal Journet and the Final Session of Vatican II On February 15th of 1965, during the period between the third and fourth sessions of the Second Vatican Council, Pope Paul VI appointed noted Swiss theologian Charles Journet to the rank of archbishop. On the 22nd of the same month Paul VI elevated then Archbishop Journet to the College of Cardinals. Journet’s episcopal consecration and elevation to the College of Cardinals enabled him, per Pope Paul VI’s design, to take an active role in the final session of the Council later that year. Cardinal Journet did just that, often working in close collaboration with the Pope himself.6 The fourth and final session of Vatican Council II took place in the autumn of 4 Ibid., 7. 5 Gilles Routhier, “Finishing the Work Begun: The Trying Experience of the Fourth Period,” in History of Vatican II, ed. G. Alberigo and J. A. Komonchak, vol. V, trans. Matthew J. O’Connell (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 2006), 159. 6 For a helpful description, perhaps the only one of its kind, of Journet’s presence and influence at Vatican II, see Jean-Pierre Torrell, O.P., “Présence de Journet à Vatican II,” in Charles Journet (1891–1975): Un Théologien en son siècle, ed. Philippe Chenaux (Fribourg: Editions Universitaires, 1994, 2d edition): 41–68. Torrell Journet and Gaudium et Spes 621 1965 from September 14th to December 8th. At the outset of this final session approximately half, or eleven, of the Council documents, known then as schemata, were in need of completion and ratification. The largest of these was Schema Thirteen, which became The Pastoral Constitution on the Church in the Modern World: Gaudium et Spes.The second part of the constitution addresses what the Council Fathers recognized as “urgent problems.” The first chapter of this sequence is devoted to the dignity of matrimony and the corresponding challenges to the matrimonial state of life. Schema XIII and the Drama of September 29th to 30th, 1965 The draft of Schema XIII that was circulated to the Fathers by Cardinal Felice on September 21st, 1965 includes four uses of the term “indissoluble” in relation to the nature of marriage. Though the overall wording of the schema changed slightly as the document was discussed, these four uses of “indissoluble” were retained throughout the process and included in the promulgated version:7 Such intimacy, as a mutual giving of two persons, as well as the good of their children require complete faithfulness between the partners, and call for their union being indissoluble (indissolubilem). (48:1) This love sincerely confirmed by mutual fidelity, and made especially sacrosanct by the sacrament of Christ, is indissolubly (indissolubiliter) documents (a) the influence that Journet had prior to the commencement of the Council (Pope John XXIII named him to the Theological Commission charged with preparing draft documents for the Council; for various reasons, though, Journet participated in only the first meeting of the commission); (b) the presence of Journet’s writings insofar as they were cited and referred to during the evolution of the various documents; (c) the written contributions and public addresses that Cardinal Journet made during the final session. During the final session Journet made contributions to the drafts on religious liberty, priestly formation, schema XIII (Gaudium et Spes), missionary activity, and other theological issues such as indulgences and the relationship between human and Christian culture. For a discussion of Journet’s contribution to the Council’s teaching on the nature of Holy Orders, see Roger W. Nutt, “Sacerdotal Character and the Munera Christi: Reflections on the Theology of Charles Journet in Relation to the Second Vatican Council,” Gregorianum 90 (2009): 237–53. 7 The September 21, 1965 draft of Schema XIII can be located in the Acta synodalia Sacrosancti Concilii Oecumenici Vaticani II, vol. 4, part 1 (Vatican City:Typis polyglottis Vaticanis, 1966), 477–82. The quotes from the promulgated document are taken from the translation of the Vatican II documents provided in Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils, vol. II, ed. Norman Tanner (Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press, 1990), 1100–1103. 622 Roger W. Nutt faithful physically and mentally in prosperity and adversity, and is therefore far removed from all adultery and divorce. (49:2) Marriage, however, was not instituted just for procreation; the very nature of an unbreakable (indissolubilis) covenant between persons and the good of the offspring also demand that the mutual love of the partners should be rightly expressed and develop and mature. And therefore even if children, often longed for, are not forthcoming, marriage remains as a sharing and communion for the whole of life and retains its goodness and indissolubility (indissolubilitatem). (50:3) The Zoghby Speech, September 29th On September 29th an eastern bishop of the Melkite Rite of the Catholic Church, Archbishop Zoghby, gave an address from the floor of the Council in which he took a critical stance towards the Church’s position on matrimonial indissolubility and asked the Fathers to consider modifying this position.8 In the popular History of Vatican II volumes edited by Giuseppe Alberigo and Joseph Komonchak, Zoghby’s intervention is presented as pastoral in nature, but, in point of fact, his comments, while motivated by a pastoral concern for the innocent spouse of an unfaithful partner, are deeply theological in nature with substantial doctrinal and ecumenical implications.9 Zoghby argued that the problem of the innocent spouse in cases of infidelity is “more crucial even than the question of birth control (nativitatum limitatio)” because the innocent spouse, according to Roman Catholic doctrine, may not legally enter into a new union. The priest or bishop can only say to the innocent spouse, Zoghby declared, “Nihil pro te facere possum,” and thus leaves the victim to “accept his or her fate” and embrace a life of total continence. This “solution presupposes heroic virtue,” Zoghby explained. Since those in the state of marriage are not called to a life of “perpetual continence . . . in many cases, those found in such circumstances contract illegitimate unions outside the Church, lest their carnal inclinations are put to the test. Submitting to a tormented conscience either they lead a heroic life, which they think impossible, or perish.” 8 The full Latin text of Zoghby’s speech can be found in the Acta synodalia Sacro- sancti Concilii Oecumenici Vaticani II, vol. 4, part 3, 45–47. 9 Routhier, “Finishing the Work Begun.” Zoghby is presented as prefacing his comments as pertaining to the “pastoral care of the family” (158). Yet, Zoghby simply begins his speech with the phrase “Regarding questions about the family” (In quaestione de familia), and uses the word “pastoral” only much later and with reference to the interests of canonists on the question of remarriage. Journet and Gaudium et Spes 623 In developing his argument, Zoghby questions his fellow bishops about the power that the Church received from Christ: did the Church receive from Christ the power of guiding all men to salvation with the help of divine grace? The Archbishop then invoked the so-called “exception clauses” in Matthew 5:32 and 19:6 in which Jesus says “except on the grounds of unchastity.” “The Church is to judge the sense of the passage,” Zoghby admitted, “about which modern exegetes are not agreed. And, although the Church of the city of Rome has always interpreted the text in a restrictive sense, in the Eastern Church such was never the case and it judged otherwise, presuming in the favor of the innocent spouse.” Zoghby argued, too, that the teaching of Trent on the indissolubility of marriage further provoked the problems between the Eastern and Western practices. Thus he ended his address by noting that if the Fathers adopted the Eastern practice in the cases of the innocent spouse, the result would not only be the removal of anxiety on the part of these victims, but also the furtherance of ecumenical relations with the Oriental Churches. After the plenary session in which Zoghby had given his speech concluded for the day he held a press conference to further elaborate his position. The press, not surprisingly, “was seizing on Zoghby’s statement and even attributing to him the word ‘divorce,’ which he had carefully avoided.”10 The impression was thus given by the media that the Council was formally considering permitting divorce, and so, as one commentator notes: “Zoghby’s intervention continued to make waves.”11 Zoghby himself contributed to the intrigue by addressing the media again on September 30 and October 4.12 The Speech of Cardinal Journet on September 30th Cardinal Journet was not present in the hall during Zoghby’s speech. After Zoghby’s press conference following his speech and the growing media intrigue, later that same evening, Msgr. Macchi, Pope Paul VI’s 10 Ibid., 159. It is true that Zoghby did not wish to deny indissolubility, nor did he advocate for the tolerance of divorce. His position was that the Church had the power in cases of the infidelity of one of the spouses to grant a merciful dispensation to the innocent spouse. 11 Ibid., 160. 12 Ibid. Even after the conclusion of the final session of the Council, the media, following certain periti, continued to celebrate Zoghby’s intervention. In the Friday, March 18, 1966 edition of Time magazine, for example, the following observation is made: “Switzerland’s Charles Cardinal Journet, presumably on Pope Paul’s orders, hastened to spike further debate by reasserting the church’s traditional teaching. But Zoghby’s jarring plea, says Dominican Theologian Eduard Schillebeeckx, ‘placed the problem on the table, and that in itself is most important’ ” (italics added). Roger W. Nutt 624 personal secretary, contacted Journet to request, on behalf of the Pope, that Journet prepare a speech for the next day.13 Below is a translation of the text of Cardinal Journet’s speech, given in Latin on the morning of September 30, 1965.14 30 September 1965 Venerable Fathers, The teaching of the Catholic Church on the indissolubility of sacramental marriage is the very same teaching revealed to us by the Lord Jesus; this doctrine has always been preserved and proclaimed by the same Church. As a matter of fact, according to Mark 10:2, we read that when the Pharisees asked Jesus, “Is it lawful for a man to divorce his wife?” he responded to them, “What therefore God has joined together let no man put asunder.” To which he added: “Whoever divorces his wife and marries another, commits adultery against her; and if she divorces her husband and marries another she commits adultery” (Mark 10:11–12). The Apostle Paul himself teaches the same thing with explicit words; indeed not in his own name but in the very name of the Lord (1 Corinthians 7:10–11): “To the married I give charge, not I but the Lord, that the wife should not separate from her husband (but if she does, let her remain single or else be reconciled to her husband)—and that the husband should not divorce his wife.” From this clear testimony, it is evident that the teaching of Matthew in chapters 5 and 19 is not different [than the above] when the clause is read, “whoever divorces his wife, except for unchastity ( fornicationem), and marries another, commits adultery. . . . ” This clause can indeed be employed in affirming that separation, as Paul says, is made licit in the case of adultery, but not, however, for concluding that new licit marriages may take place. Even so, some of the Eastern Churches allow divorce in the case of adultery and permit the innocent spouse to contract a new marriage.This [permission] came about given the flourishing relationship between 13 These events are narrated first hand by Antoine Wenger, who was close to Jour- net and Paul VI. Wenger also notes the presence of Fr. Cottier (who later became John Paul II’s personal theologian and subsequently a cardinal) during the evening in question, who has confirmed this narration. The connection between Pope Paul VI and Journet’s response to Zoghby is also corroborated by the fact that Journet’s name was added to the list of speakers for the 30th after the original docket for the day had been established. Journet’s address was placed first on the docket. See Antoine Wenger, Le Trois Rome: l’Église des années soixante (Paris: Desclée De Brouwer: 1991). 14 The full Latin text of Journet’s speech can be found in the Acta synodalia Sacrosancti Concilii Oecumenici Vaticani II, vol. 4, part 3, 58–60. Journet and Gaudium et Spes 625 Church and State at that time, under the influence of civil law which decides the legality of divorce and new marriage in this case [of adultery]. The “novella Iustiniani” on the diverse causes of divorce, in fact, was introduced into the Codices Ecclesiae Orientalis as the so-called “Nomocanon.”15 To justify this practice, those Eastern Churches brought forward the clause of Matthew about divorce in the case of adultery. Because, however, those Churches allow other cases of divorce besides the one brought up above [adultery], it is evident that they followed, on this matter, a way of acting that is more human than evangelical. Whatever may be the custom of these Eastern Churches, the authentic teaching of the Gospel itself on the indissolubility of sacramental marriage has always thrived in the Catholic Church. It does not belong to this Church to change those [teachings] that are of the divine law. Nevertheless, the Church, which cannot not obey Christ’s command [cuius non est praecepto Christi non oboedire], looks respectfully, with the measureless mercy of God, on those unfortunate situations which summon towards the heroic life and which, from that circumstance, to human eyes alone—not however before God—remain without a solution. I have spoken. Gaudium et Spes was promulgated by Pope Paul VI on the penultimate day of the Council after it was passed with a vote of 2307 to 75. Despite Zoghby’s speech, all four references to indissolubility in the September 21 draft were retained in the final text. Eastern Patriarch Maximos indicated to the press that Archbishop Zoghby’s speech “represented only Zoghby’s own views.”16 Conclusion The presence and contribution of Charles Cardinal Journet at the final session of the Second Vatican Council is a manifestly understudied aspect of Vatican II scholarship. Contrary to the “damage control” thesis forwarded by Gilles Routhier in the Alberigo-Komonchak History of Vatican II volumes, there is no internal evidence to suggest that the Zoghby speech represented the sentiments of a sizable group (or political faction) 15 The name “nomocanon” invoked here by Journet is a technical term used for compilations of civil and ecclesiastical laws that were promulgated together, especially in the East under Christian rulers. In the case of remarriage, the eastern Christian tolerance, at least in the case of adultery, seems to have arisen by way of a concession to a practice of the civil law. The “Novella Iustiniani” is one such example of an ancient hybrid of civil and Church law, which was absorbed into the Eastern Code of Canon Law. Zoghby, for his part, believed the Eastern practice to be the result of the theological authority of certain Eastern Church Fathers, and thus not a capitulation to political authority. 16 History of Vatican II, vol. V, 160. 626 Roger W. Nutt among the Fathers whatsoever. It seems indeed true that Cardinal Journet spoke at the request of Paul VI. The insinuation, however, that the request was motivated by the Pope’s political temerity over a growing, progressive, Zoghby-led rebellion on the question of remarriage is suspect, at best. It is, of course, impossible to quantify the influence that Journet’s speech had on individual bishops at the Council; however, what is easily demonstrable is the full continuity on the question of indissolubility between the draft of September 21, Journet’s speech, and the content of the final document. Such continuity is indicative, not of the triumph of one political faction over the other, but rather of the stable and calm teaching of the bishops of the Church on the doctrine of indissolubility as an article of Catholic faith and an integral part of the message of the gospel. N&V Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 11, No. 3 (2013): 627–47 627 Miscere colloquia: On the Authentic Renewal of Catholic Spirituality ROMANUS C ESSARIO, O.P. St. John’s Seminary Brighton, MA Introduction T HE C ONGREGATION for the Doctrine of the Faith replied in 1989 to requests from the particular Churches to assess then-emerging forms of prayer, especially as these new forms affected the practice of meditation and contemplative prayer. The “Letter to the Bishops of the Catholic Church on Some Aspects of Christian Meditation” (Orationis formas) provided “sure criteria of a doctrinal and pastoral character” to help bishops instruct the faithful on the true nature of Christian prayer in accordance with the authentic Magisterium of the Church.1 It considered proposals, advanced especially during the latter decades of the twentieth century, that called for supplementing the Christian tradition on prayer with a “new training in prayer,” and it also warned that those who promoted such “new training” consciously sought to incorporate elements that theretofore had been judged “foreign” to the Catholic heritage.2 Specifically, Orationis formas addressed the use of “meditation methods . . . developed in other religions and cultures” that had begun to exercise a certain influence among the Christian people at the same time that “many traditional methods of meditation, especially Christian ones,” had become forgotten, neglected, or otherwise had fallen into desuetude.3 From the beginning of his pontificate, Pope John Paul II had signaled the central place that prayer holds in the life of those who are members 1 “Letter to the Bishops of the Catholic Church on Some Aspects of Christian Meditation” (Orationis formas), no. 1. 2 Orationis formas, no. 2. 3 Orationis formas, no. 2. Romanus Cessario, O.P. 628 of the Church. In his first encyclical, the 1979 encyclical Redeemer of Man (Redemptor hominis), the Blessed wrote: We feel not only the need but even a categorical imperative for great, intense and growing prayer by all the Church. Only prayer can prevent all these great succeeding tasks and difficulties from becoming a source of crisis and make them instead the occasion and, as it were, the foundation for ever more mature achievements on the People of God’s march towards the Promised Land in this stage of history approaching the end of the second millennium. Accordingly, as I end this meditation with a warm and humble call to prayer, I wish the Church to devote herself to this prayer, together with Mary the Mother of Jesus (see Acts 1:14), as the apostles and disciples of the Lord did in the Upper Room in Jerusalem after His ascension (see Acts 1:13).4 The “succeeding tasks and difficulties” to which Blessed Pope John Paul II referred in 1979 are being accomplished providentially and met successfully in the succeeding pontificates. Special witnesses to the authentic renewal of prayer among the Christian people have occurred, for example, at the successive World Youth Days held in various countries and wherever the faithful have gathered in numbers to celebrate with their priests the sacraments of the Eucharist and of Penance, especially during the course of pilgrimages to the Marian shrines around the world. As if to underscore the important place that prayer holds in the life of the Church, Blessed Pope John Paul II later took up the theme of prayer, emphasizing that “prayer develops that conversation with Christ which makes us his intimate friends: ‘Abide in me and I in you’ ( Jn 15: 4).”5 The Blessed’s reference to communication and friendship draws our attention to the dual realities that true prayer both embodies and perfects: active colloquy and abiding communion with God. Only Christ can establish this salvific conversatio with those whom he has consecrated in Baptism: “The new man, reborn and restored to his God by grace, says first of all, ‘Father!’ because he has now begun to be a son.”6 The Church, in fact, teaches authoritatively that “prayer is fully revealed to us in the Word who became flesh and dwells among us.”7 For this reason, the universal vocation to holiness can be realized and fulfilled only through a distinctive kind of exchange and communion that the Holy Spirit makes possible in 4 Redemptor hominis, no. 22. 5 Novo Millennio Ineunte ( January 2001), no. 32. 6 St. Cyprian, De Dominica oratione 9 (PL 4:525A), as cited in the Catechism, CCC, no. 2782. 7 CCC, no. 2598. The Authentic Renewal of Catholic Spirituality 629 the Body of Christ. Christian prayer flows from the supernatural life of the believer, and achieves an end that surpasses the good of the entire natural order.8 This is the case since all true prayer practiced in the Church remains ordered “to contemplation of the Father’s face.”9 Thus, Blessed Pope John Paul II, in Novo Millennio Ineunte, emphasizes the “Trinitarian shape of Christian prayer,” and declares that this “shape” gives a distinctive form or character to every prayer worthy of the name Christian.10 The publication in 1993 of the Catechism of the Catholic Church, which embodies “a sure norm for teaching the faith and thus a valid and legitimate instrument for ecclesial communion,” established an important reference point for all sound instruction about the nature, kinds, and purposes of Christian prayer.11 Part Four of the Catechism is dedicated exclusively to what the Church believes and holds about prayer. It explains how the Christian mystery establishes “the basis for our prayer, the privileged expression of which is the ‘Our Father,’ and . . . represents the object of our supplication, our praise and our intercession.”12 Just as Jesus Christ infuses every true prayer with its form, so also the one Savior of the world definitively and authoritatively instructs his people how to pray efficaciously unto salvation.13 “His prayer to his Father,” as the Catechism of the Catholic Church further reminds us, “is the theologal path of our prayer to God.”14 When in the present economy of salvation, 8 This affirmation follows from what has been clarified, most recently, by the Magisterium in the “Declaration” Dominus Iesus, especially at no. 7: “For this reason, the distinction between theological faith and belief (“credulitas”) in the other religions, must be firmly held. If faith is the acceptance in grace of revealed truth, which ‘makes it possible to penetrate the mystery in a way that allows us to understand it coherently’ (Fides et ratio, no. 13), then belief (“credulitas”), in the other religions, is that sum of experience and thought that constitutes the human treasury of wisdom and religious aspiration, which man in his search for truth has conceived and acted upon in his relationship to God and the Absolute” (last emphasis added). 9 Novo Millennio Ineunte, no. 32. 10 Novo Millennio Ineunte, no. 32. 11 John Paul II, Apostolic Constitution Fidei Depositum, no. 3. 12 Fidei Depositum, no. 2. 13 CCC, no. 2607: “When Jesus prays he is already teaching us how to pray.” 14 CCC, no. 2607. The 1994 English version of the Catechism of the Catholic Church also retains the word “theologal” when it describes the first three petitions of the “Our Father” as “more theologal” (no. 2803). French spiritual authors sometimes distinguish between the terms “théologique” and “théologal.” The former term describes what pertains to theological study and learning, whereas the latter denotes what pertains to the divinized life and practice of the Christian believer. In the seventeenth century, the English poet John Donne in Pseudo-martyr would still write that the “Theologall vertues, Faith, Hope, and Charity, are infus’d from 630 Romanus Cessario, O.P. however, this “theologal path” is absent or eclipsed, prayer and those exercises that are said to foster prayer fall short of achieving the imitatio Christi. Such simulacra of prayer, since they no longer embody the “Trinitarian shape,” become something other than bona fide means of continuing the great mystical tradition of the Church of both East and West. Although some exercises—for example, lessons in regulated breathing—may produce a certain therapeutic physical benefit, any exercise that is incapable of embodying and sustaining the “Trinitarian shape” of Christian life contributes nothing specific to the development of ecclesial communion, and therefore it should neither occupy a place within the mission of the Church nor engage the energies of persons when they serve, under any title, in her name.15 This essay follows upon what has been taught in Orationis formas, and it assumes whatever this document from the Holy See has already clarified, especially about erroneous ways of praying.16 At the same time, this essay addresses a broader and more diverse number of putatively spiritual and other exercises that, in the intervening years since the publication of Orationis formas, have become associated with the life of the Church, especially in some regions of the world. Specifically, the present essay aims to identify certain doctrinal difficulties associated with programs of spirituality that have become popular among Catholics, and to explain why sponsoring these and similar programs should not be confused with providing authentic spiritual and pastoral care.17 In many places, these non-traditional programs are offered at centers of spirituality and wellness that have sprung up during the post-conciliar period, especially on premises that once were used to house members of religious institutes of women or of men, such as novitiates, seminaries, and motherhouses.18 By God” (190), but today the English word “theologal” is not widely employed. However, in order to emphasize the utter uniqueness of a human life that is infused with divine grace and shaped by the theological virtues and because of its employment in the Catechism, the word “theologal” is retained in several places here. 15 Certain activities or circumstances, for example, the choice of a favorable place (see CCC, no. 2691), can prepare and dispose us for true prayer. Also, the elimination of distractions, such as television and other incompatible noises, or the engagement in legitimate activities that are calculated to make the human person become less tense or anxious, can help prayer, though these preparations for prayer should not be confused with praying itself. 16 Orationis formas, nos. 3, 8–12. 17 Code of Canon Law (CIC ) cc. 213 & 214. 18 It of course may be the case that the motive for introducing the non-traditional programs is well-intentioned, for example, to maintain properties in the care of the Church or to produce revenues to support sick and aging members of institutes of consecrated life. The Authentic Renewal of Catholic Spirituality 631 recalling certain essential elements of authentic Christian spirituality and prayer, this essay is meant to help Catholics to evaluate the spiritual exercises that are carried on by persons and in institutions officially identified with the Church. 1. “Cum Christo miscere colloquia . . .”: The Theological Character of Christian Prayer To exchange conversation with Christ ranks among the highest privileges granted to the person who has been baptized into his Body.19 The particular conversation which is prayer holds a special place within the graced structure of the Christian life and of the virtues that shape and sustain it. Saint Thomas Aquinas, for example, identifies the essential and principal acts of the virtue of religion as devotion and prayer.20 Prayer belongs to the practice of religion inasmuch as this activity expresses in specific ways the honor and reverence that the human creature owes to God. In his human nature, and especially by his obedient self-offering in love on the Cross, Christ embodies the supremely religious man. Because he is the Head of the Body, his Church, the same interior dispositions that Christ possesses in his human nature establish the norm and measure for those of every human creature. Christ, the interior Master, teaches us, then, how to pray with devotion. It would be difficult to imagine the exercise of true religion in the absence of devotion and prayer. How else could the human person demonstrate loving submission of will to God, or practice a reasonable exchange of words with Him?21 These activities are considered actions internal to the human person because they require the conscious exercise of the rational powers of the soul, or, in the preferred metaphor of the Scriptures, of the human heart. It is, of course, the whole man who prays, but “if our heart is far from God, the words of prayer are in vain.”22 19 The phrase “cum Christo miscere colloquia” is attributed to Saint John Chrysos- tom by Saint Thomas Aquinas in Summa theologiae II–II, q. 83, a. 2, ad 3: “Unde Chrysostomus dicit,‘Considera quanta est tibi concessa felicitas, optare quanta gloria attributa, orationibus fabulari cum Deo, cum Christo miscere colloquia, quod velis, quod desideras, postulare’ ” (emphasis added). In his Catena Aurea on Luke 18:1, Aquinas employs the same excerpt, which may have come from a Latin catena of texts that contained excerpts from St. John Chrysostom’s Commentary on Matthew. 20 Thus, Saint Thomas Aquinas, ST II–II, qq. 82 & 83, prologue. 21 Prayer is like “spoken reason.” In ST II–II, q. 83, a. 1, Aquinas records a saying from the Exposition on the Psalter, Psalm 38 (PL 70:285) by the sixth-century monk Cassiodorus: “Dicendum quod secundum Cassiodorum super illud, Exaudi orationem meam, oratio dicitur quasi oris ratio.” 22 CCC, no. 2562. 632 Romanus Cessario, O.P. “Spiritual progress tends toward ever more intimate union with Christ.”23 Saint Paul recognizes the immediacy that attaches to the practice of the Christian religion, even as he acknowledges that it requires sacramental mediations and personal mediators. Thus he warns the Corinthians: “So let no one boast of men. For all things are yours, whether Paul or Apollos or Cephas or the world or life or death or the present or the future, all are yours; and you are Christ’s; and Christ is God’s” (1 Cor 3:21). Prayer, as the prefaces of the Roman rite observe, unites angels and men with God.24 More specifically for the human person, prayer develops a communion of life between the Persons of the Blessed Trinity and the Christian believer such that each member of the Church enjoys a proper relationship with Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Christian prayer then constitutes the normal expression of the participated divine life that the baptized enjoy as a result of sacramental incorporation into the Church. Its wellsprings include the Word of God, the liturgy of the Church, and the virtues of faith, hope, and charity.25 The reception of the Eucharist remains the privileged sacramental instrument of communion available to the Christian believer. As the encyclical letter Ecclesia de Eucharistia puts it, the Eucharist forms “the culmination of all the sacraments in perfecting our communion with God the Father by identification with his only-begotten Son through the working of the Holy Spirit.”26 The Eucharistic sacrifice and the sacrifice of Christ form one single sacrifice.27 The effective instrument of Christ’s sacrifice is his human will, which assents in love and obedience to the command given him by the Father.28 The harmonious communion in Christ of his two wills, divine and human, establishes the ontological ground for the communion that prayer both realizes and strengthens in the Church.29 The theological 23 CCC, no. 2014. 24 For example, the “Praefatio De Angelis” concludes: “Per quem multitudo Angelorum tuam celebrat maiestatem, quibus adorantes in exsultatione coniungimur, una cum eis laudis voce clamantes . . .” 25 See CCC, nos. 2653–60. 26 Ecclesia de Eucharistia, no. 34. 27 See Ecclesia de Eucharistia, no. 12. Also, no. 16: “The Eucharistic Sacrifice is intrinsically directed to the inward union of the faithful with Christ through communion; we receive the very One who offered himself for us, we receive his body which he gave up for us on the Cross and his blood which he ‘poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins’ (Mt 26:28).” 28 See ST III, q. 47, a. 2, especially ad 3: “He fulfilled the precepts of charity out of obedience, and was obedient because of his love for the father who had given him the command.” 29 See for instance what Aquinas says about Christ’s own need to pray in ST III, q. 21, a. 1. See also Dominus Iesus, no. 10. The Authentic Renewal of Catholic Spirituality 633 tradition roots this harmony of wills in the beatific vision that the human mind of Christ enjoyed during his earthly life.30 Because he knows intimately the loving purposes of the Father, Christ is able to accomplish the will of the Father. “The human mind of Christ,” so Saint Thomas Aquinas held, “constantly rises up to God for it constantly contemplates him as existing above it.”31 In the Christian pilgrim who lives by faith and not by vision, prayer raises mind and heart to God, and effects between God and man a supernatural friendship. It is given to Moses to adumbrate this aspect of the mystery of Christian prayer: “Thus the Lord used to speak to Moses face to face, as a man speaks to his friend” (Ex 33:11).32 The Church further recognizes that “Christian prayer is a covenant relationship between God and man in Christ.”33 Accordingly, when God grants the gift of prayer to the believer who asks for it, this expression of the divine benevolence comes in the form of an unmerited covenantal grace, which like every “divine initiative in the work of grace precedes, prepares, and elicits the free response of man.”34 Only Christ, in strict equivalence, merits for the members of the Church the grace of prayer, which like the Eucharist supplies a pledge of future glory. “Thy Kingdom come!”35 Prayer cannot be taken for granted. “We have to learn to pray,” Blessed Pope John Paul II reminds us, “as it were learning this art ever anew from the lips of the Divine Master himself, like the first disciples: ‘Lord, teach us to pray!’ (Lk 11:1).”36 Christian prayer then should not be confused with 30 See Mystici Corporis, no. 75: “Now the only-begotten Son of God embraced us in His infinite knowledge and undying love even before the world began. And that He might give a visible and exceedingly beautiful expression to this love, He assumed our nature in hypostatic union: hence—as Maximus of Turin with a certain unaffected simplicity remarks—‘in Christ our own flesh loves us’ (Sermo XXIX: PL 57:594). But the knowledge and love of our Divine Redeemer, of which we were the object from the first moment of His Incarnation, exceed all the human intellect can hope to grasp. For hardly was He conceived in the womb of the Mother of God, when He began to enjoy the beatific vision, and in that vision all the members of His Mystical Body were continually and unceasingly present to Him, and He embraced them with His redeeming love.” 31 ST III, q. 21, a. 1, ad 3: “. . . intellectus Christi semper ascendit Deum, quia semper contemplatur ipsum ut supra se existentem.” 32 See CCC, no. 2576. 33 CCC, no. 2564 34 CCC, no. 2022. 35 CCC, no. 2632: “By prayer every baptized person works for the coming of the Kingdom.” But also see ST II–II, q. 83, a. 15, ad 2: “Quia vero homo non potest alii mereri vitam aeternam ex condigno . . . , ideo per consequens nec ea quae ad vitam aeternam pertinent, potest aliquando aliquis ex condigno alteri mereri.” 36 Novo Millennio Ineunte, no. 34. 634 Romanus Cessario, O.P. merely human activities that perfect mind or body. Nothing that the human person constructs or enacts alone is equal to Christian prayer. Because this holy conversation (conversatio) comes as a totally free gift, the Christian is instructed to petition God for it, even under the movement of an actual grace.37 Indeed, the saints identify a humble steadfastness in beseeching the gift of prayer as a sign of one’s predestination. No vocation in the Church flourishes absent in the one who pursues it a spirit of humility. The virtue of humility grounds the human creature’s petition for the gift of prayer, as this virtue does the reception of every fruitfulness in the Christian life.38 It is axiomatic for growth in the Christian spiritual life that one never outgrows the need for humility.39 This necessary disposition in the believer is strengthened day to day by a holy perseverance, for as Saint Augustine wisely reminds us, “Man remains a beggar before God.”40 It is the human person’s ultimate dependence on divine Wisdom for obtaining truth that warns against the vice of curiositas.The spiritual tradition recognizes in man a hankering to pursue whatever may capture one’s attention. Dissipating curiosity indulges this penchant for the exciting and transitory things of life. As such, they are distractions, and distractions steer one’s attention away from those perfective goods that lead man to God. Saint Augustine captures the delicacy of attention that is required to fix one’s whole being on the true good, to avoid as much as possible being distracted by distractions. In the Confessions he reports: “I go no more to greyhound coursing; nevertheless in the open country if I happen to be passing when a hare starts up, the sight of the chase will happily distract me from some weighty thought; if thou dost not show me my weakness, and swiftly admonish me to rise from sight to thee and to scorn it and pass from it, I become trivial and dull.”41 Abstracting from particular interpretations of what constitutes sinful curiosity and recognizing that the sin consists not in knowing a truth, which is essentially a good action, but in the appetitive disorder to pursue distractions, the fact remains that the spiritual heritage of the Fathers, Doctors, and saints of the Church acknowledges a penchant in man to become interested in 37 See CCC, no. 2000: “actual graces . . . refer to God’s interventions, whether at the beginning of conversion or in the course of the work of sanctification.” 38 See ST II–II, q. 161, a. 5, ad 4: “Et sic humilitas est quasi quaedam dispositio ad liberum accessum hominis in spiritualia et divina bona.” 39 In order to emphasize the relationship between humility and holiness, Gregory the Great, in his foundational work on Christian headship and pastorship, metaphorically puts humility at the very origins of Christian salvation: “the lesson found in our Redemption is the humility of God” (Pastoralia, Bk 3, 1 [PL 72, 78]). 40 St. Augustine, Sermo 56, 6 (PL 38:381), cited in CCC, no. 2559. 41 Confessiones Bk 10, no. 35 (PL 32:803). The Authentic Renewal of Catholic Spirituality 635 things that do not lead him to God.42 When this curiositas intrudes into the practice of prayer or shapes exercises that are described as spiritual, a special danger arises. The very instruments that are meant to restrain the vice become themselves infected by it. Instead of conversation with Christ, the person is left with the anticipations of prideful lust, and begins to search for union with an object other than God. 2. “And Wander into Myths” (2 Tim 4:4): New Developments in the Non-Traditional Programs Orationis formas signaled the danger of a syncretism that one could anticipate from the diffusion of eastern methods of meditation in the Christian world.43 Within the context of mental prayer, syncretism would be defined as a form of meditation that failed to distinguish adequately between the human person’s aptitude for a certain kind of natural mysticism and a mystical experience of the depths of God that, by reason of its essential structure, is and remains supernatural in character. Authentic mystical experience, like any grace, constitutes a favor, a freely bestowed and entirely undeserved gift, that God grants to those who through Baptism and charity have been made partakers of the divine nature.44 Even if one grants that the mystical experience is accompanied by certain expressions of human affectivity—that is to say, that a given experience produces sensible consolations of joy or sorrow, as when someone grasps the full dimension of human sinfulness in comparison with the ineffable goodness of God—such a supernatural experience of God can occur only in one who is established and abides in the theologal life.45 At the same time, the practice of what may be called a natural mysticism meets the same difficulties that the historical condition of the human person poses in coming to know God by the light of reason alone.46 The distinction 42 See for example the balanced treatment that Aquinas gives to this vice in ST II–II, q. 167. 43 Orationis formas, no. 12. 44 See CCC, no. 1996. 45 John of Saint Thomas introduces the expression “affectus transit in conditionem objecti,” which is to say that the experience of affectivity, indeed even of a certain emotion, must flow from and therefore find its identity in the theological virtue of charity. See Les Dons du Saint-Esprit, trans. R. Maritain, in Oeuvres complètes, vol. 14 ( Juvisy: Éditions du Cerf, 1930), 218–481, at 337. See also, John of Saint Thomas, The Gifts of the Holy Ghost, trans. Dominic Hughes, O.P. (New York: Sheed & Ward, 1951). For further reading, see Walter Farrell, O.P., and Dominic Hughes, O.P., Swift Victory: Essays on the Gifts of the Holy Spirit (New York: Sheed & Ward, 1955). 46 See CCC, no. 37, which includes a citation from Pius XII, Encyclical Letter, Humani Generis, AAS (42) 1950: 561 (DS 3875) on the obstacles that natural 636 Romanus Cessario, O.P. between natural mysticism and the elevated life of faith, hope, and charity that the Church designates the theologal life can supply an initial, though foundational, criterion for discerning between legitimate instruments used to promote spiritual growth and wellness and inauthentic ones. The criterion may be expressed in this manner: Does the proposed instrument, whether it be a technique, an activity, or a practice, formally assist the believer to attain what the Church holds to be the final end of the Christian life, namely Christian beatitude, or does it immediately serve to accomplish some other objective?47 As noted above, since the publication of Orationis formas there have developed in not a few places throughout the world, but especially in the countries of the West, a new complement of practices that purport either to serve as alternative prayer forms or to prepare individuals to engage in Christian prayer. Not infrequently, these putative spiritual exercises have found a home in Catholic settings; they may even be offered in connection with an outreach of the Church’s pastoral ministry—for instance, at those centers for spirituality and wellness that sponsor non-traditional programs.48 Some of these centers feature such programs as their standard offerings, instead of those that have become familiar to devout Christians, such as attending preached retreats or making the Spiritual Exercises of Saint Ignatius Loyola, whereas other centers offer both non-traditional programs as well as the familiar and approved ones. The examples of non-traditional programs that one discovers operating under the auspices of the Catholic Church in various places remain many and varied. It would be neither possible nor useful, even, to provide a complete listing of them or a thorough description of each program. It is possible, however, to identify certain general categories in which the various programs may be grouped. Five such categories may be enumerated: (1) Many programs introduce practices that may be described as eastern, about which Orationis formas already had occasion to recall certain important distinctions; these programs include centering prayer, feng shui, Hindu spirituality, pranic healing, shiatsu, tai chi, transcendenreason faces in coming to know truth, especially about God: “For the truths that concern the relations between God and man wholly transcend the visible order of things, and, if they are translated into human action and influence it, they call for self-surrender and abnegation.” 47 For descriptions of what constitutes Christian beatitude and the several expressions that the New Testament uses to characterize the beatitude to which God calls man, see CCC, nos. 1720–24. 48 The term “wellness” refers to a human state in which physical and psychological health are viewed as prerequisites for spiritual development, or it denotes more generally a broad sense of human well-being. The Authentic Renewal of Catholic Spirituality 637 tal meditation, yoga, and Zen meditation.49 (2) Other programs aim to promote so-called holistic remedies that purport to develop or enhance spiritual states through a direct treatment of the body; these programs, which should be judged by competent medical authorities with respect to their properly medicinal or therapeutic usefulness, include acupuncture, aromatherapy, focusing, massage, reflexology, reiki, and therapeutic touch. (3) Still other programs derive their inspiration from practices that are said to belong to the native or aboriginal peoples of regions later populated, for the most part, by Europeans, and to which a certain expression of romanticism ascribes prima facie a special value; these exercises include the dreamcatcher, drumming, dance, mandala, shamanism, and ritual observances of the vernal and autumnal equinox and the summer and winter solstice. (4) A special category also should be reserved for programs that advance a feminist outlook, such as goddess spirituality. (It should be noted, however, that elements of a non-Christian feminism, especially an a priori and uncritical rejection of what is described as “patriarchal” forms and influences in the Christian religion, can co-exist with certain of the programs that belong to other categories.) (5) There also exist various programs that aim to incorporate elements of “New Age” thinking and practices into Christian spirituality; these include Celtic spirituality, creation spirituality, the enneagram, guided imagery, and the labyrinth.50 It should be recalled that, not infrequently, centers of spirituality and wellness also offer programs in traditional Catholic piety, for example, lectures on recognized mystical writers in the Carmelite or Dominican traditions, and thereby lend, whether wittingly or unwittingly, an air of legitimacy to the non-traditional programs. Two general questions arise in connection with the ensemble of these practices: (1) Whether some of these practices, for instance, acupuncture and full-body massage, which admittedly may enjoy standing among persons of certain cultures, should be carried out by persons officially identified with the Church, including consecrated persons and lay ecclesial ministers, or should take place in certain venues, such as retreat houses, which are under the auspices of institutes of consecrated life or of dioceses; and (2) whether certain practices that are alleged to help spiritual development, for example, elements of goddess spirituality, such as 49 Orationis formas, no. 12. 50 For a general and provisional report on the compatibility of “New Age” prac- tices with authentic Christian spirituality, see the 2003 study undertaken by both the Pontifical Council for Culture and the Pontifical Council for Interreligious Dialogue, “Jesus Christ, the Bearer of the Water of Life: A Christian Reflection on the ‘New Age.’ ” 638 Romanus Cessario, O.P. devotion to Gaia, are in any way compatible with Christian doctrine and the ascetical traditions approved by the Church.51 The theologian’s concern must be for the souls of others.52 It is not at all evident to what extent many of the programs currently available under Catholic auspices possess even genuinely religious significance. In fact, a large number of the non-traditional programs risk reducing Christian spirituality to engagement with a therapeutic technique and thus conflating the purpose of religion with that of physical or psychological well-being. Likewise, many of the programs give moment for pause when one is asked to identify clearly the nature of the causality at work in them, whether it is a work of supernatural grace or of human ingenuity.53 For example, repeated emphasis within a Catholic setting on energy and energy flows, as in “tai chi,” can easily create confusion about what should be attributed directly to divine intervention and what is the result of the human manipulation of natural powers. There also exists the additional danger that, precisely because these programs are conducted under the auspices of the Church, persons who may require specific kinds of medical or other professional attention will be wrongly persuaded of the usefulness of these non-traditional and putatively therapeutic programs and so impeded from receiving the attention they require. The emergence of centers of spirituality and wellness coincides with a decline in the number of institutions of theological learning that teach authentic Catholic doctrine.This lamentable decline occurs more evidently in certain regions of the world than in others. An academic emphasis on comparative religious studies, which has become popular during recent decades, helps to explain the widely recognized fact that even many Catholic faculties no longer offer a sufficient number of courses in the authentic Catholic spiritualities of West or East. Paucity of sound instruction in Catholic theology may explain why many persons who facilitate the non-traditional programs under Catholic auspices, although they may be competent in the management of a particular professional or semiprofessional program, lack the ability to reflect critically on what they are doing or to question the presuppositions of the program. It likewise poses 51 The nomenclature “lay ecclesial minister” applies to those persons whose work in the Church falls under the guidelines established in the 1997 Interdicasterial Instruction De Mysterio Ecclesiae, “On certain questions regarding collaboration of the non-ordained faithful in the sacred ministry of priests.” 52 For what pertains to ecclesiastical authorities, see CIC c. 387. 53 For further discussion, see my “Sonship, Sacrifice, and Satisfaction: The Divine Friendship in Aquinas and the Renewal of Christian Anthropology,” Letter & Spirit 3 (2007): 71–79. The Authentic Renewal of Catholic Spirituality 639 an almost insurmountable difficulty for persons who are not well trained in theology and philosophy to identify and explain the proper relationships, if any exist, between a given program—especially when its contents derive from pre- and non-Christian sources—and the practice of theologal faith, hope, and charity within the Church of the sacraments. When efforts to relate successfully a program to sound Catholic theology fail, the gravitational pull of a given exercise inclines toward the particulars of the program itself. One obvious difficulty that emerges in this circumstance is the temptation to overemphasize technique to the detriment of true spiritual growth.54 The saints, by contrast, encourage a holy detachment with respect to following one or another method of prayer lest the soul grow accustomed to clinging to created means and so lose the freedom to embrace the Uncreated God. There seems to be a definite correlation between the depreciated state of theological education and the sudden prominence given to wellness and non-traditional spiritual programs among Catholics. We may be seeing a fresh illustration of that perennial temptation against which the New Testament itself warns: “For the time is coming when people will not endure sound teaching, but having itching ears they will accumulate for themselves teachers to suit their own likings, and will turn away from listening to the truth and wander into myths” (2 Tim 4:3, 4).55 In any case, the most serious danger of theologically unformed practitioners conducting secular programs under the aegis of the Catholic spiritual tradition is apparent. Instead of Christians evangelizing the culture, the culture, with all of its susceptibility to influences that are opposed to the truth of the Catholic faith, proceeds to deform Christians. Secular feminism exercises a considerable influence on not a few of the recently inaugurated centers of spirituality and wellness, especially those that attract women visitors. Many of these centers reflect the strongly held feminist, holistic, and ecological orientations of those persons, including members of institutes of consecrated life for women, who often enjoy proprietary rights over these centers and who themselves frequently 54 Orationis formas already warned against this danger: “Some physical exercises automatically produce a feeling of quiet and relaxation, pleasing sensations, perhaps even phenomena of light and of warmth, which resemble spiritual wellbeing. To take such feelings for the authentic consolations of the Holy Spirit would be a totally erroneous way of conceiving the spiritual life” (no. 28). 55 The history of the Church recalls other moments when the failure to ensure sound pastoral practice and preaching of the Gospel with integrity coincided with the emergence of harmful spiritual ideologies, for example, the circumstances that Saint Dominic discovered in the Albigensian region of France when at the start of the thirteenth century he established his “Preaching of Jesus Christ” as a response to Catharism. 640 Romanus Cessario, O.P. conduct or oversee the programs offered at them. Some of these persons say they are responding to the alienation women are said to feel as a result of the Church’s alleged “patriarchal” attitude toward them; to support this allegation, they may point to what is viewed as the unjust exclusion of women from decision-making or leadership positions, especially, as they understand it, from the ordained priesthood. Others may cite some historical, even personal, injustice that is claimed to have occurred at the hands of a male authority figure. The Church rejects this unhealthy form of feminism as inimical to the new, Christian feminism that Blessed Pope John Paul II called for, and which alone is able to ensure the authentic and noble advancement of women’s dignity and “genius.”56 It is worthwhile to observe that the programs that prove especially difficult to reconcile with the truth of the Catholic faith—for instance, “Encountering the Divine Feminine”—are the ones that are most influenced by secular feminist ideologies. Some of these feminist-inspired programs promote “goddess” spirituality, which easily prompts correlations with pagan worship. Other programs stipulate speaking about God only in feminine images, for example, “Lady Wisdom” and “Sophia,” and scrupulously avoid using masculine pronouns for God as well as addressing God as “Father.” It is difficult to imagine a quicker or more effective way to destroy the “Trinitarian shape of Christian prayer.”57 Centers where these sorts of practices occur are also those most likely to host so-called alternative liturgies encouraged by groups such as “Womenchurch.” The trajectory of strongly secular feminism is completed when some of these centers sponsor overly sympathetic and morally questionable presentations of homosexuality, which may include programs such as “Gathering of Lesbian Nuns” and “Lesbian Religious Retreat.” The development of interreligious dialogue during the period after the Second Vatican Council is sometimes offered as a justification, and even as a motive, for undertaking the non-traditional programs, especially those 56 See Mulieris Dignitatem, no. 31: “The Church gives thanks for all the manifestations of the feminine “genius” which have appeared in the course of history, in the midst of all peoples and nations; she gives thanks for all the charisms which the Holy Spirit distributes to women in the history of the People of God, for all the victories which she owes to their faith, hope and charity: she gives thanks for all the fruits of feminine holiness.” On 22 May 2003, Pope John Paul II specifically urged some 150 representatives of the Italian Pro-Life Movement, which was celebrating its 25th anniversary, to “become promoters of a new feminism which rejects the temptation of imitating models of male domination in order to acknowledge and affirm the true genius of women in every aspect of the life of society, and overcome all discrimination, violence and exploitation.” 57 Novo Millennio Ineunte, no. 32. The Authentic Renewal of Catholic Spirituality 641 that trace their heritage—whether rightly or wrongly being a separate question—to non-Christian religious practices.58 Appeal is sometimes made to an excerpt from Nostra Aetate, the “Declaration on the Church’s relation to non-Christian religions” which asserts that “the Catholic Church rejects nothing of those things which are true and holy in these religions.”59 The Council, however, was careful to contextualize its statement of regard for “those ways of acting and living and those precepts and teachings which . . . frequently reflect a ray of truth which enlightens everyone” by acknowledging that such ways, precepts, and teachings remain “often at variance with what the Church holds and expounds.”60 In other words, the Council wished to emphasize that many practices of other religions do not conform (“in multis discrepant”) with the truths of divine and Catholic faith. Accordingly, the admission that truth can be found everywhere is neither intended to encourage, nor should it be read so as to invite, preoccupation on the part of Catholics with “a ray of truth” that may be discovered here and there.61 Instead, as the “Declaration” itself immediately stipulates, the proper occupation of the Church and of those who serve her remains “Jesus Christ and him crucified” (1 Cor 2:2): “Yet, without ceasing the Church preaches, and is bound to preach, Christ who is ‘the way, the truth, and the life’ ( Jn 14:6), in whom men find the fulness of religious life and in whom God has reconciled all things to himself.”62 It thus should be abundantly clear that the Second Vatican Council had no intention of encouraging the Church to devote herself to discovering, still less promoting, “a ray of truth” outside the sources of Christian revelation, especially when such would occur at the expense of withdrawing from the task of preaching Christ “in season and out of season” (2 Tim 4:2). 3. “To preach . . . the unsearchable riches of Christ” (Eph 3:8): Specific Guidelines to Correct Errors and Omissions In addition to the general observations that have been made above, especially, the risk of giving theological scandal or the possibility of lending 58 Orationis formas notes that “the majority of the great religions which have sought union with God in prayer have also pointed out ways to achieve it” (no. 16). Since prayer is practiced by members of other religions, it is evident that the human phenomenon of prayer may suitably serve as a topic in interreligious dialogue. 59 Nostra Aetate, the “Declaration on the Church’s relation to non-Christian religions,” no. 2. 60 Nostra Aetate, no. 2. 61 For further development by the Magisterium of this principle found in Nostra Aetate, see John Paul II, Encyclical Letter, Fides et Ratio, no. 44, which discusses the difference between philosophical wisdom and theological wisdom. 62 Nostra Aetate, no. 2. 642 Romanus Cessario, O.P. credence to therapeutic exercises about which the Church possesses no direct competence, it seems useful to propose some specific guidelines to assist those who must exercise oversight over centers of spirituality and wellness as well as over other venues that offer programs of spiritual renewal or development. The divisions of the Catechism of the Catholic Church suggest some categories under which these specific guidelines may be suitably organized, although what is set down here does not pretend to address every question of doctrine or pastoral practice that may arise in evaluating the non-traditional programs.These guidelines are meant principally to assist those charged to evaluate omissions (of usual Christian symbols and activities) at the centers of spirituality and wellness, especially those centers that continue to offer the non-traditional programs mentioned above, as well as other programs of a similar kind. The creedal guideline. “Christian prayer is always determined by the structure of the Christian faith, in which the very truth of God and creature shines forth.”63 Therefore, the first guideline to be followed when assessing the pastoral usefulness of a given program of spirituality is to ask whether the exercise in all of its dimensions adequately ensures the integrity of the Catholic faith. Nothing that is expressed in the program, whether in the facilitator’s verbal presentation or in the accompanying literature, should contain anything that contravenes what is held by Catholic and divine faith. Because of the central place that the mystery of the Blessed Trinity holds in the life of the Church, one area of specific inquiry should center on the way that the programs express the Church’s Trinitarian faith.64 No Catholic center of spirituality and wellness should allow anyone, whether host or guest, to alter the Church’s confession of faith in Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. This prohibition includes the substitution of other appellations for the revealed names of the Persons of the Blessed Trinity. Furthermore, lest anything that is taught or done compromise what is set down in the Declaration Dominus Iesus, especially concerning the Incarnation, passion, death, and Resurrection of Jesus Christ, no program or element of a program should obscure or misrepresent the truth about the Trinitarian missions, namely, the visible mission of the Son and the invisible mission of the Holy Spirit in the life of the Church, which is the Body of Christ and the House of Salvation. Other measures to evaluate the authenticity of programs of spirituality include the following: the extent to which authentic Marian theology informs the exercises and environment; the place that invoking the intercession of the saints holds in the program; the way that the programs incorporate 63 Orationis formas, no. 2. 64 See CCC, no. 261. The Authentic Renewal of Catholic Spirituality 643 pious remembrances of the dead, including, as the Church recommends, the offering of suffrages for the repose of their souls; and the emphasis that the program puts on Christian eschatology, especially a proper presentation of the Four Last Things. Furthermore, programs need to be evaluated on the way that they present what the Church holds by Catholic and divine faith about creation, specifically, the difference between God and the world and the distinction among creatures themselves, and about the work of divine conservation and providence. It likewise should be determined that the programs teach soundly about the nature of the human person, specifically concerning the unique, unrepeatable, and free nature of every human person and of every complete human action. These are the main, though by no means the only, areas of doctrinal concern that should form the basis for any evaluation of programs that purport to advance an authentic Catholic spirituality. The sacramental guideline. “Prayer internalizes and assimilates the liturgy during and after its celebration.”65 Catholic centers of spirituality should be distinguished by their fidelity to the daily celebration of the Holy Mass and by the ease of opportunities they afford for worship of the Eucharist outside of Mass. The observance of approved liturgical norms and a commitment to a dignified celebration of the Liturgy should especially characterize centers of spirituality where the Christian mystery as proclaimed by the Church forms the animating center of their activities. Whatever approaches irregularity and abuse, no matter under what pretext such departures from what is prescribed may be justified, should be corrected. Centers of Catholic spirituality should, during the time of their exercises, also provide for a sufficient number of confessors so that retreatants, exercitants, and other participants who wish to seek the Sacrament of Penance are able to do so without encountering grave inconvenience or the potential embarrassment that making a specific request may occasion. The availability of the Sacrament of Penance and the encouragement to make this Sacrament an integral part of the spiritual program are important benchmarks by which to assess a center’s Catholic identity. In addition, proper instruction in the Catholic doctrine of the sacraments should inform all that transpires in programs of spirituality, especially what the Church teaches about the saving efficacy of Baptism and the special character of Confirmation. When centers of spirituality cater to the elderly and infirm, it may be opportune to provide instruction on, and, in accordance with ecclesiastical norms, even opportunity for, the sacrament of the Anointing of the Sick. Matrimony and Holy Orders should be 65 CCC, no. 2655. 644 Romanus Cessario, O.P. spoken about in accordance with what the Church teaches about these sacraments and the ecclesial vocations that they consecrate. Vigilance is required to ensure that the administration and undertaking of spiritual programs by those who are not ordained creates no confusion about what remains proper to the sacred ministry of priests.66 Loving devotion to the Virgin Mother of God, expressed above all in the Rosary, should enjoy a prominent place in the spiritual exercises of every Catholic center of spirituality or retreat, as should the promotion of the appropriate use of approved sacramentals, such as holy water, crucifixes, medals, scapulars.The sacramental guideline also requires the enforcement of the appropriate policies with respect to persons in special ecclesial circumstances, such as laicized priests who are restricted from participation in the Church’s public mission and persons in irregular marriages. The moral guideline. “Prayer is the life of the new heart.”67 It is impossible for any person who desires to grow in Christian prayer and spiritual perfection to ignore the commandments or to let his “heart remain presumptuous.”68 In order to seek God through prayer, a person must acknowledge the baptismal promise to reject sin, Satan, and his empty promises. This rejection requires with respect to prayer “an ascetical struggle and a purification from one’s own sins and errors, since Jesus has said that only ‘the pure of heart shall see God’ (Mt 5:8).”69 Programs that promise spiritual renewal and growth without mentioning the need for conversion, or what is more seriously defective, that insinuate, either implicitly or explicitly, that an individual can bypass the need for conversion of life and still seek spiritual advancement, betray not only the authentic principles of the Christian life but also the integrity of the Gospel itself. In addition to this general observation on the right dispositions to enter into spiritual exercises, the moral guideline requires that the full truth about the Christian moral life inform all spiritual exercises that purport to be Catholic. It is difficult to envisage that any authentic program of spirituality and wellness could develop without some reference to the Beatitudes and the virtues of the Christian life, as these have been expounded authoritatively by recognized spiritual authors. Because of the influence of pre-Christian pagan practices on many of the nontraditional programs, specific inquiry should be made to determine whether these non-traditional programs include, either overtly or covertly, 66 See especially, the 1997 Interdicasterial Instruction De Mysterio Ecclesiae. 67 CCC, no. 2697. 68 CCC, no. 2732. 69 Orationis formas, no. 18. The Authentic Renewal of Catholic Spirituality 645 forms of divination or practices of magic or sorcery.70 The Catechism of the Catholic Church warns expressly of some therapeutic measures that would entail sinning against the First Commandment: “Recourse to so-called traditional cures does not justify either the invocation of evil powers or the exploitation of another’s credulity.”71 Other areas that require special attention pertain to the virtues of chastity and purity: When married persons are regularly invited to certain programs, the Church’s full teaching on marriage and family should be taught, and whatever may be defective or absent, especially concerning what is taught in the Encyclical Letter Humanae Vitae and in the Post-Synodal Apostolic Exhortation Familiaris Consortio, corrected. Programs, whether they are organized specially for persons who experience same-sex attractions or not, require competent oversight to ensure that what has been clarified by the Church with respect to homosexual practices is respected and not compromised by a false sense of compassion or outreach. The ecclesial guideline. “Even when it is lived out ‘in secret’ (see Mt 6:6), prayer is always prayer of the Church; it is a communion with the Holy Trinity.”72 Like all institutes that enjoy an official relationship with the Church, centers of spirituality belong in some way to the particular church in which they are located. Nothing therefore that transpires within these centers stands outside of the duly defined competence of the local bishop. It belongs then to the local ordinary to ensure that the programs offered at centers of spirituality and wellness located within his diocese conform to sound Catholic principles. Those who operate or work in these programs are bound by charity to welcome the bishop or his representative, whose visits should afford the opportunity to strengthen the work of the center. In some places, the local ordinary may consider it opportune to sponsor certain kinds of exercises that would benefit the overall health or even the recreation of certain groups of peoples, including the elderly, youth, and married couples. When the Church sponsors these kinds of activities, it should be made clear that such activities constitute one of the charitable works of the Church and are not ordered directly to the spiritual growth of those who may partake of them.The Church scrupulously preserves the authentic character of prayer because she knows that Christian prayer reflects her own unique identity: “In prayer the Holy Spirit unites us to the person of the only Son, in his glorified humanity, through which and in which our filial prayer unites us in the Church with the Mother of Jesus.”73 70 See CCC, nos. 2115–17. 71 CCC, no. 2117. 72 CCC, no. 2655. 73 CCC, no. 2673. 646 Romanus Cessario, O.P. Conclusion The saints often repeat that they would like to sing the mercies of the Lord forever.74 No occupation is more appropriate for the human person who has been redeemed by the Blood of Christ. The renewal of authentic spirituality in the Church is a mandate that imposes itself on every member of the Church. All are urged to heed those recognized spiritual masters of past generations who have contributed to the Church’s treasury of authentic religious exercises. Because religion is also a natural or human virtue, that is, one that can be practiced without the benefit of divine revelation or the gift of grace, it comes as no surprise that these past masters have from time to time borrowed some of their methods and notions from sources outside of the Christian tradition, including, for example, the accepted division among the purgative, illuminative, and unitive ways of the interior life.75 In the final analysis, however, it always remains the judgment of the Church, even when pronounced over the course of time, that determines whether a particular practice suits the Christian mystery or detracts from it. The Church, to the benefit of all, has exercised this prerogative in the past. In the seventeenth century, for example, the Church was obliged to correct certain errors about the nature of prayer—for instance, the view that the object of contemplative prayer could only be the divine ubiquity and not the mysteries of the life of Christ.76 In this case, the Church clearly refused to privilege a certain class of persons with respect to growth in prayer and at the same time safeguarded the commandment that Christ himself enjoined on his disciples: “ ‘See that you do not despise one of these little ones; for I tell you that in heaven their angels always behold the face of my Father who is in heaven’ ” (Mt 10:18). An honest examination of conscience is required on the part of those who may have become lax with respect to activities that possess no clear relationship to the preaching of the Gospel or to programs or elements of programs that contradict the Gospel message as it is proclaimed in the Church. The popularity of the programs or the service that they may 74 For example, Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, Story of a Soul, trans. John Clarke, O.C.D. Manuscript “A,” chapter one: “It is to you, dear Mother, to you who are doubly my mother, that I come to confide the story of my soul. The day you asked me to do this, it seemed to me it would distract my heart by too much concentration on myself, but since then Jesus has made me feel that in obeying simply, I would be pleasing Him; besides, I’m going to be doing only one thing: I shall begin to sing what I must sing eternally: ‘The Mercies of the Lord ’ (Ps 88:2).” 75 See Orationis formas, no. 17. 76 “Instruction” of the Holy Office of October 1682, “On contemplation and meditation, against the errors of quietism,” DS 2185–87. The Authentic Renewal of Catholic Spirituality 647 render to certain persons who may be drawn to the programs precisely because they lack a clear identification with the Christian religion do not justify their continuance. Some other form of apologetic should be devised to reach persons who are only remotely disposed to hear the Gospel. Anything that would qualify as an authentic praeparatio evangelica should never accustom a person to lend credence, still less to become personally attached, to beliefs or practices that are alien to the deposit of divine revelation. When the Fathers of the Church acknowledged that elements of classical philosophy could be viewed as certain preparations that would dispose men to receive the Gospel, they clearly referred to what human genius or communities had already produced in pre-Christian civilizations. They did not, however, envisage that the Church herself would multiply the occasions to perpetuate these preparations. To argue that the Church should now underwrite the promotion of non-Christian practices as a way of better explaining the Gospel is like arguing that Saint Paul should have encouraged the erection of altars “to an unknown God” wherever he traveled so that his hearers more readily would have embraced “the God who made the world and everything in it” (see Acts 17:22–34). The place that the Blessed Virgin Mary holds in the promotion of spirituality derives from her role in the mystery of our redemption. As Blessed Pope John Paul II exclaimed, “The Magnificat expresses Mary’s spirituality.”77 Nothing could be further removed from the strenuous exercises of self-help programs, difficult-to-master therapeutic techniques, or fashionable esotericisms than the simple exclamation of the Blessed Virgin Mary when she met her cousin Elizabeth: “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has regarded the low estate of his handmaiden” (Lk 1:46, 47). It is difficult to envisage any truly Christian program of spirituality or wellness that does not inculcate in its participants a deeper understanding and love of the Blessed Virgin Mary and her “spirituality.” To the extent that Mary’s Magnificat shapes a spiritual activity, there exists solid hope that every believer will come away from it with an understanding deeper than before of how best to exchange conversation with Christ. N&V 77 Ecclesia de Eucharistia, no. 58. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 11, No. 3 (2013): 649–61 649 Hierarchy, Humility, and Holiness: The Meaning of Ecclesial Ranks according to Dionysius the Areopagite A DAM G. C OOPER John Paul II Institute for Marriage and Family Melbourne, Australia THE TERM “hierarchy” is very old. For almost 1,000 years it was thought to be have been coined by none other than Dionysius, the convert of St. Paul following his speech at the Areopagus (cf. Acts 17:34) and who, according to tradition, became the first Christian Bishop of Athens. The term entered into Latin theological tradition in the ninth century, and was taken up along with the deeply mystical theology of Dionysius with broad enthusiasm. But then, at about the time of the Renaissance, the term suddenly came under suspicion. Under the scrutiny of historical-critical research, Dionysius’s writings were found to be the pseudonymous creation of a much-later, sixth-century figure. A further shadow was cast over the term by the Protestant Reformers in the sixteenth century. Despite his early indebtedness to aspects of Dionysius’s theology, Martin Luther soon became one the more hostile opponents of Dionysius’s doctrine of the heavenly and ecclesial “hierarchies.” Luther’s criticism of this theology of hierarchy was to some extent occasioned by its exploitation on the part of certain Catholic theologians in support of the divine institution of the papacy. In fact, as Luther gleefully pointed out, the Dionysian writings say nothing explicit about “the pope, cardinals and archbishops,” and it has been shown that arguments exploiting the Areopagite in this way were often piecemeal.1 Moreover, despite rejecting the validity of the Dionysian 1 Martin Luther, The Babylonian Captivity of the Church (1520), in Luther’s Works, vol. 36, ed. Abdel Ross Wentz (Philadelphia: Muehlenberg Press, 1959), 110; see also Karlfried Froehlich, “Pseudo-Dionysius and the Reformation of the 650 Adam G. Cooper hierarchies for sacramental theology, the proponents of the Lutheran party apparently expressed the desire at least to uphold and preserve “the various ranks of the ecclesiastical hierarchy.”2 Even so, since then the term “hierarchy” and the range of theological ideas connected with it have often been regarded with ambivalence. This essay attempts to provide a renewed investigation into what the Dionysian writings really mean by the term “hierarchy.” The author is of the view that such an investigation may be of especial value today. Echoing Protestant suspicions, the word “hierarchy” in contemporary Catholic conversation is often intended to convey a morally negative meaning.When used to refer to the Pope and Magisterium of the Church, “the hierarchy” commonly seems to indicate an order of authoritative control built on fear and a disordered love of power and prestige. But it will be argued here that the original understanding of the term “hierarchy” in Dionysius’s theology holds out a very positive vision for Church order and life, and indeed, for the legitimate exercise of God-given authority. That is because Dionysius always thinks of ecclesial hierarchy within the wider framework of a vision of the universe where all things are participated expressions of self-diffusive divine goodness, and all are dynamically oriented toward union with the Good by the erotic metaphysical impulse of divine love. Within this universe, ecclesial hierarchies exist to serve a unifying purpose, working to establish harmony, holiness, and humility. These are the concrete ends which hierarchy serves, and to which it is indissolubly bound. Many fine analyses of Dionysius’s theology of hierarchy already exist.3 What I want to offer here, however, is something both more modest and more focused: an examination of hierarchy “at work,” as it were, as it can be found in Dionysius’s classic Letter 8. Sixteenth Century,” in Pseudo-Dionysius: The Complete Works, trans. Colm Luibheid (Classics of Western Spirituality; New York: Paulist Press, 1987), 33–46. 2 With the proviso that they are understood to have been established by human authority. See Apology of the Augsburg Confession 14.1 (1531) in The Book of Concord: The Confessions of the Evangelical Lutheran Church, trans. T. G. Tappert (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1959), 214. 3 Two of the best general introductions to Dionysius in English are Andrew Louth, Denys the Areopagite (London: Continuum, 1989), and Paul Rorem, PseudoDionysius: A Commentary on the Texts and an Introduction to their Influence (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993). For more technical studies see René Roques, L’Univers Dionysien: Structure hiérarchique du Monde selon le pseudo-Denys (Paris: Aubier, 1964) and Ronald F. Hathaway, Hierarchy and the Definition of Order in the Letters of Pseudo-Dionysius (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1969). Hierarchy, Humility, and Holiness 651 Dionysius the Areopagite The figure of Dionysius the Areopagite ( fl. ca. 500) looms large in medieval Christianity. Although to this day his actual identity remains a mystery, sometime in the early sixth century a small body of treatises and letters came to light from Syrian provenance under the name, and prestige, of St. Paul’s Athenian convert. They bore the stamp of a Christian philosopher with a profound theological vision simultaneously informed by a Neoplatonic view of the cosmos, an Alexandrian epistemology of Scripture, a Cyrilline theology of the incarnation, and an experience of the sacraments as means of gracious divine action. Introduced to the west via Eriugena’s Latin translation in the ninth century, the Dionysian writings penetrated to the heart of the medieval Christian mind, shaping the intellectual development of the pre-modern Christian world to a degree second only to that of St. Augustine, and perhaps Boethius.4 In an era taken with Aristotelianism, St. Thomas Aquinas, so often praised or blamed for his synthesis of Christian thought and Aristotelian philosophy, quotes the Neoplatonist Dionysius more often than any other theological authority—after Augustine—save “the philosopher” Aristotle.5 In particular, it was Dionysius’s mysticism of darkness and unknowing that proved most compelling, shaping the outlook of influential figures in Italy (e.g. Giovanni Pico della Mirandola, d. 1494), France (e.g. Jean Gerson, d. 1429), England (e.g. John Colet, d. 1519), and Germany (e.g. Meister Eckhardt, d. 1328). It was not only Dionysius’s mysticism that touched the medieval Christian world. From the twelfth century onward, his ideas on hierarchy were taken up into a wide range of metaphysical, ecclesial, and political theories about how best to structure the world in accordance with a divinely given pattern. Dionysius could not have foreseen the far-reaching impact of his scheme. He was the first to coin the word “hierarchy,” which means “sacred order” or even “administration of holy things.”6 Yet 4 For a general overview see David Knowles,“The Influence of Pseudo-Dionysius on Western Mysticism,” in Christian Spirituality: Essays in Honour of Gordon Rupp, ed. Peter Brooks (London: SCM, 1975), 79–94; Christopher Dawson, Mediaeval Religion (London: Sheed and Ward, 1934), 29–56; David Luscombe, Medieval Thought (A History of Western Philosophy II; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 7–28. 5 St. Thomas became acquainted with Dionysius during his tutelage under Albert the Great in Paris. In all, the works of St. Thomas turn up some seventeen hundred quotations from Dionysius. See Josef Pieper, Introduction to Thomas Aquinas, trans. Richard and Clara Winston (London: Faber and Faber, 1962), 44. On the importance of Dionysius for Aquinas’s metaphysics, see Fran O’Rourke, Pseudo-Dionysius and the Metaphysics of Aquinas (Leiden: Brill, 1992). 6 G. W. H. Lampe, A Patristic Greek Lexicon (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1961), 669. 652 Adam G. Cooper to him, hierarchy had nothing to do with secular power or even with a monarchical system of ecclesiastical government. It is first of all a metaphysical term, referring to the harmonious ontological structure of the created universe, whereby the fulfillment of each being depends on a mutually enriching relation of participation and generosity with other beings. Dionysius defines it as “a sacred order, knowledge and activity that is assimilated, so far as it is possible, to the divine, and which is led up towards the imitation of God in proportion to the illumination granted to it by God.”7 It was this metaphysical aspect of the Dionysian doctrine of hierarchy that most deeply affected the thought of Aquinas, for whom “[e]ach level of being, at its highest peak, participates after a manner in its superior, possessing in rudimentary form and incipient mode the perfection of the level that surpasses it.”8 To think of the universe as a hierarchy is to perceive in it an intrinsic harmony and profound solidarity within which each being, in a manner in keeping with the measure of its nature and aspirations, is dynamically ordered to its perfection in God. The second and related sense Dionysius gives to the word “hierarchy” has to do with it being a means of spiritual illumination by which God communicates knowledge of the world and of himself via the symbols, ranks, and ordered sets of relationships he has set in place in the cosmos and in the Church. Understood in this way, hierarchy is a vital medium of communication and spiritual enrichment. The third meaning of the term understands hierarchy as an activity, and specifically, as an effect of love, which is a unifying power. Thus hierarchy is the living and effective means of bringing creatures into union with God. As Dionysius states, its ultimate goal “is, so far as possible, assimilation to God and union with him” (aphomoiôsis te kai henôsis).9 Dionysius’s Letter 8 Dionysius’s Letter 8 was ostensibly composed to admonish a monk who, by presuming to correct a priest, had usurped his God-given station. It opens by recalling Miriam and Aaron’s rebellion against Moses, who was “more humble than anyone else on the face of the earth” (Nm 12:3). Moving 7 Celestial Hierarchy III.1 (Patrologia Graeca [PG] 3.164D). I have in the main used the translation by Luibheid, Pseudo-Dionysius: The Complete Works, occasionally making my own amendments from the Greek. For ease of reference for readers I have maintained Migne’s column numeration throughout. However, for Letter 8 I have studied the critical text by Gunter Heil and Adolph Martin Ritter, eds., Corpus Dionysiacum II (Patristische Texte und Studien 36; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1991), 171–92. 8 O’Rourke, Pseudo-Dionysius and the Metaphysics of Aquinas, 264. 9 Celestial Hierarchy III.2 (PG 3.165A). Hierarchy, Humility, and Holiness 653 through other biblical examples to Christ, Dionysius argues for the propriety of keeping to one’s rank or station as assigned by God, who mysteriously accords greater place to those who more closely embody divine humility. In studying this letter, we shall see how Dionysius’s conception of hierarchy reveals an understanding of ecclesial ranks not as a system of manipulation or control, but as a means of perfecting holiness and harmony. For a start, many scholars have noted the significance of the placement of Letter 8 in the Dionysian epistolary corpus. Of Dionysius’s ten letters, each is addressed to a person of subsequently higher office. Letters 1–4 are addressed to a monk, the highest of the “lay” orders. Letter 5 is addressed to a deacon; Letter 6 to a priest; Letter 7 to a hierarch (bishop). At this point, however, the order is broken by Letter 8 addressed to the monk Demophilus, who by his behavior has also broken rank. Letter 9 to a hierarch resumes the pattern, with Letter 10 addressed to “John the theologian, apostle and evangelist.” In the letter, which in the view of Hans Urs von Balthasar “surely reflects a historical occurrence,”10 Dionysius assumes the persona of a bishop responding to a pastoral crisis that has come to his attention. Dionysius had become aware of the crisis only by “happening” across a letter penned by Demophilus the monk himself, and upon reading it reports his shock at the contents.11 In it Demophilus had told how, in the middle of the eucharistic synaxis, he had taken exception when a penitent sinner, claiming to have “come solely to find healing for his evil ways,” had thrown himself at the mercy of the presiding priest. At that time in Syrian churches it was customary for the monks, of whom there were thousands in the region, to be situated just outside the doors or iconostasis separating the nave from the “holy of holies,” “not as guards, but so that they may keep their proper order and may be aware of their closer proximity to the laity than to the priests.”12 When the priest looked to take pity on the penitent, Demophilus stepped in and tried to eject the priest, and then, with the aid of fellow monks, forcibly entered the sanctuary and stormed the altar, in his view “providentially” rescuing the sacramental elements from possible defilement. It seems Demophilus had written his letter in response to allegations that he had acted insubordinately. He ultimately tries to defend his actions by asking whether priests are beyond correction. Having studied the account, Dionysius in turn writes to Demophilus with a stinging 10 Hans Urs von Balthasar, The Glory of the Lord: A Theological Aesthetics, ii. Studies in Theological Style: Clerical Styles, trans. Andrew Louth et al. (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1984), 150. 11 Ep. 8 (PG 3.1096A). 12 Ep. 8 (PG 3.1088D). Adam G. Cooper 654 rebuke, couched within a framework that addresses two main concerns: the need to maintain God-given order,13 and the primacy of God-like kindness.14 The abandonment of one leads inexorably to the breakdown of the other. The letter affords a very concrete view of how Dionysius sees hierarchy at work, what its goal is, and how its principles are to be applied to a pastorally sensitive situation. Opening with an exposition of Moses as the prototypical holy man and servant of God (therapôn Theou), who became worthy of the vision of God “by virtue of his great humility” (dia pollên praotêta), Dionysius apparently draws upon an ancient sapiential tradition in which sanctification is said to have been granted to Moses by means of his faithful humility (Sir 45:4).15 Hereby Dionysius paves the way for elaborating a vision of an order of ecclesial vocations graded by increasing humility or gentleness (praotês). These vocations in turn become the vehicle of divine kindness (chrêstotês) or goodness (agathotês). In this scheme, hierarchy or sacred order clearly cannot simply mean a top-down structure of clerical authority. Rather, as Andrew Louth rightly observes, it is, within a network of interdependent relationships, “the outreach of God’s love,”16 or in the words of Dom Denys Rutledge, the order “by which God communicates himself to man, and man, on his side, is gradually assimilated to God.”17 Humility—the deliberate, voluntary acceptance of one’s God-given situation and the opposite of aggressive self-assertion—is the virtue essential to the preservation of sacred order, apart from which such vocational inequalities decay into a system of political coercion.18 Goodness—the extension of mercy to one’s neighbors and antagonists in imitation of God—is the 13 Ep. 8 (PG 3.1088C–1093C). 14 Ep. 8 (PG 3.1093D–1097A). Later mss. include these two concerns in the title: peri idiopragias kai chrêstotêtos (concerning one’s proper work, and kindness). 15 Apostolic Constitutions VI.3 (4th c.) also unites these virtues in the figure of Moses and exhibits similar concerns. Moses’ title as therapôn is closely related to the word Dionysius uses for monk: therapeutês.While Moses is typically presented as a bishop (Ecclesiastical Hierarchy 5 [PG 3.501C]), and elsewhere Dionysius uses also the word monachos for monk, in the letters he uses only therapeutês, which came into common usage from Eusebius, Ecclesiastical HistoryVI.1.3, who in turn took it from Philo’s description of a group of Jewish ascetic contemplatives resident in Egypt (see Philo, On the Contemplative Life, 90). Louth suggests that in Ep. 8 “it is the idea of service, implicit in that word, that governs his [Dionysius’s] presentation of the monastic life in that epistle” (Louth, Denys the Areopagite, 69). 16 Louth, Denys the Areopagite, 41. 17 Denys Rutledge, Cosmic Theology: The Ecclesiastical Hierarchy of Pseudo-Denys: An Introduction (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1964), 49. 18 On the necessity of praotês in bishops, see Ignatius, Letter to the Trallians 3.2; 4.2; Letter to Polycarp 2.1; 6.2; Didache 15.1. Hierarchy, Humility, and Holiness 655 virtue for the sake of which hierarchy exists and which it is intended to cultivate and preserve. Both are manifest typologically in Moses’ various responses to rebellion recorded in Numbers 12 and 16: When these people rose up against him, castigated and threatened him over what had happened, and when they were already at the point of doing violence to him, this meek man (ho praos) called on the Good for salvation and with great mildness made it clear that he was not to blame for all the evils that had befallen his subjects.19 Dionysius’s message to Demophilus is clear: in setting himself against a priest, in abandoning his vocational station, he has transgressed the biblical norm for all whose raison d’être is participation by imitation in the one and only Good. Extending the example from Moses to include David, Job, Joseph, and Abel who, “in conformity with God . . . did good to those who wronged them and extended to them their own abundant goodness so as to bring them gently around to behaving in like manner,”20 Dionysius next invites Demophilus and his fellow readers to lift up their eyes to “receive the beneficent rays of the truly good, the transcendently good Christ.” Here Dionysius exploits the ancient word play, first applied by Justin Martyr, between Christos and chrêstos to depict Christ as the visible paradigm of divine humility and goodness. With images drawn chiefly from Christ’s intercession on the cross and the parable of the prodigal son, we notice how Dionysius’s appeal to Demophilus embeds his exposition within the liturgical context: Does [Christ] not come lovingly to those who have turned away from him? Does he not contend with them and beg them not to spurn his love? Does he not support his accusers and plead on their behalf? He even promises to be concerned for them and when they are far away from him they have only to make a backward turn and there he is, hastening to meet them. He receives them with completely open arms and greets them with the kiss of peace. He does not recriminate over what has happened. Now that they have returned, he pours his kindly love over them. He prepares a feast and summons his good friends so that the house may be full of rejoicers.21 Keeping to One’s Station All this stands as “a just reproach” to Demophilus, and Dionysius has only just begun. From here the letter splits into two parts in which Dionysius 19 Ep. 8 (PG 3.1085AB). 20 Ep. 8 (PG 3.1085BC). 21 Ep. 8 (PG 3.1088A). 656 Adam G. Cooper first treats the question of due order, or keeping to one’s station. Demophilus, we remember, had justified his actions by asserting that even priests need to be corrected. In reply, Dionysius acknowledges this fact, but denounces the idea that this is a monk’s prerogative: It is not permitted that a priest should be corrected by the deacons, who are your superiors, or by the monks, who are of the same rank as you, and this is so even if it would seem that he had in some way misused divine things and even if it could be shown that he had violated some other regulation. Even if disorder and confusion (akosmia kai ataxia) should undermine the most divine ordinances and regulations, that still gives no right, even on God’s behalf, to overturn the order which God himself has established.22 Dionysius then goes on to reassert the propriety of the traditional ecclesial arrangement (diakosmêsis): hierarchs (who as the sacred initiators have immediate access to the holy things), priests (who are messengers and interpreters of the divine judgements), and deacons (who are mediators of illumination to the monks, and responsible for admitting them to tonsure).This order is confirmed for Dionysius by a number of analogous ontological and churchly structures. First, by liturgical topography—the proximity of the various orders to the holy altar. “The position of [the clerical ranks] at the divine altar symbolizes the rank they hold. They see and hear clearly the divine things which are manifested to them. Generously they then come out to those outside the divine veils.”23 Next the order is expounded in more metaphysical, conceptual terms: God is at the center, like a radiating light. Surrounding him in ever-widening circles are the respective ecclesial ranks. Those closest to the center are those who are most receptive to the divine light, and therefore most transparent to it and able to pass it on.24 Later still the order is expounded in psychological, moral terms: Demophilus breaks from his ecclesial station because he has allowed disorder to prevail in his own soul. Anger and desire have usurped the place of reason, which properly ought to “prevail over the inferior things by virtue of its priority.” Ancient thought had long related this distinction in terms of the vertical configuration of the human body: head (logos/reason), heart (thymos/anger) and belly (epithymia/desire). “How can we avoid shame when we witness reason 22 Ep. 8 (PG 3.1088C). Dionysius often defines sin and evil in terms of ataxia or “an inordinate confusion of lawless elements.” See Divine Names IV.31 (PG 3.732B); VIII.9 (PG 3.897B); XI.1 (PG 3.949A). 23 Ep. 8 (PG 3.1089A). 24 Ep. 8 (PG 3.1092B). Hierarchy, Humility, and Holiness 657 harmed by anger and desire, when we see it driven from the authority given to it by God so that in an unholy and unjust manner trouble, discord, and disorder are stirred up in us? That is why our blessed and God-given lawmaker proclaimed that anyone who has not put his own house in order is unfit to hold authority in the Church of God.”25 Dionysius anticipates Demophilus’s response to all this. What if the action itself was still necessary? What if the priest really was in the wrong? Dionysius’s answer is a careful combination of biblical theology and moral philosophy. An intended act of justice, if it takes place outside the legitimate hierarchical order, is only apparently just. Uzziah seemed to be doing right when he burned incense to God; Saul when he offered sacrifice; the demons when they confessed Jesus’ divinity. “But the word of God expels anyone who usurps the functions of another. It teaches that everyone must remain in the order of his ministry.”26 Citing numerous biblical examples—King Uzziah (2 Chr 26:16–21), Miriam (Nm 12:10), the sons of Sceva (Acts 19:11–17), and the false disciples (Mt 7:22)—he continues: Hence it is not permitted, according to the words of Scripture, to perform what may even be a work of justice, except in an appropriate manner (kat’ axian). Everyone must look to himself and, without thinking of more exalted or more profound tasks, he must attend only to what has appropriately (kat’ axian) been assigned to him in his place.27 In short, there is a fine line between faith and presumption.28 Beneath this rationale lies a principle which for us appears to carry a distinctly Donatist ring: only the holy can communicate the holy, only the illuminated can themselves give illumination. Dionysius defines this “divine arrangement” elsewhere: “For one of the divine judgements has laid down that the gifts of God should be duly given to those worthy to receive them, through the mediation of those who are worthy to impart them.”29 Yet scholars defend Dionysius from the charge of Donatism since, unlike the situation forced in the Western Church, he did not separate the traditional expectation that a priest be holy from “the formal question of the source of his sacramental efficacy. . . . [T]he correlation between the worth of the priest and the dignity of his office is imperative.”30 Balthasar likewise 25 Ep. 8 (PG 3.1093AB). 26 Ep. 8 (PG 3.1089C). 27 Ep. 8 (PG 3.1092A). On the special meaning of axia in Dionysius, see Balthasar, Glory of the Lord, 171–72, esp. n. 78. 28 See Ecclesiastical Hierarchy II.3.3 (PG 3.400AB). 29 Ecclesiastical Hierarchy VII.3.6 (PG 3.561B). 30 Louth, Denys the Areopagite, 66. 658 Adam G. Cooper comments: “The ontological worthiness connected with rank always includes the ethical self-realisation of the being that has received such worthiness.”31 “If Denys affirms the principle of Tertullian and the Donatists that only he can mediate who himself possesses, . . . then this is said from no sectarian zeal, but from the ideal of his theological perspective, from which he refuses to stray.The priest and theologian who does not live out the grace of his office departs from the law of being which demands the unity of essential and moral ‘worth.’ ”32 Thus for Dionysius, a priest who really is unworthy of his office automatically loses the illuminating power essential to the carrying out of that office. “A man thus deprived is, in my view, insolent if he muscles in on priestly functions, when, without fear or shame, he unworthily pursues the divine things. He thinks God knows nothing of what is going on within him. He imagines he can deceive the one he falsely calls ‘Father.’ He dares to be like Christ and utter over the divine symbols not anything that I would call prayers but, rather, unholy blasphemies. This is no priest.”33 In this Dionysius follows traditional Greek patristic teaching going back as far as Origen, who wrote, “Where a bishop does not in fact fulfil his spiritual duties, he stands spiritually among the laity whom he ought to lead, and often a layman is a bishop in the eyes of God, even though he has never been made a bishop by any human consecration.”34 No priest or bishop has an unqualified authority, but his authority is contingent upon both his moral fidelity and his unbroken fellowship with the Apostolic communion of truth and love. In this way, God himself deals with the faithless priest. “No law grants Demophilus the right to correct such things.” Justice must be pursued “justly,” that is, each must render to another what accords with the dignity of his station. Which means only those of equal or superior rank may render correction. Monks are to be subject to deacons, deacons to priests, and priests to hierarchs, who in turn are subject to the apostles and their successors. “And should one of the hierarchs fail in his duty then let him be set right by his sacred peers. In this way no order will be disturbed and each person will remain in his own order and in his own ministry.”35 31 Balthasar, Glory of the Lord, 171. 32 Ibid., 175. 33 Ep. 8 (PG 3.1092BC). 34 Quoted in Hans von Campenhausen, Ecclesiastical Authority and Spiritual Power in the Church of the First Three Centuries, trans. J. A. Baker (London: Adam and Charles Black, 1969), 256. 35 Ep. 8 (PG 3.1093C). There is no mention here, where we might expect it, of the subjection of the hierarchs to a single arch-hierarch, such as we find in the Petrine office. Hierarchy, Humility, and Holiness 659 Exercising Divine Kindness Having dealt with the problem of Demophilus’s insubordination, Dionysius now turns to treat his failure to exercise due God-like kindness toward the penitent and priest concerned. Here he again addresses Demophilus in a strongly worded personal tone: I would never have believed that Demophilus could have so little awareness of God’s goodness and of his love for humanity, that he could forget how much he himself needed a merciful Saviour, that he could take it upon himself to reject the priests who are made worthy, out of goodness, and out of a sense of their own frailty, to bear the errors (ta agnoêmata) of the people.36 Dionysius had already spoken of the priest’s function in christological terms, as one who “justifies the ungodly” (Rom 4:4).37 Now with numerous scriptural allusions he consolidates this connection between Christ and the priestly office. As high priest, Christ was set apart from sinners, yet “he made the merciful shepherding of his sheep the proof of love for himself ” ( Jn 21:15–17). He asked the Father to pardon those who mistreated him, and he rebuked those who withheld pity from others (Mt 18:32–33; Lk 9:52–55). Able to sympathize with our weaknesses, Christ “is both blameless and merciful.” Justice and kindness are perfectly united in him. Demophilus’s attempts to cite the zeal of Phineas or Elijah won’t do: For when the disciples who were without a share in gentleness and a good spirit (tou praeos kai agathou pneumatos ametochoi) adduced these examples, Jesus was not persuaded. And indeed this is the way our most divine teacher with gentleness instructs those who oppose the doctrine of God [2 Tim 2:25]. For those who do not know must be taught, not punished, just as we do not beat the blind, but lead them by the hand.38 This whole section swims with compounds of the word “good.” The quest to be like God implies increasing ethical participation in his goodness, manifest primarily in showing mercy to those who do not deserve it, indeed, in actively pursuing them with a view to reconciliation and harmony. If to this point Demophilus has not been moved to contrition, the closing paragraphs of the letter unveil Dionysius’s true understanding of Christ as mediator between God and man, who fulfils his high office by 36 Ep. 8 (PG 3.1096A). 37 Ep. 8 (PG 3.1088B). 38 Ep. 8 (PG 3.1096C). Adam G. Cooper 660 descending to the rank of the lost and suffering on their behalf. Here Dionysius recounts the vision of a priest named Carpos, a man so spiritual that he never celebrated the eucharist without experiencing an ecstatic vision. Yet even this formidable saint was subject to ungodly passion. Faced with the grave infidelity of two parishioners, he knew it was his call to pray for their restoration, to intercede, with Christ, for their souls. Instead, one night, overcome with bitterness, he prayed for their just judgment. Suddenly the room in which he was standing split in two. Above the sky unfolded and Jesus appeared in the heavenly court. Below a chasm yawned, with the two parishioners slipping downwards at the edge. “They were trembling and pitiful; bit by bit they were starting to fall in . . . unwillingly and yet willingly as they were gradually ravaged by evil and at the same time persuaded by its charms.” Carpos, gripped by the spirit of raw justice, saw the answer to his prayer. He raised his hand to beat the two men down, to help them into hell. Suddenly, “moved by compassion,” Jesus descended from his throne and took the two by the hand, one on each side. Then Jesus spoke to Carpos: So your hand is now raised. It only remains for you to strike me. Here I am, ready once again to suffer for man’s salvation, and I would gladly endure it if in this way I could keep people from sin. Look to yourself. Perhaps you would rather live with the serpents in the pit than with God and with the good angels who are the lovers of men.39 So ends the startling vision, and so ends Dionysius’s Letter 8. This image, arguably more than any other, best depicts his theology of hierarchy. Concluding Remarks Dionysius’s notion of ecclesial hierarchy exhibits an understanding of Christian vocation rooted deeply in a vast and harmonious map of the spiritual world, and in which the chief organizing principles are humility and goodness, with holiness its chief goal. Hierarchy implies a social and spiritual order in which each person, in his or her respective sacred estate, is dependent on others, just as the earthly is dependent on the heavenly, and all things on God, the divine “thearchy” and source of all hierarchy. Each person is called to be enriched and perfected by a twofold relation: to those “above” by humbly submitting to their authority and receiving their ministry, and to those “below” by a generous service and ecstatic self-gift. Here there can be no division between the individual 39 Ep. 8 (PG 3.1100CD). Hierarchy, Humility, and Holiness 661 and the communal, the spiritual and the social.40 Salvation and sanctity can be found only in community.41 But community is neither a bland uniformity nor a sheer multiplicity, or else it would lack the promise and order we need to orient our actions of giving and receiving. The ancient Dionysian vision, according to which one can only receive divine holiness through the mediation of other, unequal vocations, surely still bears relevance for our contemporary situation. In the assessment of many cultural commentators, we find ourselves in a society marked above all by elimination of difference (in the name of diversity), and the push for absolute equality (in the name of autonomy) in both the civic and the ecclesiastical spheres. In a world where the only accepted reality is the fruit of one’s own will-power, it is no wonder, to use the words of Philippe Bénéton, that the image or reality evoked by the word hierarchy seems “naked and cold.”42 The contemporary person imagines that he “is liberated from every norm and every model; he no longer forms part of an order that transcends him. He enjoys a sovereign independence.” But as a result, he ends up being “a stranger in the universe.”43 By contrast, the ancient vision we have found exemplified in the theology of Dionysius “justified a spiritual way of viewing tasks, turning them into missions, and thereby engaged the individual quite apart from his will and conferred on him more duties than rights. Each individual found himself bound to a particular place and to a particular task.”44 In sum, the hierarchy Dionysius proposed did not of itself privilege political tyranny or clerical domination. For him, as for the Fathers in general, it was meant to serve a higher goal: that of participating in God’s holiness solely through his goodness, a goodness enacted in Christ’s merciful love for sinners and rendered accessible through the holy and harmonious order of the Church. N&V 40 Balthasar, Glory of the Lord, 161. 41 Celestial Hierarchy III.2 (PG 3.165A). 42 Philippe Bénéton, Equality by Default: An Essay on Modernity as Confinement, trans. Ralph C. Hancock (Wilmington, DE: ISI, 2004), 35. 43 Ibid., 21. 44 Chantal Delsol, Icarus Fallen: The Search for Meaning in an Uncertain World, trans. Robin Dick (Wilmington, DE: ISI, 2003), 144. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 11, No. 3 (2013): 663–72 663 Some Notes on St. Thomas’s Use of “dignitas” L AWRENCE D EWAN, O.P. Dominican University College Ottawa, Canada T HE ORIGINAL impetus for these remarks came from a public debate concerning the use of the terms “dignity” and “autonomy” in bioethics. “Dignity,” as said of the human being, was said by one participant to be open to too many vague suggestions; he favored instead “autonomy” as expressing the most helpful view of the human being for bioethics. The other participant saw no less variability in what “autonomy” was seen to involve, but he noted a remarkable division on key issues by the users of the two words.1 1 I read of the controversy in the August/September 2008 issue of First Things, in Paul Griffiths’s article “The Very Autonomous Steven Pinker.” Griffiths is replying to an article by Pinker in the May 2008 issue of The New Republic, entitled “The Stupidity of Dignity.” Pinker himself was reacting to the volume Human Dignity and Bioethics: Essays Commissioned by the President’s Council on Bioethics, The President’s Council on Bioethics, Washington, DC, March 2008. Griffiths’s list of issues on which the present users of the two words differ reads: “Autonomy-talkers typically support, among many other things, the effective absence of legal constraint on the availability of the following: the taking of human life in the womb; the bringing into being of humans as sources of stem cells; the bringing into being of humans as sources of cells and tissue for other humans (the English have a nice phrase for this—‘savior siblings’); the freedom to kill the sick by removing nutrition and hydration from them; and the medical killing of those who seek and consent to it. Dignity-talkers are likely to oppose these publicpolicy positions. Autonomy-talk, therefore, provides what dignity-talk prevents: To replace the latter with the former yields, on the dominant present understanding, real difference.” 664 Lawrence Dewan, O.P. My aim here is to note a variety of contexts in which St.Thomas employs the Latin term “dignitas,”2 providing us with an idea of the background of some of our own considerations. Dignity and Governance I begin with what seems to me the most “down to earth” use of the conception in St.Thomas, that found in the treatment of the virtue called “observantia,” in the ST II–II, q. 102. Thomas presents a hierarchical sequence of virtues akin to justice.3 The highest in nobility is religion,4 followed by filial piety (including patriotism), and then “observantia.”5 Let us try as a translation “submissiveness.” Thomas has in mind that after God, who is the supreme governor, and one’s father, who has been a source of life and sustenance and education, there is a mode of respect due to those in public office of various sorts, civil, military, educational. He describes our action towards such persons as a “cultus.” This is sometimes translated as “worship,”6 as in, I suppose, “his worship, the mayor.” However, that word is now rather strong for such usage. Let us try “respect.” Question 102, then, is on “observantia.” The first article asks whether it is a special virtue distinct from the others, and the second asks whether it belongs to observantia to exhibit “cultum et honorem,” respect and honor, to those “established in dignity [in dignitate constituta].” Naturally, this expression interested me. I did a search on the words: “in dignitate constitut” and found 30 instances, of which 17 were from this one question 102 in the Secunda secundae.7 Let us note the body of the article: 2 I will use the English word “dignity” in this essay, but I would say that it remains a question to what extent what we shall see about Thomas’s Latin “dignitas” can be carried by the English word. 3 Cf. ST II–II, q. 80, art. unic. where the term “potential part” of justice is used in the introduction, but explained as “virtues annexed to [justice].” The general theory of such annexation is explained at the beginning of the body of the article. 4 Notice that religion is supreme among moral virtues, a virtue superior even to justice: ST II–II, q. 81, a. 6 in corp. and ad 1. 5 The old (and in most things admirable) Dominican translation to be found on the New Advent website has “observance,” i.e., it is not much help. 6 It is so translated in the old Dominican translation. 7 I notice that in ST II–II, q. 183, a. 1 it is the “plebeius,” i.e. the common man, that is contrasted with the person “in dignitate constituta.” One should take account of such texts as II–II, q. 183 on “status,” which seems much more serious than “dignity.” Status relates to freedom and servitude. In 183, a. 1 “dignity and ordinary citizenship” are presented somewhat on an “easy come/easy go” level (like rich and poor), whereas “status” or “standing” is deeper and less changeable. St. Thomas’s Use of Dignitas 665 I answer that, as is clear from things already said, it is necessary that the virtues be distinguished in a descending order in keeping with the excellence of the persons [excellentia personarum] to whom something is to be rendered. Now, just as the father according to the flesh participates in a particular measure in the role of principle which is found in God universally, so also a person who in some respect exercises a providential role towards us participates in what is proper to a father, because the father is the principle of generation and education and discipline and of all those things that pertain to the perfection of human life. Now, a person established in dignity [persona . . . in dignitate constituta] is in the role of a governing principle with respect to some things: for example, the governor of the city in political matters, the army commander in matters of warfare, the teacher in matters of learning, and it is similar in other areas. And thus it is that all such persons are called “fathers” because of the similarity of their solicitude; thus, in Kings 4.5 the servants of Naaman said to him: “Father, if the prophet had spoken to you of some great thing, etc.” And so, just as under religion, through which respect [cultus ] is paid to God there is found in an order piety, through which parents are respected, so under piety is found “submissiveness [observantia]” through which respect [cultus] and honour are shown to persons established in dignity.8 We see that “dignity” has to do with being in a providential position, being actually a source, a principle of well-being in some respect: civil, military, scholastic.9 In 183, q. 2 on diversity of standings and jobs in the Church, after perfection and efficiency the third reason given for them is “dignity and beauty” which is had in a hierarchy of standings and official roles. 8 ST II–II, q. 102, a. 1: “Respondeo dicendum quod, sicut ex dictis patet, necesse est ut eo modo per quendam ordinatum descensum distinguantur virtutes, sicut et excellentia personarum quibus est aliquid reddendum. Sicut autem carnalis pater particulariter participat rationem principii, quae universaliter invenitur in deo; ita etiam persona quae quantum ad aliquid providentiam circa nos gerit, particulariter participat proprietatem patris, quia pater est principium et generationis et educationis et disciplinae, et omnium quae ad perfectionem humanae vitae pertinent. Persona autem in dignitate constituta est sicut principium gubernationis respectu aliquarum rerum, sicut princeps civitatis in rebus civilibus, dux autem exercitus in rebus bellicis, magister autem in disciplinis, et simile est in aliis. Et inde est quod omnes tales personae patres appellantur, propter similitudinem curae, sicut IV Reg. V, servi Naaman dixerunt ad eum, pater, etsi rem grandem dixisset tibi propheta, etc.. Et ideo sicut sub religione, per quam cultus tribuitur deo, quodam ordine invenitur pietas, per quam coluntur parentes; ita sub pietate invenitur observantia, per quam cultus et honor exhibetur personis in dignitate constitutis.” 9 It is in this sense that Thomas describes Our Lord’s status in his earthly life thus [De rationibus fidei, cap. 7]: “Privatus absque dignitate vixit, ut homines ab inordinato appetitu honorum revocaret.” [He lived as a private person, without (a position of) dignity, so as to warn men against the inordinate appetite for honors.] 666 Lawrence Dewan, O.P. The idea is further exhibited in the reply to the second objection. The objection argues that the same sort of treatment is given to those who excel in science and virtue as is given to those “established in dignity,” and yet there is no special virtue by which we honor such people. Why then should there be one for those “in dignity?” And we get the important reply: To the second it is to be said that someone by the fact that he is established in dignity has not merely some excellence of status, but also the power to govern subordinates. Hence the role of principle, inasmuch as he is governor of others, belongs to him. Now, by the [mere] fact that someone is accomplished in science or virtue he does not have the role of principle relative to others, but rather merely an excellence in himself. And therefore a particular virtue is specially determined for the showing of honour and respect for those who are established in dignity. However, because by science and virtue and all such things someone is rendered capable of the status of dignity, the reverence [reverentia] that because of any excellence is shown to some people pertains to the same virtue.10 So the governing role is essential to dignity, but the capacity for it pertains to any excellence. Hierarchy of Dignity among Humans A more universal use of “dignitas,” yet still entirely within human affairs, is seen in Thomas’s Commentary on St. Paul to the Romans: Paul is speaking of those Gentiles who, not having the law, yet obeyed the law written in their hearts.11 Thomas explains: Thirdly, he [Paul] shows their dignity, in this, that, not having such law, they themselves are law for themselves, inasmuch as they fulfill the office of law towards themselves, instructing themselves and inclining 10 ST II–II, q. 102, a. 1, ad 2: “Ad secundum dicendum quod aliquis ex hoc quod est in dignitate constitutus, non solum quandam status excellentiam habet, sed etiam quandam potestatem gubernandi subditos. Unde competit sibi ratio principii, prout est aliorum gubernator. Ex hoc autem quod aliquis habet perfectionem scientiae vel virtutis, non sortitur rationem principii quantum ad alios, sed solum quandam excellentiam in seipso. Et ideo specialiter quaedam virtus determinatur ad exhibendum honorem et cultum his qui sunt in dignitate constituti.Verum quia per scientiam et virtutem, et omnia alia huiusmodi, aliquis idoneus redditur ad dignitatis statum, reverentia quae propter quamcumque excellentiam aliquibus exhibetur, ad eandem virtutem pertinet.” ST II–II, q. 84, a. 1, ad 1 is helpful on modes of reverence. Cf. also II–II, q. 104, a. 2, ad 4. On the nature of reverence, cf. II–II, q. 103, a. 1, obj. 1 and ad 1; also q. 81, a. 2, ad 1, and ultimately II–II, q. 19, a. 9 on reverence and filial fear, the gift of the Spirit. 11 Rom 2:14–15. St. Thomas’s Use of Dignitas 667 themselves towards the good; because, as the Philosopher says,12 law is a statement having compulsive power, issuing from some prudence and understanding. (And so it is said in 1 Timothy 1:9, that law is not laid down for the just, i.e., [such a person] is not coerced by an external law, but is laid down for the unjust, who need to be externally coerced.) And this is the supreme degree of dignity among human beings, i.e. such that they are led to the good [inducantur ad bonum], not by others, but by themselves. But the second degree is of those who are led by others, but without coercion. But the third degree is of those who require coercion in order that they become good. The fourth is of those who cannot be directed to the good even by coercion. “Your sons I have chastised in vain, for they have not taken the lesson” [ Jeremiah 2: 30].13 We are still in the domain of providential care, but it is possible that one be for oneself and others a conduit and source for such care.14 As Thomas says in speaking of natural law, one possesses that law, not as oneself the source of the law, but as receiving the law as a participation in God’s eternal law. In that way, one is a source of providential care for oneself and others.15 At this point “dignity” and, suitably defined, “autonomy” might be the same thing. 12 Aristotle, EN 10.9 (1180a21–24). 13 Thomas, In Ep. Ad Romanos, c. 2, lect. 3: “Tertio ostendit eorum dignitatem, in hoc scilicet quod huiusmodi legem non habentes, ipsi sibi sunt lex, inquantum scilicet funguntur officio legis ad seipsos, instruendo se et inducendo ad bonum, quia, ut philosophus dicit ethic., lex est sermo coactionem habens ab aliqua prudentia et intellectu procedens. Et ideo dicitur I Tim. I, 9, quod iusto lex non est posita, id est, exteriori lege non cogitur, sed posita est iniustis, qui indigent exterius cogi. Et iste est supremus gradus dignitatis in hominibus, ut scilicet non ab aliis, sed a seipsis inducantur ad bonum. Secundus vero gradus est eorum qui inducuntur ab alio, sed sine coactione. Tertius autem est eorum qui coactione indigent ad hoc quod fiant boni. Quartus est eorum qui nec coactione ad bonum dirigi possunt. Ier. II, 30: frustra percussi filios vestros, disciplinam non receperunt.” I notice a resemblance of this doctrine of grades to the citation of Hesiod by Aristotle in EN 1.4 (1095b10) [cf. Thomas, In EN 1.4 (54)]: “Far best is he who knows all things himself; / Good, he who harkens when men counsel right; / But he who neither knows, nor lays to heart / Another’s wisdom, is a useless wight” [Oxford trans.; W. D. Ross]. 14 Cf. ST I–II, q. 91, a. 2 (Ottawa ed., 1210b6–11): “Inter cetera autem rationalis creatura excellentiori quodam modo divinae providentiae subiacet, inquantum et ipsa fit providentiae particeps, sibi ipsi et aliis providens.” [In contrast with the rest of creatures, the rational creature is subject to divine providence in a more excellent degree, and itself is rendered a participant in providence, providing for itself and others.] 15 Cf. ST I–II, q. 90, a. 3, ad 1, and again ST I–II, q. 91, a. 2. —Thus, one can be a “law unto oneself ” but as receiving the law from a higher power. This is not what is usually meant by “autonomy,” but might give to that word a more reasonable 668 Lawrence Dewan, O.P. Dignity of the Human Being as a Person What we have seen thus far has to do with the human being as a divine imitation.16 We see more in the same line by considering the relation of the human being to other created natures. Thus, explaining the appropriateness of the word “person” for speaking of God, Thomas teaches: [The word] “person” . . . signifies a certain nature with a certain measure of existence. Now, the nature that the word “person” includes in its meaning is the most possessed of dignity of all natures, namely the intellectual nature in general. Similarly, the measure of existence that “person” conveys is of highest dignity, viz. that something be existent through itself.17 Thomas indeed presents the word “person” as designed to indicate the sort of superiority that the human being has over other animals. Because actions are in singulars and the human singular, as possessed of reason and choice, is source of actions, and in this is distinct from other animals who are more acted upon than acting, the word “person” had been invented to distinguish the individual substance of a rational nature from the other animals.18 We see in such a text as ST II–II, q. 64, a. 1 how this relation to action expresses the difference between the human animal and the lower animals: a meaning. —In contrast to this, I think of the words of the U.S. Supreme Court in Planned Parenthood vs. Casey: “At the heart of liberty is the right to define one’s own concept of existence, of meaning, of the universe, and of the mystery of human life. Beliefs about these matters could not define the attributes of personhood were they formed under compulsion of the State.” I would say that it is not “compulsion” if one finds a knowledge in one’s own nature. 16 Cf. e.g. ST III, q. 57, a. 6, ad 3: “. . . Christ, by ascending once into heaven, obtained for himself and for us the perpetual right and dignity [ius et dignitatem] of the heavenly dwelling.” Cf. also III, q. 58, a. 4, ad 1&2; I, q. 12, and I–II, qq. 1–5, on beatitude; and I, q. 93, a. 4, on the three levels of man’s being “in the image of God.” — We see nature and supernature as pertaining to the discussion of human dignity. I have left the supernatural dimension aside for the present essay. 17 DP 9.3: Respondeo. Dicendum quod “persona,” sicut dictum est, significat quamdam NATURAM cum quodam MODO EXISTENDI . N ATURA autem, quam “persona” in sua significatione includit, est omnium naturarum DIGNISSIMA , scilicet natura intellectualis secundum genus suum. Similiter etiam MODUS EXISTENDI quem importat “persona” est DIGNISSIMUS , ut scilicet aliquid sit per se existens. Cum ergo omne quod est DIGNISSIMUM in creaturis, Deo sit attribuendum, convenienter nomen “personae” Deo attribui potest, sicut et alia nomina quae proprie dicuntur de Deo. 18 Cf. ST I, q. 29, a. 1 and cf. II–II, q. 64, a. 1, ad 2. The saying that brute animals do not act, but rather are acted upon, “. . . non enim agunt, sed magis aguntur. . .” is attributed by Thomas to St. John Damascene; cf. ST I–II, q. 6, a. 2, obj. 2 (the Ottawa editors send us to De fide orthodoxa, II.27 [PG 94.960]). St. Thomas’s Use of Dignitas 669 difference that can well be expressed as pertaining to human dignity.The very invention of the word “person” pertains to this awareness of human dignity.19 The famous prologue to the second part of the Summa theologiae presents being in the image of God precisely as being source of one’s own operations, that is, personhood. However, the passage I will feature here occurs in the justification of capital punishment. We read: . . . man by sinning recedes from the order of reason; and so he recedes from human dignity [recedit a dignitate humana], inasmuch as man is naturally free and a being whose existence is its own justification [ propter seipsum existens], and he falls in a way [quodammodo] into the servitude proper to beasts [incidit quodammodo in servitutem bestiarum],20 in this respect, that it is ordained concerning him as it is useful for others, in accordance with the Psalm 48: “Man, though he was honoured, did not understand; he has been compared to the stupid beasts, and has been rendered similar to them.”21 And Proverbs 11:29 has: “Who is stupid will serve the wise.”22 And therefore, while it is intrinsically evil to kill a man who abides in his dignity [hominem in sua dignitate manentem], nevertheless it can be good to kill a human being who is a sinner, like killing a beast; for a bad man is worse than a beast, and does more harm, as the Philosopher says in Politics 1.1 (1253a32) and in Ethics 7.6 (1150a7).23 19 A fuller treatment would consider the presentation of the difference between rational creatures and irrational creatures as presented in ScG III, 111–12 in the divine providential plan. 20 In “Thomas Aquinas, Gerard Bradley, and the Death Penalty,” which is chap. 18 in my bookWisdom, Law, and Virtue (New York: Fordham University Press, 2008), I have argued that Thomas here is not in disaccord with Pope John Paul II’s assertion, in Evangelium Vitae 96: “Not even a murderer loses his personal dignity.”The word “quodammodo” is very important. 21 This verse is otherwise translated in modern translations: “. . . Man cannot abide in his pomp; he is like the beasts that perish” [RSV, 49:20]. 22 ”. . . the fool will be servant to the wise” [RSV]. 23 ST II–II, q. 64, a. 2, ad 3: “Ad tertium dicendum quod homo peccando ab ordine rationis recedit, et ideo decidit a dignitate humana, prout scilicet homo est naturaliter liber et propter seipsum existens, et incidit quodammodo in servitutem bestiarum, ut scilicet de ipso ordinetur secundum quod est utile aliis; secundum illud Psalm., ‘Homo, cum in honore esset, non intellexit, comparatus est iumentis insipientibus, et similis factus est illis;’ et Prov. XI dicitur: ‘Qui stultus est serviet sapienti.’ Et ideo quamvis hominem in sua dignitate manentem occidere sit secundum se malum, tamen hominem peccatorem occidere potest esse bonum, sicut occidere bestiam, peior enim est malus homo bestia, et plus nocet, ut Philosophus dicit, in I Polit. et in VII Ethic.” 670 Lawrence Dewan, O.P. Here the “dignity” proper to the human being is described in terms of freedom as contrasted with servitude, an assessment which in the preceding article was linked to our being master of our own actions. However, human dignity is also described here in terms of intrinsically valuable existence. This latter description is well explained in ScG III, where Thomas presents the special character of divine providence regarding the rational creature. The rational or intellectual creatures are provided for just on account of themselves, in contrast to the rest of creatures, which are ordered to the rational creatures. The following argument gives an idea of the sort of distinction which is involved: Whenever some things are ordered to some end, if any among them cannot attain to the end by themselves, it is necessary that they be ordered to those which attain to the end, which are ordered to the end because of themselves: for example, the end of the army is victory, which the soldiers attain by their own act, i.e. by fighting, which soldiers alone are sought after because of themselves [propter se] in the army; but all others, assigned to other tasks, for example looking after the horses, caring for the arms, are sought after because of the soldiers in the army. But it is clear from the foregoing that God is the ultimate end of the universe, whom the intellectual nature alone attains to in himself, knowing and loving him, as is clear from what has been said. Therefore, the intellectual nature alone is sought because of itself in the universe, but all others because of it.24 This gives a hint of the scope of the metaphysical vision of reality involved in such a conception of human dignity. God and the Height of Dignity Having considered “dignity” as used of humans among themselves, and then as used to contrast humans with other animals, let us now consider its use regarding God.25 We see such a use in a remarkable passage from 24 ScG III, 112.3 [ed. Pera no. 2858]: “Amplius. Quandocumque sunt aliqua ordinata ad finem aliquem, si qua inter illa ad finem pertingere non possunt per seipsa, oportet ea ordinari ad illa quae finem consequuntur, quae propter se ordinantur in finem: sicut finis exercitus est victoria, quam milites consequuntur per proprium actum pugnando, qui soli propter se in exercitu quaeruntur; omnes autem alii, ad alia officia deputati, puta ad custodiendum equos, ad parandum arma, propter milites in exercitu quaeruntur. Constat autem ex praemissis finem ultimum universi deum esse, quem sola intellectualis natura consequitur in seipso, eum scilicet cognoscendo et amando, ut ex dictis patet. Sola igitur intellectualis natura est propter se quaesita in universo, alia autem omnia propter ipsam.” 25 I might note that the word is used also in the realm of the mathematical and in science generally; cf. ST I–II, q. 94, a. 2: St. Thomas’s Use of Dignitas 671 Thomas’s Commentary on the Gospel of St. John. Thomas is reviewing the modes of knowing God which the ancient philosophers had developed: Some came to a knowledge of God as regards the dignity of God himself: and these were the Platonists. For they considered that everything that is such through participation is to be traced back to something that is such by its own essence, as to the first and the highest: as all fiery things are traced back to a fire, which is such by its own essence. Therefore, since all the things that are participate in being, and are beings by participation, it is necessary that there be something at the summit of all things that is being itself by its own essence, i.e. that its essence be its being: and this is God, who is most sufficient and most full of dignity, and the most perfect cause of all being, from which all that are participate in being.26 . . . sicut dicit Boetius, in libro De hebdomad., quaedam sunt dignitates vel propositiones per se notae communiter omnibus, et huiusmodi sunt illae propositiones quarum termini sunt omnibus noti, ut, omne totum est maius sua parte, et, quae uni et eidem sunt aequalia, sibi invicem sunt aequalia. [. . . as Boethius says in the book De hebdomad., there are some dignitates, or propositions known by virtue of themselves generally to all, and such are those propositions whose terms are known to all, such as “every whole is greater than its own part,” and “those things that are equal to one and the same thing are equal to each other.”] Cf. also CM 4.5.1 [ed. Cathala no.588]: Primo movet quaestionem, quae est, utrum unius scientiae sit considerare de substantia et de principiis quae in scientiis mathematicis vocantur “dignitates,” aut est alterius et alterius scientiae considerare. Appropriat autem ista principia magis mathematicis scientiis, quia certiores demonstrationes habent, et manifestius istis principiis per se notis utuntur, omnes suas demonstrationes ad haec principia resolventes. [Firstly he poses the question, which is: whether it belongs to one science to consider substance and [also] those principles which in the mathematical sciences are called “dignitates,” or does it belong to diverse sciences to consider these. He [Aristotle] relates these principles more to the mathematical sciences because they have more certain demonstrations and make a more evident use of these principles known by virtue of themselves, tracing back all their demonstrations to those principles.] This usage surely reflects the notion of dominance, governance, by that which has dignity. It is Aristotle himself who has used the word here; the Latin Aristotle in the Thomas edition reads: Dicendum autem, utrum unius, aut diversae scientiae, de vocatis in mathematicis dignitatibus et substantia. [But one must say whether there is one or diverse sciences concerning what are called in mathematics “axioms” and substance.] This is at Metaph. 4.3 (1005a20), and the Greek word is ἀξιωμάτων. 26 St.Thomas, Super evangelium s. Ioannis lectura, prologus s.Thomae (ed. R. Kai, O.P., [Rome and Turin, 1952]: Marietti, no. 5): Quidam autem venerunt in cognitionem Dei ex dignitate ipsius Dei: et isti fuerunt Platonici. Consideraverunt enim quod omne illud quod est secundum participationem, reducitur ad aliquid quod sit illud per suam essentiam, sicut ad primum et 672 Lawrence Dewan, O.P. This is a summary of a metaphysical vision that is central to Thomas’s own teaching, which is thus a vision of supreme divine dignity. In the ST I, q. 44, a. 1 this is seen as presenting the efficient cause of all things.27 One thinks of the deep presence of that first efficient cause in the effects: God is present as to the very esse of things, and thus most intimately. N&V ad summum; sicut omnia ignita per participationem reducuntur ad ignem, qui est per essentiam suam talis. Cum ergo omnia quae sunt, participent esse, et sint per participationem entia, necesse est esse aliquid in cacumine omnium rerum, quod sit ipsum esse per suam essentiam, idest quod sua essentia sit suum esse: et hoc est deus, qui est sufficientissima, et dignissima, et perfectissima causa totius esse, a quo omnia quae sunt, participant esse. Et huius dignitas ostenditur, cum dicitur “super solium excelsum,” quod, secundum Dionysium, ad divinam naturam refertur; Ps. cxii, 4: Excelsus super omnes gentes Dominus. Hanc dignitatem ostendit nobis Ioannes, cum dicit: Et Deus erat Verbum, quasi: Verbum erat Deus, ut ly Verbum ponatur ex parte suppositi, et Deus ex parte appositi.] Speaking of the Word as God shows the dignity of the Word, since “God” indicates a nature having causal primacy. 27 Cf. ST I, q. 8, a. 1 and the doctrine of the Liber de causis, prop. 1: Thomas Aquinas, Super Librum de causis expositio, ed. H. D. Saffrey, O.P. (Fribourg/Louvain: Société philosophique / Nauwelaerts, 1954), 4–10. —English translation: St. Thomas Aquinas, Commentary on the Book of Causes, trans.Vincent A. Guagliardo, O.P., Charles R. Hess, O.P., and Richard C. Taylor (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1996), 5–11. —We note also the vocabulary of “most full of dignity” [dignissimum] in the presentation of God as seen by Thomas in Aristotle’s Metaphysics 12.9 (1274b16): cf. CM 12.11 (ed. Cathala no. 2600): Et ideo dicit hic, quod videtur omnibus apparens, quod principium sit dignissimum. Sed difficultates quaedam emergunt, si quis velit assignare quomodo se habeat ita “quod sit dignissimum,” idest optimum et perfectissimum. [And therefore he says here that it seems evident to all that the principle is most full of dignity. But some difficulties emerge if one wishes to specify just how it is so situated as to be most full of dignity, i.e. best and most perfect.] Notice that the Latin Aristotle, as presented in the Thomas edition, has “divinissimum” (truer to Aristotle) where Thomas himself uses “dignissimum.” We should also note the interpretation of “dignissimum” in terms of the height of goodness and perfection. —I suppose that “divinissimum” is the William of Moerbeke translation; the media translation, as found in Albert the Great’s Metaphysica (ed. Cologne, t. 16/2), has “maxime divinum.” Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 11, No. 3 (2013): 673–706 673 Theology and Philosophy: Inhabiting the Borderlands D OUGLAS FARROW McGill University Montreal, Canada The theology included in holy teaching is different in kind from that theology that is part of philosophy. —Aquinas, Summa Theologiae I, q. 1., a. 1 For as soon as we allow two different callings to combine and run together, we can form no clear notion of the characteristic that distinguishes each by itself. —Kant, The Conflict of the Faculties I.1.A However legitimate or possible this other task may be, the task of dogmatics is set aside when it is pursued. —Barth, Church Dogmatics 1.1 §2 W ITH THESE opening aphorisms—the apparent agreement of which masks still more fundamental disagreements—I may be suspected of stacking the deck, having surrounded an eminent philosopher with two eminent theologians, one on each side; but one of the latter is also an eminent philosopher, and the latter in any case do not see eye to eye on the relation between theology and philosophy. By considering the view of each, I hope to clarify my own view just a little and perhaps yours as well, whatever disagreements we shall discover between ourselves. I hope at all events that you will not have occasion to think (as Kant might) that I have leapt, “like Romulus’s brother, over the wall of An earlier version of this essay was presented to the inaugural meeting of The Fortnightly Philosophy and Theology Seminar at McGill on 22 September 2011. The author is grateful for the responses of its auditors and readers. 674 Douglas Farrow ecclesiastical faith” by meddling in reason; or indeed that I have only “meddled” with reason.1 If we mean to speak of the relation between theology and philosophy, however, we should begin with some highly provisional attempt at definition—highly provisional because nothing stacks the decks like definition! Philosophy, of course, is notoriously difficult to define, and its literal meaning does not suffice to distinguish it from theology. As a working definition I will offer this, cribbed in part from our Philosophy Department’s website: Philosophy is the pursuit of clarity about ourselves, our world, and our place in it, for the sake of the good life;2 in its academic dimension it involves inter alia the study of logic, epistemology, metaphysics, ethics, and aesthetics. Of theology I will say: It is discourse about deity, and the creature in relation to deity, that is disciplined by metaphysics—this is so-called natural or philosophical theology, “in which divine things are considered not as the subject of the science but as principles of the subject,” as Thomas has it—and/or by scripture, liturgy and dogma—this is revealed theology, in which divine things are themselves the subject.3 In its academic dimen1 Immanuel Kant, The Conflict of the Faculties, in Religion and Rational Theology, trans. and ed. Allen Wood and George di Giovanni (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 252. 2 What is missing on that site (www.mcgill.ca/philosophy/undergraduate) is direct reference to the good life, without which philosophy cannot be taken literally as a love of wisdom. Kant, as Gilles Deleuze notes in Kant’s Critical Philosophy: The Doctrine of the Faculties (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1985), 1, “defines philosophy as ‘the science of the relation of all knowledge to the essential ends of human reason,’ or as ‘the love which the reasonable being has for the supreme ends of human reason’ (CPR and Opus postumum, A839/B867)”; or, more fully, as “a science of the human being, of his representations, thoughts and actions,” that “should present all the components of the human being both as he is and as he should be—that is, in terms both of his natural functions and of his relations to morality and freedom” (Kant, Conflict of the Faculties, in Wood and di Giovanni, Religion and Rational Theology, 288). 3 Thomas distinguishes between knowledge of divine things “as their effects reveal them” and “as they reveal themselves.” Hence there are “two kinds of divine science, one, in which divine things are not considered as the subject of the science, but as principles of the subject, which philosophers pursue and which is known as metaphysics, and another, which considers divine things themselves as the subject of the science, and this is the theology which is handed down in Sacred Scripture” (Super Boetium De Trinitate 3, q. 5, a. 4, co. 4). Philosophical theology has as its main subject matter topics such as being, substance, potency, and act, but in treating these things appeals to the divine become necessary. (Leo Elders seems to go too far, then, by defining philosophical theology as “the systematic inquiry about God’s existence and being”; see The Philosophical Theology of St. Thomas Aquinas [Leiden: Theology and Philosophy: Inhabiting the Borderlands 675 sion revealed theology demands, in addition to philosophical and cultural studies, careful study of what is contained in the sources of revelation. Both natural and revealed theology aim at establishing sound speech about God (what Plato calls οἱ τύποι περὶ θεολογίας),4 but the one works with what can be known of God by way of divine effects in creation, and the other devotes itself to the whole knowledge and counsel of God, as disclosed especially in God’s redemptive self-manifestation.5 Which is to say, revealed theology also pursues clarity about ourselves, our world, and our place in it, and does so precisely for the sake of the good life; but it knows quite concretely, from its own sources, what natural theology, on some accounts, also has an inkling of, namely, that “humanity is directed towards God as to an end that surpasses the grasp of its reason,” and that the good life lies in the direction of God, who is goodness itself.6 It knows this with a definiteness and a detail that natural theology lacks, and it speaks of God with a directness proper to itself. I say “on some accounts,” because of course this basically Thomist view is not everyone’s view. Kant and Barth, for example, do not share it. Kant denies revealed theology both the independence and the superiority that Thomas ascribes to it, while at the same time severely restricting the natural theology that Thomas inherited from Greek and Christian sources. Barth not only restricts natural theology but also denies its validity. He emphasizes the grandeur of revealed theology but thinks that grandeur greatly imperiled by natural theology. “Of all disciplines,” he says, theology is the fairest, the one that moves the head and heart most fully, the one that comes closest to human reality, the one that gives the Brill, 1990], 1.) In his Lectures on the Philosophical Doctrine of Religion, Kant defines theology generically as “the system of our cognition of the highest being” (Religion and Rational Theology, 342), but also distinguishes between rational and revealed theology, while subdividing the former into theologia trancendentalum, naturalem, and moralem (346). 4 Republic 379a. 5 Obviously it is only as revealed theology—theology that is happy to take direction from Scripture and tradition, to incorporate their claims into its arguments, and indeed to make their claims the focus of its arguments—that theology is a discipline distinct from philosophy rather than a mere subdivision of it. As Aidan Nichols observes, its special task is “the disciplined exploration of what is contained in revelation,” an exploration that makes the highest demands on reason; for “the wonder, curiosity, and ever-deepening pursuit of truth implicit in the act of faith generate a variety of questions” that must be systematically addressed (“What Theology Is,” www.christendom-awake.org/pages/anichols/theology.htm). 6 ST I, q. 1, a. 1 (trans. F. C. Bauerschmidt, Holy Teaching [Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos, 2005], 32). 676 Douglas Farrow clearest perspective on the truth which every discipline seeks. It is a landscape like of those of Umbria and Tuscany with views which are distant and yet clear, a work of art which is as well-planned and as bizarre as the cathedrals of Cologne or Milan. . . . But of all disciplines theology is also the most difficult and the most dangerous, the one in which a man is most likely to end in despair, or—and this almost worse—in arrogance. Theology can float off into thin air or turn to stone, and worst of all it can become a caricature of itself.7 It is most likely to do so, according to Barth, where it follows the path of those who “think first of cause and effect, of the infinite and the finite, of eternity and time, of idea and phenomenon,” rather than of the selfdetermination of God for man in the person of Jesus Christ.8 Natural theology, if by that we mean right reason and true speech about God based on something other than God’s self-revelation in Christ, is beyond the capacity of fallen man and a repudiation of divine grace. Thomas, for his part, was resident on both sides of the border between philosophy and theology, inhabiting the borderlands as one who sought consistency and coherence between their respective attempts to speak of God. If this distinguishes him from Barth and Kant, how much more from those who, at some distant extreme, shrink altogether either from philosophy, as Barth did not, or from theology, as Kant did not (or not quite)? The pax Thomistica, as we might call it, both respects the border and regards it as a friendly one. But let us look at Kant, then at Barth— for otherwise we cannot understand Barth—before returning to Thomas. 1. Kant’s Philosophical Imperialism We ought really to look first at the Franciscans; that is, at Ockham and the nominalist philosophers who set out on the trail that eventually led round to Kant.9 But for brevity’s sake we go directly to Kant, the mature 7 Quoted in Eberhard Busch, Karl Barth, trans. J. Bowden (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1994), 244, from Barth’s 1934 Calvin lectures in Paris (Eng. trans. God in Action, 1936, 39f.). 8 Church Dogmatics 2.2, ed. G. W. Bromiley and T. F. Torrance (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1957), 148. Barth is thinking first, but not exclusively, of the tendencies of Reformed Scholasticism, over against which he is offering a novel doctrine of election. 9 Like Ockham (see Gordon Leff, William of Ockham [Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1975], 359), Kant also knows that God is inscrutable and that theology is no science. But unlike Ockham, it is anathema to Kant to take on authority truths either about God himself or about God’s relation to the world; all that is left to Kant is the philosophical constraint of theology that was already operative in Ockham, though for Kant theology arises only as an inference from Theology and Philosophy: Inhabiting the Borderlands 677 Kant at that—the Kant who waited out King Frederick William II before issuing The Conflict of the Faculties, in which he tried to put these disciplines in their proper places. Kant, as you know, drew certain distinctions between the higher faculties (medicine, law, and theology in ascending order) and the lower (philosophy). The former, in which people train for professions, are statute- or canon-based, while the latter is truth-based. The former are regulated by the government with a view to generating effective public servants; the latter is free and self-regulating, insofar as it pursues truth for its own sake. The higher faculties must be scrutinized by the lower, then, as regards truth; but the lower is not scrutinized by the higher. With the help of the lower, the higher faculties can learn to interpret and deploy their respective canons to the maximum benefit of society by approximating more closely a rational view of their own subject matter. The professionals they train will in turn influence for the better the government that regulates them. Some day the government may even come to recognize that the lower faculty, by virtue of this role, is the higher, that its free and dispassionate counsel is most to be prized.10 On this scenario the biblical theologian (the one, that is, who deals with revealed theology or theologia empirica) must be contrasted sharply with the rational theologian (whose efforts are devoted to natural theology or theologia rationalis).11 Likewise, “ecclesiastical faith,” which expounds Scripture dogmatically, must be contrasted with the “pure religious faith” that is the product of natural reason.The one, as we know already from Religion within the Boundaries of Mere Reason, is the sum of “certain teachings regarded as divine revelations”; the other, “the sum of all our duties regarded as divine commands.”12 The one may vary from community to community or from culture to culture; the other, precisely as “a purely rational affair,” is universal. Which is to say: there may be many churches or systems of worship, each more or less adequate in its way as a medium of the moral truth that underlies them all. But it is the typical mistake of the theology faculty, and practical reason. (Cf. Michael Gillespie, The Theological Origins of Modernity [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008], 39ff. and 258–63, on Kant’s unsuccessful attempt to provide an answer to the nature/freedom problem posed by Ockham’s nominalism.) 10 Kant, Conflict of the Faculties, in Religion and Rational Theology, 261. 11 “A biblical theologian is, properly speaking, one versed in the Scriptures with regard to ecclesiastical faith, which is based on statutes—that is, on laws proceeding from another person’s act of choice. A rational theologian, on the other hand, is one versed in reason with regard to religious faith, which is based on inner laws that can be developed from every human being’s own decrees” (ibid., 262; cf. 346). 12 Ibid., 261. 678 Douglas Farrow of the biblical theologian, to suppose that the historical particularities to which it professes allegiance (or at least devotes scholarly attention) are somehow essential to pure religious faith. And it is philosophy’s task to expose this error, as Kant himself sets out to do.13 Kant, in other words, reduces the study of revealed theology to a professional discipline in the service of public morality. He does not deny that it is scholarly; indeed, he allows that as an empirical study it is scholarly in a way that natural or rational theology (quite deliberately) is not.14 He does not deny either its utility or the loftiness of its aims. After all, it deals not merely with the body or the body politic (these belong to the faculties of medicine and law respectively) but with the citizen himself and his character, and may come even to a consideration of eternal life. But the biblical theologian must be made to understand that “the moral improvement of the human being is the sole condition of eternal life.” Moreover, he must be made to understand that Scripture is at best an indirect guide to moral improvement and eternal life; indeed, that “the only way we can find eternal life in any scripture whatsoever is by putting it there.”15 He must learn to discover the abiding rational kernel of morality (the true substance of religion) beneath the transitory historical husk (the accidents of tradition). He must recognize that faith invested in the historical particulars themselves, or in the dogmas that arise from those particulars, is irrational. Faith is a posture that reason may produce and adopt for itself, in recognition of the limits of human conformity to reason and of reason’s own limits; but this remains faith in reason. It invests nothing in supposed historical manifestations of the supernatural.16 Now for Kant the opposition between the higher and lower faculties is dialectical, inasmuch as they share a “final end” in the public good.17 That opposition must therefore be adjudicated. But it is the lower faculty itself that will do the adjudicating, producing concordia from discordia, since it is the lower that is characterized by freedom and truth. 13 Biblical particularities—the historical and ritual elements of Judaism and Chris- tianity—are the husks that must be stripped from the kernel of authentic religion: Nunc istae reliquias nos exercent (ibid., 263, quoting Cicero). 14 The faculty of philosophy has an empirical branch but here we are dealing with pure philosophy; more specifically, with the metaphysics of morals (ibid., 256). 15 Ibid., 263. 16 “But it is superstition to hold that historical belief is a duty and essential to salvation” (ibid., 285). 17 This final end, as regards theology, is the cultivation of “inner religion” (ibid., 264, though elsewhere he speaks, curiously, of “final aims”), which produces better deeds and better citizens (see n. at 281). Theology and Philosophy: Inhabiting the Borderlands 679 Where theology is concerned, a major conflict arises with philosophy over the public interpretation of Scripture; this above all must be adjudicated. Kant lays down firm ground-rules, “philosophical principles of scriptural exegesis for settling the conflict”: First, texts that “transcend all rational concepts . . . may be interpreted in the interests of practical reason,” while texts that contradict practical reason must be so interpreted. There is to be no appeal, then, to dogmas such as the resurrection, the incarnation, and the Trinity (which, “taken literally, has no practical relevance at all”); nor to the putative supernatural events on which dogma is based.18 Second, there is to be no denigration of doubt. “The only thing that matters in religion is deeds.”19 Third, there is to be no appeal to grace, if grace means the influence of an external cause in the performance of good deeds. Texts that seem to do so must be Pelagianized by the interpreter.20 Fourth, if a “supernatural supplement” is sometimes required to quell the accusing conscience, the possibility of such may be allowed in the rational interpretation of Scripture, so long as no attempt is made to specify its character or to make definite our knowledge of it—we may allow for fides qua, as it were, but not for fides quae.21 The price of peace between biblical and rational theology, then, or between the faculties of theology and philosophy, is the capitulation of the former to this philosophical policing of its sacred texts; and for such attention, Kant insists, theology should feel grateful. Alternatively, the following compromise is proposed: “If biblical theologians will stop using reason for their purposes, philosophical theologians will stop using the Bible to confirm their [own] propositions.”22 A sharper rebuke is hard to imagine, and it leaves us certain that Kant’s exercise in accommodation is based on practical necessity rather than on interdisciplinary respect. Biblical theology, revealed theology, has 18 Ibid., 264f. 19 Ibid., 267. 20 “Grace is none other than the nature of the human being insofar as he is deter- mined to actions by a principle which is intrinsic to his own being, but supersensible—the thought of his duty” (ibid., 268; cf. Grounding for the Metaphysics of Morals, First Section). Likewise, “Christianity is the Idea of Religion” (269), rather than something supernaturally revealed; it is to be governed not by biblical theology but by rational theology. 21 Texts or dogmas that tend towards a “supernatural supplement” (ibid., 268) must be consigned to discourse about the “vehicles of moral faith,” not to discourse about moral faith itself. “The teacher should warn [the people] not to ascribe holiness to dogma itself but to pass over, without delay, to the religious faith it has introduced” (267). 22 Ibid., 270; cf. 251. 680 Douglas Farrow no credibility except what philosophy can lend it for the sake of its service to morality. The only contribution biblical theology can make from its own resources is to provide vehicles of the imagination that can be commandeered to philosophically determined ends. Religion itself has become in Kant a philosophical concept, and Christianity “the Idea of religion.” Christianity in its historic manifestation, however, is a disposable object. As for Judaism, and the Judaizing sectarianism that still plagues Christianity, pure moral religion is its “euthanasia.”23 What shall we say about all this? No doubt Kant encountered many a Euthyphro, whom he wished, like Socrates, to cure of pious impieties.24 But it will not do, I think, to give an account strictly in terms of the parlous state of Protestant (and Catholic) theology at the time; that would require a different kind of critique altogether, and a different kind of cure. Nor will it will do to reduce the whole business to a misunderstanding about Christian doctrine, though Kant permits himself a generous helping of such misunderstandings. Nor yet will it suffice to give an account that is primarily political or cultural. A glimpse of what is really happening here is available at the point where Kant apparently deploys the epistemology of the Meno dialogue (not the Euthyphro) against the biblical theologians: For the concepts and principles required for eternal life cannot really be learned from anyone else: the teacher’s exposition is only the occasion for him to develop them out of his own reason. But the Scriptures contain more than what is in itself required for eternal life; part of their content is a matter of historical belief, and while this can indeed be useful to religious faith as its mere sensible vehicle (for certain people and certain eras), it is not an essential part of religious faith.25 One does not reason from inspiration, he insists,26 nor is history “entitled to pass itself off as divine revelation.” Only a moral interpretation of Scripture, a philosophical interpretation, “is really an authentic one—that 23 “The great drama of religious change on earth, the restoration of all things,” will take place when there is “only one shepherd and one flock” (ibid., 276). 24 Some of these will have been housed in theology faculties known to Kant, though at Königsberg he seems to have had friends and collaborators on that side (F. T. Rink, e.g.). 25 “Now the faculty of biblical theologians,” he continues (ibid., 263), “insists on this historical content as divine revelation as strongly as if belief in it belonged to religion. The philosophical faculty, however, opposes the theology faculty regarding this confusion, and what divine revelation contains that is true of religion proper.” 26 “One does not argue on the basis of an inspiration” (ibid., 265): Is this also an allusion to the Meno dialogue? Theology and Philosophy: Inhabiting the Borderlands 681 is, one given by the God within us,” who speaks to us only by way of our own moral reason.27 This reminds us of the famous maxim of Lessing, indispensable to the Enlightenment, that “accidental truths of history can never become the proof of necessary truths of reason.”28 In Kant, as in Lessing, there is a Meno revival, we might say, that opposes itself to everything that has intervened in the meanwhile; that is, to all the tiresome “relics” of Jewish or salvation-historical modes of thought that have corrupted the exercise of reason and the Idea or rational archetype of religion that is the true genius of Christianity. Kant is more concerned than Lessing to separate the epistemological from the onto- and cosmo-theological dimensions of Platonism, which indeed he rejects. He is not quite so committed, perhaps, as Lessing (or later, Hegel) to the substitution of universal history, the history of the race, for the particular histories of Israel and the Church.29 But he is equally concerned to disestablish the latter. If there is to be theology at all, it cannot be allowed to root itself in that soil. Which is to say, it cannot be “revealed” theology in that sense, and it cannot be doctrinal. It cannot be taught, much less taught by authority. It is revealed only by and to reason. It is not discovered (as by Moses at the burning bush) but rather uncovered, because it is not accidental or particular but necessary and universal. I said that Kant reduced the study of revealed theology to a professional discipline in the service of public morality; pace St. Thomas it was not truly a science in its own right.30 But at stake, then, was not simply the relation between the human faculties of faith and reason, or between the university faculties of theology and philosophy—though Kant tried, with no small success, to reverse their positions and influence. What was at stake (though Kant was probably not thinking of this) was almost 27 Ibid., 271. Hence he opines in Religion within the Boundaries of Mere Reason that one may do with the sacred text as one pleases, so long as it is made to serve moral reason. 28 On the Proof of the Spirit and of Power. 29 Though, in his treatment of the law faculty, Kant shows that he has his own way of doing this, through a “philosophical prophecy” about “the whole scope of all the peoples on earth” in their “progress toward the better” (Religion and Rational Theology, 304). 30 Kant takes Ockham’s part, as already indicated. Should Scotus be mentioned in this connection as well? By prioritizing will over intellect, does Scotus already reduce theology to scientia practica, making metaphysics the new queen? Or does he make theology a still higher science precisely because it is practical—that is, relational—having as its end the possession of God? But this does not concern us here, since no such thing crosses Kant’s mind. Douglas Farrow 682 everything contained or implied in the first question of the Summa. Providing a negative rather a positive answer to the very first article of that question—“whether, besides philosophy, any further doctrine is required”—Kant also opposed most of the remaining articles. And it is worth observing that, like Thomas, he linked his answer to the doctrine of grace, a doctrine he was at pains to deny, even if it meant denying Luther as well as Thomas.31 Not to put too fine a point on it, for Kant (though his own language is juridical rather than military) the borderlands were a battle zone, and in the battle of the borderlands Kant’s aim was to conquer and occupy: no amicabilis compositio can be permitted.32 The mark of divinity for any purported revelation, he says, or “at least the conditio sine qua non, is its harmony with what reason pronounces worthy of God.”33 For Thomas, knowledge of God transcends reason’s capacity to work things out for itself, and what reason can work out for itself, if only with great difficulty, is made plainer and more obvious by revelation; things uncertain (for example, did the world have a beginning or did it not?) are sometimes settled by revelation.34 Whereas for Kant, substantive knowledge of God is not possible and the supposed science of revelation has no real content of its own at all, whether speculative or practical. The very idea of revelation is useful only in the form of a hortatory “as if ”: what reason demands of us in the moral sphere must be received as if it were a revelation from God, a command of God.35 31 See again Religion Within the Boundaries of Mere Reason, which consciously reverses the Reformation scheme. 32 “This conflict cannot and should not be settled by an amicable accommodation” (Religion and Rational Theology, 260). 33 “The kind of characteristics that experience provides can never show us that a revelation is divine; the mark of its divinity (at least the conditio sine qua non) is its harmony with what reason pronounces worthy of God” (ibid., 270). 34 “It was necessary for man’s salvation that there should be a knowledge revealed by God besides philosophical science built up by human reason” (ST I, q. 1, a. 1). 35 “The divinity of its moral content adequately compensates reason for the humanity of its historical narrative which, like an old parchment that is illegible in places, has to be made intelligible by adjustments and conjectures consistent with the whole. And the divinity of its moral content justifies this statement: that the Bible deserves to be kept, put to moral use, and assigned to religion as its guide just as if it is a divine revelation” (Religion and Rational Theology, 284f.). It is worth remarking that this “as if ” is the mirror image of Anselm’s. Anselm, having discovered truth through revelation, attempts to display it for reason as if reason alone were discovering it. Kant, having discovered truth through reason, allows revelation to display it as if it were the property of revelation. But revelation cannot with authority say other or more than that; it is reason alone that speaks, as Benjamin Whichcote put it, “with the very voice of God.” (Kant, by the way, is mistaken in Theology and Philosophy: Inhabiting the Borderlands 683 2. Barth’s Theological Totalism Friedrich Schleiermacher, who just a few years later was charged with finding a proper place for theology in the new University of Berlin, tried to get round all this by locating religion and theology in the sphere of Gefühl. Religion, he proposed, would be deemed neither knowing nor doing, but feeling; theology, an attempt to articulate the deep sense of awe and dependence arising from an intuition of the unity of all things. This was in some sense a feint or at least a half-measure, as Troeltsch later observed, since Schleiermacher refused to let go entirely of an historical redeemer and an historic redemption; christology was still to control theology. The likes of Ritschl and Harnack provided for subsequent generations something of a more Kantian character, by directing historical scholarship into biblical criticism and a skeptical examination of the development of dogma, while making theology over into a moralistic discipline in the service of social progress. But Karl Barth, who had drunk deeply from both these streams in his formative years, became disenchanted by the latter in particular when, at the outset of the Great War, he discovered how easily a theology reduced to ethics could fail its great ethical tests. A theology committed to soundings of Gefühl did not seem to him adequate either, even where Jesus was proposed ( per Schleiermacher) as the instrument of measurement. So Barth set about reviving revealed theology. The way he went about that invites, in its totalism, analogy with Kant. Not that Barth thought that theology could take charge of philosophy; far from it. But Barth had no place at all for natural theology, or no place that he recognized as such.36 God, argued Barth, is Revealer, Revelation, and Revealedness; that is, Father, Son and Spirit. What is known otherwise, under the rubric “God,” is not in fact God, whether this putative knowledge arises from religion or from first philosophy. For Barth natural theology cannot co-exist alongside revealed theology, since the latter is all an affirmation of grace and the former all a denial. Natural theology is theology that wants to say in advance what God can or cannot be; to make God submit to what reason pronounces worthy of God. Revealed theology is theologia relationis, theology that reports what it has actually heard from thinking that Anselm tried “to establish the necessity of a highest being through mere concepts” [ibid., 349]. Anselm tried only to show that reason’s reach for God falls into incoherence if it tries to bracket out God’s self-existence.) 36 T. F. Torrance pointed out to Barth that there was room inside his theology for a form of natural theology, even if he rejected it as a preambula fidei; see the preface to Torrance’s Space, Time and Resurrection (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998) and cf. “Natural Theology in the Thought of Karl Barth,” in Transformation and Convergence in the Frame of Knowledge (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1984). 684 Douglas Farrow God and so permits reason to be reasonable where God is concerned.The former is presumptuous, and in its presumption both artificial and misleading. The latter is obedient, and in its obedience enlightened and enlightening. Both, humanly speaking, are impossible enterprises, but the latter is (in Franz Overbeck’s phrase) the impossible possibility. A simple illustration of these competing totalisms: Kant thinks Paul’s argument, “If Christ had not risen . . . neither would we rise again,” invalid.37 As for the premise that Christ himself rose, he proposes that moral considerations moved Paul to accept as true a tale otherwise “hard to credit”—the tale being made to serve moral purposes accidentally rather than essentially.38 So even the question of the resurrection of Jesus is historically and theologically inconsequential; what can reasonably be said about the subject of resurrection is determined already by Kant’s moral philosophy. Barth, on the other hand, takes the resurrection of Jesus to be a fact of the utmost consequence—ontologically, morally, and epistemologically too. The cross and resurrection of Jesus are a “bar” to every attempt of fallen man to penetrate the truth about either man or God; at the same time they are the “exit” or way of escape from man’s dilemma. Just because of the resurrection, the truth about God and man that is concentrated in Jesus Christ is self-authenticating; it, or rather he, is capable of reaching back to embrace us even if we, from our own resources, are incapable of reaching out to find or embrace him.39 Barth thus sides with Kierkegaard, who recognizes exactly what the Enlightenment thinkers are up to and what is at stake in their return to the Meno epistemology. In his thought experiment at the outset of the Philosophical Fragments, Kierkegaard makes the point that what confronts us in the gospel of Jesus Christ, crucified and risen, is the possibility that 37 Kant (Religion and Rational Theology, 264) does not actually bother himself with this enthymeme, which contains a valid argument that can be construed as follows: • [Every gift of God to the people of God is a gift given first or pre-eminently to Jesus.] • Resurrection is not a gift given first to Jesus. • Therefore resurrection is not a gift of God to the people of God. Paul of course rejects the minor premise and accepts the major—just the reverse of Kant’s view. 38 Cf. Lessing’s On the Proof of the Spirit and Power, where it is suggested that the resurrection reports may at least be worthy of deliberation and doubt, but for the purposes of establishing sound metaphysics and morals they can be ignored with the same impunity as “the old pious legend that the hand which scatters the seed must wash in snail’s blood seven times for each throw.” 39 Any demand for independent proof of the resurrection ignores the Risen One methodologically and systematically, which is perfectly futile and indeed perverse. Theology and Philosophy: Inhabiting the Borderlands 685 the Greek philosophical tradition, and the Enlightenment with it, is working inside the wrong circle, so to say; that it has presupposed the essential divinity and truthfulness of the soul and consequently produced an epistemology that does not actually correspond to the human condition. What is more, it has understood truth and divinity in ways that effectively negate the value of time, matter, and individuality. Therefore it cannot take seriously what someone like Paul wants to say about the resurrection, a concept to which it is closed a priori and absolutely. Even to have conceived of working in some other circle, such as Paul’s, is an impossibility for it—but it must nonetheless reckon with this “impossible” possibility. Kierkegaard in turn is siding with a tradition extending back to Justin Martyr, who in his Dialogue with Trypho had already made the same basic point; or rather, the old man he encountered by the sea, who converted him from Platonism to Christianity, had made it. But I digress. My own point is that the Christian tradition can only meet the kind of natural theology it encounters in Kant with an equally totalizing claim; there is no middle ground here. Barth himself looks to Anselm rather than to Justin or Kierkegaard to explain how he thinks theology, rational theology, is to be done. Their circle comprises fides, intellegere, probare, delectatio, in that order. Faith explores its own inner ratio through an intellectual and aesthetic appreciation of what is grasped by faith—for example, the resurrection or the Trinity—which issues in demonstration or proof of its surprising propriety and beauty (its convenientia, decentia, pulchritudo, etc.) and hence also in joy, delight, and praise (eucharistia).40 Theology, in other words, cannot survive on the crumbs falling from Kant’s table or from any other philosophical table. It has its own feast to enjoy, and in enjoying it may show philosophy something new, something philosophy did not know how to conceive for itself. Think, for example, of Nicæa’s notoriously controversial ὁμοούσιον, the implications of which prised apart ούσία and ὑπόστᾰσις so as to give ontological weight to the idea of personhood. Or Chalcedon’s equally controversial exception to the Aristotelian principle that there is no φύσις ἀνυπόστᾰτος, blind adherence to which had produced the Nestorian and Eutychian heresies, but the overcoming of which produced not merely two-nature orthodoxy but (inter alia) an unprecedented world of Christian art. Think of Augustine’s de Trinitate, which comes to mind from a long list of examples because its marvelous thirteenth book took the doctrine of the resurrection of the dead and showed that, without it, human reason, human 40 Barth, Anselm: Fides quaerens intellectum (London: SCM, 1960), 13ff. 686 Douglas Farrow morality, and the human drive for happiness are deprived of real hope for fulfillment, and must wither away in pointlessness and despair. Kant, of course, has his own worries about that, and his own rather hesitant and, historically speaking, ineffective solution—pounding ever harder on his “as if,” something we have long since ceased to do—but nowhere does he demonstrate any real grasp of the alternative presented to him by an Augustine, an Anselm, or an Aquinas, much less a Paul. In Kant we seldom encounter anything more than caricatures of these men or of their ideas, though here and there he expropriates something for his own purposes. But what of Barth? Barth too is problematic, in that he seems to have no room for natural theology even where the latter does not mean to be totalizing. Barth finds the doctrine of God in Kant “quite intolerable,” since Kant fails to respect the Thomist maxim, Deus non est in genere, and so does not learn from God how to be reasonable but vainly tries to teach God how to be reasonable.41 Yet Barth balks at that other Thomist maxim, gratia non tollit naturam sed perficit, from which Aquinas draws the conclusion that “natural reason should minister to faith as the natural inclination of the will ministers to charity.”42 In Barth’s mind, Kant and neo-Protestantism generally are no more than extensions of the Catholic error embodied in this non tollit sed perficit. Natural theology, even in the Christian tradition, is for those who think they already know what “God” and “man” are before encountering them concretely in Jesus Christ, where they are mutually interpreted and interpretable. Natural theology is for those who are certain, therefore, to impose on Jesus a false interpretation that prevents, rather than facilitates, any real knowledge of either God or man. It is for those who refuse to see in the Crucified One the death of their own miserable attempts to approach God.43 41 Church Dogmatics (CD ), 2.1 310f. 42 ST I, q. 1, a. 8, ad 2; cf. Super Boetium 1, q. 2, a. 3, co. 1: “I answer that it must be said that gifts of grace are added to those of nature in such a way that they do not destroy the latter, but rather perfect them [dona gratiarum hoc modo naturae adduntur quod eam non tollunt, sed magis perficiunt]; wherefore also the light of faith, which is gratuitously infused into our minds, does not destroy the natural light of cognition, which is in us by nature. For although the natural light of the human mind is insufficient to reveal those truths revealed by faith, yet it is impossible that those things which God has manifested to us by faith should be contrary to those which are evident to us by natural knowledge. In this case one would necessarily be false: and since both kinds of truth are from God, God would be the author of error, a thing which is impossible. Rather, since in imperfect things there is found some imitation of the perfect, though the image is deficient, in those things known by natural reason there are certain similitudes of the truths revealed by faith.” 43 A message well represented, thought Barth, by the “prodigious index finger” of John the Baptist pointing to Christ in Grünewald’s Isenheim altarpiece. Theology and Philosophy: Inhabiting the Borderlands 687 For Barth natural theology is a sin of the intellect that must, so to say, be nailed to the tree. We need to be clear, however, about what he means by natural theology. Natural theology not only posits knowledge of God by way of a general revelation given with creation and accessible to unaided reason (as Paul says: “ever since the creation of the world his invisible nature, namely, his eternal power and deity, has been clearly perceived in the things that have been made”), it also employs this knowledge in a perverse attempt to control the knowledge that is possible through special revelation. It makes general revelation into a prolegomenon for special revelation, in such a way as to establish in advance the conditions under which the latter can be received and understood. In doing so it seeks a path from anthropology to christology, and from a prior knowledge of God the creator to a posterior knowledge of God the redeemer—a path that no longer lies open to reason, if ever it did. In other words, it ignores the fall.44 Indeed, it ignores the fact (as Barth has it) that the covenant of redemption is the inner basis for the covenant of creation. It reverses the ontological and epistemological relation between the two. “There is a way from christology to anthropology, but there is no way from anthropology to christology.”45 Natural theology therefore posits the analogia entis—an analogy of being between God and man rooted in the act of creation—as its own condition of possibility, when the only genuine analogy is an analogia gratiae rooted in the act of redemption. Even if it does so retrospectively, in the light of revelation, it nonetheless supposes that what revelation shows it is simply the truth about what already exists: man’s capacity for God, a capacity that has survived the fall and manifested itself in countless expressions of human reason and culture, which grace now affirms, supports, and perfects. But for Barth this amounts to a denial of grace: Grace which has from the start to share its power with a force of nature is no longer grace, i.e., it cannot be recognised as what the grace of God 44 Barth denies that “the turntable between philosophy and theology” is the man who can be analyzed “in the light of a divine revelation from creation.” Natural theology wrongly thinks that this man, or rather this analysis, can serve “as the introitus to the inner circle of a true theology grounded in a revelatio specialis.” Such an enterprise, however, is only possible “in the realm of Roman Catholicism, since this presupposes that God’s manifestation in our creatureliness, the creation of man which is also the revelation of God, is in some place and in some sense . . . directly discernible by us.” Whereas the truth of the matter is that “this direct discernment of the original relation of God to man . . . has been taken from us by the fall” (CD 1.1 130). 45 Ibid., 131. Douglas Farrow 688 is in the consideration and conception of that divine act, as what it is in Jesus Christ. And therefore revelation which has from the very outset a partner in the reason of the creature, and which cannot be revelation without its co-operation, is no longer revelation. At any rate, it is not the revelation which takes place in the act in which God opens Himself to man in pure goodness; in which He does not find an existing partner in man, but creates a partner; in which even the fact that God is known and knowable is the work of His freedom.46 Barth thus “leaves no room for any knowledge of God apart from the knowledge of humanity’s reconciliation in and through Jesus Christ.”47 Outside of that all is idolatry, whether open or subtle idolatry. As severe as this sounds, it does not amount to a complete rejection of philosophy or of any positive relation between philosophy and theology, only of philosophical pretensions to independent knowledge of God or of the real truth about man, who must indeed be understood by analogy with God—the analogia gratiae. Taking up the gauntlet thrown down by Kant over the proper method of reading Scripture, Barth allows that no one reads Scripture without philosophical spectacles of one prescription or another. “We cannot basically contest the use of philosophy in scriptural exegesis,” he says; “where the question of legitimacy arises is in regard to the How of this use.”48 Indeed, the use of philosophy “is not only unavoidable as such, but legitimate, just as it was not only unavoidable but legitimate when, just as he was, in his poverty and rags, the prodigal son arose and went to his father.”49 But this means that “there is no essential reason for preferring one of these schemes to another.”50 In principle, any philosophy can be put to work, so to say, by the Word of God. “It can be elucidated and then elucidate.” Kant’s challenge is met, then, not by a stubborn insistence on theology rather than philosophy as the dominant partner, but by the relativization of both: 46 CD 2.2 531. 47 Keith Johnson, “Reconsidering Barth’s Rejection of Pryzwara’s Analogia Entis,” Modern Theology 26.4 (2010): 645. Admittedly, my account here to some extent conflates the earlier and the more considered perspectives of Barth. 48 CD 1.2 729f. “It is no more true of anyone that he does not mingle the Gospel with some philosophy, than that here and now he is free from all sin except through faith.” Note that Barth shares with Kant the view that the only border worth talking about is the interpretation of Scripture. 49 “My mode of thought may not be of any use in and by itself, but by the grace of the Word of God why should it not be able to become useful in His service?” (ibid., 731). 50 Ibid., 729. Theology and Philosophy: Inhabiting the Borderlands 689 It is not really a question of replacing philosophy by a dictatorial, absolute and exclusive theology, and again discrediting philosophy as an ancilla theologiae. . . . In face of its object, theology itself can only wish to be ancilla. That is why it cannot assign any other role to philosophy. Scripture alone can be the domina. Hence there is no real cause for disputes about prestige.51 Theology retains a certain primacy, however, for “in the philosophertheologian it is not the philosopher but the theologian who will have to be criticized” in any encounter with the Word of God. This statement is made in good faith, apparently, unlike Kant’s tongue-in-cheek proposal of a truce that would deprive theology of any right to appeal to reason. It nevertheless raises the question whether Barth’s seemingly open border between theology and philosophy is really one sealed against philosophy, or sealed at least against any philosophy not content, so to say, with a tourist visa. “If we do not commit ourselves unreservedly and finally to any specific philosophy, we will not need totally or finally to fear any philosophy.”52 3. The Pax Thomistica If we take Kant and Barth as champions for philosophy and theology respectively, the disciplinary lines seem to be drawn as battle-lines. But 51 Ibid., 734. With this cf. Kant’s ironic concession: “We can also grant the theol- ogy faculty’s proud claim that the philosophy faculty is its handmaid (though the question remains, whether the servant carries her lady’s torch before or her train behind ), provided it is not driven away or silenced” (Religion and Rational Theology, 255). 52 CD 1.2 735. We might illustrate Barth’s approach from his positive use of Karl Jaspers. The two men were colleagues at Basel from 1948, and lectured in close proximity. “Lecture room 2—the biggest which we have here—is the scene of his public activity,” wrote Barth, “while mine is in the more modest Room 1, immediately and literally at his feet. There are plenty of gifted young men going up and down the steps linking the two rooms, like angels up and down Jacob’s ladder” (quoted by Busch, Karl Barth, 351). We are not surprised, then, that in §44.2 of the Dogmatics, “Phenomena of the Human,” Barth allows “that in the existentialist philosophy of today we find in operation a new and serious philosophical concern with the religious question” (CD 3.2 113, quoting Martin Werner, though he might as easily have quoted his own brother, Heinrich Barth). He even allows that in Jaspers—for whom, “in philosophizing, a faith lacking all revelation reaches expression” ( Jaspers, Philosophie 1, v)—“recognisable traces of the proximity of the Christian Church” are to be found, and that these “are more relevant and important than those which with a little good will we can also find in the philosophy of Fichte or Hegel.”Yet this stubborn difference remains: If such a philosophy “has seen a phenomenon of the human” it cannot be said “that it has shown us real man”! But in engaging the question of “real man,” Barth is at his best when he takes on Nietzsche (see CD 3.2 231ff.). 690 Douglas Farrow Kant and Barth are both, in their way, biblicists; that is, they are Protestant. And those fellow Protestants who stand between them, rather than on one side or the other, are exposed to some pretty deadly cross-fire. Barth is right, I think, that their position is untenable, not least because they attempt as Protestants something that is viable only on Catholic principles.53 But we have yet to consider Catholic principles, other than from Barth’s point of view. In keeping with those principles, Vatican I declared it an error, a morally culpable error, to deny that “by the light of natural reason” the existence of the one true God can be known with certitude.54 Of natural theology Catholicism demands little more than this acknowledgment, but it does demand at least this. In practice of course—since it insists on “the mutual assistance of faith and reason,” which “can never be at variance with one another”55—it expects much more and makes frequent appeal to philosophical lines of thought. It simply insists that divine faith exceeds the deliverances of unaided reason without thereby being or becoming unreasonable, and that it is right and proper to believe things on account of the authority of God who reveals them, allowing what is so believed to inform reason in its rightful pursuits.56 So, for example, if I may add to my earlier list, the Church did not hesitate at Lateran IV to insist upon creatio ex nihilo, which theological doctrine (in excess of philosophy) helped to lay the foundations of modern science. Or, on the other hand, to reject Abbot Joachim’s exaggerated view of spiritual perfection by observing (in philosophical fashion) that “between the Creator and the creature so great a likeness cannot be noted without the necessity of noting a greater dissimilarity between them.”57 This kind of thinking—the kind that has both philosophical and theological components, whether or not it is positing an analogia entis—was 53 For Barth there is “no third alternative between that exploitation of the analogia entis which is legitimate only on the basis of Roman Catholicism, between the greatness and misery of a so-called natural knowledge of God in the sense of the Vaticanum, and a Protestant theology which draws from its own source, which stands on its own feet, and which is finally liberated from this secular misery” (CD 1.1 xiii). 54 Heinrich Denzinger, Enchiridion Symbolorum (30th ed., 1954), §1806 (The Sources of Catholic Dogma, trans. R. Deferrari [Fitzwilliam, NH: Loreto Publications, 2002]). 55 Denzinger, §§1797–99. We should be careful here of a certain equivocation between fides qua and fides quae. Faith and reason as human functions should not be at odds, but may be; the true deliverances of reason and of revelation cannot be at odds, even if they seem to be. 56 See Denzinger, §§1810–20. 57 Denzinger, §431. Theology and Philosophy: Inhabiting the Borderlands 691 the kind that Thomas, aided by the recovery of Aristotle, brought to an astonishing level of sophistication, steering as it were between the Scylla and Charybdis that threatened to either side. As William Turner observes in The Catholic Encyclopedia: John Scotus Eriugena, in the ninth century, by his doctrine that all truth is theophany, or showing forth of God, [had] tried to elevate philosophy to the rank of theology, and identify the two in a species of theosophy. Abelard, in the twelfth century, tried to bring theology down to the level of philosophy, and identify both in a rationalistic system. The greatest of the Scholastics in the thirteenth century, especially St. Thomas Aquinas, solved the problem . . . by showing that the two are distinct sciences, and yet that they agree.58 Today the same threats still exist: on the one side in the form of Hegelianism, or perhaps even in the form of Continental philosophy’s vaunted theological turn, which elevates phenomenology into a sort of ordo salutis; and on the other side in the form of those who make revealed theology rest entirely on natural theology, thus justifying Barth’s worry that the analogia entis is “the invention of Antichrist.”59 (The latter often suppose 58 Turner continues: “They are distinct . . . because, while philosophy relies on reason alone, theology uses the truths derived from revelation, and also because there are some truths, the mysteries of Faith, which lie completely outside the domain of philosophy and belong to theology. They agree, and must agree, because God is the author of all truth, and it is impossible to think that he would teach in the natural order anything that contradicts what he teaches in the supernatural order” (“Scholasticism,” The Catholic Encyclopedia, vol. 13 [New York: Robert Appleton Company, 1912]; www.newadvent.org). F. C. Copleston remarks that for Thomas “the distinction between philosophy and theology is a distinction between different ways of arriving at and viewing truths rather than primarily a distinction between propositions considered with respect to their content” (Aquinas [London: Penguin, 1955, 56]). The same could be said of Anselm, I think, though Barth does not consider that. 59 CD 1.1 xiii. Barth sees in Gottlieb Söhngen’s use of the analogia entis “an important deviation” (CD 2.1 81f.). Söhngen insists that noetically esse sequitur operari, even if ontically operari sequitur esse, and that the analogia entis must therefore be subsumed within the analogia fidei. All of this Barth adopts. But is Söhngen the exception Barth thinks he is? And is it true “that there is not a single word in the Vaticanum to suggest that the God referred to is engaged in a work and activity with man”? That it entirely overlooks the unity of the divine action whereby the creator is also the savior, and so posits another God besides the one whom Paul called “the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ”? According to Barth “the intolerable and unpardonable thing in Roman Catholic theology” is that “there is this splitting up of the concept of God, and hand in hand with it the abstraction from the real work and activity of God in favour of a general being 692 Douglas Farrow themselves in harmony with Aquinas, but are not; their approach may be Cartesian or it may be Hobbesian, but it is not Thomist.) A third threat is Barthianism itself, which does not concern itself as far as it should with whether theology and philosophy ought to agree. But from Leo XIII to Benedict XVI a concerted attempt has been made, with considerable of God which He has in common with us and all being” (CD 2.1 84). But the Syllabus of Pius IX (see e.g. Denzinger, §§1704, 1710, 1714, and 1757) denies that the independence of philosophy should be construed in such a fashion. Moreover, Vatican I, which in its chapter on God the creator already commits itself to creatio ex nihilo (ibid., §1783), rules out the splitting up which Barth thinks he finds there: “Since man is wholly dependent on God as his Creator and Lord, and since created reason is completely subject to uncreated truth, we are bound by faith to give full obedience of intellect and will to God who reveals” (§1789). In other words, its “twofold order of knowledge,” in which “we know in one way by natural reason, in another by divine faith” (§1795), holds together—distinguishing without separating—the work of faith and of reason, and the knowledge of God sought by both. Is it not rather Barth who splits up the knowledge of God by failing to allow that such knowledge as every rational creature has of the divine operari, precisely by virtue of being a rational creature, discloses something of the divine esse? Barth’s protest against those who wish to foreclose on the knowledge of God—by deciding in advance of revelation, or apart from faith, the limits of what can or should be said of the divine esse—is entirely legitimate, but against this the Vaticanum protests with equal vigor. (Unlike Barth, it does not misconstrue Thomas, who knows no God who is one but not three, nor any reason that does not lead, if it is right reason, in the direction of the Trinity.) Catholics, of course, are still capable of making the mistake against which this protest is made, if they are not careful to render talk of preambles and presuppositions in a nuanced way. “Faith,” says Thomas, “presupposes natural knowledge even as grace presupposes nature” (ST I, q. 2, a. 2, ad 1). Quite so, and Romanus Cessario elaborates with what seems like a fair question: “If human nature is unintelligible in its own right, what possible sense can be given to the doctrine of the incarnation of the Word? If being is unintelligible, then the revelation of God— who is perfect being—will be perfectly unintelligible” (in Reasons and the Reason of Faith, ed. P. Griffiths and R. Hütter [London: Continuum, 2005], 330; quoted by D. Stephen Long, Speaking of God [Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2009], 72). But we must ask in response how far, and to whom, being is intelligible in its own right, if “in its own right” means within the constraints of philosophy and natural theology. Likewise with human being in particular. Without conceding either that there is no such thing as human nature or that human nature is philosophically inaccessible, we ought to insist that it is only imperfectly accessible and that man has ultimately to learn from God who and what man is, if he really wants to know. This means learning who and what man is from the incarnate One himself, in the Spirit and the Church, rather than from a mere overlay of theological concepts on philosophical ones. It means, therefore, conversion and salvation (cf. Gaudium et Spes 19; Pius XII, Humani Generis, §2ff.). On the other hand, Catholics are also capable of making the Barthian mistake, as Stephen A. Long observes in Natura Pura: On the Recovery of Nature in the Theology and Philosophy: Inhabiting the Borderlands 693 success, to revive the pax Thomistica, in which philosophy qua philosophy and theology qua theology reason together, each respectful of the other. The theological foundation for this—and it can only have a theological foundation, if theology exceeds philosophy—is located especially in the doctrine of bodily resurrection, the very doctrine that Barth thought denied it. For it is that doctrine, more than any other, which insists upon the continuity of grace and nature and demands the non tollit sed perficit. The pax Thomistica, rightly understood, does not entail any concession to philosophy respecting some privileged access to the being of God apart from God’s works. Neither does it divide God, as Barth supposes, when it acknowledges access to God through the work of creation without prior reference to the work of redemption—when it acknowledges “a general and confused” knowledge of God that belongs to man as such.60 It does do that, of course. It holds to a natural knowledge of God because it holds that man, even fallen man, is defined as man by his vocation to happiness, which is but another name for God.61 It holds to the notion that creation itself is a form of grace, that man’s nature is graced. Which is to say, it does indeed understand grace “doubly,” as Barth charges. Or rather it understands grace triply: gratia creans (the gift of being, and of being ordered to God, and of being helped by God)62 is Doctrine of Grace (New York: Fordham University Press, 2010). Long, however, in an otherwise convincing critique of de Lubac, Balthasar, et al., does not attend adequately to the primacy of the second Adam, in whom it is shown that human nature is precisely for communion with God and cannot be grasped properly in any lesser connection (see Irenaeus, Adversus Haereses 5.16.2, and Aquinas, De veritate, q. 18, a. 1, ad 5 and 6; cf. ST I, q. 62, a. 2). Great care must be taken with the claim “that God might without injustice have created man in puris naturalibus” (Long, 269 n.8), which is not the right way to protect the distinction between nature and grace (or gratia creans and gratia elevans), since it hypothesizes a “man” altogether unrelated to Jesus Christ and hence lacking any image-bearing capacity (cf. Adversus Haereses 5.36.3). Whether such a man might have existed is not knowable; certainly he does not exist. 60 ST I, q. 2, a. 1, ad. 1. 61 “For man naturally desires happiness, and what is naturally desired by man must be naturally known to him” (ST I, q. 2, a. 1, ad 1; cf. I–II, q. 3, a. 1). 62 The term gratia creans may not be deployed by Thomas, but the concept is. That concept goes back at least to the fifth-century dispute over Pelagianism, in which St Fulgentius distinguished between saving grace in Jesus Christ and the grace given man in and with his creation (cf. Harnack, History of Dogma 5.256); but in fact it belongs to the doctrine of creatio ex nihilo as we find it already in Irenaeus. The term itself is used by Bernard (Aliae Sententiae, no. 28; PL183, 0754A), who offers a fourfold scheme: “Gratia quadripartita est: gratia creans, gratia redimens sive miserans, gratia donans, gratia remunerans. Prima: Omnia per ipsum facta sunt. Secunda: Verbum caro factum est. Tertia: Plenum gratiae. Quarta: Et veritatis ( Joan. I, 14).” 694 Douglas Farrow exceeded by gratia elevans (making humans capable of deification, of participation in the internal economy of God), which in view of the fall requires also gratia sanans (the healing or redemptive grace that reopens the path to deification).63 These three, though distinct, are all acts of the one true God with corresponding modes of the knowledge of God. The God who is known by man naturally is the same God who is known salvifically and perfectively, though he is not known with the same clarity or in just the same way. That he is known only by virtue of gratia creans, and under the debilitating conditions of the fall, means that he remains to some extent “the unknown God” (Acts 17). It does not mean that he is not known at all or in any way whatsoever. For man would not be man at all if he did not know God at all. So what is the specific contribution of philosophy to such a partnership, a partnership in which knowledge of God is acknowledged to be a, or rather the, desideratum? In a well-known passage from Super Boetium Thomas provides his answer. That is, he sets out his conviction that “in sacred doctrine we are able to make a threefold use of philosophy”: First, to demonstrate those truths that are preambles of faith and that have a necessary place in the science of faith. Such are the truths about God that can be proved by natural reason—that God exists, that God is one; such truths about God or about His creatures, subject to philosophical proof, faith presupposes. 63 Cf. ST I–II, q. 109, a. 2: “Man’s nature may be looked at in two ways: first, in its integrity, as it was in our first parent before sin; secondly, as it is corrupted in us after the sin of our first parent. Now in both states human nature needs the help of God as First Mover, to do or wish any good whatsoever. . . . But in the state of integrity, as regards the sufficiency of the operative power, man by his natural endowments could wish and do the good proportionate to his nature, such as the good of acquired virtue; but not surpassing good, as the good of infused virtue. But in the state of corrupt nature, man falls short of what he could do by his nature, so that he is unable to fulfil it by his own natural powers. Yet because human nature is not altogether corrupted by sin, so as to be shorn of every natural good, even in the state of corrupted nature it can, by virtue of its natural endowments, work some particular good, as to build dwellings, plant vineyards, and the like; yet it cannot do all the good natural to it, so as to fall short in nothing; just as a sick man can of himself make some movements, yet he cannot be perfectly moved with the movements of one in health, unless by the help of medicine he be cured. And thus in the state of perfect nature man needs a gratuitous strength superadded to natural strength for one reason, viz. in order to do and wish supernatural good; but for two reasons, in the state of corrupt nature, viz. in order to be healed, and furthermore in order to carry out works of supernatural virtue, which are meritorious. Beyond this, in both states man needs the Divine help, that he may be moved to act well.” Theology and Philosophy: Inhabiting the Borderlands 695 Second, to give a clearer notion, by certain similitudes, of the truths of faith, as Augustine in his book, De Trinitate, employed many comparisons taken from the teachings of the philosophers to aid understanding of the Trinity. Third, to resist those who speak against the faith, either by showing that their statements are false, or by showing that they are not necessarily true. To which he adds, to the comfort of Barthians: Nevertheless, in the use of philosophy in sacred Scripture, there can be a twofold error: In one way, by using doctrines contrary to faith, which are not truths of philosophy, but rather error, or abuse of philosophy, as Origen did. In another way, by using them in such manner as to include under the measure of philosophy truths of faith, as if one should be willing to believe nothing except what could be held by philosophical reasoning; when, on the contrary, philosophy should be subject to the measure of faith, according to the saying of the Apostle (2 Cor. 10:5), “bringing into captivity every understanding unto the obedience of Christ.”64 To ask and answer this question the other way round—what use is philosophy able to make of revealed theology?—is the task of the Thomist, or at least the cooperative, philosopher.65 The theologian may want to make some suggestions about particulars, however, just as the philosopher will within the present framing. As for Barthians, they may perhaps refuse to be comforted, having noted the apologetic bent of the first and third uses especially, and being wary of purported similitudes and vestigia. But Thomas’s “nevertheless” surely puts paid to any notion that the preambula fidei are what Barth fancies them to be—viz., creaturely constraints on the freedom of God to be who he is and to reveal himself as such—just as it puts paid to Kant’s claim that one does not argue from inspiration. For holy teaching, says Thomas, “makes use also of the authority of philosophers in those questions in which they [are] able to know the truth by natural reason,” albeit “only as inessential and probable arguments.”66 On Thomas‘s view, then, as Servais Pinckaers observes, “theology does not destroy but perfects philosophy.”67 Likewise, faith does not destroy 64 Super Boetium 1, q. 2 a. 3 co. 3. In the biblical text “understanding” ’ is νόημα. 65 How far or in what sense the philosopher needs to be “Thomist” in order to cooperate is an interesting question. Even to be interested in the partnership is already Thomist, of course. 66 ST I, q. 1, a. 8, ad 2. 67 “Far from being separate, much less in competition, these sciences work together through what we could call a vital integration of philosophy and theology. At the 696 Douglas Farrow but perfects reason. It enables reason to over-achieve, we might say, while also enabling the will to outrun the intellect in loving God, hence in finding the good life about which theology and philosophy both must speak.68 And this is just what is required if (as Augustine says) reason itself is not to “end in despair.”69 4. A Thomist Excursus on Barth We may pause briefly to consider Barth more closely from a Catholic point of view. For in his admirable zeal not to concede to man any control over God or the knowledge of God, Barth is obviously much nearer to prompting of the theologian, the philosopher comes to reflect on the fundamental questions about the purpose and meaning of life, about good and evil, about happiness and suffering, about death and the afterlife, and he no longer thinks that only he can offer a complete answer to these problems. The theologian, for his part, needs the philosopher in order to learn how to use his reason with rigor and insight as he investigates the human dimensions of action and to provide him with the necessary categories and language for a sound explanation of the riches of the Gospel and the Christian experience. This sort of association between philosophy and theology is based on St Thomas’ maxim: Gratia non tollit, sed perficit naturam, which could be rephrased: theology does not destroy, but perfects philosophy. In our opinion, however, the principle should not be understood in the sense that philosophy, as a work of reason, must first be constructed while saying to oneself that in any case it will be confirmed by grace, but rather in the opposite sense: we must have the boldness to believe in the Word of God and to abandon ourselves to grace, in the assurance that, far from destroying whatever is true, good and reasonable in philosophy, grace will teach us how to make it our own, to develop it and to perfect it, while revealing to us a broader and more profound wisdom than any human thought, the wisdom given by the Holy Spirit who unites us with the person of Christ and his Cross by teaching us to “live in Christ” ’ (“The Place of Philosophy in Moral Theology,” L’Osservatore Romano, June 16, 1999, 15). 68 “Together, in fact, they answer a question which arises from man’s spiritual nature: what is the true good or genuine happiness? Enlightened by Revelation, the theologian perceives that this spontaneous desire can be fulfilled only by the vision of God because of the openness of the human intellect and will to the infinite. Hence the famous argument about the natural desire to see God, which is the mainspring of St Thomas’ reasoning on this subject. Regarding this vocation, philosophy is both necessary and inadequate. It can neither attain nor even consider such a totally gratuitous and truly supernatural happiness. But although the theologian knows of the call to happiness in God by faith, he still cannot show the paths leading to it without the work of reason, without a philosophical reflection on acts and virtues” (ibid., 14). 69 Augustine, De Trinitate 13; cf. Benedict XVI, who insists that faith is capable of protecting reason “from every temptation to mistrust its own capacities” (“On Aquinas, Philosophy and Theology,” General Audience, 16 June 2010, Zenit). Theology and Philosophy: Inhabiting the Borderlands 697 Thomas than to Kant, who denies such knowledge.70 Yet Barth evades the question of what fallen man can and should know. His refusal to see grace “doubly” as gratia creans and gratia sanans, with gratia elevans as the final cause of both, backs him into a corner. Either nature is a sphere outside of grace and therefore independent of it—whether in Catholic or Protestant form, this view is entirely untenable and can barely attain even to Kant—or nature is altogether absorbed by grace in supralapsarian fashion. While Barth whole-heartedly rejects the former error, he cannot escape the latter. Thus even his ecclesiology becomes prey to occasionalism, which helps to account for his readiness to oppose tradition.71 But did Barth really need to adopt the stance the Vaticanum anathematizes? The conciliar fathers, by declining to absolve fallen man of responsibility to acknowledge the existence of the one true God, did not thereby posit a God other than the one Paul identified as “the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.” Just the opposite. By holding fallen man accountable for such truth about God as can be perceived even “in the things that have been made,” it maintained the unity of that man with the man whom Christ came to save. And no objection should be made here to their appeal to the natural light of reason, for it is not reason that is fallen but the man who reasons. In announcing the good news that he may reason rightly, it is also announced that he is reasoning wrongly when he denies the one true God, even when he is reasoning not from the gospel but in advance of it. 70 Eugene Rogers argues in Thomas Aquinas and Karl Barth: Sacred Doctrine and the Natural Knowledge of God (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame, 1995) for the basic compatibility of the two, furthering the trajectory of Hans Urs von Balthasar in The Theology of Karl Barth, 3d ed. (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 3d ed., 1992). The latter observes, however, that “Barth never leaves the standpoint of pure theology and never sketches out a philosophy as such or a metaphysics that could bridge the divide between theology and philosophy” (36). Barth was concerned “with deflecting the constant threat of philosophy’s encroachments into the field of theology. If he rallied behind Thomism, it was only on two specific points: (1) that there is an authentic creaturely freedom, but that (2) it remains subordinate to the all-determining freedom of God. But he immediately renounced these statements when they purported to be philosophical, for then they threatened to trap theology in a narrow pen. Why? Because then they became anticipatory determinations about things that only the revelation of grace can establish and determine” (130f.). 71 The root of the problem lies in Barth’s conflation of ontology and soteriology, as I have argued elsewhere, not in what Ingolf Dalferth (Theology and Philosophy [Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1988], chap. 10) calls his “method of interiorisation” and “interpretive meta-discourse,” admiration for which I share, the qualification implied by the present essay notwithstanding. 698 Douglas Farrow Barth of course was worried that any reasoning in advance of the gospel endangers the gospel by establishing conditions under which the gospel itself must be judged—a procedure epitomized in Kant’s claim that talk of resurrection is simply morally useful fiction. It does not allow God to be God but requires him to be only such a God as man can conceive or construct for himself; in short, an idol. But Barth was mistaken. It does not follow from the fact that man can pervert knowledge of the one true God into idolatry that he has not got that knowledge in the first place. Nor does it follow that because God is triune, and known to be triune through his saving acts, that he cannot be known in his unity through his creative acts—albeit in a limited and no doubt dangerous way—by appeal to the analogia entis. That it is only under the conditions of the fall that such a dangerous way is attempted does not mean that the attempt itself is a perverse act. Quite the contrary. It is a perverse act when fallen man, not yet in full possession of the gospel of his triune Redeemer, or possessed by it, refuses even to acknowledge the existence and unity of God. Again, it does not follow from the fact that God through word and sacrament produces an analogia entis based on gratia sanans that he has not produced—and maintained in spite of the fall—a lesser analogia based on gratia creans. It does not follow that to enquire after the lesser analogia is to posit an unreal distinction between the one God and the triune God. It does not follow from the fact that fallen man is sometimes inclined to do just that, with a view to avoiding the gospel, that the theologian is catering to this inclination by participating in a discussion of the lesser analogia (though of course he might be). And it is certainly not true that the lesser analogia is either lost or rendered inaccessible because of the fall; for God sends rain, literally and metaphorically, on both the just and the unjust. This is the point at which Barth is most deeply entangled in the heresy of Luther, which is merely a permutation of the heresy of Ockham. Ockham thought that reason and revelation were fundamentally disparate sources of human knowledge, and proposed to reconcile them by taking the latter as raw data received on authority from the Church but interpreted or rendered meaningful (so far as they were capable of meaning) by philosophical reason.72 Luther, for his part, rightly sought the mean72 Ockham is unlike Kant in allowing that theology has real content, even if that content is the delivery of faith rather than of reason. He is unlike Barth because he does not allow for a mode of knowing in theology that is at once trustful, experiential, intellective, and scientific. He is unlike Thomas, in that he isolates theology from philosophy and allows them to be, de facto if not de jure, in competition. (On his relation to Thomas, cf. Alfred Freddoso, “Ockham on Faith and Theology and Philosophy: Inhabiting the Borderlands 699 ing of revealed truths within themselves, but wrongly disparaged both the authority of the Church and the authority of reason. If the disparaging of the authority of the Church made possible Kant’s radical extension and revision of Ockham’s program, the disparaging of both (that is, of reason also) made possible Barth’s adventure in theological totalism, which does not know how to grant philosophy its place, except as something which need not be feared because no final commitment is owed it. This may be an improvement on Luther—Barth after all was a Calvinist—but it is only a modest improvement. We may however agree with Barth that God’s embrace of human beings, so as to elevate them beyond their natural creaturely capacities, equipping them for communion with himself and for authentic personhood, is something that philosophical theology cannot know on its own, nor yet make its own, without passing over into the care of revealed theology. Gratia elevans, which in view of the fall proceeds by way of gratia sanans to the fulfillment of the divine purposes already operative in gratia creans, is accessible to human reason only as the latter is aided by revelation and by the faith it evokes.73 Barth gets it about right—even if he does not get Thomas quite right—in the following passage, which is worth quoting at length: God takes up the cause of the creature, the reality distinct from Himself, in such a way that He accepts it as a reality and intervenes for it in recognition, not in suspension, of its reality. For it as such, He is Reason,” chap. 5 in The Cambridge Companion to Ockham, ed. Paul Vincent Spade [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999]). 73 Not that Barth would put it this way. Balthasar quotes the early Barth to similar effect, however, noting that theology “holds the position ‘toward which the true philosopher will necessarily point (his pointer is the culminating pinnacle of his own work, when he has reached the end of his legitimate reflections; this termination then points to the place occupied by theology) . . . even if as a philosopher he does not draw on theology for his own work’ ” (Balthasar, The Theology of Karl Barth, 149; quoting Zwischen den Zeiten [1927]: 206). The later Barth, too, allows “that philosophy can legitimately pose the question of God as well as of the authentic created nature of the world and the problem of becoming that this entails”—that “this question ‘at the very least lies at that unsettling periphery and borderline of its picture of the world’ ” (Balthasar; quoting CD 3.1 341). Of course he also insists that any philosophical world view “distinguished by a clear and genuine geneseology must necessarily cease to be a mere world-view. At the decisive juncture it must necessarily become identical with the Christian doctrine of creation.” That is, it must “become theological at this point, and base itself on the datum of divine revelation”; while the doctrine of creation, for its part, “cannot itself become a world-view,” nor “base itself on any world-view,” nor “guarantee any world-view” (CD 3.1 343f.). We will return to this dialectic in a moment. Douglas Farrow 700 severe with Himself. He suffers for it. He sacrifices His only Son for it. He does it for the creature as such—which means that God’s mercy does not act in such a way as to overpower and blot out its object. God does not take the place of the creature in such a way as to annihilate it. That He takes its plight to His own heart does not mean that He robs it of its independent life, making the latter a mere potentiality or recollection in His own life. The encounter of His eternal love with the creature existing in space and time does not imply the utter dissolution of its space and time and therefore of its existence as such. The fact that God in His mercy intervenes for it must be understood in the full sense of the two words “for” and “it” in such a way, therefore, that this divine intervention for the creature does not exclude but includes its independent life—whatever the encounter with God may entail for that life—so that the atoning will of God maintains His will and act as the Creator: “What our God has created He will also uphold, and sooner or later control by His grace.” He will control it—but not in such a way that grace means the catastrophic destruction of nature. It means radical judgment upon nature. It means its radical transformation and renewal. But it does not mean its violent end. In this sense we must admit the truth of that maxim of Thomas Aquinas which is so often put to dangerous use and in the first instance was no doubt dangerously meant: gratia non tollit (non destruit) sed ( praesupponit et) perficit naturam.74 We ought not to concede, however, that it was dangerously meant in the first instance. If the Summa both allows and expects of pre- and even antiChristian man a certain inalienable knowledge of God and of the natural order, it does not ever allow to such knowledge the final or controlling word on either.The Summa’s tripartite structure—prima: God, secunda: Man, tertia: the God-man—draws this general and confused knowledge, which philosophy already helps in small part to clarify, into the specific, lucid, and saving knowledge that is mediated by Christ and organized with philosophical as well as theological rigor. “The light of faith, which is gratuitously infused into our minds, does not destroy the natural light of cognition, which is in us by nature”; but it does indeed refract that light through the prism of revelation.75 74 CD 2.1 411. 75 Balthasar tries very hard to read Barth in this Thomist light, notwithstanding the fact that “Barth’s starting point is entirely different from that of Thomism” (The Theology of Karl Barth, 131). Working with the theological anthropology of CD 3.2, he argues that “philosophy in this context is to theology as the abstract is to the concrete and [as] possibility is to reality” (151). “Theological anthropology can and may abstract as long as it comes from the concrete and returns to it” (155). “So long as it is really the abstraction of this concretion, the possibility of this reality, it is legitimate and has its own truth” (151). Theology and Philosophy: Inhabiting the Borderlands 701 5. Philosophia Christiana? For Barth, philosophy has the basic questions asked and answered by theology as “its disturbing margin and border.”76 Philosophy cannot cross that border without becoming theology, for what lies on the other side is not its own. But theology, apparently, can cross the border into the realm of philosophy—in much the same manner “as the Israelites did or should have done on their entry into Canaan: They had to invade Canaan, not as a foreign country which did not belong to them, but as the land of their fathers.”77 For Thomas, on the other hand, this militaristic image is foreign. He envisions rather a cooperative and peaceful cohabitation along a respected border. But if we may ask Barth whether he thinks philosophy is really failed theology—and theology the philosophy that ought to have been, or at least its substitute78—we may also ask Thomas a similar question: Is the peace he envisions really a peace maintained by independent disciplines, between which there is in fact a border, or has the need for a border all but disappeared? Does the pax or pactum between theology and philosophy mean that philosophy itself is somehow Christian? If so, is it still philosophy? This brings us full circle to the question as to what philosophy is. We said that it is the pursuit of clarity about ourselves, our world, and our place in it, for the sake of the good life. It is important to say “for the sake of the good life,” lest philosophy (with its broad reach) be indistinguishable from the more abstract dimensions of other disciplines that inhabit the lower faculty. But if it is for the sake of the good life that philosophy does its work, seeking to discover from the universe, from human society, from the human mind itself, what is good or what makes for good, and where it cannot see good nevertheless to pursue the good of clarity—if 76 CD 3.1 341. 77 CD 2.2 522. The port of entry here is ethics. How to square this with the rejec- tion at CD 1.2.731 of “a dictatorial, absolute and exclusive theology” is not immediately clear. 78 Barth (CD 1.1 3ff.) indicates that there might in principle be philosophia christiana, though in practice it has never existed. Theology is a kind of substitute for it, or a necessary protest against the lack of it. Theology, as an academic enterprise distinct from the Church’s doxological action, comes into existence not because it has its own proper object of study—“all sciences might ultimately be theology,” by taking up “the criticism and correction of talk about God according to the criterion of the Church’s own principle”—but rather because this job has to be done, and is not being done elsewhere.Theology “cannot think of itself as a link in an ordered cosmos, but only as a stop-gap in a disordered cosmos” (10). A Thomist responsio might begin by asking whether this is really adequate to what Barth attempts in the Dogmatics, on which see further Balthasar. Douglas Farrow 702 philosophy, or the ideal of philosophy, is a patient search for truth and understanding out of an abiding love of the good—then it cannot do without some intuited or inherited sense of the good, however provisional and open to revision. It is all fine and well to say that the love of wisdom ( philosophia) is the love of the good, or of the way to the good (for it is wisdom that helps us on our way), and even to say that this is the way of happiness, which all men want. But if philosophy is not to be vain and empty, or utterly confused and incapable of helping us along the way, it must already know something of the good. How else can it hope to discern or disclose the good, and to speak of man “both as he is and as he should be”?79 Philosophy, viewed thus, cannot but have natural theology and natural law (or first philosophy and moral philosophy) as its proper horizons, for unless it is prepared to press its enquiry about the good and about its knowledge of the good through to first principles, its attempt to discern good and evil will be haphazard at best. Moreover, philosophy viewed thus will be open, not closed, to the kind of claim that arises from beyond those horizons in the form of revealed theology, even if it is not competent to judge everything that revealed theology has to say. Why? Because, especially at the level of first principles, it will be aware (if it is not Eunomian) of the fact that it does not know concretely but only abstractly; that its knowledge of the good, taken by itself, is deficient. Its approach to the good and to God, and so to man himself, requires to be augmented and corrected by a knowledge that is more adequate to God. As Thomas says: In the system of philosophy, which considers creatures in themselves and from them leads on to the knowledge of God, the first study is of creatures and the last of God; but in the system of faith, which studies creatures only in their relation to God, the study is first of God and afterwards of creatures; and this is a more perfect view, and more like to the knowledge of God, who, knowing Himself, thence discerns other beings.80 Much effort has been expended in modernity to argue otherwise, of course, often in the name of clarity, though perhaps more obviously out of resistance to Thomas’s conclusion that philosophy “should be subject to the measure of faith.” (We saw this in Kant, who denies that the “more perfect view” is possible.) But any attempt to isolate philosophy from theology is self-defeating. Far from assuring that philosophy retains its own vocation 79 Kant (see note 2 above). 80 Summa contra Gentiles 2.4. The final clause (qui seipsum cognoscens alia intuetur) and the construct as a whole may be accused of “onto-theology,” but only if what Thomas the theologian actually has to say about God is ignored. Theology and Philosophy: Inhabiting the Borderlands 703 and liberty as an act of reasoning from and about the world, it forces philosophy to transgress its vocation and to lose its liberty by becoming a sort of faux theology. Philosophy then tries to discover, not only in the universe and in human society, but ultimately in the mind or will itself, something that is not actually there: the Good that is the source of goodness; or, at all events, something that is good in itself without qualification.81 This latter kind of philosophy leads sooner or later to despair, despair even of reason. For it cannot find what it is looking for, and it can never lead to that which all men want. In refusing to learn of God from God, it cannot know the mind or heart of man either. In declining to hear of man’s redemption, it cannot reckon with his fall, which is fatal to the whole enterprise of philosophy. For the fall skews the proper relation between is and ought, and our perception of that relation; it corrupts our sense of what is true and right. Plato, for want of the requisite revelation, may be mistaken in his construal of the κόσμος νοητός and the afterlife of the soul, but he is correct in saying that “a man must take with him into the world below an adamantine faith in truth and right.”82 And whence arises this faith, if it is not merely blind, and therefore doubtful, but rather adamantine? It arises in response to what is known to be trustworthy. It arises in response to what has shown itself trustworthy. It arises, on the Christian account, in response to the God of Israel, the Father of Jesus Christ, who is indeed ready to make us able “to learn and discern between good and evil.”83 One burden of revealed theology is to explain how it arises and how it is maintained, and thus to perfect philosophy by bringing it—precisely as human reason that begins with man and the world—into communion with divine reason, the reason that was with God in the beginning and for our sake came into the world.84 Now this perfection is not a sublation. Revealed theology does not substitute for philosophy, nor philosophy for revealed theology. But no 81 When Kant says that “there is no possibility of thinking of anything at all in the world, or even out of it, which can be regarded as good without qualification, except a good will” (Grounding for the Metaphysics of Morals, First Section), he is trying to avoid what he calls “misology”—hatred or distrust of reason. There is not room here to show why he does not succeed, but only to remark that reason is better served by saying with Jesus that “there is none good but God” (Mk 10:18). And to add that, if this were understood, the subsequent attempts by Fichte and Hegel et al. to put the human knower and willer where Thomas has the divine would be seen for what they really are: the impossible inflation of philosophy and the reason for its eventual collapse through despair of the good. 82 Plato, Republic 10, 619a ( Jowett). 83 Ibid., 618c. 84 See John 1:1–18. 704 Douglas Farrow philosophy, whatever it communes with, can evade its responsibility to take certain decisions about the Good and the good life, for philosophy that denies itself any attempt to rise to a clearer knowledge of the good ceases to be philosophy.85 And as these decisions are taken, it will necessarily take on the character that corresponds to them. If with Thomas, in contrast to Aristotle or Averroes, for example, the world is understood not only as having God as its cause but as having this God—the Holy Trinity—as its cause, philosophy’s act of reasoning, both in its selection of problems to which to attend and in its way of attending to them, will change. Even the meaning of “cause” will change, as will the meaning of being, unity, truth, freedom, goodness, etc., under the impact of the analogia gratiae that reforms and perfects the analogia entis. Logic will not change, but epistemology, metaphysics, ethics, and aesthetics will change because new light will be cast upon them.To receive and reflect that light is what it means to be subject to the measure of faith. So in that sense it is quite right to speak of Christian philosophy, even of Augustinian or Thomist philosophy, just as it is right to speak of Greek or Enlightenment philosophy, even of Aristotelian, Kantian, or Heideggerian philosophy—to say nothing of Hindu or Buddhist philosophy. There is no philosophy povera et nuda. Yet to speak of Christian philosophy does not elide the distinction between philosophy and theology; neither is deprived of its own vocation, tasks, and liberties. It does not even decide in advance between philosophies. “In itself the term is valid,” says John Paul II, “but it should not be misunderstood: it in no way intends to suggest that there is an official philosophy of the Church, since the faith as such is not a philosophy. The term seeks rather to indicate a Christian way of philosophizing, a philosophical speculation conceived in dynamic union with faith.”86 Which means a way of philosophizing that in reasoning from the world benefits from the light shed on the world by 85 The attempt may be restricted or distorted by certain anti-metaphysical commit- ments, as in Kant’s Grounding for the Metaphysics of Morals or, more dramatically, in Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil. It may even be almost entirely implicit, rather than explicit, in a given enterprise. But every exercise of reason is directed by and to some perceived good, and philosophical reason—though it is not by itself sufficient for it—has no more definitive or indispensable task than to learn the discernment of good and evil. 86 It should be noted that John Paul deploys “faith” here both in the sense of fides qua and of fides quae. Otherwise put, Christian philosophy has a subjective aspect, “in the sense that faith purifies reason,” and an objective aspect, in that revelation “clearly proposes certain truths which might never have been discovered by reason unaided.” These together “broaden reason’s scope for action” (Fides et Ratio §76; cf. §103). Theology and Philosophy: Inhabiting the Borderlands 705 special revelation; not a way of philosophizing that welcomes the unnatural and diseased hybrid (rejected by Thomas and Barth) that so often passes for theology today. As soon as we speak of Christian philosophy, however, it becomes evident that what we are calling the pax Thomistica does not extend to every particular philosophy in the same way or to the same degree. How could it? The theologian will have both philosophical and theological reasons for preferring one to another, and will in any case have to insist on certain principles that make some partnerships impractical if not impossible; likewise the philosopher, who will not regard theology with indifference.87 Yet the offer of peace can be extended from the side of theology to any philosophical endeavor insofar as it does not contradict, materially or methodologically, what (pace Descartes) is not for the Church actually in doubt; that is, what is known about man and the world through the knowledge of divine things, divinely revealed. And why should that offer not be welcomed, on the other side, by anyone who is not completely certain that it must be left to philosophy to determine the limits of human knowledge? Why indeed should it not be welcomed even by those who are certain? Whatever the illusions or misunderstandings of theology, whatever the vincible or invincible ignorance with which it may be charged, there is no denying that philosophy has frequently been in its debt and might become so again. This peace is not merely a negative peace, a sort of toleration, but a positive and cooperative peace from which new possibilities emerge for both theology and philosophy. Witness again the subject of personhood, which (as I said) first emerged for theology and philosophy from discussion of the triune identity. Philosophy, in its various Græco-Roman forms, contributed terms or concepts such as ούσία, ὑπόστᾰσις and πρόσωπον. Christian theology contributed an understanding of Father, Son, and Spirit, drawn from the economy of revelation, that required a new configuration of these terms and concepts—uniting ὑπόστᾰσις more closely to πρόσωπον, so that being and personhood might be mutually defining in an ontology of communion. And this in turn was used both for theological purposes (in ecclesiology, say) and for philosophical purposes (in thinking about language and psychology, rights and freedoms, and other anthropological issues that extend beyond the Church). The subject of being itself was transformed when it was understood that 87 Regrettably, the task of showing how Barth and Aquinas agree and differ on the question of what theology is, and on what philosophia christiana is or might be— which ought to be pursued further just here—must instead be left to another occasion. 706 Douglas Farrow the being of God is irreducibly a being in communion.88 For we do not learn from the study of being very much, perhaps, about what it means to be God; but from the study of God we learn a great deal about what it means to be. Or we may do so, by way of a christologically informed analogia entis that carries us beyond the apophatic and lends to the via eminentiae its rightful content.89 If we do so, we inhabit the borderlands where philosophy and theology are not isolated or even competing disciplines, but semi-autonomous members of an intellectual commonwealth. Since that commonwealth exists in service to “the supremely cooperative, supremely ordered association of those who enjoy God and one another in God,”90 the high knowledge it pursues requires “angels ascending and descending”—men and women doing the work of philosophy as of theology, but united (to one degree or another) in faith as in reason. And if few there be who, like Thomas, move with equal facility in both directions without becoming confused or disoriented, that only makes more evident the necessity and benefit of working together. N&V 88 It could hardly be otherwise, since the Incarnation requires not only that ontol- ogy make room for real relations in God (Ockham, Sent. 1.26.1; cf. Spade, Cambridge Companion to Ockham, 104f., 343ff.) but also that it make room for real relations in creation (on which see especially John Zizioulas, Being as Communion [New York: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1985]). 89 I have remarked elsewhere on this rightful—that is, christological—content which makes possible true knowledge of God and of man (cf. “Apophatic Theology,” in vol. 1 of Religion Past and Present [Leiden: Brill, 2006]; Ascension and Ecclesia [Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1999], 133–39; Ascension Theology [London: T&T Clark, 2011], 144ff.). It suffices here to quote Fides et Ratio §92: “The Truth, which is Christ, imposes itself as an all-embracing authority which holds out to theology and philosophy alike the prospect of support, stimulation and increase (cf. Eph 4:15).” 90 Augustine, City of God 19.13. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 11, No. 3 (2013): 707–49 707 Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way E DWARD F ESER Pasadena City College Pasadena, CA I. Introduction I N THE Summa theologiae, Aquinas puts forward Five Ways of demonstrating the existence of God. The Fifth Way is stated as follows: The fifth way is taken from the governance of the world. We see that things which lack intelligence, such as natural bodies, act for an end, and this is evident from their acting always, or nearly always, in the same way, so as to obtain the best result. Hence it is plain that not fortuitously, but designedly, do they achieve their end. Now whatever lacks intelligence cannot move towards an end, unless it be directed by some being endowed with knowledge and intelligence; as the arrow is shot to its mark by the archer. Therefore some intelligent being exists by whom all natural things are directed to their end; and this being we call God.1 Insofar as this argument affirms that final causality or teleology is inherent to the natural order, it is Aristotelian in spirit. Insofar as it explains this teleology in terms of a divine intelligence, the argument may seem reminiscent of “design arguments” of the sort associated with William Paley. But while the Fifth Way does indeed proceed from Aristotelian premises, it takes them in a theological direction Aristotle himself refrained from going in. At the same time, Aquinas’s essentially Aristotelian conception of teleology, however modified, radically differentiates the proof from the non-Aristotelian “design arguments” of Paley and 1 Summa theologiae I, q. 2, a. 3. All quotes from the Summa theologiae are taken from St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica, trans. Fathers of the English Dominican Province (New York: Benziger Brothers, 1948). 708 Edward Feser other modern philosophers. The Fifth Way’s account of natural teleology constitutes a middle position between what we might call the radically immanent teleology of Aristotle and the radically extrinsic teleology of Paley. Moreover, while it is paid less attention by contemporary philosophers than is Paley’s argument, Aquinas’s proof is more philosophically formidable and theologically sound, or so I would argue. The next section will spell out the conception of natural teleology that Aquinas shares with Aristotle and which underlies the Fifth Way. In section III we will see that, though Aristotle believed that the motion we observe in the world must be sustained by an Unmoved Mover, such a divine source was not in his view necessary to account for teleology. Section IV will show how Paley’s argument for a divine “watchmaker” presupposes a modern “mechanistic” conception of nature that is fundamentally at odds with the Aristotelian one that informs Aquinas’s argument. In sections V and VI we will see how the Fifth Way contends that even given an Aristotelian conception of teleology as immanent to the natural world, a divine intelligence is, contrary to what Aristotle thought, necessary to account for its existence—though for reasons (and with consequences) that are very different from the sort we find in Paley. In section VII we will look more carefully at the differences between Aquinas and Paley with a view to their theological implications. Finally, in section VIII we will see that, even outside the orbit of Thomists, many contemporary metaphysicians and philosophers of science are returning to a broadly Aristotelian conception of nature, so that to differentiate Aquinas from Paley is by no means to make him less relevant to the contemporary discussion. II. Nature versus Art For a thing to exhibit teleology or final causality is for it to be oriented toward some end or goal, as an acorn is oriented toward becoming an oak or a watch is oriented toward telling time. Acorns and watches differ, though, in that the former are natural objects while the latter are artifacts—products of human “art” or ingenuity. And understanding how Aristotle and Aquinas regard teleology as immanent rather than extrinsic to the natural order requires understanding the Aristotelian distinction between natural objects or substances on the one hand, and everyday artifacts and other accidental arrangements on the other hand.2 Aristotle sets the theme in the Physics: 2 For a more detailed discussion of the Aristotelian-Thomistic understanding of tele- ology than I can offer here, see my books Aquinas (Oxford: Oneworld Publications, 2009), especially 16–19, 36–51, 112–20, and 177–82, and The Last Superstition: A Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way 709 Some things exist by nature, others are due to other causes. Natural objects include animals and their parts, plants and simple bodies like earth, fire, air and water. . . . The obvious difference between all these things and things which are not natural is that each of the natural ones contains within itself a source of change and of stability, in respect of either movement or increase and decrease or alteration. On the other hand, something like a bed or a cloak has no intrinsic impulse for change—at least, they do not under that particular description and to the extent that they are a result of human skill, but they do in so far as and to the extent that they are coincidentally made out of stone or earth or some combination of the two. The nature of a thing, then, is a certain principle and cause of change and stability in the thing, and it is directly present in it—which is to say that it is present in its own right and not coincidentally.3 The basic idea, then, is that a natural object is one whose characteristic behavior—the ways in which it manifests either stability or changes of various sorts—derives from something intrinsic to it. A non-natural object is one which does not have such an intrinsic principle of its characteristic behavior; only the natural objects out of which it is made have such a principle. We can illustrate the distinction with a simple example. A liana vine—the kind of vine Tarzan likes to swing on—is a natural object. A hammock that Tarzan might construct from living liana vines is a kind of artifact, and not a natural object.The parts of the liana vine have an inherent tendency to function together to allow the liana to exhibit the growth patterns it does, to take in water and nutrients, and so forth. By contrast, the parts of the hammock—the liana vines themselves—have no inherent tendency to function together as a hammock. Rather, they must be arranged by Tarzan to do so, and left to their own devices—that is to say, without pruning, occasional rearrangement, and the like—they will tend to grow the way they otherwise would have had Tarzan not interfered with them, including in ways that will impede their performance as a hammock. Their natural tendency is to be liana-like and not hammock-like; the hammock-like function they perform after Tarzan ties them together is extrinsic or imposed from outside, while the liana-like functions are intrinsic or immanent to them.4 Refutation of the New Atheism (South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press, 2008), especially 62–72 and 235–65; and my article “Teleology: A Shopper’s Guide,” Philosophia Christi 12, no. 1 (2010). 3 Physics, Book II, Part 1, in Aristotle, Physics, trans. Robin Waterfield (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 33. 4 Cf. Aristotle’s example (borrowed from an earlier thinker, Antiphon): “[I]f you bury a [wooden] bed and, as it rots, it manages to send up a shoot, the result is 710 Edward Feser To put the point in terms of traditional Scholastic jargon, a liana vine is a compound of substantial form and prime matter (that is, matter devoid of any form at all—something which for the Aristotelian is only an abstraction, since matter in the actual world always has some substantial form or other). The hammock qua hammock is not such a compound. Its existence involves instead the imposition of an accidental form on components each of which already has a substantial form, namely the substantial form of a liana vine. A liana vine is, accordingly, a true substance. The hammock is not a true substance, precisely because it does not qua hammock have a substantial form but only an accidental form. In general, true substances are typically natural objects, whereas (Aquinas tells us, commenting on Aristotle) “some things are not substances, as is clear especially of artificial things.”5 Again: Man and wood and stone are natural bodies, but a house or a saw is artificial. And of these the natural bodies seem to be the more properly called substances, since artificial bodies are made out of them. Art works upon materials furnished by nature, giving these, moreover, a merely accidental form, such as a new shape and so forth . . .6 Now the liana-like tendencies of the vines are paradigm instances of immanent or “built in” final causality or teleology. For these tendencies involve an orientation toward certain ends—growth patterns of a certain sort, the taking in of water and nutrients, and so forth—and it is by virtue of its nature or substantial form that a vine has them. By contrast, the hammock-like tendencies of the vines are paradigm instances of extrinsic final causality, or teleology imposed “from outside.” For those tendencies are not ones that the vines have given their nature or substantial form. They are there only insofar as an artificer has put them there. But not all accidental forms are the result of artifice. A group of liana vines which has by chance taken on a hammock-like arrangement does not count as a true substance either, any more than a pattern made by a trail of ants that looks vaguely like the word “No” is really the word “No.” For while this arrangement is not an artifact (not having been deliberately wood, not a bed” (ibid., 34). That is to say, the natural tendency of the material that makes up the bed is to be wood-like, not bed-like. 5 Sententia super Metaphysicam VII, 17.1680, in St. Thomas Aquinas, Commentary on Aristotle’s Metaphysics, trans. John P. Rowan (Notre Dame, IN: Dumb Ox Books, 1995), at 552. 6 Sententia super De anima II, 1.218, in St. Thomas Aquinas, Commentary on Aristotle’s De Anima, trans. Kenelm Foster, O.P. and Silvester Humphries, O.P. (Notre Dame, IN: Dumb Ox Books, 1994), at 73. Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way 711 constructed, as Tarzan’s hammock was), the resulting object still does not have the substantial form of a hammock (if there were such a thing as the “substantial form of a hammock”), but is a mere accidental arrangement of parts, like a heap of stones that has formed at the bottom of a hill over time as a consequence of erosion. So though in one sense the “hammock” obviously occurred “naturally,” it is not a “natural” object in the sense in which Aristotle contrasts nature with art, since a tendency to work together in a “hammock-like” way is not inherent to the parts. What is true of a hammock (or a hammock-like chance object) made of living liana vines is no less true of a hammock made of dead liana vines, even though the difference between artifacts and natural objects is in this case less dramatic. For while the dead vines will not exhibit the growth patterns the living vines will (constantly threatening to upset the hammock-like function Tarzan has imposed on them) they still have no inherent or built in tendency to function as a hammock. Being dead, they have lost the substantial form of liana vines, but they have not taken on the substantial form of a hammock (if, again, there were such a thing). Rather, they have the very same substantial form that other bits of dead liana lying randomly around the forest have—the substantial form of a kind of wood, say. Perhaps this substantial form gives them enough durability to make them useful to put together into the form of a hammock, but that does not mean that they now have a natural “hammock-like” tendency per se, only that they have a natural tendency toward a certain degree of durability (which might also make them useful for making lots of things other than hammocks). Now what we have said about hammocks is from an Aristotelian point of view true also of watches, knives, computers, cars, houses, airplanes, telephones, cups, coats, beds, and countless other everyday artifacts. Like the hammock, these objects do not count as natural or as true substances because their specifically watch-like, knife-like, etc. tendencies are extrinsic rather than immanent, the result of externally imposed accidental forms rather than substantial forms. The teleology or final causality of a watch or knife qua watch or knife is, accordingly, extrinsic rather than intrinsic. To be sure, the distinctively metallic tendencies of the parts of the watch or the blade of the knife will be instances of intrinsic or immanent final causality, for these tendencies follow from the nature or substantial form of these components. As Aquinas puts it, “a knife has in itself a principle of downward motion, not insofar as it is a knife, but insofar as it is iron.”7 But 7 Sententia super Physicam II, 1.142, in St. Thomas Aquinas, Commentary on Aristotle’s Physics, trans. Richard J. Blackwell, Richard J. Spath, and W. Edmund Thirlkel (Notre Dame, IN: Dumb Ox Books, 1999), at 75. 712 Edward Feser functions like time-telling, meat-cutting, and the like do not follow from the substantial form of the metal parts, and thus are not immanent to them. We have seen that some objects that are not substances, and thus not “natural” in the technical sense Aristotle uses in the Physics—a heap of stones which has gradually formed at the bottom of a hill, a group of liana vines which by chance has grown into a hammock-like arrangement—are not artifacts. But the converse is also true; that is to say, it is possible for something to be a product of “art” or human skill and yet to have a substantial form, and thus to be in the relevant sense “natural.” Aquinas says: Art is not able to confer a substantial form by its own power . . . [but] it is nevertheless able to do so by the power of natural agents, as is made clear by the fact that the form of fire is induced in wood through art.8 Fire is, after all, something natural, and remains so even if it is generated by human beings rather than (say) lightning. Similarly, water synthesized out of hydrogen and oxygen in a laboratory is in no relevant respect different from water from a river or from the clouds. It has the substantial form of water and is in that sense a true substance. Dog breeds are also man-made, but a dog of any breed is still a natural object, for its parts have an inherent tendency to function together in a dog-like way (by contrast with a watch, whose parts have no inherent tendency to function in a watch-like way). Of course, fire and water already exist in many places no human being has ever trod, and dogs are variations on a kind of animal (the gray wolf) that already occurs in the wild. But even something which in no way exists apart from human intervention could also count as a true substance, and thus as “natural” in the relevant sense. Eleonore Stump suggests Styrofoam as a possible example.9 Stump’s rationale is that what seems to be essential to true substances, as Aquinas understands them, is that they have properties and causal powers that are irreducible to those of their parts. Hence water has properties and causal powers that hydrogen and oxygen do not have, whereas the properties and causal powers of an axe seem to amount to nothing over and above the sum of the properties and causal powers of the axe’s wood and metal parts. When water is synthesized out of hydrogen and oxygen, then, what happens is that the prime matter underlying the 8 Scriptum super Sententiis II, 7.3.1 ad 5, as translated by Michael Rota in his arti- cle “Substance and Artifact in Thomas Aquinas,” History of Philosophy Quarterly 21, no. 3 ( July 2004): 241–59, at 245. 9 Eleonore Stump, Aquinas (London: Routledge, 2003), 44. Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way 713 hydrogen and oxygen loses the substantial forms of hydrogen and oxygen and takes on a new substantial form, namely that of water. By contrast, when an axe is made out of wood and metal, the prime matter underlying the wood and the prime matter underlying the metal do not lose their substantial forms. Rather, while maintaining their substantial forms, they take on a new accidental form, that of being an axe. Now the making of Styrofoam, Stump suggests, seems to be more like the synthesis of water out of hydrogen and oxygen than it is like the making of an axe. For Styrofoam has properties and causal powers which are irreducible to those of the materials out of which it is made, and which therefore indicate the presence of a substantial form and thus a true substance. The metaphysical issues here are complex, but we need not pursue them further for present purposes.10 Suffice it to note that things are more complicated than the traditional “nature versus art” distinction might at first glance indicate. The fundamental distinction is actually that between things having substantial forms and those having merely accidental forms. The former are true substances, the latter are not. Natural objects (in the everyday sense of “natural”) like water, iron, animals, or the liana vines of my example are paradigm instances of the former. Artifacts like watches, knives, beds, or the hammock of my example are paradigm instances of the latter. Still, there are objects which are “natural” in the everyday sense, but which are nevertheless not true substances—and thus not “natural” in Aristotle’s technical sense—such as the heap of stones that forms by chance at the bottom of a hill. And there are objects that are “artifacts” in the sense of being man-made that are nevertheless true substances (and thus “natural” in Aristotle’s sense) such as water synthesized in a lab and (perhaps) Styrofoam. But it is not surprising that writers in the Aristotelian tradition have often spoken, more loosely, in terms of a distinction between nature and art. For the typical object that is “natural” in the sense of existing apart from human action is also “natural” in the sense of having a substantial rather than accidental form, even if not all objects that are “natural” in either one of these senses are also “natural” in the other. And the typical object that has only an accidental form rather than a substantial form is also an artifact or something 10 For useful recent discussions of the Aristotelian-Thomistic metaphysics of substances and artifacts, see Rota, “Substance and Artifact in Thomas Aquinas”; Stump, Aquinas, 39–44; Eleonore Stump, “Substance and Artifact in Aquinas’s Metaphysics,” in Knowledge and Reality: Essays in Honor of Alvin Plantinga, ed. Thomas M. Crisp, Matthew Davidson, and David Vanderlaan (Dordrecht: Springer, 2006), 63–79; and David S. Oderberg, Real Essentialism (London: Routledge, 2007), 166–70. 714 Edward Feser man-made, even if not all objects which lack substantial forms are artifacts and not all artifacts lack substantial forms. In any event, the distinction between immanent and extrinsic teleology that is so vital to understanding the Fifth Way is, then, at bottom a distinction between the teleology or final causality a thing exhibits by virtue of its substantial form, and the teleology a thing exhibits only because of some accidental form. This distinction closely, if imperfectly, tracks the distinction between natural objects and human artifacts, which is why the natural tendencies of acorns and the like are standard examples of immanent teleology and the functions of watches and the like are standard examples of extrinsic teleology. But immanent teleology can also exist in objects that are in some sense man-made, as when human skill produces substances like water or Styrofoam, with their distinctive causal powers. This brings us to one final, crucial aspect of our account of immanent teleology. It might seem odd to speak of water or Styrofoam as exhibiting teleology or final causality. For the standard examples of teleology— acorns, bodily organs, and other biological phenomena, or watches and other artifacts and their components—typically involve either an arrangement of parts working toward a common end or some sort of goal-directed process. The acorn develops into an oak; eyes, ears, hearts, and lungs function together to allow an organism to survive and flourish; the parts of a watch are arranged so that it can function as a timepiece; and so on. But what is there in water, Styrofoam, and the like that parallels the developmental process of an acorn, or the function of a bodily organ or watch part? But it is a mistake to think that teleology need always involve a process with stages (as in the development from acorn to oak) or a part functioning for the sake of a whole (as with an eye or a watch gear). Rather, what is essential to teleology is an inclination toward an end, and this can exist at levels of reality simpler than those involving developmental processes or part-to-whole relationships of the sort found in organisms and machines. In particular, for Scholastic writers like Aquinas, it exists even in the simplest instances of efficient causality. Take, for example, the tendency of an ice cube to cause the liquid or air surrounding it to grow cooler, or of a match to generate flame and heat when struck. These, specifically, are the effects the ice cube or match will reliably bring about unless somehow impeded (for instance, by melting the ice cube before it has a chance to cool its surroundings, or by damaging the match by submerging it in water). The ice cube will cool the surrounding air rather than heating it, or causing it to become toxic, or having no effect at all; the match will cause flame and heat rather than frost and cold, or the smell Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way 715 of lilacs, or no effect at all. That the ice cube and match have just the specific effects they do in fact have rather than some others or none at all—or, counterfactually, that they would have had those specific effects had they not been impeded—is explicable only if we suppose that there is something in them that “points to” precisely those outcomes rather than any others, as to an end or goal. In short, if A is by nature an efficient cause of B, then generating B must be the final cause of A. As Aquinas says, “every agent [i.e. efficient cause] acts for an end: otherwise one thing would not follow more than another from the action of the agent, unless it were by chance.”11 Later Scholastics would come to refer to this as the principle of finality.12 We will have reason to return to this theme, since it plays a central role in the Fifth Way. Suffice it for the moment to note that Aquinas takes immanent teleology or final causality to be manifest not only in relatively complex and rare natural phenomena like plants, animals, and their organs, but also in all inorganic entities insofar as they have, by virtue of their substantial forms, distinctive powers of efficient causality. The causal powers of water, Styrofoam, iron, gold, lead, and the like—and indeed the causal powers of even the most elementary particles—are no less instances of “built in” inclination toward an end than the tendencies of acorns and liana vines are. Thus, since efficient causality exists everywhere in the natural world, from top to bottom, so too does final causality.13 III. Aristotle contra Anaxagoras and Plato What explains this? Here is where Aquinas parts ways with Aristotle. The aim of the Fifth Way is to show that the teleology that exists in nature, though immanent rather than extrinsic, nevertheless presupposes the existence of a divine intelligence which orders things to their ends. Aristotle did not take such a view. To be sure, he held that there is a divine intelligence, that this intelligence is the Unmoved Mover of the universe, and that the 11 ST I, q. 44, a. 4. Cf. ST I–II, q. 1, a. 2, Summa contra Gentiles III, 2, Sententia super Physicam II, 5.186, and De principiis naturae III. In the case of a match—which is, of course, an artifact with certain externally imposed ends (lighting cigars, pilot lights, and the like)—it is only the phosphorus in the match head which, by virtue of its chemistry, has an inherent inclination toward the ends in question, and only effects like flame, heat, and the like (rather than lit cigars and pilot lights per se) that are included in those ends. 12 Reginald Garrigou-Lagrange regards the principle, when rightly understood, as self-evident. See God: His Existence and His Nature (St. Louis: B. Herder, 1939), vol. I, 199–205. 13 For discussion of the various distinct levels at which immanent teleology might be said to exist in the natural world, see Feser, “Teleology: A Shopper’s Guide.” Edward Feser 716 way in which He moves the world is by virtue of being its final cause. God is in that way the explanation of the fact that things realize their ends, to the extent that they do. But He is not in Aristotle’s view the explanation of the fact that they have those ends in the first place.That is just a basic fact about them given their natures. Hence, though there is in Aristotle a precursor to Aquinas’s First Way, there is no precursor to the Fifth Way. Lurking in the background of the view of final causes we have seen Aristotle develop in the Physics is a critique of the theories of atomists like Democritus, who favored a materialist explanation of the world which eschews final causes altogether, and the view of Anaxagoras that the order of the world requires an explanation in terms of intelligence. Aristotle regards the latter as no more successful than the former: [Earlier thinkers] in the peregrinations often strike good blows, but they do not do so from knowledge, and no more do these thinkers seem to have known what they were saying. For they seem to have made more or less no use of these principles except to a small extent. For Anaxagoras uses the mind as a device for the making of the cosmos, and when he puzzles for what reason it is of necessity, then he drags in mind, but in other matters he ascribes cause to anything else rather than to mind . . . 14 Aristotle evidently seeks to defend a middle ground position according to which there is such a thing as final causality in nature, but that it is entirely immanent to the natural world rather than in any way derivative from something like the “mind” of Anaxagoras or the demiurge of Plato’s Timaeus. For Aristotle rejects the view that the natural world requires ordering in the first place: “That which is by nature and natural is never disordered. For nature is everywhere a cause of order.”15 For Aristotle, for a thing to be “natural” is ipso facto for it to be ordered in the sense of having an end toward which it is directed.That which requires an outside source to order or direct it toward an end would, for him, by that very fact not be a natural object at all but an artifact. To those who claim that goal-directedness or purpose requires conscious deliberation or planning of the sort rational beings engage in, Aristotle responds: It is ridiculous for people to deny that there is purpose if they cannot see the agent of change doing any planning. After all, skill does not 14 Metaphysics, Book Alpha, Part 4, in Aristotle, The Metaphysics, trans. Hugh Lawson-Tancred (London: Penguin, 2004), at 17. 15 Physics, Book VIII, Part 1, as translated by Monte Ransome Johnson in his book Aristotle on Teleology (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2005), at 249. Emphasis added. Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way 717 make plans. If ship-building were intrinsic to wood, then wood would naturally produce the same results that ship-building does. If skill is purposive, then, so is nature.16 In other words, that goal-directedness does not require conscious deliberation is evident from the fact that a skilled craftsman can largely carry out his work without even thinking about it—“on autopilot” as we might put it today, or without first ”making plans,” as Aristotle puts it. But if this is possible for someone with such skill, there is in Aristotle’s view no reason not to think it also possible for natural objects. This is the force of the ship-building example: If there were something in the very nature of wood that “directed it” toward the end of becoming a ship, then what in the case of human craftsmanship results from deliberate design— a ship—would in that case result “naturally” instead, that is, without conscious deliberation at all. Indeed, “it looks as though things happen at the plant level too which serve some purpose” in just this way, even though plants do not deliberate—for instance, an oak derives from an acorn without the acorn planning this result—and there is also of course the example of “non-human animals, whose products are not the result of skill, enquiry, or planning.”17 Because he took the natures of things to suffice to account for their being directed or ordered toward their ends, Aristotle saw no need to attribute this ordering to God: The divine is not an ordering ruler, since he needs nothing, but rather is that for the sake of which wisdom gives orders.18 Hence while God Himself is the ultimate end toward which things are directed, He does not in Aristotle’s view impart to things their ends. Indeed, far from paying other things and their ends any mind, God has in Aristotle’s view Himself alone as the proper object of His thought. Nor is there any need to explain the origin of the world, together with its teleological features, in terms of divine ordering, since Aristotle takes the world always to have existed. This, at any rate, is the usual view of Aristotle’s position on the relationship of natural teleology to God.19 There are some who dissent from 16 Physics, Book II, Part 8, Waterfield translation at 53. 17 Ibid., at 51–52. 18 Eudemian Ethics, Book VIII, Part 3, as translated by Johnson in Aristotle on Teleol- ogy, at 262. Cf. Johnson’s discussion of the passage at 72–74. 19 For important recent expositions, see Johnson, Aristotle on Teleology, and Christo- pher Shields, Aristotle (London: Routledge, 2007), 68–90. 718 Edward Feser it. For example, while acknowledging that what I have described is “a standard view among Aristotelian scholars,” Marie George has suggested that a passage from Aristotle’s On Generation and Corruption implies a different interpretation.20 In particular, she notes that Aristotle says that “nature . . . always and in all things strives after the better” and “God, therefore . . . perfected the universe by making coming-to-be a perpetual process.”21 However, this passage doesn’t show what George thinks it does.What it shows is at most only that Aristotle regards God as the cause of things’ moving in such a way that they realize their ends; it doesn’t show that He is the cause of things having those ends in the first place. And the latter thesis is the one that Aristotle scholars typically decline to attribute to Aristotle.22 IV. From William of Ockham to William Paley Unlike Aristotle, and like Aquinas, William Paley regarded God as the source of the teleology that exists in the natural world. But unlike either Aristotle or Aquinas, he regarded final causes, not as immanent or intrinsic to the world, but rather as entirely extrinsic. It is not, for Paley, qua natural that a natural object manifests teleology. Rather, it is only those specific natural objects whose complexity is so great that they are unlikely to have come about except through the agency of an intelligence like ours that point to the existence of teleology, and even then only as a matter of high probability rather than metaphysical necessity. The stage was set for Paley’s probabilistic and extrinsicist approach long before “design arguments” of the kind he is associated with became fashionable in the eighteenth century, indeed, even before the rise of modern philosophy. We find its Scholastic roots in William of Ockham, who denied that it could be demonstrated through natural reason that final causes exist in non-rational natural objects. In Ockham’s view, only agents with free will clearly exhibit teleology: [S]omeone who is just following natural reason would claim that the question “For what reason?” is inappropriate in the case of natural actions. For he would maintain that it is no real question to ask for 20 Marie George, “An Aristotelian-Thomist Responds to Edward Feser’s ‘Teleol- ogy,’ ” Philosophia Christi 12 (2010), at 442. 21 Aristotle, On Coming-to-Be and Passing Away, trans. E. S. Forster, in On Sophistical Refutations, On Coming-to-Be and Passing Away, On the Cosmos (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1955), 336b25–37a2. 22 See Johnson, Aristotle on Teleology, 258–63, for discussion and criticism of attempts by scholars of earlier generations to show that Aristotle was committed to a teleological argument for God’s existence. Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way 719 what reason a fire is generated; rather, this question is appropriate only in the case of voluntary actions.23 To the argument that without final causes, an agent or efficient cause would act by chance rather than reliably generating its associated effect, Ockham responds: I reply that this argument goes through for a free agent, which is no more inclined by its nature toward the one effect than toward the other. However, the argument does not go through for a natural agent, since an agent of this sort is by its nature inclined toward one determinate effect in such a way that it is not able to cause an opposite effect. This is evident in the case of fire with respect to heat.24 In general, Ockham held that, apart from revelation, we could know very little about teleology: If I accepted no authority [i.e. the truths of faith], I would claim that it cannot be proved either from propositions known per se or from experience that every effect has a final cause that is either distinct or not distinct from its efficient cause. For it cannot be sufficiently proved that every effect has a final cause.25 The tendency to associate teleology only with rational agents is even more pronounced in the work of John Buridan. As Dennis Des Chene writes: Ockham had already argued, following Avicenna, that the final cause acts only by virtue of existing in the intellect of an agent; to which Buridan added that when it acts thus, it acts as an efficient cause, and that where the agent is not such as to conceive the ends by which it acts, there is no final cause at all, only efficient causes. To the argument that if there were no ends in nature, then one thing would follow from another haphazardly, Buridan replies (as we would) that efficient causes suffice.26 23 Quodlibet 4, q. 1, in William of Ockham, Quodlibetal Questions, trans. Alfred J. Fred- doso and Francis E. Kelley (New Haven, CT:Yale University Press, 1991), at 249. 24 Ibid. 25 Ibid., 246. For (somewhat divergent) treatments of the subject of Ockham’s under- standing of causality, see Harry R. Klocker, God and the Empiricists (Milwaukee: Bruce Publishing Company, 1968), Chapter 1, and Marilyn McCord Adams, William Ockham (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1987),Volume II, Chapter 18. 26 Dennis Des Chene, Physiologia: Natural Philosophy in Late Aristotelian and Cartesian Thought (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1996), 186–87. Edward Feser 720 As Des Chene notes, this tendency continued through the late Scholastic period, though there were also writers who returned to the more traditional Aristotelian view. But the upshot of the trend begun by Ockham and Buridan was “a significant step away from Aristotle and toward Plato”—that is, toward seeing the ends of inanimate natural objects as imposed from outside by a divine intelligence analogous to the demiurge of the Timaeus. It also pointed forward to the revolution of the moderns, for “when [these later Scholastics] assimilate the inanimate world to a divine artifact, and final causation to intentional action, they hark back to [Plato] even as they unwittingly prepare the way to the world-machine of Descartes.”27 Indeed, with Descartes, Aristotle’s sharp distinction between natural objects and artifacts (or at least those artifacts which do not have substantial forms) is completely obliterated, with the former assimilated to the latter: For I do not recognize any difference between artefacts and natural bodies except that the operations of artefacts are for the most part performed by mechanisms which are large enough to be easily perceivable by the senses . . . [I]t is no less natural for a clock constructed with this or that set of wheels to tell the time than it is for a tree which grew from this or that seed to produce the appropriate fruit. Men who are experienced in dealing with machinery can take a particular machine whose function they know and, by looking at some of its parts, easily form a conjecture about the design of the other parts, which they cannot see. In the same way I have attempted to consider the observable effects and parts of natural bodies and track down the imperceptible causes and particles which produce them.28 In effect, as Des Chene observes, Descartes reverses Aristotle’s dictum about the relationship between art and nature: But if art is like nature, then so too nature is like art. Yet artifacts are bereft of any intrinsic principle, active or passive, of movement. If nature were indeed like art, nature too would lack such a principle: it would have, in short, no nature [in Aristotle’s technical sense of “nature”].29 The result has been the hegemony in modern Western thought of what Brian Ellis has called “the dead world of mechanism” or “passivism,” the 27 Ibid., 187–88. 28 Principles of Philosophy, Part 4, sec. 203, in René Descartes, The Philosophical Writ- ings of Descartes, trans. John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, and Dugald Murdoch (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), vol. I, 288–89. 29 Des Chene, Physiologia, 240. Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way 721 view of Descartes, Newton, Hume, and their successors that matter is essentially devoid of any “intrinsic impulse for change” of the sort that Aristotle attributed to natural objects in the Physics.30 Rather, it is governed by external “laws of nature” which impose on it an order it could not otherwise have. We are used today to hearing it asserted matter-of-factly that the “operation” of “laws of nature” suffices to “explain” natural phenomena—a very curious claim, given that, as Jonathan Kvanvig and Hugh McCann have pointed out: Laws, after all, are descriptive in import. They do not operate at all, despite our figures of speech, and they do not do anything in or to the world. If they are true, it is because things themselves have features the laws describe.31 Now the Aristotelian would say that it is precisely “things themselves” that are primary, that it is their natures which explain the operation of the laws rather than the laws which explain how things operate. But the early modern philosophers and scientists who inaugurated the anti-Aristotelian mechanical or “passivist” view of nature would (contra contemporary naturalists) have denied that laws of nature should be regarded as a terminus of explanation in the first place—only God, as the Author of those laws, can be that. Nor in their view should teleology disappear from our account of nature. Rather, as Margaret Osler writes of thinkers like Gassendi, Newton, and Boyle: Although most seventeenth-century mechanical philosophers rejected immanent final causes—in the sense of the actualization of forms—they accepted an idea of finality as imposed on nature from without. What is at stake here is not the rejection of final causes per se, but their reinterpretation within a new concept of nature. With the mechanical reinterpretation of final causes, the idea of individual natures that possess 30 Brian Ellis, The Philosophy of Nature: A Guide to the New Essentialism (Chesham: Acumen, 2002), 1–3, 60–63. L. Kvanvig and Hugh J. McCann, “Divine Conservation and the Persistence of the World,” in Divine and Human Action: Essays in the Metaphysics of Theism, ed. Thomas V. Morris (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1988), 34. For an account of how the Aristotelian conception of the natures of things gave way in modern philosophy to the notion of “laws of nature,” see Walter Ott, Causation and Laws of Nature in Early Modern Philosophy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009). For discussion of the philosophical issues and difficulties surrounding the notion of laws of nature, see Stephen Mumford, Laws in Nature (London: Routledge, 2004). 31 Jonathan 722 Edward Feser immanent finality was replaced with the idea of nature as a whole which is the product of the divine artificer. Nature became a work of art.32 In short, these thinkers replaced Scholastic philosophical theology, grounded in an Aristotelian philosophy of nature, with the “design argument.” And that brings us to William Paley, the most famous defender of that argument. The basic thrust of his version is familiar.33 Though we might reasonably suppose that a stone we had come across upon a heath had possibly lain there forever, we could not reasonably think the same of a watch discovered in the same place. For a watch has parts that are evidently arranged for a purpose; and had the parts been different or arranged differently, they could not have served that purpose. Hence we must conclude that “an artificer or artificers . . . formed it for the purpose which we find it actually to answer.”34 Nor would we be any less inclined to this conclusion if we found that the watch contained a mechanism which enabled it to make copies of itself; indeed, to deny that the watch was designed would in this case be even more of an “absurdity.”35 Yet the atheist maintains something no less absurd. For “every indication of contrivance, every manifestation of design, which existed in the watch, exists in the works of nature; with the difference, on the side of nature, of being greater and more, and that in a degree which exceeds all computation.”36 This is particularly evident from the anatomical features of living things. Even more than the watch, then, the natural world exhibits “proof of design, and of a designing Creator.”37 This is, however, just an outline of the argument. Paley devotes the bulk of his book to a detailed description of diverse biological phenomena, from the structure of the eye and the ear to the skeletal system, the muscles, the properties of fish, birds, insects, plants, and so on. His aim is to overwhelm the atheist with an “argument cumulative.”38 The argu32 Margaret J. Osler, “From Immanent Natures to Nature as Artifice: The Reinter- pretation of Final Causes in Seventeenth Century Natural Philosophy,” The Monist 79, no. 3 ( July 1996): 389–90. Later generations of philosophers and scientists would, of course, ban even extrinsic final causes from science. As David Hull writes, “Historically, explanations were designated as mechanistic to indicate that they included no reference to final causes or vital forces. In this weak sense, all present-day scientific explanations are mechanistic” (The Cambridge Dictionary of Philosophy, s.v. “mechanistic explanation”). 33 William Paley, Natural Theology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006). 34 Ibid., 8. 35 Ibid., 15. 36 Ibid., 16. 37 Ibid., 40. 38 Ibid., 45. Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way 723 ment concerns probabilities, but Paley thinks the probability of design so high that he speaks confidently of “the necessity of an intelligent Creator.”39 He also includes a chapter on astronomy, but says that “it is not the best medium through which to prove the agency of an intelligent Creator,” for heavenly bodies are simple in their appearance, and “we deduce design from relation, aptitude, and correspondence of parts. Some degree therefore of complexity is necessary to render a subject fit for this species of argument.”40 Thus, whereas for Aquinas, the existence of even the simplest efficientcausal regularity establishes the reality of final causality, for Paley only complex phenomena can give us reason to believe in purpose and “design.” Moreover, whereas for Aquinas final causes exist in the natural world of metaphysical necessity, for Paley the existence of design (and thus of purpose in nature) is a mere probabilistic hypothesis (even if the probability is in his view so great that the conclusion cannot reasonably be doubted). These differences reflect the radical differences in the two thinkers’ basic metaphysical commitments. For Aquinas the Aristotelian, a natural object, however simple or complex, simply wouldn’t be a natural object at all unless it had a substantial form and thus the final causality immanent to something with that form. For Paley the inheritor of the early moderns’ anti-Aristotelian mechanical or “passivist” view of nature, nothing in the natural order has any inherent purpose or finality, any more than the metal parts that make up a watch have an inherent tendency to function as a timepiece. There cannot be any question of natural things pointing with necessity to the reality of final causes or teleology, then, though certain inherently purposeless natural phenomena might be so complex that we can judge with high probability that an extrinsic purpose must have been imposed on them. V. Aquinas’s Middle Position: First Stage Still, like Paley and unlike Aristotle, Aquinas holds that natural teleology points to the existence of God. His is a middle position between the ones staked out by Paley and by Aristotle. But how could there be such a thing? Monte Ransome Johnson, Christopher Shields, and Andre Ariew have sharply distinguished the Aristotelian conception of teleology as 39 Ibid., emphasis added. Paley appeals to what is “probable” or to “probability” or “improbability” several times in the course of his argument, e.g. at 108, 135, 162, 167, 179, and 201. See Matthew D. Eddy and David Knight’s “Introduction” to the edition of Paley’s Natural Theology cited above for a useful brief discussion of the rise of interest in probabilistic arguments in Paley’s day. 40 Ibid., 199. Emphasis in the original. 724 Edward Feser immanent to the natural world from the view one finds in the Plato of the Timaeus, Newton, and Paley to the effect that teleology exists in nature only insofar as a deity has imposed it from outside.41 Call the former view Aristotelian teleological realism and the latter Platonic teleological realism.42 If we reject one, mustn’t we embrace the other? Johnson, Shields, and Ariew imply as much.Their view seems to be that to endorse Aristotle’s view that teleology is immanent to the natural order (a view each of these writers regards as at least philosophically interesting) entails rejecting the idea that God has anything at all to do with it. Arguing from a different direction but arriving at a similar conclusion, Marie George and Jay Richards suggest that since Aquinas thinks God does have something to do with natural teleology, his view must after all be closer to Paley’s than I have allowed.43 But this is a false choice. As is well known, Aquinas held that God is the “first cause” of things in the sense that all other efficient causes derive whatever causal power they have from Him. But Aquinas is no occasionalist. He insists that “secondary causes” are true causes, making a genuine causal contribution to their effects. But what is true in the order of efficient causes is in Aquinas’s view no less true in the order of final causes. Just as secondary causes have genuine causal power of their own despite their ultimately deriving it from God, so too is the teleology of natural objects immanent to them despite their ultimately deriving that too from God. We might call this position Scholastic teleological realism, and its status as a middle ground between Platonic and Aristotelian extremes is analogous to (and might be illuminated by comparison with) the similarly middleground position Aquinas and other Scholastics took on the problem of universals.44 Plato, Aristotle, and Aquinas are all realists about universals rather than nominalists or conceptualists. But they famously differ about what realism entails. For Platonic realism about universals, the universal essence acorn (to take a simple example) exists entirely apart from partic41 See Johnson, Aristotle on Teleology; Shields, Aristotle, 68–90; and Ariew’s articles “Platonic and Aristotelian Roots of Teleological Arguments,” in Functions: New Essays in the Philosophy of Psychology and Biology, ed. Andre Ariew, Robert Cummins, and Mark Perlman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002) and “Teleology,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Philosophy of Biology, ed. David L. Hull and Michael Ruse (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007). 42 Shields calls the latter view “teleological intentionalism,” and Ariew calls it “Platonic teleologism.” 43 George, “An Aristotelian-Thomist Responds to Edward Feser’s ‘Teleology,’ ” and Jay W. Richards, “Separating the Chaff from the Wheat,” in God and Evolution, ed. Jay W. Richards (Seattle: Discovery Institute Press, 2010), 225–46. 44 I develop this analogy at greater length in Feser, “Teleology: A Shopper’s Guide.” Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way 725 ular acorns and from the finite minds that grasp this universal, in a “third realm” as the “Form of Acorn.” For Aristotelian realism about universals, the universal essence acorn exists only in particular acorns themselves and in the finite minds that abstract it. For Scholastic realism about universals, the universal essence acorn exists in the particular acorns themselves and in the finite minds that abstract it, but it also pre-exists in the divine intellect as the archetype according to which God creates acorns. Similarly, for Platonic teleological realism, the end or goal of an acorn exists entirely apart from it, in a divine mind which orders it to its end. For Aristotelian teleological realism, the end or goal of an acorn exists only intrinsic to the acorn itself. For Scholastic teleological realism, the end or goal of an acorn exists intrinsic to the acorn itself, but only because God created it according to the pre-existing essence in question, which includes having the generation of an oak as an end or goal. With respect to realism about both universals and teleology, then, the Platonic approach tends to emphasize transcendence to the exclusion of immanence, the Aristotelian approach tends to emphasize immanence to the exclusion of transcendence, and the Scholastic approach seeks to show that each side is partially correct in that the phenomena in question are immanent to the created order in one respect and transcend it in another. But to understand more deeply the nature of Aquinas’s middle-ground position, it is best to proceed to an examination of the Fifth Way itself. The argument has two stages, the first of which, as the reader will recall, goes as follows: We see that things which lack intelligence, such as natural bodies, act for an end, and this is evident from their acting always, or nearly always, in the same way, so as to obtain the best result. Hence it is plain that not fortuitously, but designedly, do they achieve their end. By “designedly” (ex intentione), Aquinas does not mean “because of a designer,” à la Paley; the role of divine intelligence enters the argument only in its second stage. Rather, he means, as Aristotle would, “because of inherent teleology, rather than by chance.” Christopher Martin translates ex intentione as “in virtue of some tendency,” which is, I think, to be preferred both to the widely used Fathers of the English Dominican Province translation quoted above and to the common alternative translation “by intention.”45 “Designedly” and “by intention,” while not incorrect, can be misleading given the way “design” and “intention” are 45 Christopher F. J. Martin, Thomas Aquinas: God and Explanations (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1997), 179. 726 Edward Feser typically used in contemporary philosophical discussion of these issues, which differs from the way they are used in Scholastic philosophy.46 What Aquinas is asserting here, then, is what we referred to earlier as the principle of finality, which states that every agent or efficient cause acts for an end. And the argument in this case is essentially the same as the argument given earlier for that principle. Unless we suppose that causes inherently or of their nature “point to” their characteristic effects as to an end, we have no way of making intelligible why it is that they “act always, or nearly always, in the same way.” It might seem that regarding this regularity as “fortuitous” or attributable to chance would give us an alternative explanation. But for the Aristotelian, chance presupposes regularity and thus finality, and so provides no genuine alternative at all. Chance is nothing more than the accidental convergence of non-accidental lines of causation. To take a stock example from Boethius, suppose a farmer discovers treasure buried in the field he is plowing.47 The discovery was in no way intended by either the farmer or the person who buried the treasure, nor is there any causal regularity in nature connecting plowing and the discovery of treasure. Still, the farmer did intend to plow, someone did intend to bury the treasure, and there are all sorts of natural causal regularities instantiated when the farmer plows the field and discovers the treasure. It would be incoherent, then, to suggest that regularity can be accounted for by chance rather than finality, since to make sense of chance we need to appeal to finality and regularity. But what of the objection raised by Ockham and Buridan to the effect that efficient causes are sufficient to account for regularity in unintelligent natural objects? Des Chene develops this sort of view as follows: The [Aristotelian] argument is, on its face, unconvincing. Everyone agrees that efficient causes necessitate their effects (“if the cause is given, so is the effect,” writes Eustachius with his usual brevity . . . ). So people will not emerge from the sea ever if they do not always: one does not need ends to account for that regularity. Given that we have 46 As Bernard Wuellner explains in his Dictionary of Scholastic Philosophy (Milwaukee: Bruce Publishing Company, 1956), in Scholastic metaphysics “intention” can mean “the direction or application of causal power to an effect; the influence of the primary cause on the instrument” (63). (For the first “of,”Wuellner’s text actually reads “or,” but this is evidently a typo.) Wuellner adds: “This may be the primary meaning of intention as it best shows the notion of directing or tending on the part of a being or power.” Again, what is in view is the Aristotelian notion of immanent teleology, rather than the extrinsic teleology in terms of which Paley and his contemporary successors frame their “design argument.” 47 Boethius, Consolations of Philosophy, Book V, Chapter 1. Cf. Aristotle, Physics, Book II, Part 5. Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way 727 not seen any such occurrence, and that the sea remains constant in composition, there is no reason to expect that the weird event will occur. Likewise, if people have always given birth to people, and birds to birds, and if they remain constant in composition, then there is no reason to expect that people will bear birds or birds people. So if the regularity to be explained is “people give birth only to people, and no other kind of thing does,” then an appeal to the necessity of efficient causes seems to suffice.48 But this won’t do. For we need to know what it means to say that efficient causes necessitate their effects, and we need an explanation of this necessitation. Now the necessitation either involves something intrinsic to the causes and effects, or it does not; and either possibility poses grave problems for the view that efficient causation suffices to account for regularity. Consider first the possibility that necessitation involves something extrinsic to the causes and effects themselves. On this view, that an efficient cause A necessitates its effect B has nothing to do with A or B themselves, but with something else. But what is this something else? One option is to hold that God ensures that B follows upon A. But that just raises the question of how God does so. If we answer that He efficiently causes B merely by necessitating it, then we have simply pushed the problem back a stage rather than solved it. If we answer instead that He causes B by virtue of having it in view as an end, then we will have resorted to finality after all and given up the view that efficient causation alone suffices to account for regularity. Of course, the appeal to God also has obvious drawbacks if one’s motivation for challenging this first stage of the Fifth Way is atheistic.49 Rather than appeal to God, though, might we not say that it is a “law of nature” that B follows upon A? Yet as we noted earlier, the appeal to “laws of nature” by itself hardly suffices to explain anything, for it just raises the question of what “laws of nature” are and why they hold. Now if we say that a law of nature is simply a kind of regularity, then we are led into either a vicious circle or a vicious regress, since the regularity of the connection between A and B is what we’re trying to explain in the first place. For to explain regularities in nature in terms of efficient causal necessitation, efficient causal necessitation in terms of laws of nature, and laws of nature in terms of regularities, would be to go around in a circle; while if, to avoid 48 Des Chene, Physiologia, 178. 49 But the proposal under consideration has drawbacks for the theist as well. For to hold that A’s necessitation of B is entirely attributable to God and has nothing to do with A itself entails occasionalism, at least if we suppose that whatever necessitates an effect is also its sole efficient cause. For reasons we will consider later, occasionalism is philosophically and theologically problematic. 728 Edward Feser this circularity, we say that the regularity enshrined in a law of nature is of a higher order than the sort we started out trying to explain, then we will now need an account of this higher-order regularity, and will thereby merely have pushed the problem back a stage rather than solved it. To explain “laws of nature,” then, we cannot appeal to regularity. And if, to explain them, we appeal instead either to higher-order instances of efficient causal necessitation or higher-order laws of nature, we will once again merely have pushed the problem back a stage rather than solved it. Yet if we explain laws of nature by reference to God, we will merely have reintroduced at a higher level the very problems the appeal to laws of nature was supposed to help us avoid.The only remaining alternative would seem to be to appeal instead to the Aristotelian idea that “laws of nature” are really a shorthand for a description of how things act given their natures. But this would be to concede that there is, after all, something intrinsic to A and B that explains the efficient causal relations holding between them, and thus to abandon the suggestion that the necessitation we’ve been discussing is extrinsic to causes and effects. So, treating causal necessitation as grounded in something extrinsic to causes and effects would seem a hopeless strategy for anyone who wants to defend the view of Ockham, Buridan, and Des Chene that efficient causation suffices to explain regularity. The only realistic option is to treat the necessitation as grounded in something intrinsic to the causes and effects. In particular, since an effect B doesn’t even exist until generated by its efficient cause A, the necessitation will have to be grounded in something intrinsic to A. But what can this intrinsic feature be if it is not the very inclination to an end that Aquinas affirms and that the view in question is trying to avoid? What can it possibly be for A to be such that it necessitates the generation of B, other than that there is something in A that inherently “points” to the generation of B specifically, even before it actually generates B? It seems the only possible alternative intrinsic explanatory feature would be some further instance of efficient causal necessitation internal to A. But this would just raise the same questions all over again—and it would, yet again, thus lead the purported explanation of regularity in terms of efficient causes alone into either vicious regress or vicious circularity.50 There seems, then, to be no way to avoid Aquinas’s conclusion that to make efficient causal regularities intelligible we need to attribute finality to efficient causes. Every attempt to avoid doing so merely raises further puzzles which cannot be solved except by admitting finality. But it might seem that the defender of the view that efficient causes alone suffice to 50 Cf. Garrigou-Lagrange, God: His Existence and His Nature, vol. I, 356–58. Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way 729 account for regularity has one more arrow in his quiver. For isn’t Aquinas’s position open to the same sorts of objection as his opponent’s view is? In particular, if Aquinas holds that efficient causal regularities need to be accounted for by reference to final causes, can it not be said with equal plausibility that final causes in turn need to be accounted for, and that accounting for them will also lead to vicious regress or vicious circularity? Aren’t the two positions—Aquinas’s on the one hand, and that of Ockham, Buridan, Des Chene, and modern philosophers in general on the other hand—therefore at least at a stalemate? In fact such a comparison would be spurious. The two views would be on a par only if each made use of its favored notion of causation to the exclusion of the other. And Aquinas is doing no such thing. His critic holds that efficient causes suffice to explain the regularity that exists in the world, so that no appeal to finality is necessary; indeed, naturalist philosophers typically hold that final causes are ultimately not needed to explain any aspect of the natural world.51 But Aquinas does not hold that final causality suffices to explain either regularity or natural phenomena in general. He merely holds that it is a necessary part of a complete explanation. As an Aristotelian, he is committed to the explanatory indispensability of all of the traditional four causes—material, formal, efficient, and final—each of which has its place: Matter, indeed, is prior to form in generation and time, inasmuch as that to which something is added is prior to that which is added. But form is prior to matter in substance and in fully constituted being, because matter has complete existence only through form. Similarly, the efficient cause is prior to the end in generation and time, since the motion to the end comes about by the efficient cause; but the end is prior to the efficient cause as such in substance and completeness, since the action of the efficient cause is completed only through the end. Therefore, the material and the efficient causes are prior by way of generation, whereas form and end are prior by way of perfection.52 There is no parity between the view of Aquinas and that of his critic, then. The critic has tried to show that efficient causes suffice to explain 51 Of course, many such philosophers regard teleological explanations as legitimate in domains like biology and psychology, but they also typically maintain that such explanations are either to be interpreted in instrumentalist rather than realist terms, or that they can be reduced to explanations that make reference only to efficient causes. See Feser, “Teleology: A Shopper’s Guide.” 52 De principiis naturae IV.25, as translated in “The Principles of Nature,” in Thomas Aquinas, Selected Writings of St.Thomas Aquinas, trans. Robert P. Goodwin (Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1965), at 20–21. 730 Edward Feser regularity, and has failed. Aquinas has not tried to show that final causes suffice to explain it, only that efficient causes do not and that reference to finality is needed as well. In failing to make his own case, the critic has only lent plausibility to Aquinas’s. Moreover, far from denying that the finality inherent in natural phenomena itself requires an explanation, Aquinas’s whole point in presenting (the second stage of) the Fifth Way is to show that it does require one—though for reasons we will see, he does not think such an explanation leads either to a vicious regress or to a vicious circle. Before turning to the second stage, though, a further issue needs to be addressed. The attentive reader will have noticed that in the Fifth Way Aquinas speaks of natural bodies acting for an end insofar as they act “so as to obtain the best result.” In the passage just quoted he speaks of them as prior “by way of perfection.” What he has in mind seems in part related to the qualified way in which he describes the behavior of natural bodies, insofar as he says that we find them “acting always, or nearly always, in the same way.” An acorn, for example, grows into an oak if it grows into anything at all, but the oak might be imperfect in various ways if the acorn has been damaged or the growth patterns interfered with. The phosphorus in a match will generate flame and heat if it hasn’t lost its potency, but it might do so only weakly or after several strikes if the match has been damaged or aged. Insofar as a cause A “aims” or “points” to the generation of a certain effect B, then, it is the “perfect,” “best,” or complete realization of that effect to which it points, even when it is somehow impeded from doing so and as a result generates only an imperfect effect. That Aquinas also takes the notion of finality to be connected to the notion of the good in a broader way is evident from his discussion of providence in De veritate, in the course of which he presents an argument that parallels the Fifth Way. In defense of the reality of final causes, one of the considerations he there puts forward is the following: Material and efficient causes, as such, cause only the existence of their effects.They are not sufficient to produce goodness in them so that they be aptly disposed in themselves, so that they could continue to exist, and toward others so that they could help them. Heat, for example, of its very nature and of itself can break down other things, but this breaking down is good and helpful only if it happens up to a certain point and in a certain way. Consequently, if we do not admit that there exist in nature causes other than heat and similar agents, we cannot give any reason why things happen in a good and orderly way.53 53 De veritate,V, 2, in St. Thomas Aquinas, Truth,Volume I, trans. Robert W. Mulligan, S.J. (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1994), at 209–10. Cf. Summa contra Gentiles I, 13.35. Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way 731 The idea here, then, is that there must be an end toward which things in the natural world work together if we are to explain how they balance each other out in the way they do—for example, to explain how heat, which of its nature tends to break down other things, does so “only to a certain point and in a certain way” rather than completely destroying the rest of the world. Naturally Aquinas would also find teleology present in biological phenomena. Indeed, it is present in a particularly vivid way. To use some traditional Scholastic jargon, Aristotelians take the key difference between living and non-living things to lie in the distinction between immanent and transeunt (or “transient”) causation.54 Immanent causation begins and remains within the cause (though it may also have some external effects), and it typically in some way involves the fulfillment or perfection of the cause. Transeunt causation, by contrast, is directed entirely outwardly, from the cause to an external effect. An animal’s digestion of a meal would be an example of immanent causation, since the process begins and remains within the animal and serves to fulfill or perfect it insofar as it enables it to stay alive and to grow. One rock knocking another one off the side of a cliff would be an example of transeunt causation. Living things can serve as transeunt causes, but what is characteristic of them is that they are also capable of immanent causation in a way that non-living things are not. Now since immanent causation, like the transeunt causation that pervades the inorganic realm, concerns causes which “point” to certain characteristic effects as to an end, living things present us with another instance of finality. Since the end in this case is the perfection or flourishing of the organism, we also have an instance in which the link between finality and the good is particularly clear. Immanent (as contrasted with transeunt) causation is thus a special and more complex case of the teleology Aquinas regards as immanent to (as opposed to extrinsic to) the natural order in general. (Note that “immanent” has two distinct, though related, senses here.) It is important to emphasize, though, that the Fifth Way ultimately does not stand or fall with the defensibility either of the traditional Aristotelian view that organic phenomena are irreducible to inorganic phenomena, or of the view that natural causes work together toward some larger, cosmic end. Even if one rejected both of these views, the basic Aristotelian claim that even the simplest instances of efficient causality are unintelligible without final causality would remain intact. 54 See Feser, Aquinas, chapter 4 for an overview of the Aristotelian-Thomistic conception of the difference between living and non-living things, and Oderberg, Real Essentialism, chapter 8 for a recent defense of that conception. 732 Edward Feser Indeed, even if it could be shown that all natural phenomena without remainder were reducible to those described by physics, the basic Aristotelian claim would remain intact, since the most fundamental physical phenomena are still governed by efficient causality, and thus (given the arguments stated above) by final causality.55 And that suffices for the purposes of the Fifth Way. To prove the existence of a divine ordering intelligence, we need in Aquinas’s view establish only that some teleology or other is immanent to the natural order.56 Controversies about this or that purported instance of natural teleology can be bracketed off for purposes of evaluating the argument. VI. Aquinas’s Middle Position: Second Stage Let us at last turn, then, to Aquinas’s reason for holding that even immanent teleology requires a divine ordering intelligence. The second stage of the Fifth Way goes as follows: Now whatever lacks intelligence cannot move towards an end, unless it be directed by some being endowed with knowledge and intelligence; as the arrow is shot to its mark by the archer. Therefore some intelligent being exists by whom all natural things are directed to their end; and this being we call God. Now, the Fathers of the English Dominican Province translation is a bit misleading here as well. The Fifth Way is not concerned to explain how things “move” toward an end in the sense of motion or change that involves the actualization of a potential; explaining that is, of course, the aim of the First Way.57 For “move” (tendunt), other translations have 55 That is not to say that it is plausible to suggest that all natural phenomena can be reduced to those described by physics. Reductionist claims in social science, psychology, and even biology are notoriously controversial even among philosophers and scientists with no theological ax to grind. Indeed, some have argued that even chemistry is irreducible to physics. (For an overview of the relevant literature on that subject, see J. van Brakel, Philosophy of Chemistry [Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2000], chapter 5.) See Feser, “Teleology: A Shopper’s Guide,” for discussion of the different levels of nature at which irreducible teleology might be said to exist. 56 As G. H. Joyce writes: “It is possible to establish that, wherever there is efficient causality, there must also be final causality. . . . If this principle be assured, then an argument from finality may be derived from any substance which is subject to change.” (Principles of Natural Theology, 2d ed. [London: Longmans, Green, and Co., 1924], 116.) Cf. Garrigou-Lagrange, God: His Existence and His Nature, vol. I, 364. 57 For discussion of the differences and similarities between the Five Ways, see chapter 3 of my Aquinas, and my article “Existential Inertia and the Five Ways,” American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly 85, no. 2 (2011): 237–67. Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way 733 “tend,” and that is a preferable rendering. What Aquinas is saying here, then, is that things cannot tend or incline toward a certain end unless some intelligence directs them to it. But why not, if the inclination is immanent in the way Aristotelians say it is? An answer is suggested by the parallel argument in De veritate, where Aquinas says that an unintelligent thing tends directly toward an end only where an intellect “has established an end for it, and directs it to that end” in a manner comparable to the “foresight” by which a man rules his family or a ruler governs a city or kingdom.58 Now part of what Aquinas has in mind here is, no doubt, the idea that the disparate ends we find in nature need in some way to be harmonized, so that (to return to an earlier example) heat doesn’t destroy everything else in the world, and so forth. And (so the argument presumably goes) only intelligent direction of the sort comparable to that of a ruler over his subjects can effect such harmonization.59 But it seems that that can’t be all that he has in mind. For it is evidently not merely the harmony of diverse ends in nature that Aquinas seeks to explain in the Fifth Way, but the very existence of such ends, harmonized or not. He implies that even a single unintelligent natural object—like the arrow of his illustration—could not tend toward an end unless directed by an intellect. That is to say, it could not do so even if there were no other, discordant ends with which it had to be reconciled. So, again, why not? “Foresight” and “established” provide the clues, and foreshadow two lines of argument one finds developed by later Thomists. First, the end toward which a thing naturally points can be efficacious only if it exists beforehand in an intellect, as the plan for a house exists in the mind of a builder before it is realized in the actual house. Second, intelligence is needed to direct a cause to the effect it points to for the same reason that it is needed to establish the means most appropriate for realizing some end.60 Let’s examine these arguments in turn. A common objection to the very idea of final causality is that it seems to entail that a thing can produce an effect even before that thing exists. Hence to say that an oak tree is the final cause of an acorn seems to entail that the oak tree—which doesn’t exist yet—in some sense causes the 58 De veritate, V, 2, Mulligan translation at 210. Emphasis added. 59 The brief parallel argument in Summa contra Gentiles I, 13.35 would seem to support this interpretation. 60 Such arguments are presented in Joyce, Principles of Natural Theology, 117–18; Garrigou-Lagrange, God: His Existence and His Nature, vol. I, 367–68; and Maurice Holloway, An Introduction to Natural Theology (New York: Appleton-CenturyCrofts, 1959), 138–41. 734 Edward Feser acorn to pass through every stage it must reach on the way to becoming the oak, since the oak is the “goal” or natural end of the acorn. But how can a non-existent oak cause anything? To see how, consider those cases where goal-directedness is associated with intelligence, as it is in us. A builder builds a house, and he is able to do so because the effect, the house, “exists” as an idea in his intellect before it exists in reality. Or rather, the form of the house exists in the builder’s intellect, and that very same form comes to exist in the matter that makes up the house. As Scholastic philosophers would put it, there is in this way a “formal identity” between the builder’s intellect and the house. In that way the house can serve as the final cause of the actions of the builder even as those actions are the efficient cause of the house. For strictly speaking, what the builder brings about is a circumstance in which the form of the house exists in a certain parcel of matter. And that form already exists in his intellect, and for that reason can be efficacious. There is no mystery here, then, of how a cause which doesn’t yet exist can be efficacious, because when we carefully analyze the situation we see that everything which plays a role in bringing about the effect—the materials, the builder and his intellect, and the form as it is grasped by his intellect—does already exist before the effect does. But notice that this is only the case precisely because the effect—the form of the house—does already exist in an intellect, even if not yet in the material that will make up the house. Nor is there anywhere else for it to exist. For by hypothesis, it doesn’t yet exist in the material world; and (at least for an Aristotelian like Aquinas) neither does it exist in a Platonic “third realm” apart from the material world and apart from any mind.That exhausts the alternatives. Hence, not only is it the case that the house does in fact serve as a final cause by virtue of its form existing in the builder’s intellect.That is the only way it could have done so, at least if—as this argument concedes to the critic of final causality—a cause must in some way exist if it is to be efficacious. Turn now to the vast system of causes that constitutes the physical universe. Each of them is directed toward its characteristic effect or effects as to an end, for the reasons given in the previous section.Yet almost none of them is associated with any consciousness or intellect at all. Even animals and human beings, which are conscious, comprise, in whole or in part, unconscious and unintelligent material components which themselves manifest immanent finality. And neither we nor any other intelligent agents in the natural order are directing those components to their respective ends. For instance, your blood has a tendency to clot, but you are not directing it to do so, and neither is any other human being—it Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way 735 just happens. Even if we supposed, fancifully, that extraterrestrials or beings from another dimension were doing the directing in these cases, these agents would themselves be made up of unintelligent and unconscious material components each with their own tendencies toward certain ends. Now, given what has just been said, it is impossible for anything to be directed toward an end unless that end exists formally in an intellect which directs the thing in question toward it. It follows that the system of ends manifest in the universe of unintelligent material things can exist at all only if there is an intellect outside that universe which directs these things toward their ends. Moreover, this intellect must exist here and now, and not merely at some beginning point in the past, because causes are here and now, and at any point at which they exist at all, directed toward certain ends. That is one argument, then, for the claim that a tendency toward an end presupposes a directing intelligence. A second argument, alluded to above, appeals to the proportion of means to ends. Aquinas writes: [T]hings can be ordered only by knowing their relation and proportion to one another, and to something higher, which is their end; for the order of certain things to one another is for the sake of their order to an end. But only a being endowed with intellect is capable of knowing the mutual relations and proportions of things; and to judge of certain things by the highest cause is the prerogative of wisdom. All ordering, therefore, is necessarily effected by means of the wisdom of a being endowed with intelligence.61 Now one obvious application of this line of argument would be to explaining the harmonization of the discordant ends found in nature— consider once again Aquinas’s example of how, though heat tends to destroy, it does not in fact do so always and everywhere. The idea would be that for a stable system of causes to exist, something must ensure that their divergent outcomes are balanced against one another. This can only be something capable of grasping their respective natures in the abstract and determining how they might be related in such a way that harmony is possible. And from an Aristotelian point of view, to be capable of grasping such abstract natures and relations just is to have an intellect. As I have emphasized, though, the Fifth Way is intended to explain all natural teleology as such in terms of a divine intellect, not merely the way in which the ends of diverse natural objects might be said to serve an 61 Summa contra Gentiles II, 24.4, in Saint Thomas Aquinas, Summa contra Gentiles, Book Two: Creation, trans. James F. Anderson (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1975), at 72. 736 Edward Feser overarching cosmic end; for the finality of causes considered individually would still exist even if it turned out that there is no such common, overarching end. The present argument, then, is also to be understood to apply even to the relationship between a single cause considered in isolation and its characteristic effect or effects. The idea would be that fire, for example, can “point” to heat as its typical effect only if an intellect fits the former to the latter as appropriate means to the latter. For whatever relates them in this law-like way must be capable of grasping their natures and relations in the abstract, and something capable of such abstraction just is something with intellect. It might be objected, though, that an Aristotelian conception of natural objects would seem to make this sort of explanation otiose. For isn’t it just in the nature of fire, given its substantial form, that it generates heat? And if so, then what need is there to appeal to a divine intellect in order to account for why fire is related to heat as a means is to an end? The answer is that Aquinas evidently does not take these to be competing explanations in the first place.The act of ordering a natural cause to its typical effect just is the imparting to it of a certain nature or substantial form. For “upon the form follows an inclination to the end, or to an action, or something of the sort; for everything, in so far as it is in act, acts and tends toward that which is in accordance with its form.”62 Hence, as John Wippel says, to impart to things their forms is for Aquinas thereby to impart to them “a permanent inclination which is part of their very being.”63 This suggests an answer to the question of whether the Fifth Way leads necessarily to a divine intelligence, as opposed to some lesser ordering intelligence (for example, an angelic intelligence). It might appear (and has appeared to many readers) that it does not. Yet from a Thomistic point of view, the ultimate cause of a thing’s existing with the particular nature it has is what conjoins its essence to an act of existence. And this (as Aquinas argues in De ente et essentia) can only be something whose essence and existence are identical, and thus something divine. Hence, if that which directs a natural thing to its end is also what gives it its very nature, this would lead us, ultimately, to a divine cause of things having the ends they do. Now this might seem to make the Fifth Way dependent on a separate, cosmological argument if it is to get all the way to God. But in fact there is a more direct approach, grounded in considerations about finality of the sort that make the Fifth Way distinctive. As Reginald GarrigouLagrange writes: 62 ST I, q. 5, a. 5, emphasis added. 63 John F.Wippel, The Metaphysical Thought of Thomas Aquinas (Washington, DC:The Catholic University of America Press, 2000), 484. Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way 737 [T]he intelligence claimed by this fifth proof must be pure act. If it were not so, we should have to say that its essence differed from its existence, that its intelligence was not its intellection, and that in it intellection and the intelligible were not identical. Now, essence cannot be directed to existence, nor intelligence to the intelligible object, except by a higher intelligence which is identical with its very being, always in the act of knowing itself.64 Garrigou-Lagrange’s point is that any ordering intelligence that was other than pure act—the philosophical core of the Aristotelian-Thomistic conception of God—would be composite rather than simple and thus in various respects a mixture of act of potency. In particular, it would have an essence that is merely potential until actualized by an act of existence; it would be distinct from its particular acts of intellection, which acts would therefore also need to be actualized; and it would be distinct from the intelligible objects of its intellection. Now such an intellect would therefore have to be directed to its objects; and since any potency is just a potency for some actuality, the potencies of this intellect would also have to be directed toward their actualization. But that means that a non-divine intelligence would merely be yet another instance of the sort of thing the Fifth Way is intended to explain, namely, something exhibiting finality or directedness to an end. Supposing the intelligence which orders natural things to their ends is other than divine thus merely opens the way to a vicious explanatory regress, a regress that can in principle be terminated only by a purely actual, and thus divine, intelligence. Note that the series of ordering intelligences posited here for the sake of argument would constitute a series of causes ordered per se rather than per accidens, and would thus necessarily terminate in a first member. For as we noted above, the logic of the argument implies that a thing could not be directed toward an end even for an instant apart from an ordering intelligence, and the same would be true of that ordering intelligence itself if it was other than purely actual, and of any other non-purelyactual intelligence we suppose might be directing it.What we are describing here, then, is a series of ordering causes extending not “backward” in time, but rather “upward,” simultaneously, at any particular moment at which anything exhibits finality at all. And insofar as the “lower” intelligences direct natural objects to their ends only insofar as they are themselves being so directed by something higher still, we would have a series of instrumental causes which require for their efficacy an uncaused cause, 64 Garrigou-Lagrange, God: His Existence and His Nature, vol. I, 370. Cf. Holloway, An Introduction to Natural Theology, 141–42. 738 Edward Feser something which can direct without being directed. In short, the Fifth Way reaches the same conclusion as Aquinas’s other arguments for God’s existence, but by beginning with final causes rather than with change, efficient causality, contingency, or degrees of perfection. And like those other arguments, it opens the way to further arguments to the effect that what is pure act must possess the other divine attributes.65 To be sure, this goes beyond anything Aquinas himself says explicitly about the Fifth Way. But it is a natural outworking of what he does say, and it is hardly surprising that later Thomists have read the Fifth Way as providing, at least by implication, a proof of a truly divine intelligence rather than a mere demiurge or committee of intelligences. There might still be lingering doubts, however, about whether Aquinas is able to depart from Aristotle in the way he does without falling into Paley’s position. For how could teleology be both immanent to the natural order and yet derived from God? Some everyday examples may help. A white wall on which ordinary sunlight is shining is white and not at all red. A white wall on which red light is shining is in one sense red, but it derives its redness entirely from the light. A red wall on which ordinary sunlight is shining is in some sense red inherently, but the redness is nevertheless manifest only insofar as the light is shining on it. Now compare God’s imparting of teleology to nature to the light’s shining on a wall. Natural teleology as Paley understands it can be compared to the redness a white wall has only when the red light is shining on it. But natural teleology as Aquinas understands it is like the redness a red wall has when ordinary sunlight is shining on it. The redness is really there in the wall, yet it cannot in any way manifest itself apart from the light. (I ignore the scientific details as irrelevant to the purpose of the analogy, and I do not claim that the analogy is perfect, only suggestive.) Or consider signs, linguistic and otherwise. The word “triangle” and the symbol Δ can both be used to represent triangles in general. Now neither one can do so on its own, for each by itself is a mere set of physical marks with no symbolic content. A mind must impart such content to them. Moreover, the connection between the word “triangle” and triangles is entirely arbitrary, an accident of the history of the English language. And even Δ hardly resembles all triangles; for example, there are obvious respects in which it does not resemble right triangles, or green ones, or very large ones. All the same, there is obviously something inher65 See Feser, Aquinas, 69–72 and 88–89 for discussion of the distinction between per se and per accidens series of causes, and 120–30 for discussion of Aquinas’s derivation of the various divine attributes. Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way 739 ent to Δ which makes it a more natural symbol for triangles in general than the word “triangle” is. Though both symbols ultimately depend for their symbolic content on a mind which imparts that content to them, Δ nevertheless has an inherent aptness for representing triangles in general that “triangle” does not. Now compare God’s imparting of teleology to natural objects to a mind’s imparting symbolic content to signs. For Paley, natural objects are like the word “triangle,” whereas for Aquinas they are like Δ. As with the word, the symbol Δ refers to triangles in general only insofar as that meaning is imparted to it, but there is still a natural connection between Δ and triangles in general that does not exist between “triangle” and triangles in general. (Again, I do not say that the analogy is perfect, only suggestive.) A final analogy is taken from linguistic representation specifically. If we consider the words and sentences we speak and write, it is obvious that they get their meaning from the community of language users that produces them, and ultimately from the ideas expressed by those language users in using them. Apart from these users, these linguistic items would be nothing more than meaningless noises or splotches of ink. Still, once produced, they take on a kind of life of their own. Words and sentences printed in books or recorded on tape retain their meaning even when no one is thinking about them; indeed, even if the books or tapes sit in a dusty corner of a library or archive somewhere, ignored for decades and completely forgotten, they still retain their meaning. Moreover, language has a structure that most language users are unaware of, but which can be studied by linguists. Still, if the community of language users were to disappear entirely—every single one of them killed in a worldwide plague, say—then the recorded words that were left behind would in that case revert to meaningless sounds or marks. While the community of language users exists, its general background presence is all that is required for meaning to persist in the physical sounds and markings, even if some of those sounds and markings are not the subject of anyone’s attention at a particular moment. But if the community goes away altogether, the meaning goes with it. By analogy (and here too I do not claim that the analogy is exact) we might think of the relationship of the divine intelligence of the Fifth Way to the system of final causes in the world as somewhat like the relationship of language users to language. God directs things to their ends, but the system thereby created has a kind of independence insofar as it can be studied without reference to God Himself, just as linguists can study the structure of language without paying attention to the intentions of this or that language user. The ends are in a sense just “there” in unintelligent 740 Edward Feser causes like the meaning is just “there” in words once they have been written. At the same time, if God were to cease directing things toward their ends, final causes would immediately disappear, just as the meaning of words would disappear if all language users disappeared. In this way, immanent teleology plays a role similar to secondary causes in the order of efficient causes, as I suggested above. Just as secondary causes have real causal power of their own, even if it derives ultimately from God as first cause, so too natural objects have immanent teleology, even if it derives ultimately from God as ordering intelligence. This last point puts us in a position to understand why Thomists have often been so keen to distance Aquinas’s argument from Paley’s. For the arguments are not merely different. Given their divergent metaphysical assumptions, they are arguably fundamentally incompatible, theologically as well as philosophically. VII. Thomism versus the “Design Argument” Before seeing how, let us note some of the indisputable differences between Aquinas’s position and Paley’s. As we have emphasized, Paley’s argument presupposes that teleology is extrinsic; Aquinas follows Aristotle in holding that it is immanent to the natural order. Paley therefore focuses on complex phenomena, especially biological phenomena, as uniquely indicative of teleology; Aquinas takes all natural phenomena, however simple or complex and whether organic or inorganic, to manifest teleology. Paley is presenting a cumulative and probabilistic “argument to the best explanation”; Aquinas is putting forward a metaphysical demonstration. Now neither Paley nor Aquinas is refuted by Darwin’s account of evolution by natural selection. But Paley is at least seriously threatened by it, while the Fifth Way is not threatened by it at all. For Darwin presents an alternative, non-teleological explanation of the complex biological phenomena on which Paley builds his case. To salvage their design argument, Paley’s followers therefore have to argue either that there are some complex biological phenomena that Darwinism cannot plausibly account for, or that even if successful Darwinism only pushes the problem back a stage insofar as it presupposes yet deeper levels of complexity that are best explained by reference to a designer. The argument then turns to a consideration of various cosmological speculations and biological minutiae—the purported “irreducible complexity” of the bacterial flagellum, the “anthropic principle” and the apparent “fine-tuning” of the laws of nature, and so on. Critics of the “design argument” then accuse its defenders of peddling a “god of the gaps” hypothesis which is open to refutation by future scientific discoveries. Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way 741 For Thomists, none of this wrangling over empirical details is necessary, and it tends to distract attention from the more fundamental and straightforward metaphysical issues. As we have seen, for Aquinas even the simplest patterns of efficient causation suffice to demonstrate the reality of immanent teleology, and will do so whatever physics, chemistry, and biology end up telling us. Hence while a Thomist may or may not object to this or that evolutionary account of this or that biological phenomenon, for purposes of the Fifth Way such issues are irrelevant. Now we have also seen that the Fifth Way, at least as developed by later Thomists, does indeed plausibly get us to a divine intelligence. By contrast, Paley’s argument is often acknowledged to get us at best to a designer who is extremely powerful and intelligent, but who for all we know may yet be finite and thus non-divine. But it is not just that Paley’s designer may be something other than God as Aquinas understands Him. There is reason to think that Paley’s designer could not be God as Aquinas understands Him. For Aquinas, when we predicate attributes of God, we necessarily do so analogously rather than univocally. But Paley is evidently predicating attributes of his designer and of us in a univocal way, which (for the Thomist at least) entails a radically deficient conception of God. A simple example will illustrate the difference between the two kinds of predication. When I say that this is a good cheeseburger and that is good pizza, I am using “good” univocally. I am predicating the very same thing to both the cheeseburger and the pizza. And I will still be doing so if I say that the cheeseburger is better than the pizza. I will be saying that the pizza and the cheeseburger both have the very same attribute, but that the cheeseburger has it to a higher degree than the pizza. But when I say that this is a good cheeseburger and that Aquinas was a good man, I am not using “good” univocally and I am not predicating exactly the same thing both to the cheeseburger and to Aquinas. I am saying instead that there is something in Aquinas that is analogous to what we call “good” in the cheeseburger, though of course it is not precisely the same thing, since the moral qualities that lead us to attribute goodness to a human being are not the same as the gustatory and nutritive qualities that lead us to attribute goodness to food. Similarly, when we speak of Aquinas’s intelligence and my intelligence, we are using “intelligence” univocally. Hence to say that Aquinas was more intelligent than I am is to say that Aquinas had the same thing I have, but to a greater degree. But in Aquinas’s view, when we speak of our intelligence and God’s intelligence, we are not using “intelligence” univocally. We are not saying that God has the same thing we have, but to a higher degree. Rather, we are saying that there is in God something 742 Edward Feser analogous to what we call “intelligence” in us. The reason is that God, as pure act, does not merely participate in being, goodness, intelligence, and the like, as we and other created things do. For Aquinas, God doesn’t “have” being; he is being itself. He doesn’t “have” goodness; He is goodness itself. He doesn’t “have” intelligence; He is intelligence itself. And so forth. Moreover, He is, given the doctrine of divine simplicity, identical to His attributes. What we call God’s being, God’s goodness, God’s intelligence, and so forth are really just the same thing—God Himself—considered from different points of view. It follows that God is radically unlike anything in the created order. He is not “a being” alongside others, not even a very grand and remote being among other beings, but rather ipsum esse subsistens, that on which all mere beings depend for their being. By contrast, Paley’s procedure is to model his designer on human designers. At least by implication, his designer exercises the same faculty human designers do—he works out design problems, performs calculations, and so forth—but does so with massively greater facility. He is an essentially anthropomorphic designer. Understandably, then, Paley’s argument is often characterized as an “argument from analogy,” but it is crucial to emphasize that “analogy” as it is used in that expression does not mean what it does in Aquinas’s doctrine of analogy. On the contrary, Paley’s procedure implies the opposite of what Aquinas’s doctrine of analogy does. For Paley presupposes that natural objects are like human artifacts in having only extrinsic teleology, while the Fifth Way insists that they are not like human artifacts because they have immanent teleology. The implication is that Paley’s designer imparts teleology the way human designers do, by imposing on raw materials a function they have no inherent tendency to serve. But for Aquinas, creation does not involve anything comparable to the taking of preexisting materials and fashioning them into a kind of artifact. It does not involve imposing an accidental form on things already having their own substantial forms. (Hence the question of temporal order is irrelevant here; it does not change the point at all if we supposed that the designer somehow conjured the raw natural materials into existence while simultaneously imposing some function on them not already inherent in the materials.) Rather, God creates by conjoining an essence to an act of existence, where the finality of the thing created is inherent in the essence itself rather than “tacked on” in a separate creative act.66 66 Aquinas does sometimes find it useful to compare God to an artificer and natu- ral objects to artifacts (ST I, q. 27, a. 1; I, q. 44, a. 3; I, q. 65, a. 2; I–II, q. 13, a. 2; Summa contra Gentiles III, 100.6). But he does not put forward this analogy as a way of arguing for God’s existence or explaining how God imparts teleology to natural objects. When he does address those issues—in the Fifth Way, and in the Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way 743 Aquinas’s argument is thus immune to the sorts of objections Hume pressed upon design arguments, to the effect that the designer would have to work through corporeal organs the way human designers do, and would manifest complexity which itself requires explanation. To be sure, Paley’s defenders have developed replies to these objections, but they typically appeal to such considerations as the greater parsimony of postulating a disembodied designer. They do not, and cannot, deny that the designer at least could in principle be the sort Hume describes. But the Humean objections do not even get off the ground against Aquinas’s divine intelligence, who, being pure act, is necessarily absolutely simple and incorporeal. So, the anthropomorphism implicit in Paley’s conception of God is one reason Thomists are bound to object to Paley’s argument. But his implied conception of God’s relationship to the world is another potential source of incompatibility. To see how, consider the three main approaches within traditional theism to understanding God’s causal relationship to the world, as Alfred Freddoso has usefully classified them.67 Occasionalism holds that God alone is the cause of everything that happens, so that there are no true secondary causes in nature. For example, on this view, one billiard ball which makes contact with another during a game of pool does not in any way cause the other to move. Rather, God causes the second ball to move on the occasion when the first makes contact with it. Mere conservationism holds that while God maintains natural objects and their causal powers in existence at every moment, they alone are the immediate causes of their effects. On this view, the one billiard ball really does cause the other one to move, and God has nothing to do with it other than keeping the ball and its causal powers in being. He is not in any direct way the cause of the second ball’s motion. Finally, concurrentism is a middle ground position which holds on the one hand (and contrary to occasionalism) that natural objects are true causes, but on the other hand (and contrary to mere conservationism) that God not only maintains natural objects and their causal powers in being, but also cooperates with them in immediately causing their effects. On this view, the one billiard ball really does cause the other ball to move, but only together with God, Who acts as a concurrent cause. parallel arguments in De veritate and Summa contra Gentiles cited above—his preferred analogies are to the archer who shoots an arrow and the ruler who governs a family, city, or kingdom. His focus is always on directedness to an end, not on complexity, skilled craftsmanship, clever engineering, or the like. 67 See Alfred J. Freddoso, “God’s General Concurrence with Secondary Causes: Pitfalls and Prospects,” American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly 67 (1994): 131–56. 744 Edward Feser Concurrentism became the standard view within the Scholastic tradition, because the other views are philosophically and theologically problematic.68 For example, occasionalism veers in the direction of pantheism, while mere conservationism veers in the direction of deism. We can understand how if we recall the Scholastic dictum that “a thing operates according as it is.”69 If, as occasionalism holds, only God alone ever operates or brings about effects, and natural objects operate not at all, then it is difficult to see how they exist at all, at least in any robust way. God alone would seem to be real; natural objects would be like mere fictional characters in the mind of a divine Author. By contrast, if, as mere conservationism holds, natural objects can at least operate or bring about effects apart from God’s immediate causal action, then it seems that they could also exist apart from his immediate causal action. The world would in that case not depend for its continued existence on God’s conserving action. (This is not to say flatly that occasionalism entails pantheism or that mere conservationism entails deism.The issues are complex, and careful analysis is required in order to determine precisely what these views do or do not entail, either by themselves or in conjunction with other assumptions. The point is just to indicate some of the reasons they have been considered at least problematic.) Now I have emphasized that Aquinas is committed to the reality of secondary causes. We have also seen that he regards efficient causality as intelligible only in light of final causality. The clear implication would seem to be that if natural objects are to be true causes, they must possess immanent finality. To deny them immanent finality—to hold that whatever finality they have exists only in the divine intellect and in no way in the natural objects themselves—would therefore seem to entail denying them genuine causal power, and to attribute all causal power to God alone. And that would be to embrace occasionalism. Insofar as Paley’s position presupposes a rejection of immanent finality, then, it arguably threatens to collapse into occasionalism. Of course, Paley and other defenders of the design argument would no doubt find this charge surprising. Certainly they do not typically deny that natural objects are true efficient causes. But the point is that their position at least arguably entails such a denial, 68 For discussion of occasionalism, see Freddoso’s article “Medieval Aristotelianism and the Case against Secondary Causation in Nature,” in Divine and Human Action: Essays in the Metaphysics of Theism, ed. Thomas V. Morris (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1988), 74–118. For discussion of mere conservationism, see his article “God’s General Concurrence with Secondary Causes: Why Conservation Is Not Enough,” Philosophical Perspectives 5 (1991): 553–85. 69 ST I, q. 75, a. 2. Emphasis added. Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way 745 whether they realize it or not, given an Aristotelian-Thomistic understanding of causation. If digestion, oxidation, gravitation, and other natural causal processes are as extrinsic to natural phenomena as time-telling is extrinsic to the parts of a watch, then natural phenomena have no more power to carry out these activities than metal gears have the power to convey the time of day. After all, that a particular bit of physical activity means that it is now 11:27 is entirely observer-relative, and does not follow from anything in the watch parts themselves. It is we, the designers and users of the watch, who cause the marks on its face to mean what they do. Similarly, if something counts as digestion, oxidation, gravitation, or the like also entirely extrinsically, only relative to God’s activity as designer, then these things too are really God’s activities rather than those of natural objects themselves. To be sure, some of Paley’s other commitments would seem to lead in the opposite direction. In particular, that he regards it as at best highly probable that complex natural phenomena were designed by God seems to entail that they could at least in principle exist and operate apart from Him. But this leads him out of the frying pan of occasionalism only to fall into the fire of deism—bypassing not only concurrentism, but even mere conservationism, altogether. And of course, Paley’s position is indeed sometimes characterized as reflective of the eighteenth-century trend toward deism. From a Thomistic point of view, then, Paley’s position is bound to appear metaphysically unstable, ambiguous between unacceptable extremes vis-à-vis the question of God’s causal relationship to the world. That, together with its tendency toward anthropomorphism, makes it doubly objectionable from a theological point of view.70 It is no surprise, then, that Thomists have often distanced the Fifth Way from the design argument of Paley and other modern writers, sometimes in harsh terms. For example, Maurice Holloway insists: We should be careful not to confuse the fifth way of St. Thomas Aquinas, which argues from the existence of order in the universe to the existence of an infinite intelligence, with Paley’s argument from design. In the latter’s argument the universe is seen as a complicated and intricate machine . . . [and he] reasons, by way of analogy, to the existence of a divine watchmaker, or supreme architect of the universe.This argument from design, as given by Paley and unfortunately repeated in many books on Christian apologetics, does not prove the existence of God. An architect of the universe would have to be a very clever being, 70 This also explains why Thomists are often critical of “Intelligent Design” theory, which inherits these tendencies. See Feser, “Teleology: A Shopper’s Guide.” 746 Edward Feser but he would not have to be God. . . . Many of the objections directed against what some writers believe is the fifth way of St. Thomas are really directed against the watchmaker of Paley. St. Thomas’s proof is entirely different. It is grounded in the metaphysics of finality . . . 71 Similar views are expressed by John F. McCormick, Cardinal Mercier, Joseph Owens, R. P. Phillips, Henri Renard, and John Wippel.72 Benedict Ashley objects to the “philosophical naiveté” of authors like Paley “in confusing extrinsic and intrinsic finality.”73 Étienne Gilson complains of the “anthropomorphic God” of “simple-minded metaphysicians [who] have unwillingly led agnostics to believe that the God of natural theology was the ‘watchmaker’ of Voltaire, or the ‘carpenter’ of cheap apologetics.”74 Herman Reith says that the trouble with the design argument is that “the examples used and the interpretation given them prevents the argument from rising to the metaphysical level . . . above the order of the physical universe,” so that “it cannot conclude to anything more than the existence of some kind of intelligence and power” within that universe.75 Ronald Knox characterizes Paley’s design argument as “feeble,” and does not regard it as even a “modification” of any of Aquinas’s Five Ways.76 Christopher F. J. Martin, in the course of defending the Fifth Way, dismisses Paley’s design inference as “really a rather poor argument,” and avers that “the Being whose existence is revealed to us by the argument from design is not God but the Great Architect of the Deists and Freemasons, an impostor disguised as God.”77 71 Holloway, An Introduction to Natural Theology, 146–47. 72 John F. McCormick, S.J., Scholastic Metaphysics, Part II: Natural Theology (Chicago: Loyola University Press, 1943), 75. Cardinal Mercier, “Natural Theology or Theodicy,” in Cardinal Mercier, et al., A Manual of Modern Scholastic Philosophy, Volume II (St. Louis: B. Herder, 1933), 53–54. Joseph Owens, An Elementary Christian Metaphysics (Houston: Center for Thomistic Studies, 1985), 349, and “Aquinas and the Five Ways,” in St. Thomas Aquinas on the Existence of God: The Collected Papers of Joseph Owens, ed. John R. Catan (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1980), 136–37. R. P. Phillips, Modern Thomistic Philosophy,Volume II (Westminster, MD: The Newman Press, 1950), 290. Henri Renard, S.J., The Philosophy of God (Milwaukee: Bruce Publishing Company, 1951), 48. Wippel, The Metaphysical Thought of Thomas Aquinas, 480. 73 Benedict M. Ashley, O.P., The Way toward Wisdom (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2006), 512, n. 11. 74 Étienne Gilson, God and Philosophy (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1941), 142. 75 Herman Reith, The Metaphysics of St.Thomas Aquinas (Milwaukee: Bruce Publishing Company, 1958), 198. 76 Ronald Knox, Broadcast Minds (New York: Sheed and Ward, 1933), 52 and 222. 77 Martin, Thomas Aquinas: God and Explanations, 180–82. Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way 747 Hence, if the design argument is in any case controversial at best within contemporary philosophy, the Thomist may decide that attempts to revive it are worse than a waste of time. But is the Fifth Way in any better shape? In particular, is it possible within the context of contemporary philosophy and science to revive the Aristotelian notion of immanent finality, on which Aquinas’s argument rests? VIII. Immanent Teleology in Contemporary Philosophy Not only is such a revival possible, it is actual. Recent decades have seen, within mainstream academic philosophy, a renewed interest in traditional Aristotelian metaphysical notions like substance, essence, causal power, act versus potency (these days referred to as the distinction between “categorical” and “dispositional” properties), and finality (these days referred to as “physical intentionality” or the “directedness” of dispositions toward their manifestations). Moreover, this revival has taken place among secular metaphysicians and philosophers of science with no Thomistic or theological ax to grind.78 Among metaphysicians, the revival has largely been motivated by dissatisfaction with the standard modern philosophical accounts of causation, which take Hume as their point of departure. For example, regularity theories of causation hold that for A to cause B is just for A and B to be instances of a general pattern according to which events like A are succeeded by events like B. Counterfactual theories of causation hold that the claim that A caused B is to be analyzed as the claim that had A not occurred, B would not have occurred either.Various technical objections have been raised against such accounts, but for those attracted to a neo-Aristotelian approach to causation, the fundamental difficulty is that these theories do not capture causation itself, but only phenomena that presuppose causation. That is to say, to the extent that the regularities in question hold and to the extent that the counterfactuals in question are true, that is only because they are grounded in the causal powers of things. They don’t explain causation but presuppose causation. The term “disposition” is sometimes preferred to “power,” but some of the theorists in question go on to argue that we can make sense of 78 For a brief history of this development and a useful overview of its central themes, see Stephen Mumford, “Causal Powers and Capacities,” in The Oxford Handbook of Causation, ed. Helen Beebee, Christopher Hitchcock, and Peter Menzies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 265–78. For an anthology of relevant articles, see Powers and Capacities in Philosophy: The New Aristotelianism, ed. Ruth Groff and John Greco (London: Routledge, 2013). Cf. Ellis, The Philosophy of Nature: A Guide to the New Essentialism. Edward Feser 748 these powers or dispositions only if we think of them as “pointing” to or being “directed” at their characteristic manifestations or effects. George Molnar characterizes this as “physical intentionality,” since it is like the intentionality of mental states in that it involves directedness onto an object that may or may not exist, but unlike it in not being conscious.79 John Heil calls it “natural intentionality” for similar reasons.80 Whatever the label, in substance it is a return to something like Aquinas’s view that efficient causality presupposes final causality, and the similarity has not gone unnoticed by historians of philosophy.81 Within the philosophy of science, a movement toward neo-Aristotelianism has been motivated by dissatisfaction with the idea that scientific explanation is a matter of discovering “laws of nature.” As Nancy Cartwright has emphasized, a serious problem with the Humean notion that science is in the business of establishing regularities on the basis of observation is that the sorts of regularities that the hard sciences tend to uncover are rarely observed, and in fact are in ordinary circumstances impossible to observe.82 Beginning students of physics quickly become acquainted with idealizations like the notion of a frictionless surface, and with the fact that laws like Newton’s law of gravitation strictly speaking describe the behavior of bodies only in circumstances where no interfering forces are acting on them (a circumstance which never actually holds). Moreover, physicists do not in fact embrace a regularity as a law of nature only after many trials, after the fashion of popular presentations of inductive reasoning. Instead, they draw their conclusions from a few highly specialized experiments conducted under artificial conditions. None of this is consistent with the idea that science is concerned with cataloguing observed regularities. But it is consistent, in Cartwright’s view, with the Aristotelian picture of science as in the business of uncovering the hidden natures of things. Experimental practice indicates that what physicists are really looking for are the inherent powers a thing will manifest when interfering conditions are removed, and the fact that a few experiments (or even a single controlled experiment) are taken to estab79 George Molnar, Powers: A Study in Metaphysics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003). 80 John Heil, From an Ontological Point of View (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2003). 81 See e.g. Ott, Causation and Laws of Nature in Early Modern Philosophy, 29–30, which compares Scholastic views of causation to those of contemporary writers like Ellis and Molnar. 82 Nancy Cartwright, “Aristotelian Natures and the Modern Experimental Method,” in Inference, Explanation, and Other Frustrations: Essays in the Philosophy of Science, ed. John Earman (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992), and Nature’s Capacities and Their Measurement (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989). Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way 749 lish the results in question indicates that these powers are taken to reflect a nature that is universal to things of that type. The notion of “regularities” or “laws of nature” is therefore misleading, in Cartwright’s view, given that science actually uncovers few laws or regularities outside highly artificial conditions. Strictly speaking, what science discovers are the universal natures and inherent powers of things, and talk of “laws of nature” can only be shorthand for this. As Cartwright concludes, “the empiricists of the scientific revolution wanted to oust Aristotle entirely from the new learning,” but “they did no such thing.”83 While references to “substantial form,” “final causes,” and other traditional Scholastic concepts do not exactly pepper the contemporary academic philosophy journals, then, the substance of these ideas is getting a renewed hearing in at least some influential quarters. There has also been renewed interest in aspects of Aristotelian metaphysics other than those which have been our central concern here.84 Then there are those contemporary analytic philosophers who have shown sympathy toward a specifically Aristotelian-Thomistic approach to metaphysics.85 If renewed interest in Aquinas’s Fifth Way waits upon renewed interest in its Aristotelian metaphysical underpinnings, then, it will not have to wait as long as many might suppose. Indeed, the latter revival is already underway. N&V 83 Cartwright, “Aristotelian Natures and the Modern Experimental Method,” 70. See Feser, “Teleology: A Shopper’s Guide” for references to some Aristotelian tendencies in contemporary philosophy of biology. 84 See e.g. Tuomas Tahko, ed., Contemporary Aristotelian Metaphysics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), and Edward Feser, ed., Aristotle on Method and Metaphysics (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013). 85 See e.g. John J. Haldane, “A Thomist Metaphysics,” in The Blackwell Guide to Metaphysics, ed. Richard Gale (Oxford: Blackwell, 2002), 87–109; Gyula Klima, “Contemporary ‘Essentialism’ vs. Aristotelian Essentialism,” in Mind, Metaphysics, and Value in the Thomistic and Analytical Traditions, ed. John Haldane (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2002), 175–94; Oderberg, Real Essentialism; David Oderberg, “Teleology: Inorganic and Organic,” in Contemporary Perspectives on Natural Law, ed. Ana Marta Gonzalez (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008), 259–79; and James Ross, Thought and World: The Hidden Necessities (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2008). Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 11, No. 3 (2013): 751–78 751 Thomistic Considerations on Whether We Ought to Revere Non-Rational Natural Beings M ARIE I. G EORGE St. John’s University New York, NY I N RECENT times, not only do some environmental extremists counsel us to have reverence for non-rational beings, but some authors and sources faithful to the Magisterium do so as well. For example, Romano Guardini (1885–1968), a theologian whom Pope Benedict XVI commends,1 suggests: He [i.e., the one who cannot pray] can, for example, acknowledge the sublime with special reverence wherever he encounters it and in so doing render homage to the mystery which is behind all that is noble on earth. . . . It [i.e., his attitude] aims through earthly things at things holy and divine to which, for the time being, it has no direct access. This piety can take the form of reverence toward all living things, an endeavor not to harm or destroy anything.2 And, in Magnificat,3 it is increasingly common to find petitions such as these: 1 See Benedict XVI, “He Aspired to the Truth of God and to the Truth About Man,” Papal address to the Romano Guardini Foundation of Berlin (Oct. 2010), www.zenit.org/rssenglish-31063. 2 Romano Guardini, The Art of Praying: The Principles and Methods of Christian Prayer, trans. Leopold Loewenstein-Wertheim (Manchester, NH: Sophia Institute Press, 1995), 169. In the original version, Guardini uses the word “Ehrfurcht.” 3 The Magnificat is a monthly publication, edited by Dominicans, which contains Mass propers, a shortened version of the Liturgy of Hours, lives of saints, and spiritual writings by various authors including Fathers and Doctors of the Church. 752 Marie I. George “You are the source of all life: —grant us reverence for all that lives.”4 “Blessed are you, O Lord our God; you created all things and pronounced them good: —fill us with reverence for the works of your hands.”5 In this paper I intend to discuss whether we ought to revere and show reverence toward non-rational natural creatures. First, I will set out what Thomas Aquinas says about reverence: what it is and toward whom it ought to be held or shown. Second, I will consider whether contemporary speakers of English use the word “reverence” in ways compatible with Aquinas’s teaching about reverence. Ultimately, I suggest that we should take our cue from Aquinas as to our use of the word in regard to creatures; that is, given there is reason to regard and treat rational creatures in a way different from non-rational ones, insofar as they differ in nature and destiny, we should reserve our use of the words “revere” and “reverence” to beings that are rational, lest our use of language efface the precise meaning of these words and consequently obscure the real differences as to how we ought to regard and treat each of these two kinds of beings. What Is Reverence? According to Aquinas, reverence is the proper act of both the gift of piety and the gift of fear: “Although [the act of coming to the aid of those in distress] will have no place in heaven . . . nevertheless there will be the principal act [of the gift of piety] which is to revere God with filial affect.”6 “To revere God is the act of the gift of fear.”7 The two gifts complement each other, and the reverence they involve has two facets. Both gifts stem from love: love moves us to do what is good for the beloved and also to fear what would separate us from the beloved. Thus, when speaking of the gift of piety, Aquinas says: The Holy Spirit moves us, among other things, to this, that we have a certain filial affect toward God, according to Rom. 8:15: “You have received the Spirit of the sons of adoption, by which we cry out: Abba, Father.” And because it pertains properly to piety to show respect (cultus)8 and service (officium) to one’s father, consequently the piety 4 Magnificat, August 2010, 241. See also, ibid. February 2012, 386: “For the word of creation, we praise you, O God: —teach us to reverence all that your word has brought into being.” 5 Magnificat, January 2011, 150. 6 ST II–II, q. 121, a. 1, ad 3. (The article treats whether piety is a gift.) 7 ST II–II, q. 81, a. 2. 8 The meanings of “cultus” include care, respect, reverence, and worship. Ought We to Revere Non-Rational Natural Beings? 753 according to which we show respect and service to God as father through the instinct of the Holy Spirit is a gift of the Holy Spirit.9 And when speaking of the gift of fear, Aquinas first makes plain that filial fear stems from love for the father, and then equates filial fear with reverence for God: “The relationship of servant to master is through the power of the master subjecting the servant to himself, but the relationship of son to father . . . is the opposite, [i.e.,] through the affect of the son subjecting himself to the father . . . by a union of love.”10 “Filial or chaste fear does this [makes man subject to God and not fighting him] insofar as through it we revere God and flee withdrawing ourselves from him.”11 Reverence thus embraces both a desire to exhibit attentive service and a fear of offending, both of which are rooted in love.12 The virtue of religion (religio) also has a close relationship with reverence: To revere God is the act of the gift of fear. It pertains to religion, however, to do certain things on account of divine reverence. Whence it does not follow that religion is the same as the gift of fear, but that it is ordered to it as to something more principal.13 Religion, then, is concerned with expressions of reverence: 9 ST II–II, q. 121, a. 1. 10 ST II–II, q. 19, a. 2, ad 3. See ST II–II, q. 19, a. 2: “It will be filial fear if it is on account of fear of fault; for it belongs to sons to fear offense to the father.” 11 ST II–II, q. 19, a. 9. See also ST II–II, q. 19, a. 5, ad 2. Note that in heaven, rever- ence no longer takes the form of fear of offending God, for it is impossible for the blessed to do so. Rather it takes the form of what we would call “awe:” “Therefore [in heaven] fear will be destroyed as to the act that is to fear separation, but it will remain as to the act which is to admire or to revere that being [who is] difficult [to attain], which happens when man from the consideration of so great a height contracts in his own smallness” (Scriptum super Sententiis [Paris: Lethielleux, 1956], III, d. 34, q. 2, a. 3, qc. 4). 12 See ST II–II, q. 22, a. 2: “But filial fear which shows reverence to God is as a certain kin to the love of God, and a certain principle of all those things which are observed in reverence of God. And therefore precepts in the law are given concerning filial fear as they are given about love because each of them is a preamble to the external acts commanded by the law to which pertain the precepts of the Decalogue. And therefore according to the authority adduced [namely, Deut. 10:12: ‘And now, Israel, what does the Lord your God ask of you except that you fear the Lord your God?’], fear of God is required from man, both so ‘that he walk in the way of God’ by worshipping him [i.e., God], and so ‘that he may love him [i.e., God].’ ” 13 ST II–II, q. 81, a. 1, ad 1. 754 Marie I. George To revere, as such, is an act of fear; but to show reverence, insofar asthis is due to God, is properly the act of latria. . . . Just as to fight bravely, as such, is the act of courage, but to fight in the army of a king as a soldier—something which is owed to him [the king] by reason of the fiefdom he holds—is an act of justice.14 Aquinas makes a similar point when speaking of the relationship of reverence to honor:15 Reverence is not the same thing as honor; but in one respect [it] is the first motive for honoring [a person], insofar as, namely, a person from the reverence which he has toward someone, honors him. In another respect it is the end of honor, insofar as, namely, someone is honored for the purpose that he be held in reverence by others.16 Revering someone stands to honoring someone (which is a way of exhibiting reverence) as an internal disposition to a type of action driven by that disposition. Accordingly, I will sometimes rely on passages in which Aquinas explicitly refers to honor but could just as well have been speaking of the reverence underlying it. The Proper Object of Reverence Reverence first and foremost “directly regards the excellent person, and therefore according to diverse notions of excellence, it has diverse species.”17 Elsewhere, as we shall see, Aquinas makes it clear that reverence is appropriate only when the superiority or excellence in question is either properly divine, as is true of God, or makes the creature in some way divine. When speaking about God, Aquinas affirms that “reverence is owed to God on account of his excellence.”18 The excellence of God can be viewed in light of his essence or in light of his being a principle in regard to creatures (e.g., creator and redeemer).When discussing the unity of the virtue of religion, Aquinas maintains that it pertains to religion “to exhibit reverence to the one God according to one reason; namely, he is principle of creation and governor of things. Whence he himself says 14 In III Sent., d. 9, q. 1., a. 1, qla 4, sol. 1, ad 3. 15 See ST II–II, q. 103, a. 2: “honor is always due to someone on account of some excellence or superiority.” See also ST II–II, q. 103, a. 1: “honor implies a certain testifying to the excellence of someone.” 16 ST II–II, q. 103, a. 1, ad 1. 17 ST II–II, q. 104, a. 2, ad 4. 18 ST II–II, q. 84, a. 1, ad 1. See also ST II–II, q. 81, a. 3, ad 2. Ought We to Revere Non-Rational Natural Beings? 755 (Malach. I), ‘If I am father, where is my honor?’ For it belongs to the father to produce and govern.”19 In another passage Aquinas indicates that greater reverence is owed God in virtue of his essence than is owed him in regard to what he does for creatures. Here Aquinas addresses the question of whether God should be praised vocally. In the body of the article, Aquinas notes that in regard to vocal praise “we address words to God in order to lead ourselves and other listeners to reverence of him.”20 He then addresses the objection that God is owed something greater than praise: We are able to speak about God in two ways; one way, as to his essence. And thus, since he is incomprehensible and ineffable, he is greater than all praise. The reverence and the honor of latria, however, are owed to him in this respect. Whence in the Psalter of Jerome it is said as to the first ‘praise keeps silence for you, God’ and as to the second, “to you a vow is rendered.” In another way [we are able to speak about God] according to his effects which are ordered to our utility. And according to this, praise is owed to God.21 In both the above passages we can see something about reverence that Aquinas notes elsewhere, namely, that it differs from love as to its object: The object of love is the good, the object of honor or reverence is something excellent. The goodness of God is communicated to the creature; not however, the excellence of his goodness. Therefore, the charity by which God is loved is not a virtue distinct from the virtue by which we love the neighbor; however, religion, by which God is honored, is distinguished from the virtues by which we honor our neighbor.22 It would imply contradiction for God to create another infinitely good being or for him to endow another being with the capacity to create.23 His incommunicable excellence lies in his being infinitely good, creator, supreme governor of the universe, redeemer, and other things such as these. For this reason, an exclusive form of reverence and honor is owed to God (“latria”).24 19 ST II–II, q. 81, a. 3. See also Summa contra Gentiles, ed. C. Pera, O.P., et al. (Turin: Marietti, 1961), III, chap. 119. (Hereafter cited as ScG.) 20 ST II–II, q. 91, a. 1. 21 ST II–II, q. 91, a. 1, ad 1. 22 ST II–II, q. 81, a. 4, ad 3. 23 See ST I, q. 45, a. 5. 24 See ST II–II, q. 103, a. 3, ad 1: “as religion par excellence is called piety, insofar as God is Father par excellence, so too latria par excellence is called dulia, insofar as God par excellence is Lord. The creature, however, does not share the 756 Marie I. George Although God does not communicate the supreme excellence of his goodness, he does communicate his goodness to creatures. He does not do so equally;25 thus some creatures excel others in goodness. The creatures to which he communicates his goodness in the highest degree are those that he creates in his own image; and upon these he further freely bestows grace, which is a certain participation in the divine nature. It is to such beings that reverence is to be shown: “Dulia” conveys the reverence and honor that can be shown to a creature. Since, however, honor is not owed except to divine things, as the Philosopher says in Bk. I of the Ethics, it is not owed properly and directly except to the one possessing grace and virtue which makes [one] divine.26 Grace is a sharing in the divine nature, and the supernatural virtues dispose us to live in a manner befitting our elevated nature.27 Humans are said to be deiform in virtue of both.28 The humans and angels who are in heaven securely possess grace and in addition are united to God in the beatific vision.29 As such, they are more worthy of reverence than people living on earth who are in the state of grace. As for those who possess purely human virtue alone, they are plainly less like God than those who possess supernatural virtue; still, they are power of creating, by reason of which God is owed latria. And therefore the Gloss makes that distinction, attributing latria to God according to creation which is not communicated to the creature, dulia according to lordship which is communicated to creature.” See also ST II–II, q. 81, a. 4: “Honor, however, is owed to someone by reason of excellence. A singular excellence belongs to God, however, insofar as he transcends all things infinitely according to every manner of surpassing. Therefore special honor is owed to him.” 25 See ST I, q. 47, a. 2: “Therefore, just as divine wisdom is the cause of the distinction of things for the sake of the perfection of the universe, so also he is cause of inequality. For there would not be a perfect universe if only one grade of goodness were to be found in things.” 26 In III Sent., d. 9, q. 2, a. 3. 27 See ST I–II, q. 110, a. 3 and De veritate, q. 27, a. 2. 28 See In II Sent., d. 26, q. 1, a. 4, ad 3: “Grace confers perfection on the soul as a certain divine being . . . according to which those who possess grace are in a certain manner constituted deiform, on account of which they are referred to as sons by the grace of God.” See also In III Sent., d. 27, q. 2, a. 1, ad 9: “Insofar as men through charity are made deiform, they are thus above men, and their intercourse is in heaven. . . .” 29 See ST II–II, q. 103, a. 4, ad 2: “the greatest reverence is owed to man from the nearness he has to God.” Ought We to Revere Non-Rational Natural Beings? 757 more like God than those who lack it, since natural virtue disposes them for supernatural virtue.30 Why Should Reverence Be Shown to Bad People? What about human beings who are not in the state of grace and lack human virtue? It seems that they should not be honored or revered, since “Honor is nothing other than a certain protestation of the excellence of the goodness of someone.”31 While Aquinas maintains that reverence is “not owed properly and directly except to the one possessing grace and virtue,”32 he goes on to say: But there are many ways for someone to have virtue: either as virtuous in act, and honor is owed to this person properly and according to himself (secundum se), or as having a natural aptitude for virtue, and thus honor is to be shown to anyone having the image. Or as ordered to 30 Here is not the place to investigate in detail the relationship between natural virtue and supernatural virtue. Aquinas maintains that in some sense it is true that “if man does what is in him, God gives him grace” (De veritate, q. 24, a. 15). See also De veritate, q. 14, a. 11, ad 2. 31 ST II–II, q. 103, a. 2. See also In III Sent., d. 9, q. 2, a. 3, obj. 1: “It seems that sinners ought not to be honored with dulia. For the honor of dulia, as the philosopher says, is reverence shown to someone in testimony of virtue. But sinners who are also prelates do not have virtue. Therefore, those who honor them give false testimony, which is a sin.” 32 In III Sent., d. 9, q. 2, a. 3. One might ask whether someone should be revered and honored for excellence in forms of goodness that do not make a person good in an unqualified way, e.g., should an excellent baseball player be honored and revered? In one passage Aquinas seems to say that all human excellence makes a person divine: “In regard to the excellence of a man, two things should be noted. First, a man does not have of himself that according to which he excels, but it is as it were something divine in him. And therefore honor is not principally owed to him, but to God” (ST II–II, q. 131, a. 1; see also ST II–II, q. 103, a. 4 and II–II, q. 102, a. 1, ad 2). However, in other places he makes it clear that human excellence that is not subordinated to the end of the moral life does not truly make a person divine. He distinguishes natural industriousness and astuteness from prudence (see ST II–II, q. 47 a. 13, ad 3, ST II–II, q. 53 proem and q. 55, a. 3), and says that a good thief is said to be good by metaphor (ST II–II, q. 92 a. 1, ad 1). Accordingly, someone who used a personal excellence for a bad end should not be revered: “In another way, someone can revere men insofar as they are in opposition to God. And in this manner those who do not revere men are praised . . .” (ST II–II, q. 19, a. 3, ad 1). Thus, an eminent scientist or a star football player who mocks God and religion should not be revered, despite his excellence. This is reflected in how athletes are commonly selected for admission to a hall of fame; their character and citizenship are factors, and not just their skill. Marie I. George 758 leading to or conserving virtue; and thus it is owed to all prelates, who are ordered to this, that they direct others to virtue.33 Aquinas does not say that unrepentant sinners are owed reverence properly and according to themselves insofar as they have the aptitude to become virtuous. Still, it seems strange that they are owed any reverence at all by grace-filled and virtuous individuals who are superior to them as such. Aquinas sometimes deals with the objection that moral and spiritual inferiors should not be shown reverence by pointing out that those who appear superior may have hidden faults that render them inferior to others and/or the others may have hidden virtues that make them superior,34 and thus even apparently superior individuals can legitimately “consider others as superior to oneself ” (Phil 2:3). However, he acknowledges that people cannot be expected to do so in every case: And the monition follows “but in humility considering each other superior.” For as it pertains to pride that man extols himself beyond himself, so it pertains to humility that man subjects himself according to his measure. But in what manner will the superior be able to fulfill this? . . . [G]iven that one person, as to everything, is good, and another bad, nevertheless you and he bear a twofold persona, namely, of yourself and of Christ. If therefore you may not put that one before you by reason of his person, you may by reason of the divine image.35 One is left asking: why should one put another before oneself simply because that person is in the image of God, given that one is also in the image of God? The answer lies in the fact that rational beings who remain open to God, even when they are wicked and as such inferior to the just, are nonetheless superior beings, and can be revered as such: Honor is nothing other than a certain bearing witness to the excellence of goodness of someone.The excellence of someone, however, can be consid33 In III Sent., d. 9, q. 2, a. 3. 34 See ST II–II, q. 161, a. 6, ad 1: “Someone without falsehood can believe himself and pronounce himself to be viler than all according to the hidden defects he recognizes in himself and the gifts of God that are hidden in others.” 35 Commentary on Phil. 2:3 in Super Epistolas S. Pauli, ed. P. Raphaelis Cai, O.P., vol. 2 (Rome: Marietti, 1953), c. 2, lec. 1. See ST II–II, q. 161, a. 3, ad 1: “Not only ought we to revere God in himself, but we ought to also revere what is his in anyone whatsoever, not nevertheless with the same manner of reverence by which we revere God. And therefore through humility we ought to place ourselves under all of our neighbors for the sake of God, as is said in 1 Peter 2: ‘Be subject to every human creature for the sake of God;’ nevertheless we ought to show latria to God alone.” Ought We to Revere Non-Rational Natural Beings? 759 ered not only by comparison to the one doing the honoring, so that, namely, he is more excellent than the one by whom he is honored, but also according to himself (secundum se) or in comparison to certain others. Accordingly, honor is always owed to someone on account of some excellence or superiority. For it is not necessary that the one who is honored be more excellent that the honorer, but perchance to certain others; or even to the one honoring as to something, but not simply speaking.36 One group of beings to which the living, hardened sinner is superior consists of the damned. This comes out in Aquinas’s response to the following objection: [I]t seems that demons ought to be shown dulia [i.e., the form of honor that can be shown to a creature],37 for the divine image remains in them; for natural goods remain in them in the most lucid manner, according to Dionysius. But dulia is exhibited to man by reason of being an image. Therefore, it ought to be shown to demons.38 Aquinas responds by noting that “in demons, the natural aptitude for virtue is bound; and therefore dulia ought not to be shown them.”39 The demons can no longer actualize their natural aptitude for virtue; they can no longer choose to love and obey God but are rather set in permanent opposition to him. Thus, they are not worthy of reverence. As Aquinas puts it in the Summa theologiae: “they are our superiors in nature,” but they “are irrevocably bad, and are to be held as enemies, rather than to be honored.”40 We can infer then that humans who are dead and confirmed in evil are also not to be honored, despite their being created in the image of God. Hardened sinners who are alive are superior to such individuals and to the demons, since they remain capable of friendship with God. 36 ST II–II, q. 103, a. 2. Bestowing “the most improved player” award on someone would seem to be an example of honoring the excellence of someone as measured “according to himself ” (secundum se). 37 See In III Sent., d. 9, q. 2, a. 3 (quoted earlier in the main text; see note 26). 38 In III Sent., d. 9, q. 2, a. 3, obj. 5. 39 In III Sent., d. 9, q. 2, a. 3, ad 5. 40 ST II–II, q. 103, a. 2, ad 2.To speak in terms of the distinction that Aquinas makes concerning the good absolutely speaking as opposed to the good secundum quid (see ST I, q. 5, a. 1), the demons possess goodness secundum quid that is superior to human goodness, while lacking goodness absolutely speaking. And since they are entirely devoid of goodness absolutely speaking (no longer even having the potency for it), they plainly lack any excellence of goodness absolutely speaking, and for this reason are not objects of reverence. 760 Marie I. George Reverence Has a Stronger and a Weaker Sense Aquinas again does distinguish the reverence owed hardened sinners in light of their potential for grace and goodness from that owed to the graced-filled and virtuous.The reverence owed the latter is owed to them properly and according to the rational individual that they are, and present in them is some personal excellence that renders us unable to fully pay our debt to them.41 The reverence owed the former is not owed to them properly, but only as bearers of the divine image still open to God, and absent in them the sort of personal excellence that would indebt us to them in a way that cannot fully be repaid.42 To the extent that one can reasonably regard oneself as having hidden vices another might not have or as lacking virtues that another might have, one can rightly show that other reverence in the stronger sense. Comparison of Humans to Non-Rational Beings Also Reveals the Superiority Inveterate Sinners Do Possess Inveterate sinners’ superiority in the line of something divine also comes out in Aquinas’s response to an objection that argues that non-rational beings should be honored. The objection reads: It seems that irrational beings [ought to receive the honor of dulia]. For in them is a vestige, which is a likeness of God, just as an image is, even if it is not as distinct a likeness. More and less does not diversify species. Therefore, dulia is owed them.43 Aquinas responds: “Dulia is not owed the likeness of a vestige, as it is owed the likeness of an image, because it has no aptitude for virtue.”44 41 See ST II–II, q. 80, unicus: “For there are certain virtues which render a debt to another, but are not able to render what is equal. . . . Third, it is not possible for man to recompense virtue according to an equal recompense. . . . And thus observantia is added to justice through which, as Cicero says, ‘men excelling others by some position of honor are worthy of reverence (cultu) and honor.’ ” See also ST II–II, q. 102, a. 1, ad 2: “Since it is true that through science and virtue and all other things of this sort someone is rendered apt to a state of dignity, the reverence which is shown to some on account of any excellence whatsoever pertains to the same virtue [i.e., observantia].” 42 Individuals lacking virtue may still be owed reverence because they are parents (and thus share in God’s fatherhood) or because they are political leaders (and thus capable of leading the community to the common good); see ST II–II, q. 63, a. 3; ST II–II, q. 103, a. 2, ad 2; and In III Sent. d. 9, q. 2, a. 3, ad 3. 43 In III Sent., d. 9, q. 2, a. 3, obj. 6. 44 In III Sent., d. 9, q. 2, a. 3, ad 6. See ST II–II, q. 121, a. 1, ad 3: “Just as through piety which is a virtue man shows service and respect (cultum) not only to one’s Ought We to Revere Non-Rational Natural Beings? 761 There is a sharp line dividing creatures that have a capacity for virtue and grace (which again are what make beings divine) from creatures that do not have such a capacity: The likeness of an image is found in human nature according as it is capax Dei, namely, by attaining him through its proper operation[s] of knowledge and love. The likeness of a vestige, however, is found only according to some representation existing in the creature from divine impression; not however, from this, that the irrational creature . . . is able to attain God through its operation alone.45 Non-rational creatures, considered in their own nature, may be superior to us in certain respects, e.g., cheetahs run faster,46 but they are not absolutely superior to us; they are inferior to us as to their substantial form, which “dies with their body.”47 In addition, as merely sentient beings they are incapable of being raised to share in the divine life: The sense of sight, because it is entirely material, in no manner can be elevated to something immaterial. But our intellect or the angelic intellect, because it is in some manner according to nature elevated from matter, is able to be elevated higher to something beyond its nature through grace.48 Any inferiority humans might have to other earthly creatures is outweighed by our capacities to know and love God by our natural faculties of intellect and will, capacities that make it possible for us to be further corporeal father, but also to all joined by blood insofar as they belong to the father; so also piety, according as it is a gift, shows reverence (cultum) and service not only to God, but to all men insofar as they belong to God.” One might object that non-rational creatures belong to God as well. We, however, belong to God in a special way since we bear his image, that is, so long as we do not permanently close ourselves to him. 45 ST III, q. 4, a. 1, ad 2. See De veritate, q. 22, a. 5, ad 5: “The rational creature alone is able to hold God (capax Dei) because it alone is able to explicitly know and love him; whereas other creatures share the divine likeness, and in this manner desire God himself.” See also In I Sent., d. 37, q. 2, a. 3. 46 See De veritate, q. 22, a. 11: “If man is compared to the lion according to essential differences, he is found to be simply speaking more noble than the lion, insofar as man is a rational animal, the lion an irrational animal; the lion, however, is more excellent than man if compared according to bodily strength; this, however, is to be more noble relatively speaking (secundum quid ).” 47 ScG II, chap. 82. See also ScG III, chap. 120: “Man is superior in the order of nature, at least, to all lower bodies, insofar as he has a more perfect form.” 48 ST I, q. 12, a. 4, ad 3. 762 Marie I. George ordered by God to the beatific vision.49 These things render even the bad people living on earth superior in a manner that is divine.50 The failure to acknowledge the radical difference between humans and non-rational creatures is what is at the root of Albert Schweitzer’s view that we ought to have “reverence for all life forms.”Though Aquinas would agree with Albert Schweitzer that every creature is good and to be loved in keeping with its degree of goodness,51 he emphatically rejects the view that Schweitzer shared,52 that all life forms are equally valuable. There is another passage where Aquinas addresses whether dulia should be shown to non-rational creatures. (“Dulia,” again, is the reverence and honor that can be shown to a creature.) Here he responds in somewhat different terms. The objection he addresses reads: Just as in the rational creature is found the image of God by reason of which it is honored, so also in the irrational creature is found the vestige of God. But another notion of similitude is implied in the name image than in the name vestige.Therefore, accordingly there also must be diverse species of dulia, particularly since certain irrational creatures are shown honor, such as the wood of the holy Cross, and other things of the sort.53 49 See ScG IV, chap. 54: “Although as to certain conditions, man exists as inferior to some creatures and is also like the lowest creatures as to certain things, nevertheless, according to the order of the end, nothing exists higher than man, except God alone, in whom the perfect happiness of man consists.” 50 It is the case that a non-rational creature is in some way superior to a sinner: “the soul of the sinner according to its nature is simply speaking nobler than any corporeal power; but according to fault it is made less worthy than corporeal fire, not simply speaking, but insofar as [fire] is an instrument of divine justice” (De veritate, q. 26, a. 1, ad 9). Fire, however, is unable to attain God by freely choosing to serve him.Thus, the superiority it has over the sinner by serving God does not qualify it as a worthy object of reverence. 51 Note that Aquinas maintains that only rational beings are rightly loved with love of charity; see ST II–II, q. 25, a. 3. 52 See Albert Schweitzer, “The Ethics of Reverence for Life,” originally published in Christendom 1 (1936): 225–39, posted at www1.chapman.edu/schweitzer/ sch.reading4.html: “Ordinary ethics seeks to find limits within the sphere of human life and relationships. But the absolute ethics of the will-to-live must reverence every form of life, seeking so far as possible to refrain from destroying any life, regardless of its particular type. It says of no instance of life, ‘This has no value.’ It cannot make any such exceptions, for it is built upon reverence for life as such. It knows that the mystery of life is always too profound for us, and that its value is beyond our capacity to estimate. We happen to believe that man’s life is more important than any other form of which we know. But we cannot prove any such comparison of value from what we know of the world’s development. True, in practice we are forced to choose.” 53 ST II–II, q. 103, a. 4, obj. 3. Ought We to Revere Non-Rational Natural Beings? 763 His response is: The irrational creature considered in itself is not owed by man some subjection or honor, but rather every such creature is naturally subject to man.That the cross of Christ, however, is honored, comes about from the same honor by which Christ is honored, as the royal purple garments are honored with the same honor by which the king is honored.54 This response is closely connected with his earlier response: nonrational beings are subject to us (or in other words are ordered to us) as means to an end, as a direct consequence of our unique ability among earthly creatures to attain God by way of intellectual knowledge and love: Moreover, whenever there are things that are ordered to some end, if some among them of themselves are not able to attain the end, it is necessary that they be ordered to the things which do attain the end, [i.e.,] to the things which for their own sake are ordered to the end; as the end of the army is victory, which soldiers attain through their own act of fighting, who alone are wanted for their own sakes in the army. All others, however, are charged with other duties, e.g., taking care of horses, preparing arms, [etc.] for the sake of the soldiers who are wanted in the army. From what has been said earlier, it stands that God is the ultimate end of the universe, which only the intellectual nature can attain in itself, namely, by knowing and loving him. . . . Therefore, only the intellectual nature is prized (quaesita) in the universe, and other things for its sake.55 Indeed, Aquinas maintains that God shows reverence to human beings insofar as we are at the head of material creation,56 whereas he does not show it to non-rational creatures: He is called father by reason of special creation, because he created us to his image and likeness which he did not impress on other lower creatures. . . . The same is true by reason of his governance: for although he governs all things, nevertheless he governs us as lords, and other things as servants. [As it says in] Wis. 14:3: “Your providence, father, governs all things, and Wis. 12:18: “and with great reverence you dispose us.”57 54 ST II–II, q. 103, a. 4, ad 3. 55 ScG III, chap. 112. 56 God, of course, is infinitely superior to us. Recall though that reverence can be shown to a being inferior to the one showing reverence in virtue of this being’s relative superiority to other beings, so long as this superiority renders it in some way divine. 57 In orationem dominicam, pr. See also ScG III, chap. 112: “However, when we say that intellectual substances are ordered by divine providence for their own sakes, 764 Marie I. George Non-Rational Creatures Are Meant to Lead Us to Revere God Non-rational creatures, as traces of the divine, are not themselves objects of reverence, but rather are meant to lead us to revere God: In a certain manner meditation on what God has made is necessary as a preparation for human faith about God. First, certainly from the meditation of what he has made, we are able in a certain manner to admire and consider divine wisdom. For those things which are made by art are representative of the art itself, as being made to the likeness of art. God, however, produces things in being by his wisdom. . . . Whence, from a consideration of divine works, we are able to gather what divine wisdom is, as in things made through a certain communication, impressed with his likeness; for it is said: “He pours out his wisdom over all his works.” Secondly, this consideration leads to admiration of the highest power of God, and as a result it gives birth to reverence of God in the human soul. For, it is necessary that the power of the maker be understood as more eminent than the things that are made.58 It is appropriate to admire great works of art. To admire a work of art, however, is not the same thing as to revere it. The beauty and order of natural things are admirable.59 But again, our appreciation of these things is not meant to lead us to revering them, but to revering God: we do not understand by this that they are not further ordered to God and to the perfection of the universe. For they are said to be cared for for their own sakes and others for their sake insofar as the goods that are shared by divine providence are not given to them for the utility of another; but to their use yield those things which are given to others from divine ordination. Thus it is said . . . in the psalm, ‘you have made all things subject under his feet; sheep and oxen, all these, and wild animals.’ And in Wis. 12:18 it is said: ‘You, however, Lord of power, you judge with tranquility and with great reverence you dispose us.’ ” See also ST II–II, q. 103, a. 3, ad 1: “latria [is attributed] to God according to creation which [excellence] is not communicated to a creature, [while] dulia [is attributed] according to lordship which is communicated to a creature.” 58 ScG II, chap. 2. 59 Aquinas quotes in a number of places Augustine’s affirmation (in the Enchiridion, Bk. 2, chap. 7) that “the individual things that God made are good, but taken together the universe is very good, because the admirable beauty of the universe is formed from all” (ST I, q. 25, a. 6, obj. 3); see also ST I, q. 48, a. 1, obj. 5 and ST I, q. 19, a. 9, obj. 2. Aquinas speaks of the order of creation as admirable in In IV Sent., d. 46, q. 2, a. 1, qc. 3: “[I]n the work of creation, divine power is chiefly manifested in this, that what is rendered wonderful is that things are produced in being; but in the work of governing, by which things are disposed in an ordered way, the order of things itself is rendered admirable, and therefore is attributed to wisdom.” Ought We to Revere Non-Rational Natural Beings? 765 [T]he heavenly bodies serve man insofar as they point to their Creator by their beauty and magnitude: whence in Scripture, man is frequently moved to considering the heavenly bodies, so that from them he may be led to divine reverence, as is manifest in Is. 40:26: “Lift your eyes to the heights and see who has created these things.”60 Note how Aquinas’s teachings seem to follow closely those of Ps. 8:3–6: When I look at thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars which thou hast established; what is man that thou art mindful of him, and the son of man that thou dost care for him? Yet thou hast made him little less than the angels, and dost crown him with glory and honor. Thou hast given him dominion over the works of thy hands; thou hast put all things under his feet. The psalm begins by expressing admiration for the heavenly bodies which are works of God’s hands, but then goes on to acknowledge that God has made all of non-rational creation subject to human beings, who are little less than the angels. Admirable though the heavenly bodies are, they are inferior to us,61 and for this reason Aquinas maintains that they are not to be an object of our reverence. It is pertinent to note here that according to Aquinas one of the causes of idolatry is “the ignorance of the true God; whose excellence men were not considering because they were showing the worship belonging to the divinity to creatures on account of the latter’s beauty or power.”62 The overestimation of the excellences of non-rational creatures can be an occasion for idolatry. For this reason, there seems to be a danger that, if people start regarding nature as worthy of reverence, they might take the next step and revere it as God. Some of the things that the celebrated eco-theologian, the late Thomas Berry, says seem to bear this out. Berry laments that the notion of a transcendent deity has “led us to treat the phenomenal world with something less than the reverence paid it by 60 Compendium Theologiae in Opuscula Theologica (Rome: Marietti, 1954), q. 170. See also ST Supplement, q. 91, a. 1: “All corporeal beings are believed to be made for the sake of man; whence even all things are said to be ‘subject’ to him. However, they serve man in two ways: in one way, to the end of sustaining his corporeal life; in another way, to advance his knowledge of what is divine, insofar as man ‘perceives the invisible things of God through the things that are made,’ as is said in Rom. 1:20.” See also Super Epistolam ad Romanos, chap. 1, lec. 6. 61 See ScG III, chap. 120: “It is manifest that there does not follow from the celestial bodies such a degree of noble perfection as is in the rational soul. Therefore, they are below the grade of dignity of any and every human being. Therefore, some worship is not owed to them by man.” 62 ST II–II, q. 94, a. 4. Marie I. George 766 those cultures in which there is a sacred dimension to trees, to rivers, and to the whole of creation.”63 Later he goes on to say: With regard to time and season, rituals were established to create a consciousness of the moments of cosmological change: the dawn and dusk of the daily sequence of sunlight and dark, the increase and decline in the phases of the moon, the winter solstice. . . . These moments of change were the moments when the shining forth of the phenomenal world was most evident. Such moments were moments of grace, moments when the sacred world communicated itself with special clarity to the world of the human. This intimacy with the universe can be seen in the initiation ceremony of the Omaha Indians. When an infant is born, the child is taken out under the invocation ‘O Ye Sun, Moon, Stars, All Ye that move in the heavens, I bid you hear me. Into your midst has come a new life. Consent Ye, we implore, make its path smooth that it may move beyond the first hill.’64 In this ceremony we see an instance of the idolatry of which Aquinas speaks. And it seems more than a coincidence that Berry’s positive evaluation of it goes hand-in-hand with his advocating reverence for nonrational creation. Objections to the View That We Are Not to Reverence Non-Rational Creatures Now there are some objections that can be raised against Aquinas’s view that we are not to revere non-rational creatures, and they need to be addressed. One objection can be drawn from what Aquinas says regarding cursing irrational creatures: However, to curse irrational beings insofar as they are creatures of God is the sin of blasphemy. To curse them, however, considered in themselves, is pointless and vain, and as a consequence, illicit.65 [C]ursing a creature insofar as it is a creature redounds to God, and thus per accidens has the notion of blasphemy; not however if the creature is cursed on account of fault.66 63 Thomas Berry, Evening Thoughts: Reflecting on Earth as Sacred Community (San Fran- cisco: Sierra Club Books, 2006), 25. also 121: “The human is the model for understanding the universe, as the universe is the model for understanding the human. For certainly humans have nothing but what they receive from the universe.” 65 ST II–II, q. 76, a. 2. 66 ST II–II, q. 76, a. 4, ad 1. 64 Ibid., 115. See Ought We to Revere Non-Rational Natural Beings? 767 One might argue that revering non-rational creatures insofar as they are creatures of God redounds, at least per accidens, to the Creator. First, just because one ought to avoid one sort of act does not automatically mean one is morally obligated to perform the opposite sort of act; for example, just because one ought not damage one’s neighbor’s garden does not mean that one has an obligation to take care of it. Thus, if we are to avoid cursing creatures as creatures of God, it does not necessarily follow that we are obligated to do the opposite. Secondly, even if this were the case, the opposite of cursing a creature (which means to wish it harm) is not to revere it, but rather to bless it (wish it well);67 thus, if it is a sin to curse an irrational creature as creature, it does not follow that it pertains to virtue to revere an irrational creature. One might still wonder whether revering irrational beings, insofar as they are creatures of God, might not have per accidens the notion of revering God insofar as it redounds to God. This seems to be what the authors of the Compendium of the Social Doctrine of the Church have in mind in one of the few passages in Church documents in which “revere” is used in regard to non-rational creatures: Redeemed by Christ and made a new creature by the Holy Spirit, man can, indeed he must, love the things of God’s creation: it is from God that he has received them, and it is as flowing from God’s hand that he looks upon them and reveres them.68 Aquinas would point out that lower things are naturally ordered to the higher being that is ourselves, and rather than having a fear of harming them, we are meant to use them, even though doing so often involves their destruction. While it would be irreverent to destroy a creature with the intention of offending the Creator, it is not irreverent to do so with 67 We do not rightly bless non-rational creatures considered in their own natures. See ST I, q. 20, a. 2 and ad 3: “Friendship cannot be had except with rational creatures, in whom there happens to be a mutual return of love and a sharing in the works of life, and for whom it happens that things occur well or badly, according to fortune and happiness; as also there is benevolence properly speaking towards them.” 68 Compendium of the Social Doctrine of the Church, no. 44. See also John Paul II, Evangelium Vitae, no. 42. See also United States Conference of Catholic Bishops, “Useful Resources for Dioceses and Parishes”: “From its inception in 1993, the USCCB Environmental Justice Program has sought to urge Catholics throughout the country to become more aware of the links between reverence for the environment and social action on behalf of those negatively impacted by the environment” (www.usccb.org/issues-and-action/human-life-and-dignity/ environment/useful-resources-for-dioceses-and-parishes.cfm). Marie I. George 768 intention of using that creature in accord with the Creator’s intentions. Christ, far from advocating reverence for all creatures, sent the demons that he had exorcised from a man into pigs that subsequently leapt off a cliff to their death. As Aquinas comments: “[Christ did this] so that man would recognize his dignity, since he permitted that so many thousands of pigs be killed for the salvation of one man.”69 Christ ate fish (see Lk 24:43) and presumably meat (the Paschal lamb). Things that one rightly intentionally destroys are not things that one reveres. Someone might also challenge the distinctions Aquinas makes to explain why non-rational creatures considered in their own nature are not to be shown reverence, whereas certain non-rational things such as images of Christ and things dedicated to God, such as churches and holy oils, are to be shown reverence. Let us consider the various cases, starting with sacred images. Aquinas argues that one should show the reverence of latria to images of Christ by making a distinction between the twofold motions one can have toward an image: The first motion, by which someone is moved toward an image as a certain thing, is other than the motion which is to the thing [that it is an image of]; the second motion, however, which is to an image insofar as it is an image, is one and the same with the motion which is toward the thing [of which it is an image].70 Applying this distinction, he goes on to say that no reverence is to be shown to a wooden sculpture or painted piece of cloth, insofar as it is a thing, but that we rightfully show reverence to an image of Christ as image, for to show reverence to Christ’s image in this manner is to show reverence to Christ himself. He then concludes: No non-rational being considered in its own nature is an image of God, and therefore it cannot be claimed, as is the case of an image, that revering it as image is to revere the thing of which it is the image.71 Aquinas is hesitant about whether even showing reverence to human beings, who are images of God insofar as they are images, is acceptable: The motion which is toward an image insofar as it is an image is referred to the thing of which it is an image, nevertheless not every 69 Super Evangelium S. Matthaei (Rome: Marietti, 1951), chap. 8, no. 737. 70 ST III, q. 25, a. 3. 71 See ST III, q. 25, a. 3 and ST II–II, q. 81, a. 3, ad 3. Ought We to Revere Non-Rational Natural Beings? 769 motion which is toward an image is referred to it insofar as it is an image. And therefore sometimes the motion toward the image is other in kind than the motion toward the thing. Thus therefore it ought to be said that honor or the subjection of dulia regards absolutely a certain dignity of man. Granted that according to that dignity, man is to the image or likeness of God, nevertheless man, when he shows reverence to another, does not always refer this in act to God.72 Aquinas does not deny that one could revere the human being who is the image of God as image; however, he notes that we do not always do so. Later in the Summa theologiae, however, he emphasizes the danger of showing reverence to human beings as images of God insofar as they are images: Reverence is owed to the rational creation for its own sake. And therefore, if the adoration of latria were to be exhibited to the rational creature in which the image [of God] is present, it could be an occasion of error, as namely, the motion of the one adoring would stop at man as a certain thing, and not be carried to God, of whom he [man] is an image—which is not able to happen in regard to an image sculpted or drawn in matter lacking consciousness.73 Again, non-rational creatures are not even images of God, so they do not even allow for the possibility of being reverenced insofar as they are images. In addition, though they are apt to direct our minds to God, they can also be an occasion for idolatry:74 Any corporeal creature can be said to be made either for the sake of its proper act or for the sake of another creature or for the sake of the whole universe or for the sake of the glory of God. But Moses, in order to call the people away from idolatry, touches only that cause alone according as they are made for the utility of human beings. Whence in Deut. 4 it is said: “Lest by chance you raise your eyes to the heavens and you see the sun and moon and all the stars of heaven, and deceived you erroneously adore and worship them, which the lord God created in the service of all peoples.75 72 ST II–II, q. 103, a. 3, ad 3. 73 ST III, q. 25, a. 3, ad 3. 74 Is it a mere oversight that the following advertisement for the Sacred Door Trail does not mention God? “The Sacred Door Trail (SDT) is a 165-mile interfaith pilgrimage trail loop . . . dedicated to spiritual unity, peace, and our connection to Earth and each other. . . . What is special about the trail is that it is a shared sacred path, shared by many people, faiths and indigenous cultures that care to support such a vision. The trail serves to reconnect people back to our original church, our original temple—Mother Earth.” 75 ST I, q. 70, a. 2. Marie I. George 770 As for things dedicated to God, the fact that these things have to be dedicated or consecrated to serve for the worship of God indicates that they are not of themselves holy or in some sense divine. As Aquinas notes: Something is called sacred from the fact that it is ordered to divine worship. However, just as from this, that something is ordered to a good end, it shares the notion of good, so too from this, that something is deputed to the worship of God, it is made a certain divine thing, and thus a certain reverence is owed to it, which is referred to God. And therefore everything that pertains to irreverence of sacred things pertains to the injury of God, and has the notion of sacrilege.76 If all water or oil is holy or sacred,77 there would be no need for water and oil to be blessed in order for them to be holy water and sacred oil.78 It is true that holy water (etc.), like ordinary water, is something inferior to us. The reverence we show it is not because it is superior to us, but rather because it is dedicated to divine worship. Non-rational creatures may lead us to knowledge of and worship of God, but they are not, as such, things used in divine worship. Those who were motivated by natural reason alone to worship God would rightly show reverence to the things they dedicated to divine worship,79 but not to creatures insofar as 76 ST II–II, q. 99, a. 1. 77 More and more often one comes across environmentalists referring to non- rational creatures as sacred. For example, the 4th Annual Student Symposium on Science and Spirituality (October 21, 2011) held at the Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago had as its theme: “Sacred Soil, Living Water, Holy Air: Science, Spirituality, and the Elements of Earthly Life.” The annual Festival of Faiths has been using as their themes in the last few years “Sacred Water,” “Sacred Earth,” and “Sacred Air.” Dozens of other references from ostensibly religious sources could be added to the list. The same use of “sacred” is found in explicitly pagan literature, e.g., in these announcements posted on a site listing pagan festivals only: “[The] Sacred Harvest Festival is a overwhelmingly friendly and family-oriented Pagan gathering hosted by Harmony Tribe, a magic tribal community celebration of earth-based nature spirituality” and “The EarthSpirit Community and Tamelin Productions invite you to join us for the thirty-third annual Rites of Spring—a gathering open to all who celebrate the sacred nature of the Earth” (www.faeriefaith.net/festival.list.html). 78 God does not call the ground Moses stands upon sacred because He created it, but rather because He was present there in a special way (see Ex 3:5). 79 See ST II–II, q. 81, a. 2, ad 3: “[I]t belongs to the dictate of natural reason that man do certain things for divine reverence; but that he determinately do these or those things does not belong to the dictate of natural reason, but from the institution of divine or human law.” See also ST II–II, q. 88, a. 1, ad 1: “[T]he oblation of sacrifice in general belongs to the natural law . . . but the determination of sacrifices is from human or divine institution.” Ought We to Revere Non-Rational Natural Beings? 771 creatures led these individuals to knowledge and reverence of God. (This is not to deny that certain creatures are especially suited for being employed in divine worship—and arguably were created partly with this goal in mind—e.g., water for baptism.) None of the reasons then why we treat certain non-rational creatures with reverence applies to non-rational creatures considered in their own nature, and this is so even if their nature is seen as the work of God. Again, the beauty of the ocean might lead one to revere God, and indeed is intended by God to do so,80 but, admirable as the waters themselves may be, they are not a being superior to us to which we owe reverence. Should Non-Rational Creatures Be Shown Respect? Perhaps one could make a case that Aquinas would maintain that we should treat non-rational creatures individually and collectively with respect for the limited excellence that they have. (Again, Aquinas acknowledges that non-rational beings excel humans in certain ways). Aquinas repeatedly acknowledges that non-rational beings are not simply meant to serve humans, but are ordered by God to other purposes as well: “Any 80 Jame Schaeffer expresses a view similar to the Compendium of the Social Doctrine of the Church, no. 44 in Theological Foundations for Environmental Ethics: Reconstructing Patristic and Medieval Concepts (Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press, 2009), 82–83: “If the physical world is embraced as a medium through which God’s presence is experienced and a glimpse of God’s character is manifested, reverence for the material world and its constituents seems warranted as a way of responding to God. Of course, reverential behavior by believers does not constitute reverence for the natural world itself. From the perspective of this concept in particular and Christianity in general, the world with its diverse biota and abiota is not sacred. God alone is sacred, in the strict sense of the term. Reverential behavior is aimed toward God, whose presence and character are mediated by the sensible world. . . . When viewed from a sacramental perspective, individuals of species, communities of biota, ecosystems with their interconnected components, the entire biosphere, and the totality of the universe will be revered because they mediate God’s presence and God’s attributes. Reverential behavior will aim to ensure that species, ecosystems, and the larger biosphere are not prevented from acting according to their natures so they can continue to mediate God’s presence and character.” At first she seems to say that creation is meant to lead us to revere God, but then she speaks of the universe itself as rightly being revered insofar as it does this. Aquinas would agree that there is a difference in response to (e.g.,) water as a natural good and water seen as a work of God, but again would say that the latter response should be one of admiration and not of reverence, for non-rational creatures are not divine or superior to us in nature. Also, to say that God’s non-rational creation is “sacramental” (meaning that it is a tangible means by which we may become aware of God’s presence) is not the same thing as to say that it is sacred and worthy of reverence. Marie I. George 772 bodily creature can be said to be made either for the sake of its own act, or for the sake of another creature, or for the sake of the whole universe, or for the sake of the glory of God.”81 I do not think that Aquinas would deny that we ought to have a special attitude toward non-rational creatures, individually and as constituting the material universe, an attitude that reflects the fact that they have inherent excellence and are God’s handiwork ordered to his glory. Consider what he says about the renewal of creation at the end of time: And although in that state of perfection man will not be led from sensible creatures to knowledge of God, since they will see Him in Himself; nevertheless it is delightful and agreeable to the one who already knows the cause to consider in what manner its likeness shines forth in its effect; whence it falls to the joy of the saints to consider the refulgence of divine goodness in bodies and chiefly in the heavenly bodies.82 Would Aquinas then say as a consequence that we ought to treat nonrational creatures, if not with reverence, with respect? One problem in answering this question is that although the word “respectus” was apparently sometimes used in medieval Latin with a meaning similar to that of the English word “respect,” Aquinas never uses it that way. The words he uses that can be translated as “respect” in this sense are “reverentia,” “observantia,” “veneratio,” and “cultus,” and he thinks that none of them are rightly applied to non-rational creatures as such. A second problem lies in defining respect. The word “respect” when used in regard to humans can either mean to look up to someone as being an outstanding human individual or it can mean to treat human beings as persons, not harming them in any way (by taking their life, their belongings, etc.).The respect we are to have for persons is not the same as we are to have for other natural beings; we cannot morally take an innocent human life, whereas we can morally take the life of a plant or animal. Respect in the case of non-rational beings is qualified; one ought not destroy or harm them without a proportionate reason. Respect in the case of rational beings is absolute; one ought not destroy or harm an innocent human being under any circumstance. Aquinas’s position on how we are to treat animals does not readily harmonize with the notion that we ought to respect non-rational creatures. Aquinas holds: “God does not require anything of man when it 81 See ST I, q. 70, a. 2 (cited earlier in the main text; see footnote 75). See also ST I, q. 65, a. 2. 82 Compendium Theologiae, q. 160. Ought We to Revere Non-Rational Natural Beings? 773 comes to how he treats cattle or other animals.”83 This suggests that Aquinas does not think that we should respect an animal as a being having its individual perfection and contributing to the perfection of the universe and thereby to God’s glory. Also, Aquinas thought that humans were incapable of destroying the order of creatures to each other,84 and so he never considers whether we have any obligation to care for the integrity of creation. On the other hand, Aquinas speaks of how God does not want destruction for the sake of destruction, but only as ordered to some higher end.85 One could infer from this that we should avoid any destruction of creatures that is not ordered to some due end. I will not pursue this question any further here, other than to note that Aquinas never explicitly takes a position on whether we should treat non-rational creatures in some special way in keeping with our admiration for them as well-wrought creatures of God. How Do Contemporary Speakers of English Use the Word “Reverence?” When people nowadays hear or speak of “reverence” (and “irreverence”), most of the time these words bring to mind God or things consecrated for the worship of God. We do not so spontaneously speak or think of having or showing reverence toward other human beings. The people to whom we would most often extend this word would be parents, the elderly, outstanding teachers, priests and religious (consecrated persons), and people who seem to be saintly. These are all people who surpass us in excellence and toward whom we have debts that we cannot repay; we need to practice toward them either the virtue of piety or that of observantia. Do we ever speak about reverencing human beings simply as human? It is pretty rare that one’s hears the word “reverence” used in regard to people in general. Even those taking part in the pro-life movement, where reverence for human life is surely to be found, generally use the motto “respect life,” rather than “reverence life.”86 This is understandable 83 See ST I–II, q. 102, a. 6, ad 8: See also De veritate, q. 5, a. 6, ad 1: “God does not care for brute animals in this manner that he would give to man a law on behalf of these animals, namely, that man treat them well or abstain from killing them, for brute animals are made for the use of man; whence they are not provided for for their own sake, but for the sake of man.” 84 See De veritate, q. 5, a. 8, and ST I, q. 113, a. 2. 85 See ST I, q. 49, a. 2, and ST I, q. 22, a. 2, ad 2. 86 Note how the Compendium of the Catechism of the Catholic Church at no. 466 speaks of respecting life, “Why must human life be respected? Human life must be respected because it is sacred. From its beginning human life involves the creative action of God and it remains forever in a special relationship with the Creator, 774 Marie I. George to the extent that there is reason to distinguish the attitude one ought to have to those we have some debt we cannot repay from human beings in general, and “respect” is a word similar in meaning to “reverence,” but weaker.87 (Recall that Aquinas uses “reverence” in both a stronger and a weaker sense.)88 Note that our reticence about using “reverence” in regard to human individuals in general hardly supports extending this word to lower beings. If Aquinas’s view that every living person is owed reverence in virtue of being capax Dei is right, however, we need to be reviving the use of the word in regard to human beings. As Paul Woodruff remarks in his book Reverence: Renewing a Forgotten Virtue: “We have the word ‘reverence’ in our language, but we scarcely know how to use it.”89 He accounts for this by noting that there has been a decline in our day in expressions of reverence toward others, be they our peers or our superiors.90 Rituals, ceremonies, and observance of standards of etiquette that used to be part and parcel of our lives have been lost. Consider, for example, how so many young people will text-message while in the company of a friend or during class. They have no sense that who is its sole end” (www.vatican.va/archive/compendium_ccc/documents/ archive_2005_compendium-ccc_en.html). 87 See Merriam-Webster Collegiate Dictionary, 11th edition: “Reverence: 1: honor or respect felt or shown: DEFERENCE; esp.: profound adoring awed respect.” 88 Perhaps another reason why “reverence” is not more frequently used in regard to humans is because in English we do not have words corresponding to “dulia” and “latria,” and so as a way of distinguishing the two we have tended to reserve the word “reverence” for the reverence of latria. 89 Paul Woodruff, Reverence: Renewing a Lost Virtue (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 42. 90 See ibid.: “We have not lost our capacity for reverence. . . . What we are losing is a language of behavior—a self-conscious sort of ceremony—that best expresses reverence in daily life; and, along with self-conscious ceremony, we are losing many of the occasions on which people used to find ways to be reverent.” See also ibid., 35: “Look at the many things we do with reverence every day: They are all the things that go wrong without it. Ritual and reverence in common life are so familiar that we scarcely notice them until they are gone. In sports, in entertainment, in the law court, the voting booth, the boardroom, there are ritual and reverence. We see them in the church whose members live in genuine awe of God, the community that votes, the department that meets well, the sports events that run with due ceremony. Most importantly, we see reverence in good leadership, in education, and in a home that is more than a place for eating, sleeping, watching television, and playing games. Home above all is the place where small rituals bring a family together into a family, where the respect they share is so common and familiar that they hardly recognize it as flowing from reverence.” Though it is certainly true that rules of etiquette can end up being so many empty formalities, and ceremony can be empty as well, it is the choice of the individual that they be such, rather than means of expressing reverence. Ought We to Revere Non-Rational Natural Beings? 775 when one is with another person, ordinarily that person merits one’s full attention; it is not like being in the presence of a dog or a houseplant. Although we do not often use the word “reverence” in regard to people in general, it is, as it were, still on the tips of our tongues. Consider the case of those who seem the least likely objects of reverence: criminals and our enemies. We rightly punish murderers, rapists, thieves, etc., and do not share the lives of those of bad morals insofar as they are such. Still we do not shoot a thief taking vegetables from our garden, in the way we might shoot a bird or beast, and when criminals are executed we grant them a last wish, a final cigarette or access to a priest, etc.91 We do not destroy them as we would a rabid dog, without ceremony. And we do things like having firing squads so that no individual feels the burden of responsibility for having taken the guilty person’s life. We also think that prisoners should be treated in a way that is in keeping with human dignity and that soldiers should treat their enemies likewise.92 Though they might be opposed to us and to God at the present moment, they have the capacity for repentance and may well be coheirs with us in the eternal kingdom. The good thief is among the relatively few people whom we are certain are in heaven. Whence C. S. Lewis’s oft-quoted remark to the effect that we should regard every human individual with awe because he is a potential saint.93 91 According to Aquinas a criminal should be shown reverence, albeit in the weak- est possible way: “Someone is able to revere men in two ways. In one way, insofar as there is something divine in them, e.g., the good of grace or virtue, or at least the natural image of God, and in this manner those who do not revere men are blamed. In another way, someone can revere men insofar as they are in opposition to God. And in this manner those who do not revere men are praised . . .” (ST II–II, q. 19, a. 3, ad 1). 92 See “Universal Declaration of Human Rights,” Article 5: “No one shall be subjected to torture or to cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment” (www.un.org/en/documents/udhr/). It is a good question whether a purely philosophical understanding of human nature, one that makes no reference to our supernatural ordering to grace and glory, provides a sufficient basis for arguing that all living humans should be shown reverence in the weaker sense of the word. 93 See C. S. Lewis, “The Weight of Glory,” in the Harper–San Francisco edition of The Weight of Glory and Other Addresses, 45–46: “It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you can talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. . . . It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics.” 776 Marie I. George It is the case, then, that English-speaking people at the present time still have some sense that Aquinas is correct to maintain that all living humans should be shown reverence. This opens the door to recuperating the corresponding use of the word “reverence.” Offering further hope of revitalizing the use of the word “reverence” in regard to every human being is the fact that such usage has not entirely gone of fashion. Just the other day, I heard a priest use the word “reverence” in his homily to name the attitude we ought to have toward our fellow humans. And John Paul II employed the word “revere” in a like manner in an encyclical that came out in 1995: Because we have been sent into the world as a “people for life”, our proclamation must also become a genuine celebration of the Gospel of life. . . . For this to happen, we need first of all to foster, in ourselves and in others, a contemplative outlook. Such an outlook arises from faith in the God of life, who has created every individual as a “wonder” (cf. Ps 139:14). . . . It is the outlook of those who do not presume to take possession of reality but instead accept it as a gift, discovering in all things the reflection of the Creator and seeing in every person his living image (cf. Gen 1:27; Ps 8:5). . . . It is time for all of us to adopt this outlook, and with deep religious awe to rediscover the ability to revere and honour every person, as Paul VI invited us to do in one of his first Christmas messages.94 Aquinas would agree that reviving the usage of the word “reverence” in regard to every human alive today is a worthy goal. He would see extending the usage of the word to non-rational creatures as destroying its meaning, central to which is that it is a fitting response to God or to things that are in some way divine. Conclusion Aquinas maintains that “reverence” is a desire to show attentive service and honor to those who excel us in forms of goodness that characterizes them as divine, attendant upon which is a fear of offending them. God, of course, is without qualification divine, excelling creatures infinitely in every manner of goodness. He is owed a unique form of reverence, latria. When it comes to the reverence that can be shown to creatures, dulia, Aquinas maintains that it is rightly shown only to rational creatures. Rational creatures share sufficiently in divine goodness to qualify them 94 John Paul II, Evangelium Vitae, no. 83. See also no. 41: “Thus the deepest element of God’s commandment to protect human life is the requirement to show reverence and love for every person and the life of every person.” Ought We to Revere Non-Rational Natural Beings? 777 as images of God. They are able to know and love God, and furthermore they have been called by God to share in his own life through grace and ultimately to see God, enjoying friendship with him for all eternity. Rational beings as simply bearing the image of God, are not, however, properly speaking divine. To be properly speaking divine, their capacities to know and love God need to be actualized, as happens in the case of the virtuous and the blessed. If their capacities become permanently closed to God (or, in other words, if the rational beings cease to be capax Dei ), though these beings remain in the image of God, they are no longer even potentially divine, and thus they are not in any sense worthy of reverence. Those who are only potentially grace-filled and virtuous are not properly speaking divine but are relatively speaking divine, as bearers of the divine image open to God. Aquinas affirms that non-rational beings lack intellect and free will, and thus are incapable of knowing and loving God; plainly then, they lack the ability to acquire virtue, and thus can never be properly speaking divine. Moreover, since none of their life activities transcend what is physical, they are incapable of being raised to share in God’s own life. Although they are works of divine art, it is the art itself that is divine, and not the things themselves. Non-rational creatures are worthy of admiration and as such are capable of leading our minds to God; but again, it is God and not the non-rational creature that is to be revered as divine. If Aquinas is correct in his views regarding reverence, then we need to follow his lead in the language we use. More specifically, when it comes to using the word “reverence” in regard to creatures, we should use the word in a way that attends to the radical difference between human dignity, which consists in being created in the image of God and being called to eternal life, and the dignity of non-rational creatures, which includes neither of those things. Nowadays “reverence” is occasionally used to name the interior disposition one ought to have in regard to humans who are in some way divine as being virtuous (or as being parents or rulers), albeit the word is not used so often as it has been in the past. The word “reverence” is nowadays even less frequently used in regard to human beings in general, but this usage has not entirely vanished. Both usages of the word now seem somewhat strained, but not to the point that we cannot re-familiarize ourselves with them by making a deliberate effort to do so. Using the word “reverence,” however, in regard to non-rational beings blurs the distinction between beings who are created in the image of God and capax Dei and beings that are not divine, made in God’s image, or capable of sharing God’s life. Consequently, doing so tends to fuel false 778 Marie I. George ideas about the equal dignity of all creatures and the appropriate treatment of them.95 Extending the word “reverence” to non-rational creatures also lends itself to a mentality all too prevalent nowadays that divinizes the earth.96 The usage of the word “reverence” in regard to non-rational creatures is especially egregious in light of the fact that the word “respect” is available for expressing how we should regard non-rational creatures in virtue of the limited excellence that they have.97 Reserving the word “reverence” for rational creatures is in nowise prejudicial to our appreciation of God’s non-rational creatures, but rather is in keeping with the hierarchy that He Himself has established in things.98 N&V 95 If Aquinas is correct, the first usage of “reverence” in this passage is inappropri- ate, whereas the other two are appropriate: Blessed are you, O Lord our God; you created all things and pronounced them good: • fill us with reverence for the works of your hands. Blessed is your holy and glorious name; you created male and female in your image: • fill us with reverence for our brothers and sisters. Blessed are you in the firmament of the heavens; you reign over all creation: • fill us with reverence for you who alone are God. (Magnificat, January 2012, 135) 96 See the Compendium of the Social Doctrine of the Church, no. 473: “The Christian vision of creation makes a positive judgment on the acceptability of human intervention in nature, which also includes other living beings, and at the same time makes a strong appeal for responsibility. In effect, nature is not a sacred or divine reality that man must leave alone” (italics in original). 97 See John Paul II, On Social Concern, no. 34: “Nor can the moral character of development exclude respect for the beings which constitute the natural world, which the ancient Greeks—alluding precisely to the order that distinguishes it—called the ‘cosmos.’ ” See also USCCB, Renewing the Earth, no. 7: “The diversity of life manifests God’s glory. Every creature shares a bit of the divine beauty. Because the divine goodness could not be represented by one creature alone, Aquinas tells us, God ‘produced many and diverse creatures, so that what was wanting to one in representation of the divine goodness might be supplied by another . . . hence the whole universe together participates in the divine goodness more perfectly, and represents it better than any single creature whatever’ (Summa Theologica, Prima Pars, question 48, ad 1). The wonderful variety of the natural world is, therefore, part of the divine plan and, as such invites our respect. Accordingly, it is appropriate that we treat other creatures and the natural world not just as means to human fulfillment, but also as God’s creatures, possessing an independent value, worthy of our respect and care” (www.usccb.org/issues-and-action/human-life-anddignity/environment/renewing-the-earth.cfm). See also CCC, no. 2415: “The seventh commandment enjoins respect for the integrity of creation.” 98 I wish to thank Christopher DeCaen, Robert Delfino, and Warren Murray for their helpful suggestions. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 11, No. 3 (2013): 779–99 779 Toward the Renewal of Mariology ROCH K ERESZTY, O.C IST. University of Dallas Dallas, TX I T IS a well-known fact that there existed two opposing camps at Vatican II regarding a document on Mary.1 A large number of the council Fathers wanted to prepare a separate document on her, while others, keeping in mind that the Church was the overarching theme of the Council, preferred to include the Marian mystery in the mystery of Christ and the Church. At the Council, the latter trend won by a narrow margin the procedural vote on inserting the document on Mary as the last (eighth) chapter of the dogmatic constitution on the Church (Lumen Gentium). Given the Council’s focus on the Church, this integration was quite reasonable theoretically; in practice, however, it had unfortunate consequences. The mass media misinterpreted the inclusion as an obvious sign that the Council intended to de-emphasize the importance of Mary, and this interpretation has spread also among a large number of the clergy and laity. Moreover, after the Council, the biblical renewal contracted until the historical-critical method gained an almost complete dominance over the mainstream of Catholic biblical scholarship. Thus, most systematic theologians felt suspended in an airless vacuum, deprived of the support of Scripture. It is, then, understandable why Mariology courses were dropped from the curriculum of the majority of Catholic seminaries, colleges, and universities. Where they survived, they did so only as electives rather than as part of a sequence of courses required for ordination. A product of an ecumenical task force, Mary in the New Testament—a text which raised doubts about the scriptural foundations of all Marian doctrines except for Jesus’ virginal conception—became the 1 This essay is a modified form of a keynote address at the founding symposium of the Academy of Catholic Theology, Washington, DC, May, 2008. 780 Roch Kereszty, O.Cist. favorite source for these electives.2 Added to these theoretical challenges was the practical difficulty for those professors who tried to follow the procedure of the Council and integrate Mariology into a course on ecclesiology. These professors routinely ran out of time over the semester, and, since it would inevitably fall to the last unit in the course, the interpretation of the eighth chapter of Lumen Gentium was either omitted or hastily summarized during the last one or two classes. In spite of such a generally negative trend, those who had been the best Marian theologians before the Council continued their studies of Mary. Instead of working with a few biblical proof texts in support of the Marian dogmas, they looked at the whole of the Bible in the light of patristic exegesis and discovered Mary’s role in the whole of salvation history. They have shown convincingly that without the Marian mystery the central doctrines of Christianity become distorted. I mention here only the most important names: Hans Urs von Balthasar, Louis Bouyer, André Feuillet, René Laurentin, Henri de Lubac, Ignace de la Potterie, Hugo Rahner, Josef Ratzinger, and Otto Semmelroth.3 We should also include here the Marian documents of the Magisterium, which attempted to revitalize and enrich Marian piety with the ecclesiological Marian doctrine of the Council: Pope Paul’s discourse at the conclusion of the Council in which he declared Mary the Mother of the Church, his apostolic exhortation Marialis Cultus, and Pope John Paul II’s encyclical Redemptoris Mater. Meanwhile, in the last few decades a new generation of Catholic youth, inspired by the deep Marian piety of John Paul II, began to search for a deeper understanding of the mystery of Mary. Thus, we sense today a real need in the Church for a renewed Mariology. 2 Ed. Raymond E. Brown, Karl P. Donfried, Joseph A. Fitzmyer & John Reuman (Fortess-Paulist: Philadelphia, New York, 1978). 3 Hans Urs von Balthasar, Theo-drama. Theological Dramatic Theory, Vol. 3, Dramatis Personae: Persons in Christ (San Francisco: Ignatius, 1992), 271–360; Mary for Today (San Francisco: Ignatius, 1987). Hans Urs von Balthasar and Joseph Ratzinger, Mary—The Church at the Source (San Francisco: Ignatius, 1965). Louis Bouyer, The Seat of Wisdom (Chicago: Regnery, 1965). André Feuillet, Études johanniques (Paris: Desclée, 1962). George Jouassard, “Marie à travers la patristique,” in Marie I–III, ed. D’Hubert Du Manoir, (Paris: Beauchesne, 1949), 69–157. René Laurentin, Luc I–II ( Paris, 1954); Court traité sur la Vierge Marie (Paris: Lethielleux, 1967) and The Question of Mary (New York: Holt, Rinehart, & Winston, 1965); Ignace De la Potterie, Mary in the Mystery of the Covenant (New York: Alba House, 1992). Hugo Rahner, Symbole der Kirche (Salzburg: Otto Müller, 1964), esp. 13–87. Our Lady and the Church (Chicago: Regnery, 1965). Joseph Ratzinger, Daughter Zion (San Francisco: Ignatius, 1983). Otto Semmelroth, Mary, Archetype of the Church (New York: Sheed and Ward, 1963). Toward the Renewal of Mariology 781 My goal in this essay is to outline some of the key issues in a systematic Mariology while incorporating the insights of the above-mentioned biblical and patristic scholars, who contributed most to its renewal in the period before and after Vatican II. At the same time, I will attempt to show how the truths regarding Mary safeguard and deepen our understanding of the central mysteries of the faith. Such a presentation cannot avoid the charge of being a maximalist Mariology—or the objection that in this essay defined dogmas and mere theological conclusions are inseparably amalgamated. My only defense is that I have attempted to draw the contours of the integral mystery of Mary, the different components of which have been taught by the Church with various levels of certainty and precision. My essay is “maximalist” not in the sense of emphasizing Mary’s privileges in contrast to the rest of humankind, but rather in presenting Mary as the anticipation and guarantee of the eschatological glory of the human race. The article is divided into the following eight sections: (1) Mary’s significance in the universal history of salvation and in the history of Israel’s faith; (2) Mary ever virgin and mother of God; (3) Mary becoming the mother of the Church; (4) the glorification of Mary’s body in its eschatological and cosmic significance; (5) the anthropological implications of the mystery of Mary; (6) Mary and the autonomy of creation; (7) Mary and the Holy Spirit; (8) a christocentric Marian spirituality. 1. Mary’s Significance in the Universal History of Salvation and in the History of Israel’s Faith The New Eve: Mary in Universal History The theme of Mary as the new Eve, implied by the New Testament,4 discloses her role within the universal history of humankind.5 Reasoning within the logic of faith, we discover the “necessity” of the Immaculate Conception.6 Similar to the first Eve, who was not created as a new 4 See on this theme A. Feuillet, “L’heure de la femme ( Jn 16,21) et l’heure de la Mère de Jésus ( Jn 19,25–27),” Biblica 47 (1966): 169–84, 361–80, 557–73. 5 To the Anglicans who believed that the dogma of the Immaculate Conception was a recent invention of the papacy, Cardinal Newman pointed out that its truth has been implicit in the faith of the Church from the beginning. It has been implied in the parallelism and contrast between Mary and Eve as attested in the writings of the second-century apostolic fathers Justin (Dialogue with Trypho, 100) and Irenaeus (Against Heresies, 3,22 & 5,19). If Eve was created in grace without sin, how could the new Eve who has reversed by her obedience the disobedience of the first Eve be created in original sin? Cf. John Henry Newman, The New Eve (Westminster MD: Newman Press, 1952) 14-33. 6 By “necessity” I mean the reasons of appropriateness that faith discovers in the harmony of the mysteries. 782 Roch Kereszty, O.Cist. beginning but took her origin from Adam, the new Eve, Mary, is conceived as the first and most perfect fruit of the Son’s redemptive work. In that sense Dante rightly addresses her as “Filia del tuo Figlio.” On the one hand, God enabled Mary’s Immaculate Conception (her being created in grace and being preserved from original sin from the first moment of her conception) in view of her Son’s future redemptive work; on the other, Mary’s free, unconditional “Yes” to God’s offer of redemption was the condition for the Son’s Incarnation. Thus, through his undeserved grace, God renewed the human race and initiated an immaculately pure and new beginning within a human history marked by escalating sinfulness. At the same time, God’s grace enabled the human race to renew itself from within, through the free and full acceptance of God’s will by the new Eve. While the Immaculate Conception constitutes Mary’s unique privilege, she has received it as a sign which guarantees and anticipates the holiness of the whole Church at the end of time. Made also the mother of all believers by her Son, the Immaculata is anxious to share with all of us her purity and grace. Her motherly activity and concern will not cease until the last of the elect is fully purified and sanctified.7 We see more clearly the significance of the Immaculate Conception if we attempt to conceive of salvation history without it. Had Mary been stained by personal or by original sin even for the shortest period of time, she would not have been an utterly new beginning. Moreover, the overabundant grace obtained by the Redeemer would not have been fully and freely received by God’s creation; there would not have been a truly worthy, free human “partner” for God, one who would give a worthy response to the Incarnate Son of God. Additionally, without Mary’s Immaculate Conception the Church could not have fully appropriated Christ’s sacrifice, which she celebrates in the Eucharist. The disciples (the official hierarchy of the Church) received the command to perform the Eucharistic sacrifice in memory of Jesus at the Last Supper. It is Mary, however, who accepted fully the sacrifice of her Son at the foot of the Cross. Her consent to the Father’s will, by which she accepts her Son’s self-donation to the Father in our stead and for our sake, is full and wholehearted because she is the Immaculata, the one conceived without original sin and full of grace; her “Yes” of 7 St. Maximilian Kolbe liked to highlight the significance of Mary’s self-designa- tion to Bernadette Soubirous. She does not say “I am the one who has been immaculately conceived,” but “I am the Immaculate Conception.” In other words it does not concern only herself but it posits a new beginning for all believers. Cf. Kolbe, Saint of the Immaculate, ed. Francis M. Kalvelage (New Bedford MA: Franciscans of the Immaculate, 2001), 109. Toward the Renewal of Mariology 783 acceptance, is not weakened or divided by any sinful tendency. In this way, Mary, who was fully redeemed in advance by her Son’s sacrifice, makes the sacrifice of her Son thoroughly her own. And insofar as Mary is the archetype and the beginning of the Church, the sacrifice of Christ has through her become existentially the Church’s sacrifice. In the words of Balthasar: The patristic phrase “personam ecclesiae gerens,” “in persona Ecclesiae,” denotes a kind of representation that is truly valid only when the role that is played ( persona) portrays precisely the subjectivity of the BrideChurch. But how could a sinner be capable of playing this role, which demands spotless love? The disposition he would have to portray would necessarily always be something high above him, an ideal that had not been realized, so that it would not be possible anywhere for the Church to play the role assigned to her in Christ’s sacrifice in keeping with what was expected. This is why the dogma of the Immaculate Conception is a strict postulate of ecclesiology. . . . The assent of the Ekklesia to the sacrifice of the Son must press on until it reaches Mary’s perfect selflessness, so that this agreement may not retain any stain of the egotism that allows Jesus the Paschal Lamb to be slain for one’s own redemption and perfection.8 Mary is full of grace yet passible and mortal; the innocence of Paradise and her fullness of grace make her most sensitive to the sins of the fallen human race and to its psychic and physical sufferings. On the one hand, the closer we are to God the more keenly we sense and abhor the evil of sin, but the more closely we want to embrace the sinner in order to rescue him. On the other, our sinfulness inclines us to rationalize the evil of sin while recoiling from solidarity with the sinner. All this helps us understand why we can never really grasp how much Mary suffered while living among us and how close she felt and feels to each one of us. The essentially dialogical nature of human personhood reveals to us another consequence of the Immaculate Conception. In his human development, the incarnate Son of God needed someone who understood him, responded to him, and purely returned his pure love. Without her, Jesus would have been utterly lonely and misunderstood by all. Although Mary could not fully understand her Son’s behavior, his words and actions, her purity of faith and fullness of grace always enabled her to reach out to him. When she presented the baby Jesus in the Temple, 8 Theological Explorations, vol. III (San Francisco: Ignatius 1991), 239–240. The two paragraphs above are a modified version of my article “The Eucharist and the Mission of the Church in the Theology of Hans Urs von Balthasar” in Love Alone Is Credible: Hans Urs von Balthasar As Interpreter of the Catholic Tradition, ed. David L. Schindler, vol. I (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2008), 7–8. 784 Roch Kereszty, O.Cist. Simeon’s prophecy must truly have pierced her heart. When after three days Mary and Joseph find the twelve-year-old Jesus in the Temple, she gently reproaches him: “Son, why did you do this to us? Your father and I have been looking for you with great anxiety?” Instead of apologizing, Jesus’ response opens up the infinite gap which separates the Son of God from his parents: “Why were you looking for me? Did you not know that I must be in what belongs to my Father?” Mary does not understand, but she keeps these words in her heart (Lk 2:48–51).When Jesus’ relatives and his mother arrive in Capernaum, stand outside the house where he is teaching his disciples, and ask for him, he acts as if he has disowned her and his brothers. Instead of going out to receive them, he looks around at his disciples and declares: “Behold my mother and my brothers. For he who does the will of God, he is my brother and sister and mother” (Mk 3:31–34). Luke’s Gospel suggests to us the purpose of Jesus’ apparent rejection of his mother: “My mother and my brothers are those who hear the word of God and act on it” (8:21). From Luke’s portrayal of Mary, it becomes evident that the perfect example of the one who listens to the word of God and acts on it is Mary herself (Lk 2:19, 2:51). This, then, is the way Jesus challenges the faith of his mother: Just as she conceived the Son of God by her faith, she can be united with Him only by acknowledging the infinite gap between them and then by bridging it time and again through her growing faith. Indeed, it is Mary’s Immaculate Conception and her consequent fullness of grace that enable her always to catch up with her Son and, in the end, to become fully united with Him under the Cross in the very act of renouncing Him and offering Him to the Father. Mary in the History of Israel’s Faith While Mary as the “new Eve” reveals her role in the universal history of humankind at large, the theme of the “virgin Daughter of Zion” whom the Lord espouses at the end of history reveals that Mary is the fulfillment of the hope of Israel. Just as the themes of Israel as son of God (Ex 4:22–3, Hos 11:1), son of man (Ezekiel passim, Dn 7:13, 18, 22), and servant (Is 42:1, 49:3, 50:10, 52:13) serve as keys to understanding the figure of Jesus, so does the roller-coaster history of Israel’s faith beginning with Abraham and Sarah and ending in the redemption of the chastened Daughter of Zion prepare us to appreciate Mary’s “Fiat” as the full flowering of this faith. With Irenaeus we can look at the whole of Israel’s history as God’s paidagogia, the tough, patient, and faithful education of a wild, nomadic people toward an unconditional and full gift of themselves to God. After Israel learned that YHWH is not a sexual being, she could understand that Toward the Renewal of Mariology 785 in spite of all her infidelities, God promised to unite her to himself in a virginal marriage “in righteousness and in justice, in steadfast love and in mercy” (Hos 2:18–20). This virginal marriage will be fruitful: in the end the barren virgin Daughter Zion will bear many children. God’s promises begin to be fulfilled “in the humility of the house in Nazareth” in the virgin named Mary, who embodies “holy Israel, the pure remnant.”9 The Incarnation of the Son of God, then, is not an unexpected meteor falling to the earth without any preparation or free human cooperation. In Mary’s response to God’s offer of salvation, the Covenant with Israel obtains its ultimate fulfillment: At the moment when she pronounces her Yes, Mary is Israel in person; she is the Church in person and as a person. She is the personal concretization of the Church because her Fiat makes her the bodily Mother of the Lord.10 Cardinal Dulles insisted in a recent article that we should save ecumenism from itself. In other words, we should stop bracketing or blurring the differences which separate us. Thus, to our Jewish dialogue partners we should make clear not only that we believe in Jesus as the second Adam, the first born of redeemed humankind in general, but that we also see in him the eschatological Israel, the eternal Israel of God. Furthermore, we should point out to them that for us Mary is the “gloria Jerusalem, laetitia Israel et honorificentia populi nostri.”11 In other words, we honor in Mary the fulfillment of Israel’s faith, a faith that drew into her womb the Son of the Most High. 2. Mary Ever Virgin and Mother of God For Luke, Mary’s virginal conception of Jesus reveals that he is the second Adam (cf. Lk 3:23–38), the source and model of a new creation resulting from God’s creative act.12 This new beginning could not have been brought about by man’s initiative. Mary’s womb is thus prefigured by the 9 Pope Benedict XVI, “Homily on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception,” (Zenit.org Dec 14, 2005). 10 J. Ratzinger, “Thoughts on the Place of Marian Doctrine and Piety in Faith and Theology as a Whole,” in von Balthasar and Ratzinger, Mary—The Church at the Source, 30. 11 From the Graduale of the Mass of the Immaculate Conception in the Roman Missal. 12 A part of this section is a modified version of a portion of my Jesus Christ: Fundamentals of Christology (New York: Alba House, 2002), “The Death and Resurrection of Jesus,” 74–75. 786 Roch Kereszty, O.Cist. void over which the Spirit of God was hovering and bringing forth life at the dawn of the first creation (Gn 1:2): “The Holy Spirit will come upon you” (Lk 1:35). For Matthew the creative act of the Holy Spirit aims at bringing forth the Savior who will free his people from their sins (Mt 1:21). Thus both in Matthew and Luke the virginal conception reveals that man and woman left to their own power can neither produce the new humanity (Luke), nor obtain forgiveness for sin (Matthew). Jesus the Savior, “the holy offspring,” is not the fruit of human love but the fruit of God’s love for humankind. He is purely and entirely a gift that could not be obtained by human efforts, even by the graced intercourse of a saintly husband and wife. At the same time, however, the Gift is not bestowed on a loveless couple who claim to love only God but not each other. The marriage of Mary and Joseph is real, the Child is truly their child and it is precisely the incarnate God the Son who unites them more than we could ever be united by marital intercourse. It will be mainly Joseph’s task to initiate Jesus into the traditions of his people, to teach him to read the Scriptures while both will be astonished by Jesus’ growing wisdom and unfolding love for his heavenly Father. It is remarkable that no Christian theologian denies the Pauline doctrine of justification by God’s free initiative of grace alone, whereas many question the factuality of Jesus’ virginal conception. This is all the more surprising given the intimate connection between the two: the virginal conception of Jesus is the historical realization and revelation of the absolutely gratuitous character of God’s saving grace. In Luke, the virginal conception reveals not only the radically gratuitous character of God’s gift in Jesus, but also his divine sonship. In Luke 1:34–35, the dialogue between Mary and the angel Gabriel makes it clear that Jesus is to be called Son of God precisely because he is going to be conceived virginally by the power of the Holy Spirit. “Son of God” as used here clearly means more than Messianic sonship: Jesus is “to gennomenon hagion,” “the holy offspring” (1:35), conceived by the Holy Spirit. He belongs so radically to God that human fatherhood is excluded; his father is God alone.13 The virginal conception, then, shows that the whole being and life of Jesus—without any “remainder”—expresses his filial relationship to his heavenly Father. All that Jesus is reveals the Father in heaven. We can shed more light on Jesus’ divine sonship by comparing our situation to his.We are children of our earthly father first, and it is only in addition to this natural relationship that we become, through grace, children 13 Yet Joseph is more than a foster father. A foster father must compete with an absent but real birth father. God has no rival in Joseph, who rather reflects the heavenly Father’s love for His Son. Toward the Renewal of Mariology 787 of God. Therefore, all that we are and do does not and cannot “speak” about our heavenly Father. Much in us simply reflects our earthly father. Jesus, on the contrary, is the complete and unsurpassable revelation of the Father, because his whole human being and life reveal Him. The Fathers insisted that Mary’s virginity remained even in giving birth to Jesus (virginitas in partu). Although they refrained from describing its physiological aspect, they extolled the preservation of her bodily integrity as the sign of the inward, virginal integrity of her soul. Most contemporary theologians are too embarrassed to take this traditional view seriously. But St. Ignatius of Antioch in the early second century already considered Jesus’ birth from Mary as one of the three mysteries that remained hidden from the prince of this world and took place in the silence of God.14 This birth had to be real, from the womb of the Virgin Mary, yet different from all other births. Every other birth is a birth unto death; the first moment of the baby’s life is the first moment in moving closer to death. Without Jesus, this imminent physical death would be the beginning and sign of eternal spiritual death. In contrast, Jesus’ birth was an event of pure joy, the first advance in the conquest of death and delivery of eternal life to us. On account of the psychosomatic unity of the human being, we must also affirm that in some way Mary’s bodily integrity was preserved in childbirth.15 While Gnostic Christian documents also attest Mary’s perpetual virginity, they distort its meaning: Mary is believed to have remained a virgin because sexual relations that produce offspring and thereby increase matter are evil. The patristic argument for the perpetual virginity of Mary was not based on Gnostic doctrine but on the Christian understanding of virginity as a total consecration to God in pure faith and undivided love. The Fathers interpret Luke 1:34 as expressing the firm intention (or vow) of Mary to dedicate herself to God as a virgin; such a dedication must be total and irrevocable. They also saw in the womb of Mary the New Ark of God overshadowed by the Holy Spirit, the New Temple forever sanctified by God’s presence. No man may enter this sanctuary, since God has made it his own.16 Thus, it was unthinkable for them that Mary, totally 14 Ephesians 19:1. 15 The painful birth of the Woman in Revelation 12:2 does not refer to the birth in Bethlehem, but to the birth pangs of Mary at the foot of the Cross as she completes the birth of the Messiah ( Jn 16:21; 19:26–27). 16 Ezek 44:1–3 often served as a basis for such an interpretation. This view is a further development of the Old Testament’s perspective on cultic holiness. The High Priest who served in the sanctuary, as well as any soldier who fought in a holy war on behalf of Yahweh, had to abstain from sexual intercourse. In later Judaism, legends developed that Moses did not have sexual relations with his wife 788 Roch Kereszty, O.Cist. consecrated to God by her Son, would compromise this consecration by sexual relations.17 3. Mary Becoming the Mother of the Church Mary’s divine and ecclesial motherhood, her role as the new Eve, is beautifully intimated by John 19:25–27, as seen against the background of Revelation 12:1–9. Jesus is hanging on the Cross, and at the foot of the Cross stands Mary and the Beloved Disciple. Here, by consenting to the total gift of her Son, Mary completes her task of giving birth to the Messiah, the king of Israel who will rule the nations with an iron rod (Rv 12: 5). The initial, joyful birth in Bethlehem was not simply a biological process; Mary conceived Jesus by faith, as Augustine liked to repeat.18 Jesus’ birth from her womb was God’s response to her unconditional Fiat.19 Similarly, Mary’s presence at the Cross on which her Son is lifted up is not a passive standing-by but rather the expression of her consent to her Son’s sacrifice. In fact, Mary completes the task of her divine motherhood when, at Jesus’ words “Woman, behold your son!” she receives, in place of Jesus, the Beloved Disciple as her own child and, in him, all believers as well.This final birth of Jesus from Mary is not the joyful, painless birth at Bethlehem, but a painful labor amidst loud wailing (Rv 12:2). Thus, at the foot of the Cross, Mary’s motherhood is stretched out far and wide without boundaries; it embraces all the disciples of Jesus, and it offers her motherly embrace to all peoples and influences by her prayers the entire course of human history.20 Thus, Mary becomes both the Mother of the Church and the most perfect, concrete image of the Church: Mater Ecclesiae et Mater Ecclesia. What Mary did in both flesh and Spirit by giving birth to the Head of the Church, the Church does every day in the Spirit: she gives birth to after he encountered God in the burning bush; and the seventy-two elders refrained from the same after they received a portion of Moses’ spirit.The underlying conviction was not that sexual activity is evil but that it involves us in this world. One should abstain from it when facing the holy presence of God. See Laurentin, Luc I–II, 179–89. 17 Ironically, it is a Protestant exegete, Richard Bauckham, who shows, in response to J. P. Meier’s minimalist position, the historical probability that Jesus’ brothers and sisters were born from Joseph’s first wife. (See “ The Brothers and Sisters of Jesus: An Epiphanian Response to J. P. Meier,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 56 [1994]: 686–700.) 18 “fide concepit”; Augustine, In Johannis evangelium Tract. 4:10, Contra Faustum 29:4, Sermo 65A, 69, 72A. 19 While Mary’s Fiat was Mary’s free and graced response to God’s message. 20 For the foundation of this view in the Gospel text itself, see A. Feuillet, “L’heure de la femme ( Jn 16,21) et l’heure de la Mère de Jésus ( Jn 19,25–27),” Biblica 47 (1966): 169–84, 361–80, 557–73. Toward the Renewal of Mariology 789 the members of the Body of Christ. Thus the Church’s activity is analogous to Mary’s; more than that, in the Church’s prayer Mary and the saints on earth and in heaven are themselves active. This explains why the subject of the Church’s official prayer in the Divine Office, and in her sacraments and sacramentals, is not a juridical abstraction, nor is it merely the prayer of Christ alone. Indeed, Christ’s grace renders the prayer of Mary and the saints pleasing to the Father and makes it effective; but when we say that “the Church prays,” we mean that Mary and the saints pray with Christ. Without Mary’s and the saints’ prayers,21 the Church’s motherhood would be just an empty turn of phrase. Of course, the intercessory prayer of Mary and the saints cannot be restricted to the Church’s official acts. God’s sanctifying actions are not limited to the Church’s official acts, and neither is the activity of Mary and the saints. Just as Mary completed the birth of the Messiah under the cross as she accompanied her Son up to his final “handing over the Spirit” ( Jn 19:30), her motherly role for a member of Christ is completed when this member dies and is born to eternal life in heaven. For this reason do we recite in the Hail Mary, “Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.”22 People outside the Church often see in her nothing but an ancient institution, one of the oldest forms of “organized religion.” Even Catholics have the tendency to reduce the Church’s reality to an institution, although they may defend its necessity and usefulness. With such a view in mind, frustrations over the Church’s rules and bureaucracy may easily lead some to abandon her. Our relationship to the Church will most likely change once we discover her all-pervasive Marian dimension. To quote again Cardinal Ratzinger: “In theology it is not the person that is reducible to the thing, but the thing to the person.”23 The scene of the crucified Lord, the Mother of Jesus, and the Beloved Disciple as presented by John 19:25–27, 32–37 reveals to us the personal aspect behind the institutional. The 21 I mean here the saints in heaven and on earth, even those members of the Church who are not yet fully purified. 22 From this perspective we begin to appreciate the truth of Ratzinger’s and Balthasar’s insight: the ecclesiology of the ancient Church is Mariology without the name of Mary. The early Fathers most often spoke of the Church as ecclesia virgo, ecclesia immaculata, ecclesia mater without further explanation. They had an intuition that, in spite of the presence of sinners within the Church, in some real sense one must call the Church an immaculate virgin and mother. Only later could the Church articulate the reason for these terms: it is Mary’s immaculate virginal motherhood along with the holiness of the saints that shines through and is active in the Church’s virginal motherhood. 23 Ibid., 27. 790 Roch Kereszty, O.Cist. Beloved Disciple, John, the friend of Peter, symbolizes all the Apostles, who received from Christ their commission to teach and to lead the faithful to Christ by celebrating the sacraments (the water pouring from Jesus’ side signifying baptism, the blood, the Eucharist). But before the Apostle can start his mission, he must welcome the Mother of Jesus “into his own” (eis ta idia), which means not merely receiving her into his home, but into all that is his, into his life, heart, and mind. He will live up to his apostolic task only to the extent that he makes Mary’s motherly attitude his own. In fact, from St. Paul and St. Ambrose, all the way through St. Bernard and to Blessed John Paul II, all the holy pastors of the Church considered themselves fathers to their people; and yet they also exhibited the tender heart of a mother who remains in travail until all her children are shaped and formed in Christ (cf. Gal 4:19). This, then, is the twofold challenge for the Church: Her priests and bishops should adopt not only the courage and wisdom of a father in the service of the Gospel, but also the motherly love of Mary, who embraces all human beings.24 Ideally, the laity should be able to perceive—not only through faith but also in personal experience—Mary’s motherly care in the ministry of the Church. Of course, it is not very difficult to get disillusioned with any institution. But if we discover behind the institutional aspect of the Church the very person of the crucified and risen Lord as he pours his life into us from his opened side; if we believe that the Church on earth with her sinful members is inseparable from the heavenly Church who is Mary and the saints active in the sacraments and prayer of the earthly church, we will persist in loving her. Our love for her will even grow when we have to face at times the filth and rot that disfigure her here on earth.25 4. The Glorification of Mary’s Body in Its Eschatological and Cosmic Significance Mary is present at the beginning of Jesus’ ministry at the marriage feast of Cana; with his “brothers and sisters” she also visits Jesus in the midst 24 The priest’s fatherly relationship to his faithful should be modeled upon Joseph’s relationship to Jesus. Just as Joseph did not beget Jesus but represented the strength and justice of God the Father for him and loved him more than if Jesus had been his biological son, so should the priest relate to his faithful. He begets them not by himself but by the word of God (cf. 1 Cor 4:15, Phlm 10), and he should guide and love them with a greater love than what he would show to his natural children. 25 Some readers will miss the treatment of the title “Mary, the Mediatrix of All Graces.” In my opinion the title “Mary Mother of the Church” contains all that is true and positive in the former. Moreover, “Mary, Mother of the Church” has a strong foundation in Scripture while the title “Mediatrix of All Graces” is more abstract, non-biblical, and prone to serious misunderstandings by Protestants. Toward the Renewal of Mariology 791 of his preaching tours; and she stands at the foot of the Cross on Golgotha. The New Testament, however, does not report any appearance of the risen Jesus to his Mother. Perhaps it took place but, on account of its unofficial, private character, was not recorded. A more probable alternative, however, seems to be that the risen Lord did not actually appear to his Mother; not because Jesus lacked filial piety, but because Mary’s faith did not need to be rekindled by such a visible appearance. The faith of all the Apostles was terribly shaken by the ignominious death of their Master, and only multiple encounters with the risen Lord could restore and strengthen their faith. In contrast, Mary seemed never to have lost her deep communion with her Son. At the foot of the Cross, she may have shared in the dying of her Son to such an extent that, on the third day, she could in some initial sense rise with him to a new life. The depth of suffering she shared with the Crucified One assured the depth of her communion with the Risen One. She may have stayed in touch and communicated with him without the empirical evidence of the senses. Later we find Mary in the midst of the Twelve and the other disciples as they pray in the Upper Room while waiting for the outpouring of the Holy Spirit. The one whose womb was overshadowed by the Holy Spirit is now praying for the outpouring of the Spirit over the Church. By the first descent of the Spirit, Mary became the Mother of God; by the second, she was empowered to be the Mother of the Church. Theologians disagree about whether or not Mary died. It is certain, however, that the Virgin Mary had a real death experience: the anguish, the loneliness, and the pain of the sinner’s death she felt when sharing in the death of her Son. Moreover, the earliest liturgical feasts of the Virgin indicate that she may have reached the end of her earthly life by a peaceful falling asleep: the Church celebrated from ancient times the “Dormitio beatae Mariae Virginis,” the “Falling Asleep of the Blessed Virgin Mary.”There are two traditions regarding the place of Mary’s death: the Jerusalem tradition holds that she was buried in Gethsemane, but according to another tradition Mary went with John the Apostle to Ephesus, where she died. Even though there exist only later fourth-to-fifth-century apocryphal writings on Mary’s death and the discovery of her empty tomb after the burial, we do not find any sign anywhere of the veneration of her body; no one claims to have found her body. The explicit belief, however, that Mary’s body did not see corruption and was taken up to heaven in glory needed several centuries to develop. In particular, it was only after the proclamation of the dogma of her Immaculate Conception, in which it was declared that Mary has never been touched by any corruption of sin, that her bodily Assumption to heaven could be defined. Roch Kereszty, O.Cist. 792 Pope Pius XII proclaimed the dogma of the Assumption in 1950 in these simple and concise terms: “the Immaculate Mother of God, the ever Virgin Mary, having completed the course of her earthly life, was assumed body and soul into heavenly glory.”26 His certain and firm proof was “the universal agreement of the Church’s ordinary Magisterium” which teaches this as a truth that has been revealed by God.27 Pope Pius also quoted the beliefs of several Church Fathers, in particular St. John of Damascus and St. Germanus of Constantinople. Then he continued: All these proofs and considerations of the holy Fathers and the theologians are based upon the Sacred Writings as their ultimate foundation. These set the loving Mother of God as it were before our very eyes as most intimately joined to her divine Son and as always sharing his lot. Consequently it seems impossible to think of her, the one who conceived Christ, brought him forth, nursed him with her milk, held him in her arms, and clasped him to her breast, as being apart from him in body, even though not in soul, after this earthly life. Since our Redeemer is the Son of Mary, he could not do otherwise, as the perfect observer of God’s law, than to honor, not only his eternal Father, but also his most beloved Mother. And, since it was within his power to grant her this great honor, to preserve her from the corruption of the tomb, we must believe that he really acted in this way. (38) The significance of the mystery of the Assumption extends far beyond the individual person of Mary inasmuch as it reveals God’s plan for the human body and the material universe. Her glorified body expresses the inner beauty of the Mother of God and of the Church, her fullness of grace resplendent through her body. Being our Mother in the order of grace, Mary will not rest until the bodies of all the redeemed shine with grace. As we contemplate her glory, we have a foretaste of our own final state. Since glorified bodies need a connatural habitat, the Assumption of Mary is also a pledge of the new heaven and new earth at the end of times. In St. Bernard’s vision, the end of God’s plan includes the union of the “ima et summa,” the lowest and the highest creatures, all united with each other and with God. This union is anticipated in Mary’s Assumption: Today our earth has sent to heaven a precious gift so that, by giving and receiving, in a happy bond of friendship, human realities be joined to divine realities, earthly things to heavenly things, the lowest to the highest.28 26 Munificentissimus Deus, 44. 27 Ibid., 12. 28 Sermo in Assumptione 1:2. Beginning with Karl Rahner, recent theologians spec- ulated that Mary was not the only one who was glorified both body and soul, Toward the Renewal of Mariology 793 5. The Anthropological Implications of the Mystery of Mary Some women have felt deeply hurt by the papal Magisterium’s strong stand against the possibility of ordaining women to holy orders. In the long run, however, the Church’s position will prove prophetic: against the cultural mainstream she affirms and protects the anthropological and theological significance of the complementarity of human gender. The decisive reason why the Church is unable to ordain women is apostolic tradition, but the different representational significance of each gender makes this tradition intelligible. The ministerial priest represents Christ, the head of the Church, the eternal Son made man, who sows the Word of God into our hearts and, through the Holy Spirit, initiates divine life on earth. The man, then, whose gender is best expressed in this world by his procreative initiative and his headship of the family through service, is metaphysically fit to represent the Second Person of the Trinity in His relationship to the Church.29 At the same time, men can only imperfectly represent the very essence of the Church, her virginal motherhood. It is the woman who receives her human nature in such a way that it reflects the fundamental relationship of the Church to Christ, which is the role of virginal bride and mother. In conceiving, a woman needs a man’s initiative, but she gives of herself and nourishes the new life with herself until the birth, and even afterward. Her role expresses on the human level the entire Church’s mission to communicate Christ’s life to her members and to nourish it until their last breath on earth. Man’s complementary role to woman, on the other hand, represents the Church’s need for the divine initiative, namely the reception of divine life from Christ. This permanent dependence of the Church on the sanctifying action of Christ is signified by the male ministerial priesthood. Thus, in spite of the correspondence between natural and supernatural gender roles, in the life of grace we also notice a remarkable role change. The Church as Woman is a partner to Christ; in contrast, her male hierarchy expresses the Church’s dependence on Christ. She is a relatively but (relying on Matthew 27:51–53) that other saints, in fact all the saved, are raised up with an eschatological body at the very moment of their death. We cannot discuss here the question of the nature of time beyond this world. What is at any rate clear is that the glorification of the bodies of Jesus and Mary must have been different from that of any other human being. Jesus and Mary were completely sinless, without even original sin, therefore their bodies did not decay like anybody else’s, but were simply transformed into spirit-filled, incorruptible, and immortal bodies. 29 The implicit presupposition in this argument of complementary representational difference is that the human being is a psychosomatic unity: therefore, the biological difference influences the personality of each sex. 794 Roch Kereszty, O.Cist. independent partner to God insofar as she is analogously Mary, virginal bride and mother. God the Son loves his Bride, delights in her, and accepts to be born from her continuously in every living member of his Church. Thus, the Church as mother actively cooperates in the salvation of her members, even though her activity results from the gift of Christ in the Holy Spirit. On the one hand, it is the Church, virgin, bride and mother, who prays in the liturgical prayers (of course, with the support of Christ, who never abandons his bride) and who offers her love and suffering for all human beings. In every sacramental celebration, on the other hand, the ordained minister is not so much a partner to, but a slave of, Christ, whom the minister’s action represents and behind whom the minister should efface himself. This instrumental role explains why even a priest in the state of grave sin can validly (but not licitly) celebrate the sacraments. If the priest, however,, wants to celebrate the sacraments not just validly but worthily, he should personally appropriate the prayer of the Marian Church, virgin and mother. Just as the Apostle John took Mary into his own heart and life, every priest should make his own the motherly heart of Mary. 6. Mary and the Autonomy of Creation An ecclesiology that does not provide an adequate place for Mary is likely to lead to one of two distortions. It may result in reducing the Church to a sociological notion such as a mere congregation of believers, or it may jeopardize her autonomous reality vis-à-vis Christ. The juridical definitions of the Catholic Church after Trent, as well as the predominantly “people of God” ecclesiologies of the post–Vatican II period, both differ from the Lutheran Confession of Augsburg only with regard to the role of apostolic authority. Otherwise, both suffer from the same type of inadequacy inasmuch as their emphasis is one-sidedly on the visible, sociological aspects of the Church. If, however, we emphasize exclusively the mystical aspect of the Church as “the Body of Christ,” we construct another distorted notion of the Church by forgetting that the Church is an autonomous subject in loving surrender to Christ as her Bridegroom. As Ratzinger points out, this approach can easily slip into a “solus Christus” or “Christomonist” presentation in which all that is supernatural and holy in the Church must be attributed to Christ alone. In this view the Church as such has no distinct existence of her own, since all that she is is Christ present among us. The human element in the Church is either swallowed up in Christ or remains sinful and passive. Toward the Renewal of Mariology 795 As we have seen, Mary, on the other hand, appears as autonomous “partner,” mother, and virginal spouse for the risen Christ, a convincing sign that God finds his joy and glory in elevating the creature to himself in such a way that his love bridges the infinite gap between Creator and creature. What St. Bernard says about the Church as Bride is eminently applicable to Mary: “When God loves, He wants nothing else but to be loved. For He has no other purpose in loving than to be loved in return, knowing that this very love makes happy those who love Him.”30 God’s love is so humble and all-powerful that, according to St. Bernard, in a certain sense he elevates Mary even above himself as his own Mother.31 Of course, ontologically Mary remains a creature, totally dependent on God, and thus she is nothing in herself apart from God.Yet God’s gifts are truly hers and therefore she is full of grace and fully beautiful. Taken up body and soul into heaven, Mary is the most perfect realization and guarantee of what redeemed humankind will look like at the end of history. As our mother, she is most anxious to share her immaculate purity and the splendor of her glorified humanity with all her children. In the words of Ratzinger: Mariology demonstrates that the doctrine of grace does not revoke creation; rather, it is the definitive Yes to creation. In this way, Mariology guarantees the ontological independence [Eigenständigkeit] of creation, undergirds faith in creation, and crowns the doctrine of creation, rightly understood. Questions and tasks await us here that have scarcely begun to be treated or undertaken.32 7. Mary and the Holy Spirit In post-Tridentine theology, pneumatology remained substantially underdeveloped. To some extent, then, the role of the Holy Spirit in our sanctification tended to be replaced by the role of Mary. For instance, it was said that Mary shapes the image of Christ in us; she is our advocate; we come to Jesus through Mary; and Mary intercedes for us. In biblical 30 Sermones super Cantica 83,4: II, 301. While Bernard is very faithful to the patris- tic tradition that does not call Mary the sponsa immaculata, he attributes the features of Mary to the Church as spouse. Cf. “plena confessio gratiae, ipsius gratiae plenitudinem signat in anima confitentis: The full praise of grace expresses the fullness of grace in the soul of the one who praises [it].” Sermones super Cantica 67:10. 31 “Admire then both mysteries and choose which one you admire more, the most gracious favor of the Son or the highest dignity of the Mother. Both are stunning miracles. That God would submit to a woman, is unprecedented humility. That a woman rule over God, is unparalleled dignity” (St. Bernard, Homilia Super Missus Est 1,7: IV, 19). 32 Ratzinger, “Thoughts on the Place of Marian Doctrine . . . ,” 31. 796 Roch Kereszty, O.Cist. and patristic spirituality, however, it is the Holy Spirit who forms Christ in us, the Holy Spirit who is our advocate, the Holy Spirit through whom we come to Christ, and the Holy Spirit who prays in us to the Father and the Son. The two sets of statements, however, do not necessarily exclude each other if they are more precisely articulated. All that directly refers to the divine action of calling into being what has not existed beforehand, such as the “new creation,” the forgiveness of sins, the formation of the features of Jesus Christ in us, the supernatural life of faith, hope, and charity—cannot come from any creature, but only from the Holy Spirit himself. He is the “dextrae Dei digitus,” the finger of God’s right hand, which carves out in us the image of the Son. He intercedes for us with “inexpressible groanings” (Rom 8:26).We have faith and hope because the Spirit dwells in us, and we love God and neighbor with the very love of the Holy Spirit. Mary’s role is situated on a different plane. She has been given a universal mission to be the Mother of all actual and potential believers. Her activity, however, consists in watching over us, talking to us, and praying for us.The Holy Spirit descended upon her at Pentecost precisely for this reason, to fulfill her mission as the Mother of the Church. It is the Holy Spirit who enables her to watch over us, to comfort us, and to guide us. Mary thus shapes and forms Christ in us only by the power of the Spirit, who always responds to her requests. Mary’s prayer is almighty because the Holy Spirit intercedes in her. God’s humility and condescension infinitely exceed our imagination: the Holy Spirit finds his delight “in doing great things” for Mary, equipping her superabundantly so that she can fulfill her vocation as universal Mother. 8. A Christocentric Marian Spirituality “From that hour the disciple received her into his own.” A real danger for Marian spirituality is to move Mary into the center of one’s piety. Even if on the conceptual level we do not inflate Mary into a demigoddess, we may so treat her in our prayer life and thus marginalize the Triune God. This would clearly contrast with what Mary does according to the Gospels and what the authentic Tradition of the Church holds. “Do whatever He tells you,” said Mary to the attendants at the wedding feast of Cana, and she repeats these same words to everyone who turns to her in need. Marian piety should be deep and intense but christocentric and theocentric, just like Mary’s piety. We can find the secret of such an attitude in the scene described in John 19:25–27: Jesus tells his Mother, “Woman, behold your son,” and to the Beloved Disci- Toward the Renewal of Mariology 797 ple, who represents under the Cross all believers, he says, “Behold your mother.” And the Evangelist adds: “And from that hour the disciple received Mary into his own.” As we said before, the phrase “eis ta idia” does not simply mean “into his home,” but includes “into his life” and “into his heart.” If we truly receive Mary into our life and heart, our holy communions will change because we will ask Mary to help us receive and identify with her Son. Mary gave birth to God’s Son in both flesh and spirit. We can do so only in the spirit—that is, we can shrink our ego in order to provide space for Jesus within us. Let him “increase” while we “decrease,” so that more and more he can speak, act, and feel through us. In this way Mary does not diminish the centrality of Christ but rather helps us to be united with him. Nor does the role of Mary eclipse the Holy Spirit: Mary’s motherly role, her helping Christ to be born in us, would be impossible without the fullness of the Holy Spirit in Mary. The image of giving birth to Jesus within us calls for some further explanation. It obviously means a spiritual birth, yet a birth which does not affect exclusively the soul. Through the grace of the Holy Spirit, Mary takes both our soul and flesh—our concrete, individual humanity—and molds it by the power of her prayer into the expression of Jesus’ presence in the world; but she can only do so to the extent that our free cooperation allows her. This way of Mary’s presence, however, will not eliminate our “I” or our personality, but—to varying degrees—our “I” and our personality will be transformed into expressions of Christ’s love and activity. As long as we are pilgrims on earth, this birth of Christ in us—which is the same, from another viewpoint, as our rebirth to a new life in God—is just a beginning and is certainly incomplete. The glory of Christ will shine through us without the admixture of sin and imperfection only in heaven, where Christ will be all in all in his creation. These considerations show us that the “Marian dimension” of the Church means not only that Mary is the perfect realization of the eschatological Church. She is not an abstract image, but that irreplaceable, concrete person, the Mother of Jesus, and of the Church who is active in bringing to birth Christ in every member of the Church on earth. Devotion to Mary and Human Maturity Not only ancient Chinese wisdom and Carl Jung’s depth psychology, but also common sense wisdom throughout the ages knows what qualities a mature woman or man possesses. The mature woman is not only intuitive, sensitive, affectionate, and empathetic—the usual female qualities we appreciate—but also strong, objective, courageous, and possessing a spine of steel. In like manner, the mature male is not simply the cool, detached, 798 Roch Kereszty, O.Cist. and valiant warrior, but also someone who is affectionate, compassionate, warm, and personable. In Jungian terms, full humanness for the woman requires that she actualize her subconscious male archetype; for the man, that he integrate his subconscious female archetype. This does not mean an androgynous personality in the sense that the qualities of both genders would exist in a neutralizing balance in both sexes. The male in this process becomes a mature man, the female a mature woman, each with his/her own fully developed psychological identity. My purpose is to show how a healthy Marian piety helps both sexes in the maturation to full humanity. The man who receives Mary into his life and heart will allow Jesus to be born in him and will help others to give birth to Jesus in their hearts. The awareness of such a motherly task as giving birth will actualize what Jung calls the “anima” in the man, the latent female archetype, and he will integrate it in a complementary way to his manhood. The woman who receives Mary into her life and heart will also give birth to Jesus and help others to do the same. But by growing to the extent of the full stature of Christ, she will also attain “to mature manhood” (Eph 4:13) in the sense of integrating her male archetype, Jung’s “animus,” into her female personality. This process of men and women actualizing their full humanity is part of that “hundredfold,” the earthly reward for following Christ. Conclusions One of the reasons often employed to justify the omission or reduction of Mariology in theology programs is the appeal to the famous statement about the “hierarchy of truths” from Vatican II. We should indeed keep in mind in ecumenical discussions that “in Catholic doctrine there exists a ‘hierarchy’ of truths, since they vary in their relation to the fundamental Christian faith.”33 Yet, in every building there are structural elements that seem insignificant but without which the building would lose its beauty, become uninhabitable, and even collapse. So it is with our Catholic Faith. As we have seen, many of its central truths, such as the Incarnation, Redemption, the reality of the Church and of the Eucharistic sacrifice, would change substantially or even collapse if we removed or distorted the mystery of Mary. To sum up briefly the most important points: without Mary, the Son of God could not have become a true human being; without Mary’s Immaculate Conception, God’s redemptive work for humankind would 33 “When comparing doctrines with one another, [theologians] should remember that in Catholic doctrine there exists a ‘hierarchy’ of truths, since they vary in their relation to the fundamental Christian faith” (Unitatis Redintegratio, no. 11). Toward the Renewal of Mariology 799 not have fully succeeded, because no one would have received with perfect freedom the fullness of the Son’s gift of redemption, no one in the Church would have fully appropriated the Son’s sacrifice, and no one would have become the fully beautiful spouse of the Word made flesh. As it is, the goal of salvation history is the creation of this beautiful Bride and Mother, fully realized in Mary, whose grace and beauty the Holy Spirit diffuses through all saved humankind. Mary is our Mother, and she will find no rest until all the elect, her children, share in her treasures, each according to his own capacity. The eschatological Woman then—that is, Mary and all the saints—reveals what is most divine in God: his infinite humility and gratuitous love. Through his love and humility God elevates creation from nothingness to the status of a worthy partner for himself as Bride and even accepts dependence on her as his own Mother; in Mary, he does so both according to the spirit and according to the flesh, and in the Church according to the spirit. The Woman remains a creature, but by God’s grace she is endowed with such beauty that God himself finds in her his joy and delight. N&V Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 11, No. 3 (2013): 801–18 801 Mary, Woman and Mother in God’s Saving New Testament Plan W ILLIAM S. K URZ , S.J. Marquette University Milwaukee, WI T HESE REFLECTIONS on Mary in the New Testament (henceforth NT) will differ dramatically in both presuppositions and approaches from the 1978 ecumenical book by that title, whose viewpoints for the most part remained within the predominant historical critical mindset of that time.1 Expressly theological considerations or applications regarding Mary’s role in the NT were generally kept distinct from “strict” historical exegetical conclusions. Unfortunately, the theological outcomes of that book regarding Mary’s religious role in God’s saving NT plan were meager. Virtually its only salient and secure consensus about Mary was that the NT clearly affirmed that Mary gave birth as a virgin to Jesus.This presentation will attempt to be much more explicitly and unreservedly theological and Catholic, even in its exegetical underpinnings.2 This essay proceeds from both theological and reader-response presuppositions. Its theological presupposition is that Mary’s special emphasis, especially in Catholic and Orthodox theology and spirituality (and even in the NT itself), is primarily due to her irreplaceable role in the Incarnation of God’s Son—his becoming man to save all humans—as Theotokos, Mother of God, as the Church would later define her role in 1 Mary in the New Testament: A Collaborative Assessment by Protestant and Roman Catholic Scholars, ed. Raymond E. Brown and Karl P. Donfried (Philadelphia / New York: Fortress Press /Paulist Press, 1978). Its ecumenical structure favored historical criticism as a common approach for bridging denominational differences regarding Mary. 2 See the appendix to this essay for some examples of contemporary approaches to Mary. 802 William S. Kurz, S. J. the first Council of Ephesus (A.D. 431). An auxiliary methodological presupposition from secular literary reader-response approaches is that actual readers interpret texts from their respective worldviews and perspectives. We readers are twenty-first-century Catholics. The historically retrospective insights and sensitivities about Mary that we bring to our reading of Scripture naturally guide our choice and interpretation of the NT texts concerning her.3 In addition, as a reader who is a Jesuit, I would like to introduce my reflections on Mary’s part in God’s saving plan with a contemplation on the Incarnation from The Spiritual Exercises of the Jesuit founder, St. Ignatius of Loyola. Here it will be how the Three Divine Persons look down upon the whole expanse or circuit of all the earth, filled with human beings. Since They see that all are going down to hell, They decree in Their eternity that the Second Person should become man to save the human race. So when the fullness of time had come, They send the Angel Gabriel to our Lady.4 This contemplation by Ignatius of Loyola exemplifies a type of reading, also found in St. Irenaeus, in which theological exegesis and interpretation contextualize particular biblical passages within the overall biblical narrative of God’s saving the fallen human race.5 Like Irenaeus, Ignatius meditated on the event of the Incarnation explicitly within the 3 Compare the role of experience in the Marian articles in Catholic for a Reason, II, ed. Leon J. Surprenant, Jr. (Steubenville, OH: Emmaus Road Pub., 2000), such as Curtis Martin, “Mary, Mary Quite Contrary”; Curtis J. Mitch, “The ‘Woman’ in Salvation History: Reflections of Mary in the Old Testament”; Curtis Martin, “Called to be Children of Mary: God’s Family Plan”; Jeffrey Cavins, “The Rosary: It Beats the Rhythm of Human Life.” Cf. Pope John Paul II’s reflections in A Marian Treasury, ed., intro., Marianne Lorraine Trouve (Boston: Pauline Books & Media, 2005). 4 The Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius: Based on Studies in the Language of the Autograph [translated by] Louis J. Puhl (Chicago: Loyola University Press, 1951), 49, §102. For a theological comparison of the Spiritual Exercises and the Fourth Gospel, see David M. Stanley, S.J., “I Encountered God! ” The Spiritual Exercises with the Gospel of St. John (St. Louis: The Institute of Jesuit Sources, 1986). A profound theological reflection on the biblical salvation account, also influenced by the Spiritual Exercises, is Paul M. Quay, S.J., The Mystery Hidden for Ages in God (New York: Peter Lang, 2002, 1997, 1995). 5 William S. Kurz, Reading the Bible as God’s Own Story: A Catholic Approach for Bringing Scripture to Life (Ijamsville, MD: Word Among Us Press, 2007), chaps. 2, “Developing a Theological Approach to Scripture,” and 3, “Reading Scripture Theologically with St. Irenaeus,” 45–87. Mary, Woman, and Mother 803 context of this saving scriptural narrative. God is contemplated as the eternal Trinity of persons coming to the “decision” that the Son should become man to save humans from their otherwise hopeless situation. At “the fullness of time” the Trinitarian persons sent the Angel Gabriel to Mary for her consent that the Holy Spirit make this Incarnation a reality. Although this is a sixteenth-century imaginative Catholic contemplation of the foundational reality of the Incarnation of the Second Person of the Trinity that took place when Mary assented to Gabriel’s message and request, it explains with amazing aptness (and without violence to the NT texts) the role of Mary according to the NT. The NT texts that are primarily applicable to, and help portray Mary and her central role in, our salvation are Luke 1–2 (with Acts 1:14), John 2 on Cana, John 19 on Mary at Jesus’ cross, and Revelation 12 on the Woman and Messiah. Using particularly these NT passages that have the most theological relevance for Mary’s foundational role, this essay will briefly explicate how Mary is identified as Woman and Mother in God’s saving New Testament plan for reconciling the alienated human race to its Creator God.6 My method is a theologically focused exegesis and interpretation of these relevant NT texts. My approach incorporates but goes beyond conventional historical exegesis, as recommended by Dei Verbum §12. The 1966 and 1996 translations of Dei Verbum §12, as well as the translation on the Vatican website (2008), differ enough to quote all three in order to bring out more of Dei Verbum’s nuances. According to Dei Verbum §12, besides using historical criticism, we are also to interpret biblical texts “with its divine authorship in mind” (1996), or “according to the same Spirit by whom it was written” (1966), or “in the sacred spirit in which it was written” (Vatican 2008). Dei Verbum §12, therefore, recommends attending to three realities: (1) “the content and unity of the whole of Scripture”; (2) “according to the tradition of the entire Church”; and (3) “the analogy of faith” (1996) or “along with the harmony that exists between elements of the faith” (1966,Vatican).7 6 Less theologically indispensable for Mary’s foundational NT identity and role as Mother of God are the NT treatment of Mary from Joseph’s perspective in Matthew 1–2 and comparatively incidental references to Mary in the Synoptic Gospel accounts and in Galatians 4:4. 7 Dei Verbum §12 in Vatican Council II: The Basic Sixteen Documents: Constitutions, Decrees, Declarations: A Completely Revised Translation in Inclusive Language, Austin Flannery, general editor (Northport, NY: Costello; Dublin, Ireland: Dominican Publications, 1996), 106.The original translation was from Dei Verbum §12, in The Documents of Vatican II, ed. Walter M. Abbott, S.J. (New York: Herder and Herder, Association Press, 1966), 120. Compare Catechism of the Catholic Church (1997 rev. ed.) §§109–14. The English Vatican translation was accessed June 2, 2008, at 804 William S. Kurz, S. J. The first presupposition of theological interpretation, “the content and unity of the whole of Scripture,” justifies for this study of Mary the use of passages from three NT books that are not in general historically interrelated: Luke 1–2, John 2 and 19, and Revelation 12.8 Unlike Matthew 1–2, which is written principally from the viewpoint of Joseph, Luke 1–2 narrates Jesus’ conception, birth, and destiny primarily from Mary’s perspective. The Cana wedding account in John 2 provides a Johannine version of the influence of the Mother of Jesus as “Woman” on the beginning of Jesus’ ministry leading toward his “hour.” John 19 recounts Jesus on the cross entrusting his Mother as “Woman” to be mother of his beloved disciple at the culmination of his “hour.” Revelation 12 mythically describes the cosmic sign of the prominent biblical symbol of the “Woman” giving birth to her messianic son, who is snatched to heaven from the waiting dragon’s jaws. Mary in Luke 1–2. This Lukan account emphasizes Mary’s “Yes” to God’s vocational invitation to be the mother of his Son who would save the human race. It features four perspectives about the identity and role of Mary in salvation history: (1) Mary reverses Eve’s “No” to God’s directive; (2) Mary is a faithful servant of the Lord; (3) Mary is Mother of God (Theotokos) and of the Davidic Messiah; (4) Mary is source and example of memories and reflections of the Church. 1. Mary Reverses Eve’s “No” to God’s Direction Mary the virgin’s “Yes” to God reverses the “No” of Eve the virgin (at least regarded as virgin in much patristic interpretation). Mary’s reversal of Eve’s disobedience makes possible the Incarnation of the Son of God as human son of Mary. In Johannine terms, Mary’s “Yes” provides the occasion for God’s Word to become flesh and dwell among us ( Jn 1:14).9 Mary’s humble obedience foreshadows the humble obedience of her Son www.vatican.va/archive/hist_councils/ii_vatican_council/documents/vat-ii_ const_19651118_dei-verbum_en.html). 8 José Granados similarly uses the witness of John’s Gospel to confirm the importance of the Lukan emphasis on Mary’s memory: José Granados, “Through Mary’s Memory to Jesus’ Mystery,” Communio: International Catholic Review 33 (Spring 2006): 11–42, at 26. Cf. also Scott Hahn, Hail, Holy Queen: The Mother of God in the Word of God (New York: Doubleday, 2001). 9 Another theological use of Scripture, David S. Yeago, “The Presence of Mary in the Mystery of the Church,” Nova et Vetera 2.1 (2004): 147–68, at 158, similarly explains the Lukan Annunciation with the help of the Gospel of John, in that case, its prologue. Mary, Woman, and Mother 805 and God’s, Jesus, which reverses Adam’s sin of grasping at being like God (as described in Phil 2:5–11).10 Mary’s question about how the angel’s message should come to pass provides the opportunity for the answer, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be called holy, the Son of God” (v. 35).Thus is explained the process of the Incarnation of God’s Son—how “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us” ( John 1:14, quotations normally RSV). The Incarnation happened when Mary consented to God’s plan, and was brought about by the power of the Holy Spirit producing the child Jesus, the Son of God, in Mary’s womb (Luke 1:38, 35).11 2. Mary Is Faithful Servant of the Lord The wording of Mary’s consent clarifies her biblical identity and role: “Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word” (v. 38). The Greek for handmaid is δούλη, servant/slave of the Lord. The term servant has rich Old Testament (OT) resonances, from Moses as Servant of the Lord, through David and the prophets as the Lord’s 10 Cf. Irenaeus, Against Heresies 5.19–20 in A. A. Just, Vol. 3: Luke, Ancient Chris- tian Commentary on Scripture NT 3 (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2005), 19–20: “As the human race was subjected to death through the act of a virgin, so was it . . . precisely balanced by the obedience of another. Then indeed the sin of the first formed man was amended by the chastisement of the First Begotten, the wisdom of the serpent was conquered by the simplicity of the dove, and the chains were broken by which we were in bondage to death.” 11 Compare the biblical image of the Spirit hovering over the waters in Gn 1:2 and bringing life, as remarked in The Navarre Bible: St. Luke’s Gospel, 2nd ed. (Dublin: Four Courts, 1991), 40, regarding Luke 1:37. See also Raymond E. Brown, The Birth of the Messiah: A Commentary on the Infancy Narratives in the Gospels of Matthew and Luke, 2nd ed., Anchor Bible Reference Library (New York: Doubleday, 1993), 314–15. A bold corrective treatment of Luke 1:35 ( Jesus’ conception and the divinity of Jesus it implies), despite decades of hesitancy by even Catholic exegetes to admit this divinity, is John J. Kilgallen, S.J., “The Conception of Jesus (Luke 1,35),” Biblica 78 (1997): 225–46. Kilgallen argues that the Annunciation scene in Luke explains how Jesus is divine Son of God to provide asphaleia and foundation for the rest of Luke-Acts (see esp. 240–43). Cf. Juan Luis Bastero, “El Espíritu Santo y María en Lumen Gentium y en el Magisterio de Pablo VI,” Scripta Theologica 38.2 (2006): 701–35, at 706–9, 722–24, including citations of Lumen Gentium 56; Paul VI, Marialis Cultus 26; and Sts. Ambrose, John Cassian, Bede, et al. Cf. also Jarislaw Jasianek, “La Presencia del Espíritu Santo en la Maternidad de María,” Scripta Theologica 38.2 (2006): 671–700, at 672–74, 683–85, esp. 684 on Mary as the holiest part of the Temple and sanctuary of the Spirit precisely because she is Mother of God. William S. Kurz, S. J. 806 servants, and culminating in the figure of the Servant of the Lord in Isaiah 40–55. Like Moses and David and the Servant in Isaiah, Mary acted as God’s servant, through whom he executed his plan to save his people. Further, through Mary’s servant obedience to God came the Servant of the Lord par excellence, Jesus the Suffering Servant (cf. Acts 8:32–33, citing Is 53:7–8), who was exalted to the Father’s right hand (Acts 2:33).12 Mary’s song in the presence of Elizabeth further emphasizes her role as God’s servant. Mary refers to “God my Savior,” and how God “regarded the low estate (ταπείνωσις) of his handmaiden” (or servant; Lk 1:48). Like the OT servants of the Lord, the lowly servant Mary shall also be exalted (vv. 48–49), all because of God’s mercy (v. 50). God humbles the proud and exalts the humble (vv. 51–53), according to his promises (vv. 54–55).13 Subsequent events in the Lukan infancy narrative further elucidate the meaning, identity, and mission of the Son of Mary and of God. The inspired prophet Simeon declares that Mary’s son is not only to bring salvation for Israel, but also to be “a light for revelation to the Gentiles.” This echo of the Servant Songs in Isaiah 42:6 and 49:6 implies that Jesus is the Isaian Servant of the Lord.14 But this servant vocation will cause opposition to Jesus and a sword for Mary. That is, both Jesus and Mary as servants of the Lord will have to suffer in their missions (vv. 34–35). 3. Mary Is Mother of God (Theotokos) and of the Davidic Messiah Mary’s foundational identity and role as Mother of God is confirmed by Elizabeth’s greeting to her as “mother of my Lord” (Lk 2:43). Following Elizabeth’s Spirit-filled reference to the blessed “fruit of your womb,” her identification of Mary as “mother of my Lord” is a clear Lukan precursor to Mary’s later, more explicit ecclesiological title of “Mother of God.” Elizabeth’s prophetic greeting also explains that it was through Mary’s faith that she came to be “mother of my Lord”: “And blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment (τελείωσις) of what was spoken to her from the Lord” (Lk 1:45). Vital both for Mary’s functioning as 12 Granados, “Mary’s Memory,” 35, refers to Mary’s “inclusion in Christ as the obedient Servant of God.” 13 Luke Timothy Johnson, The Gospel of Luke, Sacra Pagina 3 (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1991), 43, suggests that Luke 1:54–55 in Mary’s song makes Mary a representation or personification of the people Israel, who are blessed in the mercy God showed to her. A later section will suggest similar overlapping symbolism relevant to Israel and Mary in the Woman in Revelation 12. 14 Cf. Johnson, Luke, 55 about Luke 1:32, and 57; Brown, Birth of Messiah, 456–60; John Nolland, Luke 1–9:20, Word Biblical Commentary, 35A (Dallas: Word Books, 1989), 124. Mary, Woman, and Mother 807 servant of the Lord and for her becoming Mother of God is her faith in God’s word to her.15 The Lukan narrative of the loss and finding of the boy Jesus in the Temple is pregnant with theological meaning and implications regarding Mary as mother of the Son of God (Lk 2:41–52). The true identities of, and relationships between, Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and God the Father are all unambiguously suggested by Jesus’ answer to Mary and Joseph in Luke 2:49: “Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?” (ἐν τοῖς τοῦ πατρός μου, more literally, “in the business of my Father”).16 In either translation, the text sharply distinguishes Jesus’ true Father, God, from the designation of “father” for Joseph: “Behold, your father and I have been looking for you anxiously” (Lk 2:48). This interchange insists that Jesus is Son of God (“my Father”) whose authority supersedes that of his natural mother and his putative and adoptive father Joseph.The theological implications of this episode are clear today, though Luke repeats that Mary continued to reflect on the meaning of all this (Lk 2:51). Other important elements in God’s plan were Mary’s virginity and betrothal to “Joseph, of the house of David” (Lk 1:27). Her virginity provided the natural sign that her son was not by Joseph but from God, so that he could “be called the Son of the Most High” (v. 32).That Joseph belonged to the house of David was nevertheless the prerequisite needed for Mary’s son to be recognized as Davidic Messiah who would receive “the throne of his father David” (v. 32) and have an everlasting rule over Israel (v. 33). In Luke, this ascribed paternity remains important, even though Luke again denies Joseph’s actual physical paternity at the beginning of his description of Jesus’ genealogy through Joseph [Lk 3:23, “being the son (as was supposed) of Joseph, the son of Heli . . . ].”17 15 Mary’s obedient faith also makes her a model of believing members of the Church and prototype for the redeemed in the Church (Yeago, “Presence of Mary,” 160–61). 16 The Vulgate’s “in his, quae Patris mei sunt” probably influenced earlier Catholic translations like “my Father’s business,” Navarre Luke, 62–63 ad 2:49. Pace Nolland’s arguments preferring “in my Father’s house,” the Temple (Luke 1–9:20, 131–32). 17 See William S. Kurz, “Luke 3:23–38 and Greco-Roman and Biblical Genealogies,” in Luke-Acts: Perspectives from the Society of Biblical Literature Seminar, ed. Charles H. Talbert (New York: Crossroad, 1984): 169–87. Cf. Ephrem the Syrian: “From what the angel said to Mary, namely, ‘Elizabeth, your kinswoman,’ it could be supposed that Mary was from the house of Levi. Nevertheless up to this, the prophecy was established within the framework of the husbands. The family of David continued as far as Joseph, who had espoused her, and the birth of her child was reckoned through the framework of the men, for the sake of the family of David. It is in Christ that the seed and family of David are brought to completion” (Commentary on Tatian’s Diatessaron 1.25 in Just, Vol. 3: Luke. ACCS NT 3, 16–17). 808 William S. Kurz, S. J. The angels proclaim to the shepherds “in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord” (Lk 2:11). His roles include saving the whole human race as well as being the awaited Davidic Messiah of Israel. Of special note, “Christ the Lord” identifies Mary’s messianic son as “the Lord,” the principal Old Testament term for God. As newly born man who is also God, Mary’s son is a Savior who can reconcile the human race to God. 4. Mary Is Source and Example of the Church’s Memories and Reflections Whether or not these theological interpretations would have been evident to original readers, they are legitimate theological ramifications of the meaning implicit in the biblical portrayal of Jesus and the names given to him.The Lukan commentary at the end of the shepherd episode implies sustained theological reflection by Mary on the meaning and identity of her new son: “But Mary kept all these things, pondering them in her heart” (Lk 2:19). Luke’s repeated mention of Mary’s meditation on her memories of Jesus regarding his identity and mission (also at 2:51) seems a Lukan pointer to the importance of such reflection for understanding Jesus.18 Later in Acts, Luke will go out of his way to mention Mary’s presence in the community in Jerusalem praying before Pentecost (Acts 1:14).19 Scholars have not found it easy to explain the reasons for this seemingly intrusive mention. My suggestion is that Luke seems to have created a deliberate intratextual link between his statements in Luke 2:19 and 51, about Mary recalling and reflecting on the meaning of Jesus’ origins, and Mary’s presence in the Jerusalem community awaiting Pentecost.20 Repeated mention of and emphasis on Mary’s attempts to understand the marvelous origins of her son Jesus can suggest that Mary’s memories and reflections were the ultimate source of the Lukan narratives about Jesus’ origins. Luke would not claim to have known Mary during Jesus’ earthly life. However, her early presence in the Jerusalem community, 18 Cf. “Mary: Every Believer’s Model for Receiving the Word,” Part I, Chap. 3, in Working Paper of Word of God Synod, ZE08061203—2008-06-12 (accessed June 12, 2008, permalink: www.zenit.org/article-22878?l=english); cf. Granados, “Mary’s Memory.” 19 Cf. Yeago, “Presence of Mary,” 161–62. 20 Cf. Granados, “Mary’s Memory,” 23–26 on the role of Mary’s memory in LukeActs and especially in Acts 1:14 (25 and 31–32), though his emphases and explanations differ from mine. Bastero, “Espíritu Santo y Maria,” 712–14, 727–28, compares the coming of the Spirit on Mary at the Annunciation and on the Church at Pentecost. Mary, Woman, and Mother 809 which Luke most likely did visit and some of whose members he probably did know, suggests a link that could have made Mary’s memories available to Luke. It could be a chain of witnesses from Mary through members of the Jerusalem church (among whom she temporarily stayed) to Luke later visiting Jerusalem to seek information about Jesus. Since Luke presents his narratives as truthful history (in the manner of God’s Old Testament history) rather than as fiction (Lk 1:1–4), this link between Luke 2:19 and 51 and Acts 1:14 might be a way to suggest inconspicuously a possible source in the Jerusalem community for Luke’s information about the conception and birth of Jesus and Jesus’ relationship to Mary and to God his Father.21 Conclusion The Lukan narrative presents Jesus as Son of God, both truly God and truly man. A theological conclusion about Mary that can (and later will) be drawn from all this is that Mary as Jesus’ mother is indeed the mother of God’s Son. Since the New Testament witness as a whole makes it clear that Jesus as God’s Son is himself God, Mary can, therefore, logically and truly be called the Mother of God, as the Church will later confess. Fourth Gospel and Revelation Space permits only briefer consideration of John 2 and John 19 and Revelation 12. John 2, Cana The Cana account in John 2 provides a Johannine perspective on Mary’s role as woman and mother in the inauguration of Jesus’ ministry, which propelled him forward to his “hour,” when God would act decisively to reconcile the hopelessly alienated human race to himself through Jesus’ death and resurrection. In the heavily biblical setting of a wedding feast with many eschatological overtones, dated to “the third day” ( John 2:1, foreshadowing the victory of his “hour”),22 “the mother of Jesus” calls his 21 Cf. Granados, “Mary’s Memory,” and the more homiletic reflection, Joe G. Burnet, “The Marvelous Memory of God: Pastoral and Personal Reflections on Preaching Luke,” Sewanee Theological Review 44.2 (2001): 141–55. 22 Francis J. Moloney, S.D.B., Belief in the Word. Reading the Fourth Gospel: John 1–4 (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993), 91, relates the manifestation of Jesus’ doxa “on the third day” to the gift of doxa at Sinai “on the third day” (Exod 19:16, 19). Cf. Francis J. Moloney, S.D.B., The Gospel of John, Sacra Pagina Series,Vol. 4 (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press [Michael Glazier Books], 1998), 73 regarding John 2:11, and works cited. This implicit comparison of doxa from Jesus with that of the OT recalls the claim of greater grace from Jesus than from Moses in John 1:16–17. 810 William S. Kurz, S. J. attention to an embarrassing shortage of wine. Jesus’ seemingly harsh but explicitly eschatological response emphasizes that his “hour” has not yet come:23 “What is this to me and to you, woman? My hour has not yet come” (my literal translation of of Τί ἐμοὶ καὶ σοί, γύναι; οὔπω ἥκει ἡ ὥρα μου, v. 4).24 Without responding to Jesus’ statement, Jesus’ mother simply instructs the servants, “Do whatever he tells you” (v. 5). Jesus immediately commands the servants to fill six large water jars with water, then to “draw some out, and take it to the steward of the feast” (v. 8). Their faith in and obedience to Jesus leads to the water becoming wine, superior even to that originally served. The narrator’s summary emphasized that this was “the first of his signs.” Thus, Jesus “manifested (φανερόω) his glory; and his disciples believed in him” (v. 11). The context of this account is transposed beyond a historical wedding to the beginning of the eschatological fulfillment of the purpose for which the Word, the Son, “became flesh and dwelt among us” ( Jn 1:14)—namely, so that we could see his glory ( Jn 1:14). Although Jesus initially replied that his hour had not yet come (v. 4), his response to his mother’s observation and her subsequent arrangements with the servers 23 On Jesus’ “hour” and its christological revelation here, cf. M. Gourgues, O.P., “Marie, la ‘femme’ et la ‘mère’ en Jean,” Nouvelle Revue Théologique 108 (1986): 174–91, at 175–76. Gourgues correlates the statement that this first sign of Jesus manifested his glory and led to belief (2:11) with “It is finished” on the cross (19:30) as the beginning and fulfillment of Jesus’ hour. 24 Cf. a balanced recent study (with helpful bibliography) of this difficult saying: Edward W. Klink III, “What Concern Is That to You and to Me? John 2:1–11 and the Elisha Narratives,” Neotestamentica 39.2 (2005): 273–87. Arthur H. Maynard, “ΤΙ ΕΜΟΙ ΚΑΙ ΣΟΙ,” New Testament Studies 31 (1985): 582–86, argues that in the Greek OT and NT, this and related idioms create distinction or distance. In the Synoptics the idioms often are spoken by superhuman demons recognizing Jesus’ divine nature. Maynard claims, with perhaps some exaggeration, that in the Fourth Gospel Jesus is similarly distinguishing himself from the merely human level of his mother. Moloney, Belief in the Word, 81, n. 19, cites Giblin’s helpful observation of a repeated narrative pattern in John’s Gospel of suggestion, negative response, but positive action ( John 2:1–11; 4:46–54; 7:2–14; 11:1–44): C. H. Giblin, “Suggestion, Negative Response, and Positive Action in St. John’s Gospel,” New Testament Studies 26 (1979–80): 197–211. Tertullian had taken a more negative view: “At this time, He seems to have admonished His mother, that He could not recognize her authority any longer (St. John 2:4), having now entered upon His work as the Son of God.” Tertullian, The Five Books against Marcion, trans. P. Holmes, in The Ante-Nicene Fathers (Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Company, 1885), 427. Cf. Augustine, Tractate on John 8.9; Irenaeus, Against Heresies 3.16.7. Mary, Woman, and Mother 811 (vv. 3, 5) did in fact inaugurate the signs of his ministry, which began the process of leading the disciples to faith.25 Both here and at the cross in John 19, Jesus addresses his mother as “Woman,” which brings to mind the first woman, Eve. As the woman Eve influenced Adam, who then sinned and fell from God’s friendship, so in John 2, the woman influenced the second Adam, Jesus, who then inaugurated his sign-filled ministry of salvation.26 After the mother of Jesus mentioned the lack of wine to Jesus, she alerted the waiters at the wedding to “do whatever he tells you.” This recalls Pharaoh’s instructions to his people regarding Joseph in Exodus 41:55, “When all the land of Egypt was famished, the people cried to Pharaoh for bread; and Pharaoh said to all the Egyptians, ‘Go to Joseph; what he says to you, do.’ ” John 19:25–27 When this action of the mother of Jesus is integrated with the new relationship between beloved disciple and mother of Jesus at the foot of the cross, the Cana portrayal of the mother of Jesus instructing people to “do whatever he tells you” suggests a further theological application. Mary’s instruction to the servants at Cana to obey Jesus can be related to mother Church likewise instructing her children to obey Jesus, to “do whatever he tells you.” In John 19:25–27, the Johannine pattern of never naming Mary persists as the narrator continues to refer to her as the mother of Jesus, and as Jesus continues to address her as “Woman.” Although readers would be expected to know Mary’s name, restricting reference to her solely by the title “mother of Jesus” facilitates a second, symbolic meaning for the mother of Jesus as representing Mother Church.27 Likewise, the beloved disciple continues not to be named, which facilitates a second symbolic meaning for him too, as representing all Christian disciples.28 25 Cf. Bernard J. Le Frois, S.V.D., “The Spiritual Motherhood of Mary in John 3,3–5,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 14.2 (1952): 116–23, at 116. 26 See Le Frois, “Spiritual Motherhood,” 116. 27 A. Feuillet, “Les adieux du Christ à sa mère ( Jn 19,25–27) et la maternité spir- ituelle de Marie,” Nouvelle Revue Théologique 86 (1964): 469–89, provides theological insight into Mary as New Eve, “mother of the living,” including (by adoption) the beloved disciple representing the “first born” of many other children who believe in Jesus (esp. 474–77). He enriches the symbol of Mary’s motherhood at the cross through the metaphor of the painful motherhood of Zion from Isaiah 26:17–18 and 66:7–8 and Jesus’ comparison of his passion to painful birth ( John 16:21), which identify Jesus’ hour with the hour of the woman, Zion and Mary, for giving birth to a new people of God represented in Jesus’ disciples (esp. 477–80). 28 Cf. Joy A. Schroeder, “Revelation 12: Female Figures and Figures of Evil,” Word & World 15.2 (1995): 175–81, at 179. 812 William S. Kurz, S. J. Although Protestant interpreters tend to eschew such symbolic interpretations suggested by patristic and medieval authors up to contemporary Catholics like Raymond Brown,29 such a Catholic reading seems not to violate the sense of the wording of the text, and can be proposed without apology as a Catholic theological interpretation. Thus, as at Cana, Jesus’ addressing his mother as “Woman” evokes the Woman Eve, the “mother of all the living” (Gn 3:20). As Eve rejoiced, “I have gotten a man with the help of the LORD” (Gn 4:1), the “woman” here is given a new adopted son by the Lord as his solemn disposition while dying on the cross ( Jn 19:26).30 In return, the “disciple whom he loved” is given “your mother” (vv. 26–27).31 Besides the surface meaning of the dying Jesus entrusting his mother to the care of his beloved disciple, additional symbolic meanings seem part of even the original intent of the passage. Every disciple of Jesus would like to consider herself or himself as “the disciple whom he loved” (v. 26), so that the beloved disciple can readily stand in for all disciples of Jesus or members of the Church. Correspondingly, “mother” of beloved disciples of Jesus can naturally symbolize not only Mary as mother of Christians but also the Church who, like the mother of Jesus 29 E.g., George R. Beasley-Murray, John, Word Biblical Commentary, vol. 36 (Dallas: Word Book Publishers, 2002, 1999, 1987), regarding John 19:26–27, p. 349. Moloney, Gospel of John, 504, counters such concerns by arguing that, despite exaggerated claims, it is clear that Jesus at the cross was establishing a new family, with his mother playing the maternal role in this new family. 30 Cf. Raymond Brown’s observations about adoption formulas, generally in “you are” form, e.g., “You are my beloved son, today I have begotten you” (Psalm 2:7), and slightly different normal ways of entrusting one’s mother to another’s care upon one’s own death, in Raymond E. Brown, The Gospel of John (xiii–xxi), Anchor Bible 29A (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1970), 906–7 about John 19:26–27. Mary Coloe, “Raising the Johannine Temple ( John 19:19–37),” Australian Biblical Review 48 (2000): 47–58, at 54–58, esp. 55, theologically interprets John 19:25–26 in context as a formula of adoption for the beloved disciple (and all Christians for whom he stands) to be adopted sons (and daughters) of Mary and of the Father, and siblings of Jesus (20:17), in fulfillment of John 1:12 of becoming children of God born not of blood, flesh, or man but of God. She places this in the context of the Nazarene (from netzer, Davidic shoot) “temple builder” ( John 19:19, fulfilling his prophecy at 2:19). This new temple includes the mother and beloved disciple as recipients of the Spirit at the cross (19:30). For a more poetic reader-response treatment of this as a “birthing scene” in which one son is born while the other Son dies, see Ingrid Rosa Kitzberger, “Stabat Mater? Rebirth at the Foot of the Cross,” Biblical Interpretation: A Journal of Contemporary Approaches 11, 3–4 (2003): 468–87, at 478. Cf. Schroeder, “Revelation 12,” 179; and Feuillet, “Jn 19,25–27,” 483. 31 Cf. Le Frois, “Spiritual Motherhood.” Mary, Woman, and Mother 813 at Cana, instructs disciples to “do whatever he tells you” ( Jn 2:5). According to the principle of the “unity of Scripture,” further confirmation of this identification might be the Woman in Revelation 12:17, on “the rest of ” whose offspring the Satanic dragon made war, that is, “on those who keep the commandments of God and bear testimony to Jesus.”32 Revelation 11:19–12:17 The vision of the Woman in Revelation 12 follows immediately from Revelation 11:19, the vision of God’s temple in heaven and of the ark of the covenant within that heavenly temple.33 The ark of the covenant had become a symbol of God’s presence. Immediately following mention of the ark of the covenant in the temple in heaven (and linked by “and,” καὶ) is reference to the appearance of the portent of the Woman in heaven. The context implies a relationship between the ark of the covenant in heaven and the sign of the Woman in heaven. The ark is the site of God’s special presence. Insofar as the symbolism of the ark can be extended to the Woman, she too might be considered a special dwelling for God’s presence. Catholic tradition has long referred to Mary, or more particularly, her womb, as ark of the covenant, where God dwelt.34 The heavenly Woman is portrayed with cosmic symbolism that gives her mythical attributes: clothed with the sun, standing on the moon, and wearing a crown of twelve stars.35 According to the curse on the first 32 Cf. Schroeder, “Revelation 12,” 179. 33 David E. Aune, Revelation 6–16, Word Biblical Commentary, 52b (Nashville, TN: Nelson, 1998), 677 about Rev 12:19b, calls the ark in heaven the true ark and supposedly the archetype for the construction of the earthly ark. 34 On Mary’s womb as Ark of the Covenant, Navarre Luke, 41 ad Luke 1:38, refers to Paul VI, Marialis cultus, 6. “With regard to Mary, these liturgies celebrate it at the feast of the new Eve, the obedient and faithful virgin, who with her generous ‘fiat’ (cf. Lk 1:38) became through the working of the Spirit the Mother of God, but also the true Mother of the living, and by receiving into her womb the one Mediator (cf. 1 Tm 2:5), became the true Ark of the Covenant and the true Temple of God” (Marialis Cultus §6 is cited from Mary in the Church: A Selection of Teaching Documents [Washington, DC: United States Conference of Catholic Bishops, 2003], 53–91, at 57–58). Cf. Bastero, “Espíritu Santo y María,” 705, 707, esp. 709 and 711–12, and his citations from Paul VI, 720, 723–26. Note esp. his citation of St. Ambrose: “María es templo de Dios y no es el Dios del templo” (“Mary is temple of God and is not God of the temple,” De Spiritu Sancto, III, c. 2, n. 80, PL 16, 829, my translation). 35 For her mythical cosmic attributes and background, see esp. Stefan Schreiber, “Die Sternenfrau und ihre Kinder (Offb 12): Zur Wiederentdeckung eines Mythos,” New Testament Studies 53 (2007): 436–57; and Roland Bergmeier, “Altes und Neues zur ‘Sonnenfrau am Himmel (Apk 12)’: Religionsgeschichtliche und quellenkritische Beobachtungen zu Apk 12:1–17,” Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche 814 William S. Kurz, S. J. woman (Gn 3:16), in this cosmic Woman’s pregnancy with the Messiah and approaching delivery, “she cried out in her pangs of birth” (Rv 12:2).36 The opposing Satanic dragon waited to eat the Messiah at its birth, but immediately the Messiah was “caught up to God and to his throne” (Rv 12:4–5).37 Despite reference to the Woman giving birth to the Messiah, this scene of delivery from the dragon’s jaws refers more obviously to the painful death, followed by resurrection and ascension, of the Messiah to God’s throne than to his birth that began his earthly life.38 Therefore, most consider the initial and primary referent for this cosmic woman to be somehow God’s (OT) people from whom the Messiah was born.39 Grelot allows the reasonableness of this referent, but the Woman’s appearance first in heaven gives her broader signification. The Woman clothed with the sun represents the new humanity, as the woman in Genesis Wissenschaft und die Kunde der Älteren Kirche, 73.1/2 (1982): 97–109. For a readable overview of mythical elements, see Adela Yarbro Collins, “Feminine Symbolism in the Book of Revelation,” Biblical Interpretation 1.1 (1993): 20–33, esp. 20–27. Acknowledging mythical elements but arguing for a stronger OT influence on this Woman are Bertrand Buby, S.M., “The Fascinating Woman of Revelation 12,” Marian Studies 50 (1999): 107–26, at 110; and Aune, Revelation 6–16, 670–76. 36 Cf. Schroeder, “Revelation 12,” 177. 37 Charles Hauret, “Ève transfigurée: De la Genèse à l’Apocalypse,” Revue D’histoire et de Philosophie Religieuses 59 (1979): 327–39, treats Gn 3:15, Rv 12, and John 19:25–27 as a triptych of human salvation history from the promise to Eve in Gn 3:15 to the victory of the Woman’s Son over Satan in Rv 12 to her motherhood of the other sons who believed in Jesus in John 19:25–27. 38 Cf. Schroeder, “Revelation 12,” 179; Sarah Butler, “The Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary: A Theological Note,” Chicago Studies 43.3 (2004): 297–303; P. Grelot, “Marie Mère de Jésus dans les Écritures,” Nouvelle Revue Théologique 121 (1999): 59–71, at 66. For the pains of birth, compare the reference in the Greek of Isaiah 66:7–9 to Zion being in travail, fleeing and bearing a male child (67, citing Prigent). Grelot acknowledges Catholic reluctance to refer to Mary as having birth pangs, but argues that if Jesus suffered Adam’s curse of death (and in a horrible way), why should Mary not suffer Eve’s curse of birth pangs? 39 Joy Schroeder, “Revelation 12,” 179, expresses it aptly: “In other words, the woman is the messianic community; she is the church in continuity with Israel.” Cf. Adela Yarbro Collins, “Feminine Symbolism in the Book of Revelation,” 20–33; Schreiber, “Sternenfrau.” Buby, “Fascinating Woman,” 111–17, provides a judicious listing of 28 interpretations of the Woman, plus a very useful bibliography (125–26, citing the applicable pages from each entry). For interpretations of the Woman in the fathers and tradition, including a comparison to the image of our Lady of Guadalupe (137), see Judith Kovacs and Christopher Rowland, with Rebekah Callow, Revelation: The Apocalypse of Jesus Christ, Blackwell Bible Commentaries (Malden, MA: Blackwell Pub., 2004), 136–38. Mary, Woman, and Mother 815 2:22–24 represented the woman of the origins, “the mother of all the living” (Gn 3:20). Thus, this mother of the new humanity is the “new Eve.”40 The new humanity more completely will begin from the birth of the Messiah who would be born from her. Later reference to the Woman’s “other children” who confess Jesus includes the Church within the Woman symbol. However, before the birth of Jesus, the new humanity exists only in the person of the mother of Jesus.41 In the cosmic and Eve imagery, others also find reference additionally to Mary, Jesus’ actual mother.42 The woman’s flight into the wilderness also has resonances with God’s OT people, for example, when God says he will woo his faithless spouse in the wilderness to bring her back to her first love (Hos 2:14–16). In bi-level symbolism, the earthly scene of the dragon’s frustration at the Messiah’s escape to God’s throne is paralleled with a heavenly scene of warfare between Michael and the dragon and their angelic armies. Because of the “blood of the Lamb” and the martyrs’ testimony, Satan the accuser of God’s people is cast out of heaven to earth, where in his wrath he persecutes the Woman, who is rescued from him (Rv 12:7–16). He then “went off to make war on the rest of her offspring, on those who keep the commandments of God and bear testimony to Jesus” (Rv 12:17). These latter references to the Woman, especially to her children “who bear testimony to Jesus,” now clearly symbolize the Church. During the development of the vision, the same sign of the Woman has metamorphosed from God’s OT people to God’s NT Church.43 Concluding Theological Reflections Taking seriously the unity of Scripture, Catholic tradition, and the analogy of faith, a theological interpretation of the role of Mary, Woman and 40 J. Edgar Bruns, “The Contrasted Women of Apocalypse 12 and 17,” Catholic Bibli- cal Quarterly 26.4 (1964): 459–63, at 460, suggests that the inspiration for the heavenly woman came from Gn 3:15–16 (Eve, primarily an individual, secondarily a collective womankind), Micah 3–4 (daughter of Zion, primarily collective for Israel, secondarily the individual mother, giving birth to ruler). He notes that Revelation 12 primarily identifies the collective, secondarily Mary, whereas John 19:26–27 concerns primarily Mary, secondarily a collective (probably the Church). 41 Grelot, “Marie Mère de Jésus,” 61–62. 42 Cf. Vladimir Berzonsky, “ ‘Do Whatever He Tells You’: The Mother of God and Christian Faith,” Eastern Churches Journal 6.2 (1999): 23–36; Jean-Marie Hennaux, “Marie Mère de Jésus dans les Écritures,” Nouvelle Revue Théologique 121.1 (1999): 59–71. 43 See William S. Kurz, What Does the Bible Say about the End Times? A Catholic View (Cincinnati, OH: St. Anthony Messenger Press, 2004), 159–60. 816 William S. Kurz, S. J. Mother in God’s saving New Testament plan, can correlate these differing but complementary insights about Mary. We can relate the implicit Johannine symbolism of the woman and mother of Jesus as the Church, mother of Jesus’ beloved disciples, to this image in Revelation 12 of the Woman with children who confess Jesus. The Lukan portrayals of Mary as believing servant of the Lord, whose Yes permits the Spirit’s action, can be theologically related to the Johannine prologue’s revelation of the Incarnation of the Word and Son of God as man “who dwelt among us.” Mary’s role in the Incarnation is fundamental for the part she played in the saving plan of God by which the Son would become man to reconcile man to God. From her role as Mother of God flow her other roles as mother of the beloved disciples and representation of the Church, mother of Christians. She is also mother of the Davidic Messiah and Servant of the Lord who came as Savior not only for God’s chosen people Israel but for all nations. Not only was Mary’s Yes essential for the Son of God to become man in the Incarnation, but the Johannine Cana account also portrays Mary as occasioning the inauguration of Jesus’ signs and ministry leading to the fulfillment of his “hour” through his death and resurrection. Revelation facilitates a theological portrayal of Mary in which, as Woman and Mother of the Messiah, she has many symbolic correspondences with the OT people as mother of the Messiah and the NT Church as mother of those who professed faith in Jesus, or more inclusively, with “the messianic community; she is the church in continuity with Israel.”44 A careful interpretive correlation of these complementary biblical depictions of Mary produces a much richer theological portrayal of Mary and her cardinal role in God’s saving of the human race than the meager consensus statement about the virgin birth produced by the strictly historical critical 1978 Mary in the New Testament. Of course, one reason for this more comprehensive depiction of Mary’s role in saving history is that it contextualizes particular biblical texts within the 44 Joy Schroeder, “Revelation 12,” 179. Many observations about Mary similar to those in the present article are made by Pope Paul VI, “Carta al cardenal Suenens con ocasión del XIV Congreso Mariano Internacional,” AAS 67 (1975): 358, who is quoted in Bastero, “Spíritu Santo y María,” 730–31. Compare also Bastero’s own conclusion, 732–35. See also the writings of Pope John Paul II and von Balthasar: Hans Urs von Balthasar, Mary, God’s Yes to Man: Pope John Paul II Encyclical Letter, Mother of the Redeemer (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1988); Pope John Paul II, Theotókos:Woman, Mother, Disciple: A Catechesis on Mary, Mother of God (Boston: Pauline Books & Media, 2000). For a remarkable fourth-century mariological complement to this study of Mary in the NT, see Lucas F. Mateo-Seco, “La Mariologia en San Gregorio de Nisa,” Scripta Theologica 10.2 (1978): 409–66. Mary, Woman, and Mother 817 unity of all Scripture as interpreted in Catholic tradition with the harmony between elements of the faith. It would be interesting to see how much of this richer Catholic biblical interpretation of Mary’s role would be ecumenically persuasive to other Christian interpreters today. Appendix Contemporary writings vary enormously in their approaches to Mary. This specifically Catholic article cannot address this multiplicity. See the following examples. The Many Faces of Mary, ed. Diego Irarrazabal, Susan Ross, and Marie-Theres Wacker (London : SCM Press, 2008); George H. Tavard, The Thousand Faces of the Virgin Mary (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1996). Muslim: Joseph Samaha, “The Virgin Mary, A Bridge with Islam?” Eastern Churches Journal 10 (2003): 67–70; Aliah Schleifer, Mary, the Blessed Virgin of Islam (Louisville, KY: Fons Vitae, 1998). Orthodox: Verna Harrison, “The Entry of the Mother of God into the Temple,” St. Vladimir’s Theological Quarterly 50 (2006): 149–60; Manfred Hauke, “The Immaculate Conception of Mary in the Greek Fathers and in an Ecumenical Context,” Chicago Studies 45 (2006): 327–46 (author Catholic but ecumenical focus); Paul Ladouceur, “Old Testament Prefigurations of the Mother of God,” St.Vladimir’s Theological Quarterly 50 (2006): 5–57; Vladimir Berzonsky, “ ‘Do Whatever He Tells You’: The Mother of God and Christian Faith,” Eastern Churches Journal 6.2 (1999): 23–36; John Breck, Scripture in Tradition: The Bible and its Interpretation in the Orthodox Church (Crestwood, NY: St.Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2001), ch. 8, “Mary in the New Testament,” 143–58; Appendix: “Mary: Mother of Believers, Mother of God,” 229–38, a critical review article of Edward Schillebeeckx and Catharina Halkes, Mary: Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow (New York: Crossroad, 1993), as in effect denying the incarnation and Theotokos. Evangelical Protestant: “Do Whatever He Tells You:The Blessed Virgin Mary in Christian Faith and Life: A Statement of Evangelicals and Catholics Together,” First Things, no. 197 (Nov., 2009): 49–59; David Parker, “Evangelicals and Mary: Recent Theological Evaluations,” Evangelical Review of Theology 30 (2006): 121–40; Tim S. Perry, Mary for Evangelicals: Toward an Understanding of the Mother of our Lord (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2006); Beverly Roberts Gaventa and Cynthia L. Rigby, Blessed One: Protestant Perspectives on Mary (Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox, 2002); Carl E. Braaten and Robert W. Jenson, Mary, Mother of God (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2004); Dwight Longenecker 818 William S. Kurz, S. J. and David Gustafson, Mary: A Catholic-Evangelical Debate (Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos, 2003). Feminist: Karl J. McDaniel, “Transgression, Tradition, and Transformation: Six Women of the Matthean Genealogy,” ARC: The Journal of the Faculty of Religious Studies, McGill University 33 (2005): 248–56; J. Lyle Story, “The Discipleship of Women—From Jesus’ Birth to the Empty Tomb,” Priscilla Papers 21 (2007): 14–20; Frank Reilly, “Jane Schaber, Raymond E. Brown, and the Problem of the Illegitimacy of Jesus,” Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion 21 (2005): 57–80; Elizabeth A. Johnson, Truly Our Sister: A Theology of Mary in the Communion of Saints (New York: Continuum, 2003); Jon M. Sweeney, Strange Heaven: The Virgin Mary as Woman, Mother, Disciple, and Advocate (Brewster, MA: Paraclete, 2006); Deirdre Joy Good, Mariam, the Magdalen, and the Mother (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2005). Pacifist: Brittany Wilson, “Pugnacious Precursors and the Bearer of Peace: Jael, Judith, and Mary in Luke 1:42,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 68 (2006): 436–56. Reductionist: Gerd Lüdemann, Virgin Birth?:The Real Story of Mary and Her Son Jesus (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1998). Liberationist: Scot McKnight, “The Mary We Never Knew,” Christianity Today 50 (2006): 26–30. Mary in Culture: Jaroslav Pelikan, Mary through the Centuries: Her Place in the History of Culture (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1996). I am grateful for the bibliographical help of my research assistant, Catherine Marcy, and for editorial feedback from her and from my colleague Dr. Patrick Doyle. N&V Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 11, No. 3 (2013): 819–48 819 The Beatitudes and Moral Theology: A Virtue Ethics Approach W ILLIAM C. M ATTISON III The Catholic University of America Washington, DC Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the land. Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied. Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the clean of heart, for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when they insult you and persecute you and utter every kind of evil against you (falsely) because of me. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward will be great in heaven. Thus they persecuted the prophets who were before you.1 T HERE IS a surprising lack of attention to the importance of the beatitudes in contemporary Christian ethics and moral theology. There are notable exceptions.2 Yet the lacuna is real, and it is especially surprising The author would like to thank several friends and colleagues who generously provided critical comments on this essay: Frank Matera, David Cloutier, John Grabowski, and Joseph Capizzi. 1 Matthew 5:3–12, New American Bible translation, revised edition (used throughout this essay). 2 For two contemporary ethicists who do indeed give extended attention to the importance of the beatitudes, see Servais Pinckaers, O.P., The Sources of Christian Ethics (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1995), as well as his essays “Aquinas’s Pursuit of Beatitude: From the Commentary on the Sentences 820 William C. Mattison, III given the recent resurgence in attention to virtue, a teleological notion that requires attention both to the nature of the happiness sought and to the qualities of the person (i.e., virtues) required to obtain it. The beatitudes address exactly these concerns. Although this essay represents an attempt to contribute to an expanded place for the beatitudes in moral theology today, its more immediate goals are far more limited. They are threefold. First, I will argue that the beatitudes are appropriately understood in the context of classical ethical treatments of happiness. In short, the beatitudes are about happiness. This basic claim prompts the second section and main thesis of this essay. Granting the beatitudes are about happiness, what do they tell us about the relationship between the various characteristics of the people they describe and the reward received? The second section of this essay argues in support of this essay’s central thesis, namely, that there is an “intrinsic” relationship between the qualities of those called “blessed” and the happiness obtained. It first defines what is meant by intrinsic relationship, and then supports this claim through an examination of each of the beatitudes. Finally, though the second section of this essay represents its main contribution, a third and final section briefly addresses the ramifications of the essay’s main thesis on two questions. First, “when” does the life depicted in the beatitudes occur? Second, what is the rationale behind this “set” of beatitudes? At the outset it is appropriate to address the question of the stakes and significance of this essay. What is the point of looking at the beatitudes through the lens of happiness and virtue, beyond doing an interesting academic exercise? Two questions help further specify this broader question. First, against whom is this essay arguing? There is no prominent authoritative account of the moral importance of the beatitudes that serves as the foil of this essay. I am concerned to counteract a feasible “everyday” reading of the beatitudes that sees them as promises of a simple reversal, as if they claimed that God simply reverses the lot in life of those who find themselves in desperate conditions.3 God does promto the Summa Theologiae” and “Beatitude and the Beatitudes in Aquinas’s Summa Theologiae,” in The Pinckaers Reader, ed. John Berkman and Craig Steven Titus (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2005), 93–114 and 115–29, respectively. See also his more popular The Pursuit of Happiness: God’s Way—Living the Beatitudes, trans. Sr. Mary Thomas Noble, O.P. (New York: Alba House, 1998). See also Glen Stassen and David Gushee, Kingdom Ethics: Following Jesus in Contemporary Context (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2003). 3 There is evidence of this view in the scholarly literature on the beatitudes as well. See for instance Ulrich Luz, Matthew 1–7: A Commentary (Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg Fortress, 1989): “For Jesus the unconditional, categorical bestowal of The Beatitudes and Moral Theology 821 ise deliverance, indeed happiness, but in the words of Glen Stassen (referencing Bonhoeffer) the promised deliverance is made possible by “participative” grace that vivifies the activity of those rewarded.4 The second section of this essay explains how this is the case. Second, what if anything do the beatitudes tell us about how we might live now in a manner directed toward the eschatological promise which the beatitudes are universally recognized to address? The argument of the second section enables us to answer this question.Yet it is the third and final section that addresses the ramifications of that argument for how the beatitudes may be said to connect ethics and eschatology, and how they paint a portrait of growth in the spiritual life. The Beatitudes and Happiness The straightforward claim of this first section is that the beatitudes are about happiness. This claim is substantiated in three ways, which are treated together: (a) by the linguistics of the text itself; (b) by the text’s context among other texts of the same genre; and, (c) by the text’s interpretation by authoritative figures in the Christian tradition. For reasons documented by recent thinkers such as Servais Pinckaers, O.P., the topic of happiness is too frequently divorced from modern discussion of morality.5 Hence it is not surprising that we rarely hear “happy” as the opening word of each of the beatitudes, given that they are located at the start of the Sermon on the Mount, which Augustine once called the “charter of the Christian life.”6 However, the Greek makarios is appropriately translated as either blessed or happy. The most common English translation is “blessed.” In their surveys of English translations, grace on people who are in a desperate situation is decisive. The three authentic beatitudes have a paradoxical character. They are not to be interpreted from the connection of deed and fate in the wisdom tradition, for they neither put human behavior in the foreground nor is the promise in any way the result of behavior of those who are called blessed. . . . Rather the background of these three beatitudes is the apocalyptic hope for a total reversal of the circumstances” (231). The focus on a certain few (“three”) of the beatitudes makes this claim actually not as far from the thesis of this essay as it might seem. For another contemporary understanding of the beatitudes as promising simple reversal, see W. D. Davies and Dale C. Allison, The Gospel According to Matthew, Volume I (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1988), 443, 448–49 (especially with regard to mourning). 4 Stassen and Gushee, Kingdom Ethics, 35. 5 See his Sources of Christian Ethics. See also Alasdair MacIntyre’s After Virtue (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1981) for a parallel argument in moral philosophy concerning the eclipse of language of virtue and happiness. 6 See Augustine’s The Lord’s Sermon on the Mount, trans. John Jepson (Westminister, MD: Newman Press, 1956), i.1.1. 822 William C. Mattison, III Robert Guelich and Hans Dieter Betz acknowledge the preponderance of “blessed” but also explain why “happy” is as accurate a translation.7 Robert Louis Wilken examines the use in Aristotle of both makarios and another Greek term for happiness—eudaimonia—and concludes that the two terms are used synonymously.8 In conclusion, the opening word of each beatitude can be appropriately translated “happy.”9 This conclusion is not surprising, given the historical context of the beatitudes. Consider first the context of classical culture. Greek and Roman treatments of ethics are discussions of what constitutes happiness; they include attention to what is sought that procures happiness, and what sort of qualities (i.e., virtues) and activities on the part of persons are involved in the seeking and possession of happiness. That the nature of happiness is the question for how to live a good life is taken for granted in classical culture, even if what constitutes such happiness is contested.10 For example, both Aristotle and Cicero focus important works on ethics on the question of happiness.11 Wilken considers this classical context in his work on Gregory of Nyssa: 7 See Robert Guelich, The Sermon on the Mount: A Foundation for Understanding (Waco, TX: Word Books, 1982), 66, for a brief survey of various translations in English. See also Hans Dieter Betz, The Sermon on the Mount (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1995), 92. These two important contemporary works by biblical scholars are the primary source of this essay’s inclusion of contemporary biblical scholarship (with its important attention to cultural and linguistic context), because of the monograph-length focus on the Sermon on the Mount found in each. Other biblical scholarship on Matthew (particularly Luz’s Matthew 1–7 and Davies and Allison’s The Gospel According to Matthew, Volume I, both cited above) is employed where appropriate. 8 Robert Louis Wilken, “Gregory of Nyssa, De Beatitudinibus, Oratio VIII: ‘Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven (Mt 5,10),” 243–54, in Gregory of Nyssa: Homilies on the Beatitudes, ed. Hubertus Drobner and Albert Viciano (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 244–45. See also Terrence Irwin’s treatment of the topic in Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, ed. Terrence Irwin (Indianapolis, IN: Hackett, 1999), 318. Wilken’s conclusion is corroborated by Ulrich Luz (Matthew 1–7, 232). 9 The claim here is that markarios is appropriately rendered “happy.” Whether “blessed” is still preferable, given a common superficial connotation of happiness to mean “feeling good,” is a legitimate question. Of course happiness, or eudaimonia as used in the context of virtue ethics, need not connote such a superficial notion of happiness. As the term is used in virtue ethics, the beatitudes are “about happiness.” Nevertheless for the sake of consistent usage of the New American Bible translation, “blessed” is used here. 10 For a helpful treatment of classical ethics from the perspective of happiness, see Julia Annas’s The Morality of Happiness (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993). 11 See Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, Books I & X. on happiness. See also Cicero’s On Moral Ends, ed. Julia Annas (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001). The Beatitudes and Moral Theology 823 For if one reads Gregory after being schooled in ancient writings that address how one is to live, for example Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics or Seneca’s De beata vita, or even Augustine’s early work by the same name, it is apparent that “happiness” was a key term in ancient moral philosophy. Its appearance in the beatitudes would have triggered associations in the mind of ancient readers that are foreign to moderns unschooled in the eudaimonistic ethics of the ancient world.12 As Wilken notes, for anyone schooled in classical culture, the beatitudes would have been understood in the context of the enduring question of how to live a happy life. This was precisely how the text was understood by early Christian thinkers. Augustine begins his sermons on the beatitudes with the observation that “clearly you couldn’t find anyone who doesn’t want to be happy,”13 revealing that Augustine understood the beatitudes as responding to the universal human longing for happiness.14 In the opening lines of his homilies on the beatitudes, Gregory of Nyssa describes the beatitudes in the terminology used to delineate human happiness. Gregory claims: “markarios as I understand it, is something which includes every concept of goodness, and from which nothing answering to good desire is missing.”15 Gregory clearly understands the beatitudes in the context of the perennial inquiry into the nature of human happiness. Finally, contemporary biblical scholars affirm not only that those schooled in classical thought would hear the beatitudes in this context of the question of happiness, but also that those formed by the Scriptures would similarly hear the beatitudes in such a manner. In the words of Guelich, “Judaism offers the more immediate background” for the literary form beatitude.”16 Betz claims that the Matthean beatitudes stand in 12 Robert Louis Wilken, “De Beatitudinibus, Oratio VIII,” 243. For an excellent treatment of the beatitudes in not only Gregory but also Augustine, see Michael Dauphinais, “Gregory of Nyssa and Augustine on the Beatitudes,” Nova et Vetera 1 (2003): 141–63. 13 Augustine, Sermons III (51–94), trans. Edmund Hill, O.P. (New York: New City Press, 1991), 53.1. 14 See also Augustine’s The Lord’s Sermon on the Mount, I.1.3. 15 Gregory of Nyssa, Gregory of Nyssa: Homilies on the Beatitudes, ed. Hubertus Drobner and Albert Viciano (Leiden: Brill, 2000), “Homily I on the Beatitudes,” 24. (Further references to this text are given by homily number, followed by section number, with page in this volume in parentheses.) See also VI:2 (67) and IV:7 (55–56). 16 See Robert Guelich, The Sermon on the Mount, 63. He gives forty-four New Testament citations of beatitudes, and also notes that there are forty-five such uses in the Old Testament. For more on the literary form beatitude, see also Betz, The Sermon on the Mount, 97–105; Davies and Allison, The Gospel According to Matthew, 431–34. 824 William C. Mattison III the tradition of Wisdom literature.17 In regard to the question of the relationship between the beatitudes and the entire Sermon on the Mount, Betz notes that beatitudes are commonly placed at the start of some didactic text, a dynamic he finds not only in the work of Epicurus but also in Psalm 1.18 In sum, the beatitudes are appropriately understood within the context of ethical writings on happiness. Their origin and literary form reveal such a context in Jewish and classical sources. Furthermore, early Christian exegetes understood the beatitudes in precisely this context of the question of happiness. If the beatitudes are appropriately understood in the context of classical ethical reflection on happiness, this prompts perennial questions germane to virtue ethics, which essentially concerns the qualities (i.e., virtues) and activities of persons that direct them toward fulfillment or flourishing (i.e., happiness). What is ultimate happiness, and how is it related to the common worldly understandings of happiness? Is it attainable, and if so is it attainable in this life? How can one live toward attaining it? What does Jesus Christ have to do with ultimate happiness?19 These are the sorts of questions a virtue ethics inquiry into the beatitudes asks. Although answering all these questions is beyond the scope of this essay, the following section addresses one such question: what is the relationship between the promised happiness, and the characteristics the text identifies of those who receive this happiness? The Relationship between the Beatitudes’ Qualifying Conditions and Rewards Each of the beatitudes posits some connection between what might more precisely but also more dryly be referred to as a “qualifying condition” (being meek, being merciful, hungering and thirsting for justice, etc.), and some reward (inheriting the earth, being shown mercy, being satisfied, etc.).20 The primary question for this section is: what is the nature of the 17 Betz, The Sermon on the Mount, 94. See also Gerald Friedlander, The Jewish Sources of the Sermon on the Mount (New York: Ktav Publishing House, 1969). 18 Betz, The Sermon on the Mount, 104 and 59. See also Pope Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth (New York: Doubleday, 2007), 71 for the beatitudes’ root in Jewish Scriptures, including explicit reference to Psalm 1. 19 This question about the role of Jesus Christ in the human quest toward happiness, though not a focus of this essay, is both absolutely crucial and consistently addressed in the commentary tradition. Its neglect in this essay should not be taken as any claim to the contrary. 20 These terms are adopted here for the sake of precision, mainly because the term “beatitude” can be used to refer to each entirety, or just to what is called here The Beatitudes and Moral Theology 825 relationship between the qualifying conditions on the one hand, and the rewards on the other? The text makes it clear that those characterized by certain qualifications are or will be happy, yet how or why this is the case is not as evident.21 The argument of this section is that the beatitudes present an intrinsic connection between the qualifying conditions and rewards. This claim is the crux of this essay. In order to make this argument, I will first explain what is meant by an “intrinsic connection.” Then I will examine each of the beatitudes to determine how the qualifying condition and reward are understood as intrinsically related. Defining “Intrinsic Relation” and Ascribing It to the Beatitudes What is the nature of the relationship between the qualifying conditions and their rewards? My main thesis in this essay is that the beatitudes, in line with a prominent tradition in classical and Christian ethics, present an intrinsic relationship between their qualifying conditions and rewards. What marks an intrinsic relationship between the beatitudes’ qualifying conditions and rewards can be summarized by the term “continuity.” More precisely, what characterizes an intrinsic relationship is twofold: first, the qualifying condition entails some activity on the part of the person rather than simply a state one finds oneself in; and, second, that activity is continuous with, indeed constitutive of or a participation in, the reward (which therefore also includes activity on the part of the recipient). In other words, the state of reward would be at least partially constituted by, or include, the conditions that qualify one for it.22 Such a relationship is described by Herbert McCabe, O.P., in the following manner: “It is thought proper to praise those actions and dispositions that lead to and are constitutive of that human satisfaction in which happiness consists. . . . [H]appiness is not just the result of praiseworthy action; it is constituted by the “qualifying condition.” In this essay, “beatitude” refers to the whole, each consisting of a “qualifying condition” and a “reward.” The term “reward” can have the unfortunate connotation of “earned on one’s own,” as if God’s grace were unnecessary. None of the commentators surveyed here would hold such a view, nor would this author. This connotation leads one contemporary biblical scholar, even while consistently using the term reward, to say “reward horribile dictum . . .” (Luz, Matthew 1–7, 246). 21 For an example of someone turning immediately from the recognition that the beatitudes are about happiness to questions of virtue and how to live to obtain such happiness, see Gregory of Nyssa, Homilies on the Beatitudes I:2 (24). 22 Those versed in the language of moral philosophy will recognize here the claim that happiness is an activity. For prominent examples of such a claim see Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics i.7 and Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae I–II, q. 3, a. 2. See also William C. Mattison III, “Beatitude and the Beatitudes in the Summa Theologiae of St. Thomas Aquinas,” Josephinum Journal of Theology 17.2 (2010): 233–49. 826 William C. Mattison III praiseworthy action.”23 By contrast, what would mark an extrinsic relationship would be either the claim that the qualifying condition was not concerned with a person’s activity or the claim that, even if it were, that activity would in no way continue in the state of reward. To understand better the difference between an intrinsic and an extrinsic relationship between qualifying condition and reward, consider the following beatitude: “Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted.”24 Here it seems that what qualifies one for reward is simply the experience of suffering that prompts mourning; in other words, it is a state in which one finds oneself rather than any activity.25 It also seems that what characterizes the state of reward (comfort) is a cessation of the qualifying condition (mourning). There is certainly a relationship between the two, since the beatitude reads, “Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted.” But it may appear to be an extrinsic relationship, since what qualifies one for reward is a situation in which one finds oneself rather than some activity on the part of the person, and since the happiness promised seems to be a reversal or at least cessation, of the qualifying condition. Despite this prima facie or “everyday” interpretation, the argument of this essay is that each beatitude, including this one, presents an intrinsic relationship between qualifying condition and reward. What is rewarded is some activity described in the qualifying condition, and that activity continues in some important way in the state of reward. The Christian tradition of commentary on the beatitudes, although not using this language, consistently reflects this understanding of the beatitudes. Examining Particular Beatitudes Having stated the main thesis of this essay, my next task is to examine each beatitude to determine whether the qualifying conditions and rewards are indeed intrinsically related. My claim is that they are so intrinsically related, although the various beatitudes are amenable to this analysis in varying ways, a topic addressed in the third section. Before examining each beatitude, two preliminary points must be addressed. First, how is the “meaning” of each beatitude ascertained here? 23 Herbert McCabe, The Good Life: Ethics and the Pursuit of Happiness (New York: Continuum, 2005), 5–6, emphasis in original. 24 Pinckaers says of this beatitude: “Let us be honest. Among all the beatitudes there is none like this one for flying in the face of common sense” (The Pursuit of Happiness, 77). 25 More precisely, since mourning is an activity, the qualifying condition may seem to be a state of affairs in which one finds oneself that prompts mourning. The Beatitudes and Moral Theology 827 The method I will employ is to read how authoritative voices in the Christian tradition have understood the meanings of the Matthean beatitudes. The authors chosen here have written commentaries on the beatitudes that must be addressed in any historical survey of influential treatments of the beatitudes.26 Others could be added, and thus the sample here is non-exhaustive. But it does represent a sampling of commentary on the beatitudes which extends across historical periods, between East and West, and between Catholics and Protestants.27 My point here is not that all these commentators think in the same manner about the beatitudes. To the contrary, varying commentaries on the Sermon on the Mount are fine places to see differences in the thought of these figures.28 My claim is that despite important differences, these various authors are consistent in interpreting the relationship between the qualifying conditions and rewards intrinsically. Second, how many beatitudes are there?29 The answer to this seemingly simple question is not at all obvious. Commentators treat the number of 26 All pre-contemporary commentaries mentioned by Betz or Guelich in their treatments of the history of commentary are addressed here. See Guelich, The Sermon on the Mount, 14–21, and Betz, The Sermon on the Mount, 107–9. 27 The commentators relied upon here are: John Chrysostom, Ambrose, Gregory of Nyssa, Augustine, Thomas Aquinas, Martin Luther, John Calvin, and Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Contemporary theological treatments include Pope Benedict XVI, Servais Pinckaers, O.P., and Glen Stassen and David Gushee. Finally, as representative of contemporary biblical scholarship, I examine the work of Hans Dieter Betz and Robert Guelich. (See note 8 above. The works of Davies and Allison and of Ulrich Luz are also referenced on occasion.) Although additional figures could be adduced in any of these time periods, the omission of any of these authors would be at least as noteworthy as omission of others. 28 For examples of such treatments of how varying figures interpret the Sermon on the Mount distinctly, see Jaroslav Pelikan’s Divine Rhetoric:The Sermon on the Mount As Message and As Model in Augustine, Chrysostom, and Luther (New York: St. Vladmir’s Seminary Press, 2000); The Sermon on the Mount Through the Centuries, ed. Jeffrey Greenman, Timothy Larson, Stephen Spencer (Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos Press, 2007);Tore Meistad, Martin Luther and John Wesley on the Sermon on the Mount (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 1999). 29 The focus of this essay is the Matthean beatitudes. There are two reasons for this focus. First, this essay is intended to be part of a larger book project on moral theology (more particularly, virtue and happiness) and Matthew’s Sermon on the Mount. Second, there is a far greater amount of commentary available in the Christian tradition on the Matthean beatitudes, and that fact—given the methodology adopted here of ascertaining the meaning of each beatitude— prompts a focus on Matthew. No claims are made here about the relationship between Matthew’s and Luke’s sets of beatitudes, although occasional references are made to Luke’s beatitudes where commentators surveyed here connect the two sets. Although I suspect that the even the starker language of the Luke 6 828 William C. Mattison III beatitudes as ranging from 7 to 8 to 9.30 Nine statements (Mt 5:3–12) begin with “Blessed are. . . .”Yet the final one is noticeably distinct in saying “Blessed are you . . .” (Mt 5:11–12) and hence has consistently been treated distinctly. Commentators ranging from Gregory of Nyssa to John Chrysostom to Luther to Pope Benedict XVI have thus treated the beatitudes as a set of eight. Of the eight beatitudes beginning “Blessed are they . . .” (Mt 5:3–10), the repetition of the reward “theirs is the Kingdom of heaven” in the first and eighth has led many to also treat the eighth beatitude distinctly. Hence there is a tradition, starting with Augustine and continuing with Aquinas and other medievals, that counts the beatitudes as seven, with the eighth beatitude as a sort of summary and recapitulation of the first seven.31 The main argument given for this sevenfold count of the beatitudes is the repetition of the same reward in both the first and the eighth.32 The sevenfold interpretation is adopted here, not only because of the beatitudes can be understood via the “intrinsic relationship” described in this essay, I do not make that argument here. 30 As Betz notes, some even break up Matthew 5:11 and 12 to number ten beatitudes. For his review of arguments for seven, eight, nine, or ten beatitudes in biblical scholarship, see The Sermon on the Mount, 108–9. 31 As Thomas Aquinas claims, “The eighth beatitude is a confirmation and declaration of all those that precede. . . . The eighth beatitude corresponds, in a way, to all the preceding seven” (ST I–II, q. 69, a. 3, ad 5). For this view in Augustine see The Lord’s Sermon on the Mount I.3.10 and I.4.12. Pinckaers affirms this approach in his Sources of Christian Ethics, 145–46. Note that none of these deny that Matthew 5:10 is a beatitude. The claim is simply that the beatitude serves a different role than the other seven serve. For an example of someone who counts eight beatitudes but treats the eighth as adding no significant progression to the first seven, see Gregory of Nyssa, Homilies on the Beatitudes VIII. For recognition in contemporary biblical scholarship of the distinctiveness of the eighth beatitude and thus the legitimacy of attending to the first seven as a set, Davies and Allison claim: “An inclusio is thus formed between the first and eighth beatitude. Its function is to mark the beginning and end of the formally similar beatitudes, that is beatitudes 1–8, which are then followed by a ninth that is different in form. The inclusio also implies that the promises in beatitudes 2–7 are all different ways of saying the same thing, namely, ‘theirs is the kingdom of heaven,’ the promise of the first and eighth beatitudes” (The Gospel According to Matthew, 460). See also Guelich, The Sermon on the Mount, 93; Luz, Matthew 1–7, 241–42; and Betz, The Sermon on the Mount, 142–46. 32 See Betz, The Sermon on the Mount, 109–10. Another argument is that this eighth beatitude describes the suffering that accompanies the people described in all the previous beatitudes. Thus there are arguments concerning both the qualifying condition and the reward in support of numbering seven beatitudes. For an example of a commentary where the rewards of the first and eighth beatitudes are interpreted as distinct, see Ambrose, Treatise on the Gospel of St. Luke, 61.3–5 (p. 205). Citations to this text are from Traité sur l’Évangile de S. Luc,Vol. I (Paris: Cerf, The Beatitudes and Moral Theology 829 reward repetition but also for reasons addressed below having to do with progression within the beatitudes and their alignment as a set with other sets. As with the methodology for interpreting the content of the beatitudes, this claim is not uncontested but certainly defensible. i. “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven” Determining whether or not any beatitude offers an intrinsic relationship between qualifying condition and reward requires specifying what exactly each of these is. First, then, who are the “poor in spirit?”This beatitude has consistently been understood to refer to the humble. John Chrysostom is among those who answer this question directly: “What is meant by the ‘poor in spirit’? The humble and contrite of mind.”33 Augustine claims, “The poor in spirit are rightly understood here as the humble and those who fear God,” and that “blessedness [beatitudo, i.e., happiness] starts with humility.”34 Though interpreters consistently claim that this beatitude is not simply a reference to material want, many commentators claim material possessions are quite relevant for beatitude.35 Yet even when commentators attend to the material poverty, there is an emphasis on some activity of the poor in spirit in their state of material want, such as refusing to seek ultimate comfort in temporal possessions.36 Therefore, while the qualifying condition of the first beatitude should not be disassociated from material poverty, even when it concerns the materially poor it is an activity of the 1956), with standardized numbering from the Latin text followed by page number from this edition.Though this is Ambrose’s commentary on Luke’s gospel, in treating the beatitudes of Luke 6, Ambrose also examines the Matthean beatitudes. 33 John Chrysostom, Homily XV.2 (41). References to John Chrysostom’s Homilies on Matthew given here are from The Preaching of John Chrysostom, ed. Jaroslav Pelikan (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1967). The reference includes homily, section, and in parentheses the page number from this edition. 34 See The Lord’s Sermon on the Mount I.1.3 and I.3.10, respectively. See also Augustine, Sermons III (51–94), 53A.2. See also: Ambrose, Treatise on the Gospel of St. Luke 60.2 (205); Thomas Aquinas ST I–II, q. 69, a. 3, and Super Evangelium S. Matthaei Lectura, 415; Stassen and Gushee, Kingdom Ethics, 38–39; Pinckaers, The Pursuit of Happiness, 41; Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth, 75; and Guelich, The Sermon on the Mount, 73. 35 See, e.g., Pope Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth, 76–77 and Guelich, The Sermon on the Mount, 75. 36 Martin Luther, The Sermon on the Mount, trans. Jaroslav Pelikan, pp. 1–294 in Luther’s Works 21 (Saint Louis, MO: Concordia Publishing House, 1956), pp. 12, 13, and 17. Given the absence of internal text divisions, references to this text are given by page number in this edition. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, The Cost of Discipleship (New York: Collier Books, 1963), 120. Thomas Aquinas, ST I–II, q. 69, a. 3, and Super Evangelium S. Matthaei Lectura, 416. Stassen and Gushee, Kingdom Ethics, 38. Pinckaers, 42–46. Guelich, The Sermon on the Mount, 67–72. 830 William C. Mattison III poor in spirit (such as relying on God or not clinging to temporal riches) that is interpreted as the qualifying condition in this beatitude. This qualifying condition may of course be more prevalent in the materially poor, and the condition may even be made more possible by material poverty, but the qualifying condition does not simply equate to a state of material poverty. Furthermore, there is continuity of activity between the qualifying condition and the state of reward, since humility characterizes those who enjoy eternal happiness.37 Without denying important discontinuities between the poor in spirit and those who possess the kingdom of heaven, Luther illustrates this continuity by saying that the spiritually poor “depend upon an imperishable, eternal possession, that is, upon the kingdom of heaven.”38 Therefore, being humble and refusing to cling to material possessions as the source of happiness are not simply prerequisite conditions for reward but enduring characteristics of possession of the kingdom of heaven. Thus the reward here is not a simple reversal of material poverty. It is a continuation, indeed culmination, of a life of humility and freedom from possession by possessions. ii. “Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted” As noted above, this second39 beatitude appears most obviously to suggest an extrinsic relationship between qualifying condition and reward, since it would seem both that mourning is simply something that happens to someone and that it is antithetical to comfort and happiness.40 Yet commentators most consistently interpret this beatitude as a stark recasting of worldly understandings of happiness rather than simply a depiction of the reversal of a condition antithetical to happiness. There are two predominant strains of interpretation in the commentators surveyed here as to what is meant by “those who mourn.” This first is that the mourning is over one’s sins. Though affirmed by nearly all the commentators treated here, this interpretation is beautifully described by Gregory of Nyssa, who contrasts the blessed mourning over one’s sins with the 37 As noted below, the “kingdom of heaven” is the most general term for the state of eternal reward, a destiny that is further elucidated in the second through seventh beatitudes. See Luz, Matthew 1–7, 235; Davies and Allison, The Gospel According to Matthew, 460. For more on the Matthean sense of kingdom of heaven, see Guelich, The Sermon on the Mount, 77–79. 38 Luther, The Sermon on the Mount, 16. See also Stassen and Gushee, 39. 39 The beatitude concerning those who mourn comes third in some manuscript traditions, after the beatitude concerning the meek. For more on this issue of ordering, see Guelich, The Sermon on the Mount, 80–82. 40 Guelich appears to offer such an interpretation (The Sermon on the Mount, 80–81). See also above, note 3. The Beatitudes and Moral Theology 831 contented inability of some to even be aware of their own sinfulness. He likens the one who mourns to an injured person who begins to feel pain in his previously paralyzed limb. “When the soul becomes aware of what is bad and bewails the life of evil,” it is a crucial early step toward full recovery.41 In this interpretation, although mourning is surely suffered, it is a suffering made possible by the activity of repenting for one’s sins. The second consistent line of interpretation—and one commonly endorsed by the same people who endorse the first—is of mourning as refusing to find relief in worldly comforts. Luther distinguishes simple suffering from the “mourning” of this beatitude, saying, “A man is said to mourn and be sorrowful—not if his head is always drooping and his face is always sour and never smiling; but if he does not depend on having a good time and living it up, the way the world does.”42 Indicating that one of the main sources of worldly comfort is a refusal to face painful realities that engender suffering, Pinckaers claims this beatitude “invites us first of all to be fully human: not children, to be amused with pretty stories and shielded from painful and disturbing sights, but adults who dare to look reality in the face.”43 However one understands “those who mourn,” mourning is an activity rather than simply a state in which one finds oneself. Given these interpretations of the qualifying condition as an activity rather than simply a state in which one finds oneself, how should we understand that condition’s relationship to the reward? The reward “they will be comforted” indicates that there are important discontinuities between the qualifying condition and reward, since being in a state of mourning is different from being in a state of comfort. Yet perhaps it is due to this seeming reversal that so many commentators emphasize the continuity between the two.There is a consistent claim that those who mourn find comfort even in this life.44 Of course, even if the reward of comfort is experienced in this life, this does not necessarily entail its intrinsic relationship to the qualifying 41 Gregory of Nyssa, Homilies on the Beatitudes III:2 (40). See also: Augustine, Sermons III (51–94), 53A.8; Ambrose, Treatise on the Gospel of St. Luke, 55.1–2 (203); John Chrysostom, Homilies on Matthew XV.4 (43–44); Thomas Aquinas, Super Evangelium S. Matthaei Lectura, 422; Pinckaers, The Pursuit of Happiness, 76; Stassen and Gushee, Kingdom Ethics, 39 42 Luther, The Sermon on the Mount, 19. See also: Augustine The Lord’s Sermon on the Mount I.2.5;Thomas Aquinas, ST I–II, q. 69, a. 3, and Super Evangelium S. Matthaei Lectura, 422; Bonhoeffer, The Cost of Discipleship, 121; and Guelich, The Sermon on the Mount, 80. 43 Pinckaers, The Pursuit of Happiness, 78. 44 John Chrysostom, Homilies on Matthew XV.4 (44); Thomas Aquinas, ST I–II, q. 69, a. 2, ad 3; Luther, The Sermon on the Mount, 20–22; Bonhoeffer, The Cost of Discipleship, 122. 832 William C. Mattison III condition. After all, the experience of reward could be a reversal or cessation of that condition even in this life. Yet given the two consistent interpretations of what constitutes the qualifying condition, in the comfort of eternal reward, where presumably there is no mourning, what ceases is not the qualifying condition of persons that engendered their mourning but the circumstances wherein such mourning is activated. In other words, even though there is a great change between a state of mourning and a state of comfort, what changes is not what commentators consistently identify as the qualifying condition for the reward.That qualifying condition is mourning sinfulness, or refusing to find solace in the transient comforts of this life. Being a person who performs such activities, of course only with the assistance of God’s grace, is precisely what qualifies one to enjoy the true and lasting comfort of the kingdom of heaven. One remains this sort of person even in the comfort of eternal life when the occasion to mourn is no longer present. John Calvin speaks of the intrinsic relationship between qualifying condition and reward when he says: Now nothing is supposed to be more inconsistent with happiness than mourning. But Christ does not merely show that mourners are not unhappy. He shows that their very mourning contributes to a happy life by preparing them to receive eternal joy and by furnishing them with excitements to seek true comfort in God alone.45 Calvin’s claim that “their very mourning contributes to a happy life” depicts an intrinsic relationship, even between mourning and comfort, since mourning is an activity that is not simply reversed but “contributes” to happiness. iii. “Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the land” Who are the meek? The English term meek is often associated with being servile or passive. Stassen indicates that this is an erroneous assumption when he claims, “A meek person is thought of as a doormat on which others wipe their feet, and who is timid and fears what others will think. ‘But nothing could be more foreign to the biblical use of the word.’ ”46 The Greek praiais47 (and Vulgate Latin mitis) were understood 45 John Calvin, Commentary on a Harmony of the Evangelists Matthew, Mark, and Luke, Vol. I (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1956), Mt 5:4 (261). (Page numbers given to this edition in parentheses.) 46 Stassen and Gushee, Kingdom Ethics, 40, citing Jordan, Sermon on the Mount, 24–25. See also Pope Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth, 80. 47 For more on the Hebrew word or words that likely “stand behind” the Greek terms for “poor” and “meek” in Mt 5:3 and 5, see Guelich, The Sermon on the Mount, 66–75. The Beatitudes and Moral Theology 833 to refer to, in the words of Augustine, “those who yield before outbursts of evil and do not resist evil, but overcome evil with good,” while “those who are not meek struggle and contend for earthly things”48 Hence the qualifying condition praised here is not being subjugated or passive, but rather being mild with regard to occasions of anger.49 As to the meaning of “they will inherit the land,” there is divergence in the tradition as to what is meant by this reward, and in particular whether it refers to an earthly or a heavenly reward.50 More importantly for this section on the intrinsic relation between the qualifying condition and reward, it is clear that regardless of whether the land is understood as temporal and/or eternal, the meek do not inherit it as a reversal of what qualifies them for it but as a continuation, even intensification, of their meekness. This is especially evident in those commentators who interpret the land as temporal. Luther claims that while worldly persons “neither have the Kingdom of heaven nor enjoy temporal goods peacefully and quietly,” Christians have “enough of both the temporal and eternal.”51 Indeed it is one’s very meekness, not a cessation of it, that enables one to possess, as Luther explains: “He [Christ] teaches us that whoever wants to rule and possess his property, possessions, house and home in peace must be meek, so that he may overlook things and act reasonably, putting up with just as much as he possibly can.”52 Once again we see how a beatitude’s qualifying condition is an activity that persists in some form in the promised reward.53 48 Augustine, The Lord’s Sermon on the Mount I.2.4. See also: Gregory of Nyssa, Homilies on the Beatitudes II:2 (34); Luther, The Sermon on the Mount, 36. Calvin, Harmony of the Evangelists, Mt 5:5 (261–62); Bonhoeffer, The Cost of Discipleship, 122. 49 Thomas Aquinas claims this beatitude is an antidote to being led away by one’s irascible passions. See ST I–II, q. 69, a. 3. He also equates mitis to mansuetudo, the latter being the classical virtue that moderates anger (Super Evangelium S. Matthaei Lectura, 419). See also Ambrose, Treatise on the Gospel of St. Luke, 54.5 (203), and Pinckaers, Pursuit of Happiness, 61, 65–66. 50 See Augustine, The Lord’s Sermon on the Mount I.2.4 where Augustine understands the land to refer to the “stability of an undying inheritance” and says it is the life and rest of the saints, meaning those in heaven. Gregory says use of earthly image given for our aid (Homilies on the Beatitudes II.2 [33], but clearly not earthly land that is promised [34]. Yet as seen below others understand it to refer also to possession in this life. For a treatment of the interplay between both senses, see Pope Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth, 82–84. 51 Luther, The Sermon on the Mount, 25, emphasis added. 52 Ibid., 24. See also Calvin’s claim regarding ferocious people that “while they possess all, they possess nothing” (Harmony of the Evangelists, Mt 5:5 [262]). See also Augustine, Sermons III (51–94), 53.2. 53 See Pinckaers, Pursuit of Happiness, 71, for a discussion of how the reward of the meek is also possession of one’s self. 834 William C. Mattison III iv. “Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied” The fourth beatitude seems to require the least analysis here. It is more evident that hungering and thirsting is an activity, and it is not surprising that there is continuity between the activity of longing for righteousness (or literally “justice”)54 and its attainment. But why are those who hunger and thirst for justice rewarded? As with the meek, one might be tempted to read this beatitude as executing a simple reversal, such that those who are satisfied by justice are those who hungered and thirsted for it simply because they suffered injustice.55 But again, this is not how the qualifying condition is consistently understood in the tradition. Rather, the hungering and thirsting of the qualifying condition is a longing for and pursuit of justice rather than a suffering of injustice (though the latter will likely occur because of the former).56 As for the reward of being satisfied, this beatitude is the first among those examined so far to have a less obvious discontinuity between the qualifying condition and the reward. There is still discontinuity, as is evident by the contrast between hunger/thirst and satisfaction. However, this is the first beatitude where the reward is a completion of what is longed for in the qualifying condition. Thus there is clear continuity between the person striving for justice and the person enjoying justice in the state of eternal reward. Furthermore, there is a consistent claim in the commentary tradition that hungering and thirsting for righteousness is actually the beginning of its possession.57 Gregory of Nyssa devotes the most extensive treatment to the relationship between the longing for justice and its satiation.58 54 Despite the common English translation “righteousness,” this word is understood in both the history of commentary and in contemporary biblical scholarship to be equally well translated as “justice.” See, e.g., Guelich, The Sermon on the Mount, 84–87. Gregory in fact expands the sense of this term to include all of the virtues, and says it even refers to a longing for the Lord himself (Homilies on Beatitudes IV.6 [52–55]). 55 Stassen and Gushee observe that those who have experienced injustice may be particularly attuned to the justice promised in this beatitude (Kingdom Ethics, 42). See also Calvin, Harmony of the Evangelists, Mt 5:6 (263). As in the beatitude on the poor in spirit, it is not the experience of suffering injustice that is the qualifying condition here but (in this case) the hunger and thirst for justice. See also Guelich, The Sermon on the Mount, 87, and Pinckaers, The Pursuit of Happiness, 91–93. 56 See Bonhoeffer, The Cost of Discipleship, 124; Luther, The Sermon on the Mount, 28; Thomas Aquinas, ST I–II, q. 69, a. 3. 57 See Augustine, The Lord’s Sermon on the Mount I.2.6, and Luther, The Sermon on the Mount, 28. 58 For a very helpful article on precisely this topic, see Luis Francisco Mateo-Seco, “Gregory of Nyssa, De beatitudinibus, Oratio IV: ‘Blessed are those who hunger The Beatitudes and Moral Theology 835 Gregory claims the terms “hunger and thirst” indicate the earnestness of the craving; yet he also contrasts the hunger and thirst for justice with that for food and drink. Hunger and thirst for food and drink is diminished once it is satisfied.Yet satisfaction of the hunger and thirst for justice leads not to a cessation of the craving but to a further sharpening of the appetite.59 Indeed, to crave justice is in some sense already to possess it. Gregory says, “We must still try to find that justice, which is already enjoyed by the one that desires it in the anticipation of what is promised.”60 In a baldly intrinsic claim about the relationship between qualifying condition and reward, Gregory says “its [virtue’s] happiness is coextensive with its operation.”61 In these words we see affirmed the consistent claim that the qualifying condition is an activity, and one that is continuous with the state of reward. Although Gregory is not committed to claiming that nothing further is attained in the satisfaction of the yearning for justice, this is a clearly intrinsic relationship between qualifying condition and reward. v. “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy” As in the fourth beatitude, the continuity between the qualifying condition and the reward of the fifth beatitude may seem readily apparent. Those who are merciful are rewarded with mercy. Could it be interpreted with a connotation of reversal, as if to suggest that those who show mercy, although they do not receive that mercy in the present, will in the future? And could it imply a cessation of the qualifying condition, such that if one shows mercy now, one will receive it later and can sit back and stop having to show it?62 As for the qualifying condition being an activity, Stassen is particularly helpful: “Mercy is about an action; specifically, generous action that delivers someone from need or bondage.”63 Although it may be accompanied by sentiment (e.g., “pity”), it is not primarily something that happens to one but rather something which someone does, or exercises.64 Gregory of Nyssa recognizes this and thirst for righteousness for they will be satisfied’ (Mt 5:6),” 146–63 in Gregory of Nyssa: Homilies on the Beatitudes. 59 Gregory of Nyssa, Homilies on the Beatitudes IV.6 (53–55). 60 Ibid. IV:2 (49). See also IV.6 (55). 61 Ibid. IV.6 (55). 62 For both intrinsic and extrinsic ways to interpret this beatitude (without using these terms), see Pinckaers, Pursuit of Happiness, 114. 63 Stassen and Gushee, Kingdom Ethics, 43. Augustine also emphasizes the active nature of mercy in saying it is “those who come to the aid of the needy” (The Lord’s Sermon on the Mount I.2.7). Guelich claims “merciful refers to the act of judging” (The Sermon on the Mount, 89, emphasis in original). 64 For more on the role of sentiment in mercy, see Pinckaers, Pursuit of Happiness, 116–17. 836 William C. Mattison III emotional component by calling it a “misery,” but says it is a “voluntary misery” prompted by other people’s ills, a “loving self-identification with those vexed by grievous events.”65 As to the continuity between qualifying condition and reward, a challenge to this essay’s thesis of an intrinsic relationship between them is the suggestion that one can cease to show mercy, since at the time of reward one can simply receive it. Again, Gregory is particularly helpful in explaining the continuity. First, Gregory claims mercy is born of “loving self-identification” with others, and thus it is an activity that surely continues when one is shown mercy in eternal reward. Second, Gregory describes the final judgment in the context of mercy and claims that “the person is his own judge, giving verdict upon himself by his judgment of inferiors.”66 In other words, the standard with which one shows mercy to others is the standard that one summons for one’s own judgment. Guelich observes, “In this Beatitude God’s mercy to be experienced at the final judgment belongs already to the merciful and furnishes the basis for their behavior toward others.”67 Thus when the merciful are shown mercy, they are evidence of the continuity of activity between the standard of justice and mercy that they rely upon with regard to others, and that which will be shown them. vi. “Blessed are the clean of heart, for they will see God” Despite a common contemporary association of “purity” with an absence of disordered sexual desire, the interpretation of the “clean of heart” (frequently translated “pure of heart”) with direct reference to sexual desire is nowhere to be found in the commentators surveyed here.68 Stassen and Gushee define this qualifying condition well as “giving one’s whole self over to God.” They cite Davies and Allison, who say “purity of heart must involve integrity, a correspondence between outward action and inward thought. . . . More succinctly, purity of heart is to will one thing, God’s will, with all of one’s being and doing.”69 Thus 65 Gregory, Homilies on the Beatitudes V.3 (59), emphasis added. See Bonhoeffer: “As if their own needs and their own distress were not enough, they take upon themselves the distress and humiliation and sin of others” (The Cost of Discipleship, 124). See also Calvin, Harmony of the Evangelists, Mt 5:7 (263), and Luther, The Sermon on the Mount, 30. 66 Gregory of Nyssa, Homilies on the Beatitudes V.7 (64). 67 Guelich, The Sermon on the Mount, 89. 68 Despite the preponderance of the “pure in heart” translation, the NAB “clean of heart” is retained here for the sake of consistency. 69 Stassen and Gushee, Kingdom Ethics, 45, citing Davies and Allison, The Gospel According to Matthew, 456. The Beatitudes and Moral Theology 837 being clean of heart entails not only the integrity of interior and exterior continuity,70 but an integrity that is directed toward God alone, whereby one’s will is conformed to God’s will.71 This is why those who do good deeds “to be seen by others” (Mt 6:1–18) are a favorite example among commentators of those who are not clean of heart.72 That being clean of heart is an activity rather than simply some state (as of, say, ritual purity)73 is clear in the commentary tradition. The reward of “seeing God” is so entrenched in Scripture as a depiction of eternal life as to require little explanation from the commentators. Particularly relevant to the thesis of this essay are Gregory of Nyssa’s words where he describes seeing God as “possessing what one beholds” and says that such a possession constitutes full happiness.74 Even more interesting for this essay is the striking continuity between being clean of heart and seeing God. Though the text is clear that the clean of heart will see God [future tense], commentators consistently explain that it is by way of being clean of heart that one is able to see God. Being clean of heart is not simply an activity that qualifies one for reward, but then ceases when the reward is achieved. It is constitutive of the reward as an activity that is necessary for the activity of the reward. Augustine claims that being clean of heart gives us “heart eyes”75 to see God, and that being clean of heart is what enables people to see God.76 Bonhoeffer writes: “They shall see God whose hearts have become a reflection of the image of Jesus Christ.”77 Pinckaers describes purity as the “necessary condition” for seeing God,78 and Pope Benedict XVI claims “the heart—the wholeness of man—must be pure, interiorly open and free, in order for man to be able to see God.”79 That Pinckaers and Pope Benedict XVI both understand the relationship between qualifying condition and reward intrinsically is evident when 70 See Calvin, Harmony of the Evangelists, Mt 5:8 (264). See also Guelich, The Sermon on the Mount, 90. 71 See Luther, The Sermon on the Mount, 34. See also Bonhoeffer, The Cost of Disciple- ship, 125. 72 See, e.g., Augustine’s correlation of this beatitude with Mt 6:1–18 (The Lord’s Sermon on the Mount ii.1.1). See also Stassen and Gushee, Kingdom Ethics, 44–45, for this connection. 73 Contemporary commentaries frequently contrast being clean of heart with merely ritual purity. See, for example, Pinckaers, Pursuit of Happiness, 131, and Stassen and Gushee, Kingdom Ethics, 44. 74 See Gregory of Nyssa, Homilies on the Beatitudes VI.2 (67). 75 Augustine, Sermons III (51–94), 53.6. 76 Augustine, The Lord’s Sermon on the Mount I.3.10. 77 Bonhoeffer, The Cost of Discipleship, 126. 78 Pinckaers, Pursuit of Happiness, 132. 79 Pope Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth, 93. 838 William C. Mattison III Pinckaers says purity is the “bearer of light” that enables us to see God,80 and Pope Benedict writes: “The organ for seeing God is the heart.”81 In sum, being clean of heart not only is rewarded by the vision of God but also enables one to see God.82 vii. “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God” It is common for hearers of the beatitudes today to assume the “peacemakers” are those who work for reconciliation among fractured parties, particularly in political contexts. This interpretation is found throughout the commentary tradition. Chrysostom emphasizes how the peacemakers “unite the divided, reconcile the alienated.”83 Aquinas says it concerns one’s relations with one’s neighbors.84 Luther claims that being a peacemaker is being “a reconciler and mediator between your neighbors.”85 Yet equally common among commentators is an understanding of the peace spoken of here as a condition of a person’s soul. Augustine most forcefully interprets peace in this sense, claiming that “they are at peace with themselves who quell all the emotions of their soul and subject them to reason.”86 Augustine is by no means alone in understanding peacemaking in this sense.87 Like others who recognize this meaning of peacemaking, he claims not only that both senses are important but that they are related to one another.88 Despite subtle differences of emphasis as to the primary locus of peacemaking, all commentators insist that 80 Pinckaers, Pursuit of Happiness, 139. 81 Pope Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth, 92. Benedict emphasizes the importance of “social ethics” (94) for becoming clean of heart. 82 After claiming that “the cultic setting of being accepted into the presence of God becomes the basis for the eschatological hope of ‘seeing God,’ ” Guelich clearly indicates continuity between qualifying condition and reward: “The focal point of one’s life, the singleness of purpose, the object of one’s loyalty and commitment—namely, God himself and his claim upon the individual—reach their ultimate fulfillment by the ultimate acceptance into God’s presence” (The Sermon on the Mount, 91). 83 John Chrysostom, Homilies on Matthew, XV:7. 84 Thomas Aquinas, ST I–II, q. 69, a. 3. See also Super Evangelium S. Matthaei Lectura, 438. 85 Luther, The Sermon on the Mount, 43. See also Stassen and Gushee, Kingdom Ethics, 45. 86 Augustine, The Lord’s Sermon on the Mount I.2.9. 87 See also: Gregory of Nyssa, Homilies on the BeatitudesVII.3 (78); Thomas Aquinas, ST I–II, q. 69, a. 4; Luther, The Sermon on the Mount, 39; Pope Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth, 85. 88 See Augustine, Sermons III (51–94), 53A.12. Thomas Aquinas makes the same claim at Super Evangelium S. Matthaei Lectura, 438. The Beatitudes and Moral Theology 839 peacemaking is an activity, or as Bonhoeffer describes it, not simply having peace but making it.89 As in the previous beatitude, we have a reward in being “called children of God” that has extensive scriptural basis as a depiction of eternal life. More interesting, however, is the near-constant emphasis in the commentary tradition on continuity between peacemaking and being called children of God, even when explained in different ways. Augustine equates being a child of God with being peaceful when he says, “The children of God are peaceful for the reason that no resistance to God is present.”90 In terminology consonant with that of this essay, Gregory of Nyssa claims, “the very work for which he promises such a great reward is itself another gift,” and that “the chief thing that gives happiness is peace.”91 Calvin speaks of the God of peace accounting us children “while we cultivate peace,”92 and Bonhoeffer claims we are children of God as partners in Christ’s work of reconciliation.93 Pinckaers claims that peacemakers “win the name of sons of God because they bring to the world the peace and reconciliation which can only come from Him—we can even say, the peace which is God.”94 Finally, as Benedict summarizes, “The seventh beatitude invites us to be and do what the Son does, so that we ourselves may become ‘sons of God.’ ”95 In all of these explanations, peacemaking is not simply an activity that extrinsically qualifies one to become children; it is something that intrinsically qualifies one for the reward as in fact constitutive of that reward. Further Ramifications of the Intrinsic Relationship between the Rewards and Qualifying Conditions in the Beatitudes The two most basic claims of this essay have now been established, namely, that the beatitudes are about happiness and that they present an intrinsic 89 Bohhoeffer, The Cost of Discipleship, 127. See also Pinckaers, The Pursuit of Happi- ness, 145–48 and 161. Guelich claims, “[P]eacemaking, therefore, is much more than a passive suffering to maintain peace . . .” (The Sermon on the Mount, 92, emphasis in original). Luz says that peacemaking “means something active, not just readiness for peace” (Matthew 1–7, 241). 90 Augustine, The Lord’s Sermon on the Mount I.2.9. See also I.3.10, where Augustine claims that contemplation of truth which is wisdom, and which marks a soul at peace, “effects a likeness to God.” For a similar claim in Thomas Aquinas see Super Evangelium S. Matthaei Lectura, 439. 91 Gregory of Nyssa, Homilies on the Beatitudes VII.2 (77–78). 92 John Calvin, Harmony of the Evangelists, Mt 5:9 (265), emphasis added. 93 Bonhoeffer, The Cost of Discipleship, 127. 94 Pinckaers, Pursuit of Happiness, 162. 95 Pope Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth, 85. 840 William C. Mattison III relationship between their qualifying conditions and their rewards. The latter was established through examining authoritative interpretations of each of the beatitudes, and pointing out how in each case: (a) the qualifying condition is understood predominantly as some activity, and (b) that activity is continuous with, even constitutive of, the happiness promised in the reward. In this final section I offer some initial thoughts on how the conclusions of the first two sections might contribute to two perennial questions about the beatitudes. Doing so will help illuminate how the beatitudes guide us in this life even as they point toward the next. Eschatology and Ethics: “When” Do the Beatitudes Occur? The first question where we see the impact of the first two sections’ conclusions concerns the “when” of the beatitudes. When does the life depicted in the beatitudes occur? It is commonplace in twentieth-century biblical scholarship to draw a distinction between the beatitudes understood eschatologically or ethically.96 The beatitudes are understood as eschatological promises when they are seen as promises of God’s future deliverance, made possible by God’s grace, and particularly targeted toward those who are suffering and in need of deliverance. They are understood ethically when they are seen as exhorting certain activities in the present, often understood as paths to future reward and at times labeled “entrance requirements”97 to the kingdom. This distinction is traced back to different Old Testament and intertestamental uses of the literary form beatitude,98 and it is also adopted by ethicists who rely on contemporary biblical scholarship.99 Biblical scholarship, especially with findings gleaned from form criticism and redaction criticism, has important contributions to make to the question of the nature of the relationship between God’s eschatological promises and the ethics of discipleship in this life. What does the analysis of this essay have to contribute to this discussion? In biblical scholarship it is commonly assumed that Luke’s (earlier) beatitudes are properly eschatological and that Matthew has “ethicized” the beatitudes through redaction.100 Even if they recognize the “initial plausi96 See Guelich, The Sermon on the Mount, 64–66 and 109–11. Though Guelich is primarily relied upon here, see also Betz, The Sermon on the Mount, 96–97, and Davies and Allison, The Gospel According to Matthew, 439–40. 97 For this term see Guelich, The Sermon on the Mount, 109; Davies and Allison, The Gospel According to Matthew, 439. 98 See Guelich, The Sermon on the Mount, 64–65; Betz, The Sermon on the Mount, 97–105; Davies and Allison, The Gospel According to Matthew, 431–34. 99 See Stassen and Gushee, Kingdom Ethics, 33. 100 Guelich describes this assumption well (The Sermon on the Mount, 65–66 and 109). See also Davies and Allison, The Gospel According to Matthew, 439. The Beatitudes and Moral Theology 841 bility” of this view,101 the biblical scholars whose work is used here do not concur with this reading of the Matthean beatitudes.102 Yet they reject that view of the Matthean beatitudes in noticeably different ways, which may be seen in how they employ the eschatological/ethical distinction. Some biblical scholars surveyed here deny Matthew’s ethical subversion of Luke’s eschatological beatitudes; instead, they claim that the Matthean, too, are eschatalogical, not ethical. In the words of Guelich, “instead of ethics swallowing up eschatology in Matthew we have just the reverse.”103 Though the opposite of the “ethicization” view, this reading similarly assumes Matthew’s beatitudes are either ethical or eschatological. Part of the problem here may be a dichotomization of command and grace, the former being associated with ethics and the latter with eschatology. For instance, Davies and Allison claim the beatitudes are “first of all blessings, not requirements.”104 They proceed to observe that the beatitudes are about God’s grace rather than God’s commands, and they claim that the treatment of commands begins (at Mt 5:17) only after the beatitudes. Such a view reveals a dichotomization between command and grace, and consequently ethics and eschatology. But of course ethics and eschatology need not be dichotomized, and thus the universally affirmed eschatological function of the beatitudes need not exclude their ethical function as well. Betz affirms that the beatitudes have “eschatological as well as this-worldly implications,” and, unlike Guelich, he claims that it is “a fundamental mistake to favor either their future aspect of promise or their present pronouncement.”105 Rather, he says, “the beatitude has a close relationship to morality and ethics. By revealing a new way of life, the beatitude affects moral behavior and demands an ethical awareness.”106 Again revealing the connection between one’s stance on the beatitudes as ethical or simply eschatological on the one hand and one’s view of the relationship between law and grace on the other, Betz rightly notes that the activity exhorted by the beatitudes must “not be confused with ‘works of the law’ in the Pauline sense. They do not ‘earn’ salvation.”107 Ulrich Luz reveals an accurate understanding of the relationship between grace on the one hand, and ethics (or commands, or human activity) on the other, when he claims that the 101 See for instance, Davies and Allison, The Gospel According to Matthew, 439. 102 Luz may be the exception. See Matthew 1–7, 243. 103 Guelich, The Sermon on the Mount, 111. 104 Davies and Allison, The Gospel According to Matthew, 440 (see also 466). 105 Betz, The Sermon on the Mount, 96 (see also 97 and 110). 106 Ibid., 97. 107 Ibid. 842 William C. Mattison III commandments (and here he mentions being poor in spirit, meek, merciful, etc.) are in an important sense gifts of the gospel.108 In sum, the gratuitous eschatological promise offered in the beatitudes need not preclude an initial participation in that promise—of course possible only through God’s grace—in the way one lives in this life.109 What does the analysis of the beatitudes offered in this essay have to contribute to this discussion? Clearly it affirms the latter position, that the beatitudes are best understood as both ethical exhortations that guide action in this life preceding full entrance into the kingdom and descriptions of the eschatological deliverance offered by God and fully known only in the end times.110 If the eschaton as eternal happiness is marked by activity that is continuous with, or intrinsically related to, activity in this life, then there can be no dichotomization between eschatology and ethics. Ethics is eschatological to the extent that it is oriented toward the telos/happiness of the eschaton, and it enjoins activity that is already in a limited sense a participation in that destiny. Eschatology is also ethical, to the degree that its ultimate happiness and deliverance entail human (obviously grace-enabled) activity, activity that is continuous with the (also grace-enabled) activity of this life that is a limited albeit constitutive foretaste of that ultimate destiny. Once the beatitudes are understood in the context of happiness, and the relationship between their qualifying conditions and rewards is understood intrinsically, it is easier to see how the happiness they present is thoroughly eschatological (both already and not yet) and thoroughly ethical.111 Why a “Set” of Beatitudes? It is hoped that the preceding part of this essay, on eschatology and ethics, can help the beatitudes play a more prominent role in moral theology. In the present part we turn to another perennial question in the study of the beatitudes in order to see how the conclusions of the first two sections might contribute to answering that question and to further identify how the 108 Luz, Matthew 1–7, 245–46. 109 Due to some unfortunate negative associations Betz has with the term virtue, he will not associate the beatitudes with virtues, but he does say “taken together the Beatitudes circumscribe a way of life of the faithful disciple of Jesus” (The Sermon on the Mount, 97). 110 This interpretation is even suggested by the verb tense of the beatitudes, which is both present tense in the first and eighth (another argument for inclusio and counting seven beatitudes) and future tense in the second through seventh. 111 See Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth, on how the beatitudes are both eschatological promises (71–72) and also a “road map for the Church” and “directions for discipleship” (74). The Beatitudes and Moral Theology 843 beatitudes can be more prominently featured in moral theology. The question for this part is: why is there a “set” of beatitudes? Commentaries on the beatitudes have consistently stressed that the reward described in them is one, despite the fact that it is described in different ways. In other words, the beatitudes do not describe different destinies for seven (or eight, or nine) different groups of people. They offer many images of the one reward (i.e., eternal happiness) and many descriptions of the people who qualify for that reward.112 In the words of Thomas Aquinas, referencing Chrysostom: As Chrysostom says, all these rewards are one in reality, eternal happiness, which the human intellect does not grasp. Hence it was fitting to describe it by means of various goods known to us, and fittingly proportioned to the merits [i.e., qualifying conditions] to which those rewards are assigned.113 Thomas assures us that having a set of beatitudes helps us to understand what are called here the qualifying conditions and rewards. Surely we can affirm this claim, and appreciate why there is a set of beatitudes rather than simply one. But this still leaves unaddressed the question: why these beatitudes, in this number and in this order?114 i. Traditional Explanations of the Set of Beatitudes Regardless of whether or not we see the beatitudes as about happiness, and even regardless of how many beatitudes we count, the simple fact that there are numerous beatitudes prompts the question “why?” Commentators have offered three common answers to this question. First, the beatitudes offer a progression in the human journey toward God. The seminal Patristic commentaries approach the beatitudes precisely in this way. In the words of Gregory of Nyssa, “I think the arrangement of the Beatitudes is like a series of [ladder] rungs, and it makes it possible for the mind to ascend by climbing from one to another.”115 112 See Augustine, The Lord’s Sermon on the Mount I.4.12: “the one reward, the king- dom of heaven, is designated variously.” See also Sermons III (51–94), 53.9, where Augustine says of the different beatitudes that “all these are in fact the same people” (70). See also John Chrysostom, Homily XV.7 (48–49) and Davies and Allison, The Gospel According to Matthew, 460. 113 ST I–II, q. 69, a. 4, ad 1, trans. mine. See also Super Evangelium S. Matthaei Lectura, 420. 114 As Ambrose claims, “Come Lord Jesus, teach us the order of your beatitudes, for it is not without order that you have taught [them]” (Treatise on the Gospel of St. Luke, 52.1–2 [202]). 115 Gregory of Nyssa, Homilies on the Beatitudes II.1 (32). See also Augustine, The Lord’s Sermon on the Mount I.4.11, and Ambrose, Treatise on the Gospel of St. Luke, 60.1–12 (204–5). John Chrysostom does not focus on progression in great detail, 844 William C. Mattison III Another strategy for addressing this question is to align the beatitudes with some other grouping. The basic insight here is, if these beatitudes are Jesus’ own synopsis of happiness and fullness of life, then it is fitting that there should be correspondence between this set and other sets recognized in the Christian tradition. Ambrose aligns them with the four cardinal virtues.116 For his part, Augustine sees the beatitudes as aligned with not one but two other groupings from the tradition, namely, the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit and the seven petitions of the Lord’s Prayer.117 Finally, there is also precedent in the tradition for interpreting the set of beatitudes as containing sub-groupings. Ambrose counted eight Matthean beatitudes and saw them as composed of four groups of two, each group corresponding to one of the four cardinal virtues.118 Aquinas references Ambrose’s grouping but posits a grouping of his own. Aquinas reflects classical ethical thinking on happiness when he observes that candidates for happiness are threefold: sensual pleasures and external goods; the active life; and, contemplation. The beatitudes may be sub-grouped into the first three, the next two, and the final two beatitudes; these groupings correspond respectively to sensual pleasures and earthly goods; the active life; and the contemplative life.119 Division of the set of beatitudes into sub-groups continues today, though generally on different grounds.120 but he does mention how there is order to the set and how one makes way for the next (Homily XV.9, 52). For more in-depth inquiry into this theme of ascent, see Michael Dauphinais, “Gregory of Nyssa and Augustine on the Beatitudes.” See also Betz, The Sermon on the Mount, 108, on this theme and even its warrant by contemporary biblical scholarship. 116 Ambrose aligns Luke’s four beatitudes with the four cardinal virtues, and he claims that Matthew’s eight beatitudes (four of which he sees as the same as Luke’s) may be grouped into four sets of two, with each group corresponding to a cardinal virtue. See Treatise on the Gospel of St. Luke, 62.1–68.3 (206–7). 117 Augustine, The Lord’s Sermon on the Mount, i. 4.11. It is noteworthy that Augustine does not mention these alignments in his later Sermons 53 and 53A on the beatitudes, even though he concludes the latter by saying, “To the best of my ability I have expounded all the beatitudes” (Sermons III (51–94), 53A.14). For more on strategies of alignment, including these two mentioned, see Betz, The Sermon on the Mount, 106–7. 118 Ambrose, Treatise on the Gospel of St. Luke, 62.1–68.3 (206–7). 119 See Thomas Aquinas, ST I–II, q. 69, aa. 3 and 4. See also his Super Evangelium S. Matthaei Lectura, 414. 120 See Luz, Matthew 1–7, 226 and 230 (as well as Guelich, The Sermon on the Mount, 93, and Betz, The Sermon on the Mount, 110) for a division of the eight beatitudes of Mt 5:3–10 into two groups of four. Davies and Allison also recognize this division into two groups of four (The Gospel According to Matthew, 429), but argue that the beatitudes are best understood as totalling nine, and they are composed of three groups of three (431). The Beatitudes and Moral Theology 845 ii. Contribution of This Essay to Explanations of the Beatitudes as a Set What contribution does this essay offer to the question of why this set of these beatitudes? We noted in section two that, although all seven beatitudes present an intrinsic relationship between qualifying condition and reward, how they do so differs with different beatitudes. That claim may now be further explained.The beatitudes may be placed into three sub-groups that describe how the qualifying conditions are variously (although always intrinsically) related to the rewards. The sub-groups are treated here in reverse order. Consider the final two beatitudes: “Blessed are the clean of heart, for they will see God” and “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.” In seeing God and being children of God, we have climactic rewards that seem, more than any others in the beatitudes, to fully represent eternal happiness. “Seeing God” is so embedded in Scripture and tradition as constituting eternal life that commentators who see the beatitudes as a progression have struggled to explain how any beatitude could follow this one. Being children of God suggests precisely the sort of adoption, kinship, and communion that constitutes eternal union with God. Gregory of Nyssa understands this reward to mean the very deification that is the ultimate destiny of the human person.121 In sum, though the rewards of all the beatitudes refer ultimately to the same reward, the rewards of the last two beatitudes stand out as climactic in their depiction of that reward. What of the qualifying conditions for these final two beatitudes? More specifically, are they or their relationship to their rewards distinct from qualifying conditions offered in earlier beatitudes? The answer is yes. In both cases what qualifies one for reward is a condition that not only will remain in that state of reward but will remain most closely to its current form in that state of reward. If peace is understood as a person’s interior integration and harmony as well as harmonious relations with others, which together constitute true and ultimate peace, the kingdom of heaven is indeed marked by precisely this peace in and among its citizens as children of God. If cleanness of heart is rightly understood as single-minded focus on God, including seeing all else in truth as it is ordered to God (and acting accordingly), then cleanness of heart is a most continuous foretaste of what it means to see God as described in the reward. In both instances, there is an intrinsic relationship (i.e., continuity of activity) between qualifying condition and reward and a “least lacking” continuity.122 How such 121 Gregory of Nyssa, Homilies on the Beatitudes I.2 (25) and VII.1 (77). See also Betz, The Sermon on the Mount, 110. 122 In making a point very different from the one being made in this essay, Davies and Allison recognize that the sixth and seventh beatitudes stand out in relation 846 William C. Mattison III continuity may be present but more lacking in different ways is evident in the remaining beatitudes. Next consider the fourth and fifth beatitudes: “Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied,” and “blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.” In these beatitudes (as in all others) the qualifying conditions are intrinsically related to the rewards. The continuity here is evident since the justice and mercy longed for and shown is present in the kingdom of heaven. Yet there is also in these two beatitudes more evident discontinuity between the activity of those who qualify for reward and the activity of the reward itself. Those who hunger and thirst for justice are not now satisfied.123 They hunger and thirst for what they lack. The same holds true for mercy. Though the mercy lauded as the qualifying condition is present in the state of reward, the occasions presenting a need for the exercise of such mercy—toward others and indeed toward themselves—are present now in a manner they will not be in the full arrival of the kingdom. In both of these beatitudes, then, there is continuity as well as greater discontinuity between the activity of the qualifying condition and the activity of the reward. Finally, consider the first three beatitudes. In these beatitudes the reward promised seems least continuous with the current state of those who qualify for it. Indeed, these are the beatitudes that prompt the aforementioned “everyday” understanding of the beatitudes as simple reversals. Even granting the consistent interpretation of “poor in spirit” as referring to humility, the contrast between the terms “poor” and “kingdom” is obvious. The same contrast is evident between mourning and comfort, and being meek and inheriting the land. There is indeed a sort of reversal here, in that those possessing the qualifying conditions evidence a lack that is a direct result of possessing those qualifying conditions, a lack that will be rectified at the time of reward. Nevertheless there is continuity in the people, even when their state of affairs changes markedly. So the humble (often the material poor) who forgo security other than God ultimately have the kingdom of heaven. Those who mourn their sin and refuse to take solace in worldly comforts attain the comfort of eternal joy in union with God. Those who are meek in refusto the other beatitudes by how easily the qualifying conditions can be turned into imperatives: “be clean of heart,” and “be peacemakers” (The Gospel According to Matthew, 439). 123 See Thomas Aquinas’s Super Evangelium S. Matthaei Lectura, 423, where he distinguishes the fullness of justice available only in the next life from true but incomplete justice in this life. The Beatitudes and Moral Theology 847 ing to self-assertively protect or seize ultimately obtain true inheritance. Who they are remains continuous in both states, even in these beatitudes of evident contrast. Yet there is indeed a reversal as to their condition. What conclusions can be drawn from this as to why there is a set of beatitudes? As indicated in the quote from Thomas Aquinas above, it is reasonable to assume some purpose in there being a set of various beatitudes. The argument of this essay suggests that one such purpose is presenting the various ways that the qualifying conditions are intrinsically related to eternal reward. There are three identifiable sub-groups within the set of seven beatitudes, each of which suggests a distinct sort of intrinsic relationship. The first three beatitudes suggest ways in which the lacks endured by those possessing the qualifying conditions, lacks that exist precisely because of those qualifying conditions, will be reversed. This is true even as the qualifying conditions remain continuous.124 The second two beatitudes show greater continuity, but they still evidence lacks, namely, the need for full justice and the occasions to exercise mercy. Yet these lacks are described as incomplete, rather than something needing to be reversed. Finally, the last two beatitudes show the greatest continuity between qualifying condition and reward. Of course, these last two beatitudes do not claim that the peacemakers and clean of heart have obtained eternal reward.125 Yet there is no separation between being clean of heart/peacemaking and eternal reward in those very activities themselves. In sum, this essay’s argument does support sub-grouping the seven Matthean beatitudes of 5:3–9.126 As should be evident from the depiction of those groups, the same argument supports an understanding of the beatitudes as a progression, since the three groups offer depictions of qualifying conditions and rewards that—while all intrinsically related—are increasingly continuous. Though these concerns with groupings and progression are less common in contemporary readings of the beatitudes than they were in pre-modern commentaries, biblical scholar Betz claims, “There is 124 This thesis is distinct from, though reminiscent of, the claim throughout the Christian tradition that the cardinal virtues remain in heaven, though in a different manner due to differences in that state. See Augustine’s On the Trinity, xiv.12 and the extended medieval discussion that arose out of Peter Lombard’s treatment of this question in his Sentences III, d. 33, q. 1, a. 4. 125 Thomas emphasizes the future tense of the rewards in these two beatitudes. See Super Evangelium S. Matthaei Lectura, 407. 126 Since the sub-grouping affirmed here so closely approximates that of St. Thomas, it is hoped that further research will better articulate that connection. There may also be resources here for aligning the classic “purgative, illuminative, and unitive” stages in the spiritual life to the beatitudes on the basis of the argument of this essay. These promising lines of research are beyond the scope of this essay. 848 William C. Mattison III good reason to look further in this direction.”127 This essay’s argument is an attempt at just that.128 It is hoped that this analysis of the beatitudes’ progressive description of how we can live in a manner more fully continuous with eternal happiness might aid the larger task of making the beatitudes more prominent in the moral and spiritual lives of believers. Conclusion Much work remains to be done in examining how the conclusions of the first two sections of this essay both inform discussions over the eschatological and ethical character of the beatitudes and contribute to explanations in the tradition as to why there is a set of beatitudes. Furthermore, crucial questions raised by the beatitudes that are also central to virtue ethics have not even been broached here. These include the relationship between the happiness promised in the beatitudes and more “worldly” happiness, as well as the christological129 character of the beatitudes.Yet I hope that this essay will contribute to the more prominent incorporation of the beatitudes into contemporary Christian ethics and moral theology by identifying how they are appropriately understood in the context of classical ethical reflection on happiness and how they easily contribute to discussions that are endemic to virtue approaches to ethics. I also hope that the analysis offered here can ultimately help people more easily imagine how exactly to live out the beatitudes, and thus to know the genuine happiness they promise, N&V both in this life and most fully in the next. 127 Betz, The Sermon on the Mount, 105–8. 128 As for alignment of the beatitudes with another group, any such argument is beyond the scope of this essay.Yet I understand there to be such an alignment, in particular with the three theological and four cardinal virtues. That argument is being developed in an upcoming book tentatively titled Virtue, Happiness, and the Sermon on the Mount. A comparable argument can be seen in William C. Mattison III, “The Lord’s Prayer and an Ethics of Virtue: Continuing a History of Commentary,” The Thomist 73.2 (2009): 279–312. 129 Stassen and Gushee use the helpful term “Christomorphic” (Kingdom Ethics, 37). Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 11, No. 3 (2013): 849–70 849 Aquinas and Aristotle’s Teleology S IMON O LIVER University of Nottingham Nottingham, England F INAL CAUSES refer to purposes or goals. Typically, citing the final cause answers the question “why?” Why do I go to the grocery store? In order to buy food. Why does the heart beat? In order to pump blood around the body. Final causes therefore refer to the purposes or goals of natural substances, agents, or systems. For example, the human immune system has the goal of maintaining the health of the body; the artist’s purpose is to produce paintings or sculptures. While nature’s ends dominate the thought of Plato, Aristotle, and their ancient and medieval successors, it was not until the eighteenth century that the philosophical study of final causes became known as “teleology.”1 The history of teleology is complex. In contrast to the Presocratics, who are frequently described as materialists with little or no sense of final causes or purposes in nature,2 Plato and Aristotle place teleology at the 1 The term teleologia is not conclusively attested until 1728 when, in his Philosophia Rationalis, Sive Logica, Christian Wolff uses the term to refer to a branch of natural philosophy which deals with the ends of things. Although obviously anachronistically, Aristotle’s causes “for the sake of which” are frequently included under the broad banner of “teleology.” 2 An alternative to this common reading of the Presocratics is provided by David Sedley, Creationism and Its Critics in Antiquity (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2007), chaps. 1–2. Sedley argues that this view may have more to do with Plato’s and Aristotle’s description of their predecessors than with the position of the Presocratics as revealed in their texts. Aristotle states that “Democritus, however, omitted to mention the Final Cause, and so all the things which Nature employs he refers to necessity. It is of course true that they are determined by necessity, but at the same time they are for the sake of some purpose, some Final Cause, and for the sake of that which is better in each case.” Aristotle, Generation of Animals, trans. A. L. Peck (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 850 Simon Oliver heart of their respective philosophies. In antiquity and the Middle Ages, teleological cosmology in various guises was central to the philosophical enquiry into nature and the Christian doctrine of creation. Following Western Christianity’s renewed acquaintance with Aristotle’s works in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, the Philosopher’s understanding of causation became particularly influential. His intricate blending of material, efficient, formal, and final causes offered a comprehensive account of creaturely phenomena and gave Christian teachers the means to understand created causes in analogical relation to divine actuality. However, this approach to causation did not last. It is common to describe the demise of the mediaeval consensus and the rise of modern philosophy in terms of shifts in the understanding of causation, with the rejection of Aristotelian final causes and the explanatory dominance of efficient causation being key to this transition. Nevertheless, despite the apparent abandonment of final causes in early modern thought, exemplified, for example, in the work of Francis Bacon,3 the question concerning teleology is far from settled in contemporary philosophy, psychology, and natural science.4 Any investigation of final causation, which must perforce attend to Aristotle and his legacy, is of considerable importance to contemporary thought in numerous spheres. In this essay, I will discuss Aristotle’s understanding of final causation and Aquinas’s deployment of this aspect of the Philosopher’s thought. Like Aristotle, Aquinas regards final causes as basic and fundamental to any adequate explanation of creaturely phenomena because “Every agent, of 1953),V.8, 789b4–b15. See Plato, Phaedo 98c–99d. However, Sedley seems to read these texts through the lens of the very modern concept of intelligent design. Unlike the Presocratics, Plato and Aristotle understood final causes not in relation to an extrinsic design or designer of anthropomorphic variety (assuming a non-literal reading of the Timaeus), but as intrinsic to all aspects of creation, whether animate or inanimate, yet orientated to a transcendent good. 3 See, for example, Francis Bacon, The New Organon, ed. Lisa Jardine and Michael Silverthorne (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), Book II, aphorism 2, p. 102. On modern thinkers’ ambivalence concerning final causes, see Margaret Osler, “From Immanent Natures to Nature as Artifice: The Reinterpretation of Final Causes in Seventeenth Century Natural Philosophy,” The Monist 79 (1996): 388–407. Osler is not sufficiently clear concerning the kinds of final causes which remain influential in the thought of, for example, Robert Boyle, Isaac Newton, and Gottfried Leibniz. They are somewhat removed from final causes as conceived by Aristotle and Aquinas. In particular, final causes in early modern natural philosophy are not allied to formal causes. 4 See, for example, Mark Perlman, “The Modern Philosophical Resurrection of Teleology,” The Monist 87 (2004): 3–51, and Ernst Mayr, “The Idea of Teleology,” Journal of the History of Ideas 53 (1992): 117–35. Aquinas and Aristotle’s Teleology 851 necessity, acts for an end.”5 I will first outline Aristotle’s teleological understanding of the natural. We will see that, for Aristotle, final causes are properly intelligible only in relation to an equally fundamental formal causation. I will be particularly concerned with the distinction between internal and external teleology. It is by means of this distinction that Aristotle divides the natural from the artificial. Although the division between internal and external teleology becomes very important in modern philosophy, I will argue that, for Aristotle, internal and external teleology do not always stand over and against each other in dualistic fashion. Following this discussion of Aristotle, I will examine Aquinas’s deployment of Aristotelian teleology allied to dynamic substantial form with a particular focus on the doctrine of grace. Once again, I will be concerned to show that Aquinas resists a dualism of internal and external final causes, particularly in the field of divine causation. He thereby resists any sense of a discrete and autonomous nature that lies outside the field of divine grace which leads human beings to the vision of God. The unification of internal and external ends is found most profoundly and salvifically in the Incarnation, for in Christ we find the way, the truth, and the life. Aristotelian Final Causes In discussing Aristotelian causation we are used to the standard terminology of the “four causes”: the material cause, the efficient cause, the formal cause, and the final cause.6 Although I will use these laconic terms in what follows, they are not Aristotle’s but rather the invention of other ancient philosophers and their scholastic heirs.7 Aristotle describes not the four causes, but the different modes into which cause falls. The cause “out of which” something comes to be is matter.The primary source of motion— or, literally, the “whence the source of motion or rest”—is later labelled the efficient cause. The examples Aristotle gives of this mode of cause are a smith fashioning metal or a father begetting a child.8 These are the prime agents which produce an effect; they immediately precede it in time.9 5 St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae I–II, q. 1, a. 2, responsio: “omnia agentia necesse est agere propter finem.” See also, for example, ST I, q. 5, a. 4; I, q. 19, a. 4, responsio; Aristotle, Physics II.5, 196b21. 6 Aristotle, Metaphysics V.2. 7 For example, Philoponus states that, “He sums up in brief form what has been said, [saying] that the types of the enumerated causes are four: the material cause, the formal, the efficient, the final.” Philoponus, On Aristotle’s Physics 2, trans. A. R. Lacey (London: Duckworth, 1993), 245.25 (p. 59). 8 Aristotle, Physics II.3, 194b25. 9 Unlike modern theories of causation, Aristotle does not think of causes as events. An example of a causal event might be the fusing of the sperm and ovum which 852 Simon Oliver When Aristotle refers to the form as a cause, he means the “what it is to be something.”10 In other words, the form is that which makes something a “this” rather than a “that,” and it indicates that, for Aristotle, nature is not merely composed of matter in different discrete arrangements. Form is closely associated with nature itself. For Aristotle, nature is “the distinctive form or quality of such things as have within themselves a principle of motion, such form or characteristic property not being separable from the things themselves, save conceptually.”11 In stipulating that the form is within the organism, Aristotle is distinguishing those things which are by nature from those things which are manufactured. Art does indeed imitate nature, but Aristotle uses the craft analogy as much to draw attention to the differences between human artefacts and natural entities as he does to draw attention to their similarities. In the case of human artefacts such as beds (to use Aristotle’s example), it seems that the form has its source outside the artefact, namely in the mind of the craftsman, and is imposed upon an existing matter-form compound such as wood. In nature, form is not layered upon a more essential substratum; it emerges from within, passing from potentiality to actuality. Within the hylomorphic compound, the irreducibility of form to matter is crucial to Aristotle’s view of nature and distinguishes his approach from classical modern science. When it comes to that which we label the final cause, Aristotle uses the phrase “the cause for the sake of which.”12 For example, I might fashion a sculpture for the sake of decorating my hallway. Within this “cause for the sake of which,” Aristotle makes a crucial distinction between the goal as the aim of an action (“that of which”) and the goal as the beneficiary (“that for which”).13 For example, the aim of the art of medicine brings about a zygote, then a blastocyst, a fetus, and so on. Rather, he cites things or principles as causes. 10 Aristotle, Physics II.3, 194b25–b30. 11 Aristotle, Physics, trans. P. H. Wicksteed and F. M. Cornford (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1957), II.1, 193b1–b5. Unless otherwise indicated, all translations of Aristotle are from the Loeb Classical Library editions of his works. 12 Aristotle, Physics II.3, 194b30–b35; Metaphysics V.2, 1013a34. 13 Aristotle, De Anima II.4, 415b1–b7. See also Physics II.2, 194a35–b3; Metaphysics XII.7, 1072b2–b6. A detailed discussion of this distinction is available in Monte Ransome Johnson, Aristotle on Teleology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), especially chap. 3. Johnson claims that Aquinas misunderstands the distinction in his commentary on Aristotle’s Metaphysics (71, n.17). However, Aquinas’s text of Aristotle appears to be missing the crucial remark. Elsewhere, notably in his commentary on Aristotle’s De anima and in the ST, it is evident that Aquinas is fully aware of Aristotle’s distinction. See Aquinas, In De anima, II.7, 124–41; ST I–II, q. 1, a. 8, responsio. Aquinas and Aristotle’s Teleology 853 is health. The beneficiary of the art of medicine (“that for which”) is the patient. The builder who constructs a house has the house as his aim or goal. At the same time, there is another end, namely the person who will benefit from the shelter which the house provides. This distinction is important for Aristotle in a number of respects. For example, in Metaphysics Λ it can be seen that the first unmoved mover is the end of motion not in the sense of being a beneficiary (because, in being fully actual, the first unmoved mover cannot benefit from anything) but in the sense of being the aim or focus of desire. The link between the final cause—the “cause for the sake of which”— and form is made very explicit and straightforward by Aristotle: “the form is the final cause.”14 How do form and the final cause relate? Form is intrinsic to any natural entity; it is already possessed potentially rather than actually. So the acorn becomes an oak and not a birch because it has within itself the form of oak tree in its potential aspect. The actualization of form by means of passage from potency to act is crucial to Aristotle’s natural philosophy and it is the basis of his distinction between natural and violent motion.15 Natural motions are those characteristic patterns of behavior which are produced by a being in a given environment; the being in question has a certain intrinsic receptivity for “natural” motion because this kind of motion actualizes a form which is held potentially. For example, the acorn has a natural receptivity to becoming an oak by means of watering and nourishment from its environment. By contrast, a violent motion is one in which there is no intrinsic receptivity to that motion within or by the being itself. It is contrary to something’s formal nature. Such violent or non-natural motions may be due to chance or extrinsic force. So through form it seems that natural entities are always already orientated in specific directions and towards specific ends. There is an intrinsic receptivity within natural entities towards the actualization of their form. We might say that the acorn intends to become an oak, or a cygnet a swan, or a rock intends its appropriate low place. It is the intrinsic character of form which distinguishes natural entities from artificial entities. For the artificial, the goal is external; it lies outside the artefact, first in the mind of a designer or craftsman. In later philosophy, this becomes a distinction between internal and external which marks a division in different kinds of teleology. For Kant and Hegel, external teleology, such as the design of a chair or a pen, presents little difficulty. One ascribes the orientation of material towards certain ends through a human intentionality and purpose which lies outside the material elements of an artefact. 14 Aristotle, Physics II.8, 199a33. 15 Aristotle, Physics IV.8, 215a1–a25. See also Physics V.6, 231a5–a10. 854 Simon Oliver By contrast, internal teleology is regarded as more problematic: is it merely an anthropomorphic projection based on the purposive orientation of human craftsmanship? Teleology might be regarded as an heuristic device for the understanding of nature which will last as long as an explanation in terms of efficient causality eludes us.16 Later in this essay, we will see that the division between intrinsic and extrinsic teleology holds potential theological risks with regards to the doctrine of grace, but that Aquinas resists this dualism. However, to what extent does Aristotle resist a dualism between intrinsic and extrinsic teleology, despite his insistence on intrinsic real natures and their distinction from human artifice? At first glance, it seems that teleology, because it seems to require some notion of “intention,” belongs particularly to the animate realm. Regarding inanimate substances, they become teleological only in relation to their use by, or incorporation into, animate substances (for example, a plant’s use of nutrients in the soil). In this sense, the ends of inanimate substances are external. The ascription of intention to any non-human creature raises the specter of anthropomorphic projection which can lead to the postulation of some kind of vitalism. A vital force is regarded as a mere metaphysical accretion—the postulating of a mysterious impetus which apparently orientates things towards certain ends yet which explains nothing. However, there is a notion of appetition (orexis) in Aristotle which indicates an intrinsic orientation of animate and inanimate natural entities towards the fulfilment of their formal natures. In the Eudemian Ethics Aristotle asks, “How can one suppose that things not possessing life can have appetition?”17 In the passage concerned, he is discussing whether there is, as the Platonists supposed, a universal good to which all things tend through appetition or desire. He concludes that there is no such universal good but that all things tend towards their particular good: the eye desires 16 See Immanuel Kant, Critique of the Power of Judgment, trans. Paul Guyer and Eric Matthews (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), §77, p. 275: “certain products of nature, as far as their possibility is concerned, must, given the particular constitution of our understanding, be considered by us as intentional and generated as ends, yet without thereby demanding that there actually is a particular cause that has the representation of an end as its determining ground, and thus without denying that another (higher) understanding than the human one might be able to find the ground of the possibility of such products of nature even in the mechanism of nature . . .” Page numbers refer to the translation. The interpretation of Kant’s intricate understanding of teleology, which falls beyond the bounds of this essay, remains contested. 17 Aristotle, Eudemian Ethics, I.8, 1218a25. My discussion of orexis, including this citation of Eudemian Ethics, is indebted to John M. Rist, “Some Aspects of Aristotelian Teleology,” Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 96 (1965): 337–49, esp. 338–40. Aquinas and Aristotle’s Teleology 855 sight, the body health. These examples clearly pertain to animate, living substances even if the eye is not itself animate. Is there any sense for Aristotle that all things, animate and inanimate, have an intrinsic appetition towards particular goals? While it is of course true that Aristotle distinguishes between the animate and the inanimate, life and the lifeless, often through the claim that self-motion indicates life, nevertheless it is the case that he has no concept of absolute inert and indifferent matter in anything like the Newtonian sense of the term. Such matter would be, in Aristotle’s terms, devoid of form and therefore purely potential. A pure potentiality cannot exist because it is in absolute potential even to being. Matter is always en-formed in the sense of being in potency to some things and not to others, and therefore orientated to certain ends and not others. The issue of the orientation of things towards certain ends and the question concerning their appetition for their appropriate end is important in the discussion of the motion of inanimate bodies in the Physics. When a projectile is thrown from the hand, after it has left the hand, what is it which preserves the motion of the projectile? When I drop a heavy object, what is it that moves the object downwards? The problem of projectile motion was much discussed in ancient philosophy and solved through the principle of impetus by later thinkers such as Philoponus, and the concepts of inertia and gravity in Newtonian mechanics. However, amongst the medieval philosophers one principle of Aristotelian natural philosophy, often deployed in considering projectile motion, caused much confusion: omne quod movetur ab alio movetur, whatever is moved is moved by another.18 This principle was sometimes interpreted to mean that whatever is in motion, is here and now being moved by another. On this view, when the projectile leaves the hand of the thrower, it must continue to have some kind of mover connected to it to move it through the air. One theory was that the air moving around the projectile provided the moving force. The notion of a constantly conjoined mover would imply that there is no orexis intrinsic to inanimate substances. However, no such mover is required in the case of natural motion. Instead, the mover is that which first donated or actualized to some degree something’s form. For example, there is a sense in which a father is always the mover of his son because the father is the generator of his son; he is the source of his son’s form. In claiming that everything that is moved is moved by another, Aristotle is suggesting that all creatures are in some sense potential, and the actualization of their potential cannot be accounted for by reference to 18 Aristotle, Physics VII.1, 241b24–25. For an extended discussion of this principle, see Simon Oliver, Philosophy, God and Motion (London: Routledge, 2005), chapters 2 and 4. 856 Simon Oliver the creature alone. There is, in the end, something fully actual—the first unmoved mover of Metaphysics Λ —which is the ultimate source of motion. With regard to the movement of inanimate substances, what, then, is the cause or source of that motion which is given by another? Its form. The form, the “what it is to be something,” is the actualizing of the potentiality of matter. It is the orientation of matter to certain ends rather than others. Now, in the Physics Aristotle states that “if we were to think of ‘existence’ as something august and good and desirable, we might think of shortage as the evil contradiction of this good, but of matter as something the very nature of which is to desire and yearn towards the actually existent.”19 So matter, of its very nature, desires the good in the form of the actually existent. However, some care is needed. Aristotle might be read as claiming that something like Newtonian inert, base matter has some kind of vitalistic force and, in the history of philosophy, much energy has been invested in denying this claim. But this is not how he understands hyle, ˜ because such pure matter cannot be; it is always, in some way, however attenuated, en-formed and its form orientates it towards some ends and away from others. So it would be more correct to say that matter through its form has an intrinsic appetition to certain ends. If Aristotle does have a notion of “vital force” which extends as well to the inanimate as it does to the animate, that force is not something superadded to material nature. It is intrinsic to any matter-form compound. This understanding of dynamic substantial form orientated towards certain ends can shed light on the notion of internal and external teleology. It seems that, in the case of so-called animate substances, they realize their end or goal of their own power. For example, unless hindered, the boy will turn into a man and the acorn into an oak. The ascription of causality to the telos in each case—the man and the oak tree—would, in Kantian terms, be a merely heuristic device which, in order to be properly explanatory, should be reduced to efficient causes. To take another example, namely that of a sculptor fashioning a block of marble, the goal appears to be external in the mind of the sculptor. The marble is purely passive or inert. The fashioning of the sculpture belongs to the sculptor as efficient cause and any sense of teleological orientation is “borrowed” from the intentional action of the sculptor. The goal of providing a focus of devotion in the church does not belong so much to the matter out of which the sculpture is being fashioned as it does to the sculptor who has been commissioned to provide a stature of the Virgin Mary. However, is the block of marble contributing only the material 19 Aristotle, Physics I.9, 192a19–a23. Aquinas and Aristotle’s Teleology 857 cause? Is the form of the marble, even in its unfashioned state, not also contributing at least in the sense of being orientated towards certain ends and not others? The sculptor could not fashion the marble into a tree or a pen, but he can fashion it into a statue or a plinth. Why? Because the form “marble” is not purely potential but is orientated towards certain ends and not others. The goal, therefore, is not entirely external in the sculptor’s intention, lying outside the material object being fashioned, but is also held in a potential form within the matter-form compound. So there is a sense in which, even concerning human artefacts, there is an element of intrinsic purposiveness because the object in question provides not only the material cause but also the formal cause which is dynamically orientated towards certain ends rather than others. And we must remember that the form is the final cause. As Aristotle would say, there will always be a striving for the good. This does not mean, however, that the orexis in en-formed matter takes the form of a superadded efficient cause, which is the way in which such kinds of vitalism are often understood. It remains a formal cause which is at once also the final cause. However, there is a reading of Aristotle which suggests that teleological causation is entirely intrinsic and restricted to particular organisms. In other words, there is no element of extrinsic or cosmic teleology.20 This would not only suggest the self-sufficiency of nature but also hint at the self-sufficiency of individual organisms. One argument marshalled in favor of this reading is that Aristotle is clearly opposed to Plato’s notion of a transcendent realm of Forms and what is sometimes called the paradigmatic cause. Through a literal reading of the Demiurge in the Timaeus and Plato’s prioritization of art over nature, Plato is sometimes understood by his modern readers as offering a kind of design argument for the existence of a creating deity. The Demiurge forms the cosmos from the khora according to an eternal model or set of “paradigms.” So the Forms after which the universe is created act as extrinsic final causes. Aristotle does indeed reject various theories of the Forms, some of them not being readily identifiable within Plato’s texts. However, it is possible briefly to highlight the key reasons why Aristotle maintains a view of transcendent, cosmic teleology which balances his view of nature as an intrinsic formal and final cause.21 20 For a recent example of this approach, see Monte Ransom Johnson, Aristotle on Teleology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), especially chap. 9. 21 Space prohibits a detailed discussion of this matter. For a more thorough treatment, see Lloyd Gerson, Aristotle and Other Platonists (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2005), 122–30 and David Sedley, “Teleology, Aristotelian and Platonic,” in Being, Nature, and Life in Aristotle: Essays in Honor of Allan Gotthelf, ed. James G. Lennox and Robert Bolton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 5–29. 858 Simon Oliver In Metaphysics Λ Aristotle discusses the nature of the good and whether that good is something separated, or whether it is immanent within the order of things: “We must also consider in which sense the nature of the universe contains the good or the supreme good; whether as something separate and independent, or as the orderly arrangement of its parts.”22 He uses the example of an army: does its good lie in the ordered relation of the soldiers, or in the general who stands above them, or in both? Aristotle concludes that the good lies in both, but more in the general because “he is not due to the order, but the order is due to him.” In any order, Aristotle concludes that all things are jointly ordered with respect to one thing in which they all share or participate (pros hen).23 For some interpreters, this seems to imply that the good is immanent in the individual members of any order by virtue of the individuals they are. However, Aristotle surely wants to point out that all individuals work towards a good which transcends their individuality and constitutes a good for the whole. This would certainly be true of Aristotle’s politics in which an individual realizes his good by realizing the good of the city which exists “for the good life.”24 More importantly, it should be remembered that Aristotle does not think in terms of separated and discrete systems in either culture or nature. So we might say that any given order composed of individuals (say that of an army regiment) will itself be part of a wider order (say a nation’s army) and work for its own good, which is constituted also by the good of the whole. So for any given order, there is yet another good which transcends that particular order. Aristotle can therefore state in the De Anima that “every creature strives for this [the divine], and for the sake of this performs all its natural functions.”25 This maintains the distinction described earlier, namely between the goal as the aim of an action (the share in the divine) and the goal as the beneficiary (the creature whose nature is thereby actualized). The former denotes the external “reach” of the creature; the latter indicates an immanent fulfilment. While it seems there are good reasons for concluding that Aristotle avoids a dualistic separation of intrinsic and extrinsic teleology, is a distinction not important for identifying those things which are by nature (which have an internal principle of motion and rest) as opposed to human artefacts whose principles of motion and rest are external? In Aristotelian terms, it can be said that the more exclusively external the prin22 Aristotle, Metaphysics XII.10, 1075a12–a15. 23 Aristotle, Metaphysics XII.10, 1075a19: “πρὸς μὲν γὰρ ἓν ἅπαντα συντέτακται . . .” 24 See Aristotle, Politics I.1, 1252b29–1253a19. 25 Aristotle, De anima, trans. W. S. Hett (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1957), II.4, 415b1–b3, cited in Gerson, Aristotle and Other Platonists, 124. Aquinas and Aristotle’s Teleology 859 ciples of any artefact, the more “violent” is the human use of nature, which is to say that the artefact involves the “forcing” of nature which is contrary to its internal principle of motion and rest. In such artefacts, nature contributes little if anything to the final product. The telos of any such product lies more particularly in the mind of the human artisan; less is contributed by the form of any substance used for the production of the artefact. However, Aristotle does identify forms of artisanship in which the imitation of nature becomes particularly apparent. In the second book of the Physics, he discusses the way in which the earlier and successive stages of natural operations are collectively performed for the achievement of a particular end. The same can be said of art. In both cases, the end will be achieved as long as there are no impediments to the realization of the goal. Human artisanship may involve the removal of impediments to the natural achievement of certain goals. Aristotle concludes that “as a general proposition, the arts either, on the basis of Nature, carry things further than Nature can, or they imitate Nature. If, then, artificial processes are purposeful, so are natural processes too; for the relation of antecedent to consequent is identical in art and in Nature.”26 In this comment, Aristotle is saying a little more than simply “art imitates nature.” Art, we are told, “carries things further than nature can.” Yet art will certainly look like nature in as much as the relation of antecedent and consequent is the same. This means that art at its best will see itself as a consequent continuation or consummation of what has already been achieved by an antecedent nature.While we may distinguish between intrinsic and extrinsic teleology in such circumstances, the two are not juxtaposed. On the contrary, in the greatest artisanship an extrinsic teleology extends and perfects an instrinsic natural teleology. Having sketched these aspects of Aristotle’s understanding of final causes in nature and human deliberation, I now turn to consider Aquinas’s use of this philosophy of nature within his doctrine of grace. Aquinas and the Teleology of Grace It is a commonplace to state that Aquinas’s understanding of both nature and human action is teleological. At the very beginning of his commentary on Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, Aquinas states that . . . a twofold order is found in things. One kind is that of parts of a whole, that is, a group, among themselves, as the parts of a house are mutually ordered to each other. The second order is that of things to an end. This order is of greater importance than the first. For, as the 26 Aristotle, Physics II.8, 199a15–a20. 860 Simon Oliver Philosopher says in the eleventh book of the Metaphysics [Metaphysics Λ], the order of the parts of an army among themselves exists because of the order of the whole army to the commander.27 In the relatively early treatise De veritate,Thomas asks,“Do all things tend towards the good?”28 He uses the example of an arrow which is directed to its target by an archer. In this case, the arrow receives no “form” from that which moves it and such motion is regarded as violent. He also considers a second case in which “what is directed or inclined to an end acquires from the director or mover some form by which such an inclination belongs to it.”29 So Aquinas, following Aristotle, concludes that “he who gave heaviness to the stone inclined it to be borne downward naturally. In this way, the one who begets them is the mover in regard to heavy and light things, according to the Philosopher in the eighth book of the Physics.”30 Aquinas goes on to say that, even in the case of inanimate things, there is a sense in which all things, by virtue of the form which is donated to them, seek their due ends by co-operating with that which moves them. Things are not simply led to the good; they tend towards it by virtue of their own formal nature. Recapitulating Aristotle’s sense of orexis in all natural substances, he states, “To desire or have appetency is nothing else but to strive for something, to stretch, as it were, toward something which is destined for oneself.”31 The notion of “stretching” (tendere) is important because it suggests far more than a general inclination towards something. Rather, it implies an ecstatic striving for the good in which something continually exceeds itself as it moves towards actuality. 27 Aquinas, Sententia libri Ethicorum, I.1.1: “Invenitur autem duplex ordo in rebus. Unus quidem partium alicuius totius seu alicuius multitudinis adinvicem, sicut partes domus ad invicem ordinantur; alius autem est ordo rerum in finem. Et hic ordo est principalior, quam primus. Nam, ut philosophus dicit in XI metaphysicae, ordo partium exercitus adinvicem, est propter ordinem totius exercitus ad ducem.”Translation (slightly adapted) by C. I. Litzinger, O.P., in Aquinas, Commentary on Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics (Notre Dame, IN: Dumb Ox Books, 1993). 28 Aquinas, Quaestiones disputatae de veritate, 22.1. 29 Ibid., responsio: “aliquando autem id quod dirigitur vel inclinatur in finem, consequitur a dirigente vel movente aliquam formam per quam sibi talis inclinatio competat.” Translations (with minor amendments) are by Richard W. Schmidt, S.J., in St. Thomas Aquinas, Truth,Vol. 3 (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 1994). 30 Ibid.: “sicut ille qui dedit lapidi gravitatem, inclinavit ipsum ad hoc quod deorsum naturaliter ferretur; per quem modum generans est motor in gravibus et levibus, secundum philosophum in Lib. VIII Physic.” 31 Ibid.: “appetere autem nihil aliud est quam aliquid petere quasi tendere in aliquid ad ipsum ordinatum.” Aquinas and Aristotle’s Teleology 861 There is, of course, a crucial difference between Aquinas and Aristotle concerning the guidance of natural substances towards their final end in God: creation. Whereas Aristotle taught that the cosmos is of everlasting time, having neither beginning nor end, and whereas Aquinas regarded this position as rationally coherent, nevertheless Christian theology maintains that God creates ex nihilo. As such, God is not simply the selfcontemplating unmoved mover who is the ultimate desire of natural substances but rather the creative source of all things. The doctrine of creation ex nihilo refers not only to a beginning of creation but also to the sustaining of created being at every moment. For Aquinas, created being is, in itself, nothing.32 Creation “is” only by virtue of an improper participation in being itself through a continual divine donation. Even with respect to existence (and not simply motion or desire), all things are, for Aquinas, teleologically orientated pros hen—towards one focus, namely being itself. The implication for an Aristotelian teleology transposed into the context of creation ex nihilo is that the form, which, in its potential guise, is the internal principle of the motion of a natural substance to its proper end, finds its ultimate origin and goal in God.33 This means that the distinction between “internal” and “external” with respect to creation does not imply a self-sufficient or autonomous natural realm. The form by which natural substances make their motion towards their ultimate end in God their own motion is itself the result of God’s gift of created being ex nihilo. The distinction between internal and external is therefore somewhat akin to Aristotle’s distinction between matter and form: just as matter is nothing without form, so too creation is nothing outside of its participation in the divine ideas. 32 Aquinas, Scriptum super Sententiis, book II, d. 1, q. 1, a. 2, responsio: “Secundum est, ut in re quae creari dicitur, prius sit non esse quam esse: non quidem prioritate temporis vel durationis, ut prius non fuerit et postmodum sit; sed prioritate naturae, ita quod res creata si sibi relinquatur, consequatur non esse, cum esse non habeat nisi ex influentia causae superioris.” (Secondly, in the thing that is said to be created, non-being is prior to being. This is not a temporal priority or one of duration, such that what was not before is later, but a priority of nature, so that if the created thing were left to itself, it would consequently not exist, for it has its being only from the causality of the superior cause.) 33 See Aquinas, ST I, q. 15. Lloyd Gerson has shown how the Neoplatonic tradition (particularly Simplicius) sees a harmony between Aristotle and Plato concerning the paradigmatic cause as long as the paradigm, or divine idea, or Form, is not understood univocally with the forms of individual substances. In other words, the Third Man argument can be resisted by claiming that, for example, the Form of horse is not simply another horse. See Lloyd Gerson, Aristotle and Other Platonists (n. 21), 119. 862 Simon Oliver With regard to the combination of appetition and guidance towards the good as a final cause, it is within Aquinas’s doctrine of grace that he makes explicit use of Aristotle’s teleological physics for theological purposes.34 For creatures which do not possess knowledge and understanding, the teleological structure of their actions is straightforward: they imitate the divine by tending towards the actualization of their particular form.35 A heavy object will fall, a bird will fly, and a lion will hunt in accordance with their natures, such behavior springing spontaneously and easily without the need for any kind of deliberation.The goal of their actions is connatural and those actions are achieved by habitual activity which emerges from a formal nature. For humanity, however, the situation is more complex because, although our ultimate end is a vision of the universal good which we will of necessity, the achievement of that good is by means of particular and contingent goods.36 Unlike the universal good, those particular goods are not good from every point of view; humanity must pick its way through this thicket in order to achieve its end. Deliberation concerning the appropriate path to the good is undertaken through interactions of will and intellect.37 These motions are collected to form habits (Aristotle’s hexis), which Aquinas refer to as virtues. Such habits, which are acquired through repetition, practice, and training, are the result of an appropriate blend of intellective and appetitive powers of the soul which actualize a formal nature. Habits (such as the habit of generosity or the habit of learning) may be possessed with more or less intensity; the greater the intensity of a habit, the swifter and easier will be the motion to something’s end by virtue of that habit.38 However, the possession of habits known as virtues is insufficient for humanity to achieve its ultimate end. While there are ends which are connatural to man such as the building of dwellings and the formation of friendships—these being achieved through acquired virtue—because of the corruption of human nature even these connatural ends are difficult 34 A more detailed examination of Aquinas’s deployment of Aristotelian motion in the realms of virtue and grace can be found in Simon Oliver, “The Sweet Delight of Virtue and Grace in Aquinas’s Ethics,” in International Journal of Systematic Theology 7(1) (2005): 52–71. 35 Aquinas, ST I–II, q. 1, a. 8, responsio. 36 Aquinas, ST I–II, q. 10, a. 2, responsio; ad 2 and 3. 37 Aquinas, ST I–II, q. 14, a. 1. For a recent lucid account of this process, see Steven A. Long, The Teleological Grammar of the Moral Act (Naples, FL: Sapientia Press of Ave Maria University, 2007). 38 Aquinas, ST I–II, q. 52, a. 2, responsio; Quaestiones disputatae de virtutibus, q. 1, responsio. Aquinas and Aristotle’s Teleology 863 to achieve.39 However, humanity’s goal is beatitude, a vision of the eternal good and a partaking in the divine nature for “final and perfect beatitude can consist in nothing else than the vision of the divine essence.”40 This is connatural to God alone and is therefore beyond the nature of humanity. In describing this end, Aquinas uses Aristotle’s distinction between the goal as the aim of an action and the goal as the beneficiary of an action.41 First, there is the thing in itself which we desire to attain; secondly, there is the benefit which is enjoyed by that which achieves the desired end. Humanity’s end is therefore twofold. In the first sense, it is an eternal and uncreated reality, namely God whose infinite goodness is our greatest desire. In the second sense, humanity’s end is a creaturely reality in us which is the enjoyment of the vision of God. However, for any being to tend towards its end, it must have not only a natural appetition for that end and the appropriate motion but also a nature proportionate to that end. In other words, if the form is the final cause, a natural substance must have that form potentially and internally. While humanity has a natural desire for the beatific vision, it has no intrinsic proper potency to sharing in the divine nature. It appears that the final end of humanity is defined, and yet it is not achievable. Yet for Aquinas it is impossible for a natural desire to be incapable of fulfilment.42 Therefore, it seems that humanity is in need of a double aid, first to achieve even that which is connatural and, secondly, to attain its ultimate end in the vision of God which is beyond even humanity’s incorrupt nature. In explaining how God moves humanity to its ultimate end in the beatific vision, Aquinas deploys Aristotle’s natural philosophy. His doctrine of grace, in which concepts are deployed analogically in new ways, is therefore in an important sense a continuation of his wider understanding of the 39 Aquinas, ST I–II, q. 109, a. 2, responsio: “Sed in statu naturae integrae, quantum ad sufficientiam operativae virtutis, poterat homo per sua naturalia velle et operari bonum suae naturae proportionatum, quale est bonum virtutis acquisitae, non autem bonum superexcedens, quale est bonum virtutis infusae. Sed in statu naturae corruptae etiam deficit homo ab hoc quod secundum suam naturam potest, ut non possit totum huiusmodi bonum implere per sua naturalia.” (But in the state of perfect nature, as regards the sufficiency of the operative power, man by his natural endowments could wish and do the good proportionate to his nature, such as the good of acquired virtue; but not surpassing good, as the good of infused virtue. But in the state of corrupt nature, man falls short of what he could do by his nature, so that he cannot fulfil it by his own natural powers.) 40 Aquinas, ST I–II, q. 3, a. 8, responsio: “ultima et perfecta beatitudo non potest esse nisi in visione divinae essentiae.” 41 Aquinas, ST, I–II, q. 3, a. 2, responsio. 42 Aquinas, Summa contra Gentiles III, 51, 1. Simon Oliver 864 natural world to which humanity belongs. Things are moved by God in two senses.43 First, while all corporeal motion is reduced the motion of the first heaven, all motion, whether corporeal or incorporeal (for example, the motion of thought), is reduced to the divine first unmoved mover. In addition to this, all formal perfection is from God as first act. In other words, all things are moved by receiving the form whereby they make that motion their own. Of course, in receiving that formal nature from God any natural substances at once receive their own end or final cause because “the form is the final cause.” Aquinas sums this up in his commentary on Aristotle’s Physics: “it is clear that nature is nothing but a certain kind of art, i.e., the divine art, impressed upon things, by which these things are moved to a determinate end. It is as if the shipbuilder were able to give to timbers that by which they would move themselves to take the form of a ship.”44 Therefore, with respect to divine creativity and the motion of nature, the division between internal and external principles, and likewise intrinsic and extrinsic teleology, appears much less definitive than in the case of nature and human artefacts. Although God provides the external end of all things, nevertheless the divine is also the immediate and primary source of nature’s substantial forms which are internal to substances. Although God moves all things to their requisite ends, he does so through the fulfilment of a formal nature in such a way that this motion becomes genuinely the creature’s own. Were God to move a creature to its requisite end without that motion also being an expression of something’s formal nature, the motion would, in Aristotelian terms, be violent and from a purely external source. Yet divine providence is not of this kind; it is at once divine and natural through the act of creation ex nihilo. The importance of God as first unmoved mover and also the source of the form of natural substances whereby they make their actualization their own, is particularly important with respect to humanity’s motion to beatitude. As we have noted, humanity cannot achieve its ultimate end— because of its corrupt nature, but more particularly because the vision of God is connatural to God alone. If humanity were moved directly to the beatific vision, this would constitute a violent motion, because human nature would not, of itself, contribute anything to this movement through its form. Therefore, explains Aquinas, for humanity to achieve its ultimate end prepared by God we require not only the requisite motion and some43 Aquinas, ST I–II, q. 109, a. 1. 44 Aquinas, In libros Physicorum, II, lecture14: “Unde patet quod natura nihil est aliud quam ratio cuiusdam artis, scilicet divinae, indita rebus, qua ipsae res moventur ad finem determinatum: sicut si artifex factor navis posset lignis tribuere, quod ex se ipsis moverentur ad navis formam inducendam.” Aquinas and Aristotle’s Teleology 865 thing which inclines the appetite towards that end, but also “some supernatural form and perfection must be superadded to man whereby he may be ordered suitably to the aforesaid end.”45 In addition to God moving humanity to its appropriate end, grace is also given as an “habitual gift,” namely a form or nature by which humanity can move and be moved to the supernatural end appointed by God. As we have seen, God’s providence extends to creatures not simply by moving them to their appropriate ends but also through the bestowal of forms and powers by which they make that motion their own. Similarly, God provides his grace by which humanity may make its motion to beatitude its own. Importantly, with regard to natural bodies, “the movements whereby they are moved by God become connatural and easy to creatures, according to Wisdom 8:1: ‘she . . . orders all things sweetly.’ ”46 So too, by analogy, God “infuse[s] into such as he moves towards the acquisition of supernatural good, certain forms or supernatural qualities, whereby they may be moved by him sweetly and promptly to acquire eternal good.”47 This grace is not a superadded efficient cause but a formal cause which is therefore internal. In a curious way, the motion to beatitude becomes “natural” in the sense that it genuinely belongs to the creature. The supernatural becomes natural, and the natural becomes supernatural. Aquinas’s distinction between operating and co-operating grace can also be seen to reflect Aristotelian teleology and the contrast between the goal as the aim of an action and the goal as the beneficiary.48 Grace is described as “operative” when, for example, God moves the will interiorly. This operation is attributed to God alone; the divine is the mover, the human will is moved. When humanity moves and is moved towards beatitude, such grace is described as “co-operating.” Although the interior act of the movement of the will is attributed to God, this in turn issues in an exterior act which is the will’s own motion. For example, the human mind may be interiorly moved to will the good (operative grace), which in turn issues in an external act of generosity to one in need (co-operating grace). This latter variety of grace is described as “co-operating” because the divine co-operates with 45 Aquinas, ScG III, 150, 5: “Ergo oportet quod homini superaddatur aliqua super- naturalis forma et perfectio, per quam convenienter ordinetur in finem praedictum.” See also De veritate, q. 27, a. 2, responsio. 46 Aquinas, ST I–II, q. 110, a. 2, responsio: “Et sic motus quibus a Deo moventur, fiunt creaturis connaturales et faciles; secundum illud Sap.VIII, et disponit omnia suaviter.” 47 Ibid.: “Multo igitur magis illis quos movet ad consequendum bonum supernaturale aeternum, infundit aliquas formas seu qualitates supernaturales, secundum quas suaviter et prompte ab ipso moveantur ad bonum aeternum consequendum.” 48 Aquinas, ST I–II, q. 111, a. 2, responsio. 866 Simon Oliver the proper motion of the human will. God is the primary cause of both the interior and exterior motion of the will, yet with regard to the exterior motion the human will becomes a real and potent secondary cause of its own action. Such motions, when practiced and repeated, collectively become what Aquinas calls an “habitual gift.” Such habits are actualizations of a formal human nature so that the works of grace spring naturally from that form. The habit can be characterized as the goal of an action although the actions proceeding from that habitual gift (for example, meritorious works) are beneficial to the agent and the patient. So for Aquinas, “habitual grace, insofar as it heals and justifies the soul, or makes it pleasing to God, is called operating grace; but inasmuch as it is the principle of meritorious works, which proceed from the free-will, it is called cooperating grace.”49 In referring to habitual grace, Aquinas is utilizing the Aristotelian concept of habit (hexis) which refers principally to the way in which a natural substance “holds” or “possesses” itself. Such habits are not the mindless repetition of particular actions but the fullest expression of something’s nature. A concert pianist, for example, plays the piano after countless hours of repetition and practice, and does so as it were “by habit,” without deliberation as her hands move across the keyboard. Yet when a pianist of this calibre plays the piano, she does not forget herself. On the contrary, this is the full actualization of the pianist’s form when she “possesses” herself and is most self-aware. Similarly, with respect to habitual grace, these habits which make us pleasing to God and lead to meritorious works may be performed without deliberation with ease and delight (like a well-practiced pianist), and yet they are the fullest expression of someone’s inner nature. Although the interior principle and the exterior source and goal can be distinguished, they remain also unified. Conclusion In beginning this essay, I described the way in which the distinction between internal and external teleology was important for Aristotle in identifying those things which “are by nature” from human artefacts. While art imitates nature, nevertheless the teleological orientation of those products of human intention and design is substantially exterior. A tree has within itself its own principle of motion and rest such that it moves itself from potency to actuality and the achievement of its proper end, whereas boats and houses do not make themselves. For Aristotle, neither internal nor external teleology is intelligible without a concept 49 Ibid.:“habitualis gratia, inquantum animam sanat vel iustificat, sive gratam Deo facit, dicitur gratia operans, inquantum vero est principium operis meritorii, quod etiam ex libero arbitrio procedit, dicitur cooperans.” Aquinas and Aristotle’s Teleology 867 of dynamic substantial form. For those things which are by nature, the form is interior to the natural substance and contains, in its potential aspect, the end or goal of that substance. The form is the principle of the motion from potency towards actuality and the achievement of the requisite end. Concerning human artefacts, the form lies exteriorly in the mind of the artisan and, by intentional design and through the efficient causation of the use of his tools, the human manufacturer brings about the actualization of a form which is not intrinsic to the natural substances used in the process of making. However, we saw reason to note the ways in which this distinction is not dualistic for Aristotle, for art and nature are not necessarily juxtaposed but can come closer together. This can be seen most particularly in the appetition (orexis) of both inanimate and animate substances towards particular ends and also in the extrinsic cosmic teleological orientation of all things towards the unity of the good. When Aristotle speaks of the tree’s desire to bear fruit, a heavy object’s search for the lowest place, or the marble’s intended fulfilment in a work of art, he does so using language belonging particularly to the intentionality of sentient creatures. Yet his use of such language is not entirely metaphorical. Material nature is never indifferent or inert; by virtue of its form, it is always already orientated to certain ends. As such, material substances, even the inanimate, can contribute something to the achievement of a goal which belongs also to the intention of a human artisan. In certain instances of human artisanship “art may carry things further than nature can” in such a way that the teleology of human creativity can see the internal and the external perfectly united. The human artefact is at once the actualization of the natural materials and also the realization of the intended goal of the artisan. Therefore, the distinction between internal and external teleology is not so much a dualistic division for Aristotle as a way of distinguishing certain kinds of natural behavior from artificial creations, while also recognizing the possibility that, in certain kinds of human art, perhaps the highest human art, the boundary between nature and art is very delicate. Nevertheless, the distinction between internal and external teleology becomes important in early modern philosophy because it allows the formal differentiation of mind and matter. Whereas material nature is subject only to efficient causation, the intentional operation of mind is governed by goals discerned by discursive reason. Teleology is a merely heuristic device for the understanding of those aspects of material nature whose explanation cannot be reduced to efficient causality. This much stronger division between the different varieties of teleology, in which 868 Simon Oliver the internal is reduced to a more fundamental variety of causation, underlines a distinction between human culture, which is orientated towards certain ends, and nature, which is determined and mechanistic. Nature thereby becomes a discrete and self-sufficient realm. Transposed into a theological key, this leads to two characteristically modern points of view. The first is a teleological argument for God’s existence, which understands the divine design of the cosmos as an external teleology which is layered upon a discrete material substratum after the fashion of certain kinds of human artifice. The second is also related to the notion of a self-sufficient nature that features its own internal teleological orientation to which is added an external and essentially foreign teleology in the form of grace.50 Aquinas deploys Aristotelian teleology to understand both nature and grace. As with Aristotle, there is no division of internal and external teleology in such a way that nature becomes a self-sufficient and autonomous domain. Nevertheless, although Aquinas can follow Aristotle’s notion that all things are orientated exteriorly pros hen, towards the unity of a transcendent good, he can associate that transcendence more clearly with immanence because of the Christian doctrine of creation ex nihilo. The primary cause, which infuses itself more deeply in things than all secondary causes,51 is the immediate and intimate sustaining source of the being of all creatures. This means that, at every moment, no creature explains its own existence; instead, every creature points beyond itself to the eternal simplicity of being itself. God is therefore infused most intimately into the heart of every substance through both matter and form. Through the donation of form, which includes the potential orientation to specific ends in the imitation of the divine, God is the source of both the internal and external teleological orientations of creatures. As Aquinas states, God is the supreme artisan in which the internal and external are perfectly unified, for “it is as if the shipbuilder were able to give to timbers that by which they would move themselves to take the form of a ship.” Likewise, Aquinas’s doctrine of grace does not involve the establishment of a teleology which is wholly foreign and external to nature.52 By grace, human nature is “stretched” to take on an enhanced form capable of making motion to its ultimate end its own through both operative 50 On this issue in the thought of Henri de Lubac, see John Milbank, The Suspended Middle: Henri de Lubac and the Debate concerning the Supernatural (London: SCM, 2005), 20–22. 51 Aquinas, Super librum De causis expositio, lectio 1: “Omnis causa primaria plus est influens super suum causatum quam causa secunda universalis.” 52 Aquinas, ScG III, 54, 8. Aquinas and Aristotle’s Teleology 869 and, crucially, co-operative grace. Once again, the divine is both immanent in the transformation of human nature for its motion to beatitude, and transcendent in constituting the infinite end of humanity’s deepest desire. However, is there another way in which Aquinas can specify theologically the intimate infusion of divine goodness into human nature in such a way that internal and external teleology are united in a mode beyond Aristotelian philosophy? Such a fusion we find in the Incarnation, for God is so immanent within human nature that he joins that nature to his own through the hypostatic union (that is, not by mixing but by uniting), while at the same time indicating humanity’s final end in the wedding feast of the Lamb. Christ, in being the way, the truth, and the life ( John 14:6) is both the intimation of our final end and the very means to that end. Christ becomes the source of both freely bestowed and sanctifying grace.53 Freely bestowed grace is that variety which is for the co-operation of human beings with one another, for example, when a Christian teacher moves another to God by example or prophecy. Christ offers this variety of grace because “it was necessary for man to be firmly grounded in virtue to receive from God made human both the teaching and the examples of virtue.”54 Yet Christ is more than a good teacher and fine example; he is also the source of sanctifying grace, that variety by which God directly orders humanity to its final end. This is delivered through the Church, Christ’s Body, of which he is the head: “Christ and his members are one mystical person. Consequently, the works of the head are in some way the works of the members.”55 By the sacraments of the New Law, and particularly the reception of the Eucharist, that grace of Christ is communicated into the body of the Church for the orientation of its members to their final end in the vision of God and “for that reason it was fitting that the grace which overflows from the incarnate Word should be given to us by means of certain external sensible objects; and that from this inward grace, whereby the flesh is subjected to the Spirit, certain external works should ensue.”56 In the sacramental reality of the Church, the distinction between an internal teleological orientation to 53 Aquinas, ST I–II, q. 111, aa. 4 and 5. 54 Aquinas, ScG IV, 54, 7: “Unde necessarium fuit homini, ad hoc quod in virtute firmaretur, quod a Deo humanato doctrinam et exempla virtutis acciperet.” 55 Aquinas, De veritate, q. 29, a. 7, ad 11: “Christus et membra eius sunt una persona mystica, unde opera capitis sunt aliquo modo membrorum.” 56 Aquinas, ST I–II, q. 108, a. 1, responsio: “Et ideo convenit ut per aliqua exteri- ora sensibilia gratia a verbo incarnato profluens in nos deducatur; et ex hac interiori gratia, per quam caro spiritui subditur, exteriora quaedam opera sensibilia producantur.” 870 Simon Oliver beatitude belonging intimately (yet by grace) to humanity, and an external teleology which “stretches” to both the natural creation and the eschaton, is brought into a perfect unity by the creative and redemptive act of God. N&V Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 11, No. 3 (2013): 871–96 871 The Acts of “Turning” and “Returning” in Aquinas C YRUS P. O LSEN III University of Scranton Scranton, PA Introduction I N THIS ESSAY I shall offer a reading of Thomas Aquinas’s notion of consciousness from the perspective of how he views the intellectual “embrace.”1 As an act, consciousness can be appropriately named an “embrace.”2 God’s knowledge of the world is accordingly understood to be an all-encompassing embrace that necessarily circumscribes created realities. All things are thus fully known in and by God. A creature of God capable of knowing never fully approximates nor exactly imitates the divine embrace of creation. Nevertheless, to acquire knowledge for the creature through an intellectual embrace requires analogical reference to God’s manner of knowing. For Aquinas, human consciousness in particular is an act of an intellect united to objects existing outside yet remaining within the agent, an intellectual embrace of something “other” through which the subject becomes aware of its own activity.3 Such a short-hand explanation is dependent upon the notion that God always remains God in knowing that which is other. Absent any reference to a necessarily sensual interaction with the other, and one gains a first glimpse into divine knowing. Here I shall show that Aquinas understands 1 An argument for a greater sense of the bodily nature of God’s embrace is advanced in Oliver Davies, The Creativity of God: Word, Eucharist, Reason (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), passim, esp. 184. 2 I have availed myself of the following translations of Thomas Aquinas: Summa contra Gentiles [ScG], 4 vols. (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1975 [1955–56]); Quaestiones disputatae de veritate [De veritate], 3 vols. (London: Hackett, 1994 [1954]); Summa theologiae [ST], 60 vols. (London: Blackfriars, 1962–76). 3 ST I, q. 94, a. 2; Blackfriars XIII, 91–95; ST I, q. 85, a. 2; Blackfriars XIII, 57–65; ST I, q. 87, a. 3; Blackfriars XIII, 113–17. 872 Cyrus P. Olsen, III the act of consciousness for the human being to be an act remaining in the agent (manens in ipso) that is also incorporative of the material other through an externalization of, or “exit from,” itself (exiens ab ipso) in the form of sense knowledge. Furthermore, it is instructive to place this way of human knowing within the context of the much broader theme of creation’s exit from and return to God. Human knowing thus emulates the pattern of existence that is marked by an “exit” from God’s all-knowing embrace vis-à-vis creation and its subsequent redemptive pilgrimage of return. In a nod to J. R. R. Tolkien, we might say that the pattern is akin to a motion of “There and Back Again.” Furthermore, to return to God, and for consciousness to return from its object to itself, is to be expanded and enriched. The Exitus-Reditus Pattern of Human and Divine Knowing The human intellect gathers itself together from its contact with exterior things.4 Through this motion of gathering, the soul can come to adequate knowledge of its operations: “through knowledge of them [things outside] complete knowledge can be gained of our own intellectual functioning— knowledge of activity (actus) through knowledge of its object. Furthermore, through its functioning (operationem) the human intellect itself can be completely known—knowledge of capacity through its activation (actum).”5 The human power of intellection is not activated by itself in a mode of self-sufficiency. Rather, “intellectual activity is specified by the knowledge-form which makes the intellect to be actually knowing; and this form (species) is the knowledge-likeness of the principal object known.”6 A human intellect “actually knowing” is made possible by the species of an external object, which, as we shall see, is abstracted from the object by the power of intellection. The species is not already present within the knower. For it to be in the self-conscious knower, an extension (extensio) to what is not-self is required. As we shall see, this extensio can be understood as a kind of “embrace.” In contrast, divine knowing possesses all species of things within itself without requiring a determination from something “external” to itself: the “likeness in God is no other than his essence, in which the intelligible natures are included (comprehenditur). Thus there is no question of the divine act of knowledge, or rather God himself, being specified by anything other than the divine essence.”7 According to Aquinas, the proper meaning 4 ST I, q. 94, a. 2 co.; Blackfriars XIII, 93. 5 ST I, q. 94, a. 2 co. Blackfriars XIII, 95. 6 ST I, q. 14, a. 5, ad 3; Blackfriars IV, 21. 7 ST I, q. 14, a. 5, ad 3; Blackfriars IV, 21. “Turning” and “Returning” in Aquinas 873 of comprehendere is “one thing enclosing another (habens et includens alterum). Taken in that sense, all that is comprehended must be finite, as all that is enclosed must be.”8 Things are in God because they are in his knowledge. God contains all created existents in two ways: (1) by intelligible likenesses present as a result of God’s creative power; and (2) by the goodness with which he existentially sustains and governs them.9 God’s creative power remains in God but “extends” to things other than God so that through his power God can know what is other without becoming that other. Aquinas uses the image of remaining in the self (manens in ipso) as an apt means of describing the revealed knowledge that there are processions within God. Aquinas argues that we “cannot conceive divine processions except as corresponding to actions which remain within the agent (actiones quae in agente manent).”10 If we were to say that divine processions could be conceived as somehow exiting the agent, then we would be following the road of Arianism or Sabellianism. According to Aquinas, “careful study of these opinions shows that both took procession to be going forth to something outside (ad aliquid extra).This is why neither posited procession within God himself.”11 These opinions were unable to see an alternative that would allow for procession within God without subordinating the Son or the Spirit to the unoriginate Father. Aquinas preserves the notion of processions within God by means of the “actions which remain in the agent,” namely, understanding and willing. Understanding provides the best analogy for conceiving of processions. The type of procession involved concerns the aim of the procession, whether it is directed outward or inward. An outward procession aims for what is external whereas an internal procession “remains within the agent.” In the human act of understanding, what remains in the agent is the concept of the known thing; it is from this “word of the heart” that the spoken word proceeds outward to communicate what is internal to something external.12 Aquinas’s formulation of the act of the intellect as remaining in the agent, along with its usefulness for describing divine procession, will play a prominent role in my interpretation of Aquinas.We will see that it helps to explain Aquinas’s use of the exitus-reditus schema inherited from 8 ST I, q. 14, a. 3, ad 1; Blackfriars IV, 15. Cf. Thomas Aquinas, Quaestiones dispu- tatae de veritate [= De veritate], q. 2, a. 2, ad 5; Truth, 3 vols., trans. Robert W. Mulligan, James V. McGlynn, Robert W. Schmidt (Cambridge: Hackett Publishing Company, Inc., 1994 [1954]), vol. I, 64. 9 ST I, q. 39, a. 8 co.; Blackfriars VII, 137–39. 10 ST I, q. 27, a. 5 co.; Blackfriars VI, 19; ST I q. 27 a. 3 co.; Blackfriars VI, 13. 11 ST I, q. 27, a. 1 co.; Blackfriars VI, 5. 12 ST I, q. 27, a. 1 co.; Blackfriars VI, 5. Cyrus P. Olsen, III 874 Neoplatonic thought. It also provides a useful context for relating inner and outer processions in Aquinas. Unlike the inner and eternal processions of the divine life, creatures “exit,” “flow out,” or “proceed” from God; they do so “outside of the unity of divine essence, and return to God in whom they have their end, rational creatures being brought back to their principle by the temporal processions of the divine persons.”13 The exitus-reditus pattern of human consciousness is evident in the relationships both between the remaining and exiting and between the conversion to the phantasm and the return to self. God’s relation to the world is one of “comprehending” the world through God’s creative power. As such, the intelligible patterns (ideas) of all things are “contained” (intelligibly) in God. This containment is a type of “embrace,” an intellectual embrace. In a similar manner, human consciousness embraces things other than itself through its intellectual power. For human beings, however, self-return occurs through sensual reception of particular existents. Although particular existents are sensed and initially known in a sensual mode (materially), intellectual knowledge is knowledge of the universal (immaterial) essence of a particular existent.14 Always turned toward the world of existents, knowledge nevertheless eventually prescinds from particulars. The human knower abides in this predicament as a result of his spirit-body composition: remaining rooted in the material, he simultaneously is able to transcend that material in an immaterial way. The act of converting to the phantasm is an immaterial act incorporating material things. It is this immaterial incorporation that brings the human being closest to divine being: “an intellectual creature chiefly becomes like God by the fact that it is intellectual, for it has this sort of likeness over and above what other creatures have, and this likeness includes all others.”15 As an intellectual being, the human knower is able to encompass all other material likenesses within the self and thereby approximate most closely God’s manner of beholding all things within the divine essence. I will be examining first Aquinas’s understanding of the conversion and return with particular attention directed toward the way in which he formulates the ability of the human intellect to “see the essences” of 13 Gilles Emery, Trinity in Aquinas, trans. Matthew Levering et al. (Ypsilanti, MI: Sapientia Press, 2003), 64. 14 ST I, q. 84, a. 7 co.; Blackfriars XII, 43. 15 Thomas Aquinas, Summa contra Gentiles [= ScG ] lib. 3 cap. 25 n. 8; Summa contra Gentiles, 4 vols., trans. Anton C. Pegis, James F. Anderson, Vernon J. Bourke, Charles J. O’Neil (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1975 [1954–56]), here Bourke I, 99. “Turning” and “Returning” in Aquinas 875 created existents (knowledge of the world), of one’s own self (self-knowledge), and, at least in the Beatific Vision, of God (knowledge of God). What is of interest to us is the nature of “seeing”: what is seen by the intellect, how something is intellectually seen, and, above all, the relationship that obtains between knowing our own processes of understanding and knowing God. In Aquinas’s schema, “seeing” the essences is the necessary component of knowing something in an intellectual, immaterial way. All intellectual knowing must thus render the essence of something “visible” to the mind. This is a necessity insofar as intellectual knowledge is not possible without some form of “separation” (abstraction) from the material so that spiritual distance can be gained between the object and the knower whereby the knower can “judge” the degree of adequation of the essence known to the particular individual presented to it. Yet for Aquinas this adequation cannot be fully achieved without recourse to the “ideas” of the divine mind which are the perfect exemplars of what created existents are intended to be. Our inquiry therefore needs to include an explanation of how Aquinas understands divine knowing and its analogous relation to human knowing. Divine self-knowledge also occurs through a return, but a return without a conversion to a phantasm. “For a thing to ‘return to its own essence’ (redire ad essentiam suam) is simply for it to be self-subsistent.”16 The most perfect creaturely beings (such as angels) return to their essences without the complete return from the external object, even if their knowledge extends to sensible objects, because like God they are capable of beholding them in their essences.17 The completion or perfection of a return is based upon the degree that a knower is aware of its essence. Selfconsciousness as the process of “knowing that they know” is variously complicated, as we have noted, by the activity of “going outside” which occurs in all intellectual substances that are not self-subsistent. The primary distinction between God’s perfect (self-subsistent) possession of self-knowledge and that of all created beings is rooted in different types of exit and return (exitus-reditus). We find this to be of particular import when considering the relationship between self-consciousness and identity. Human beings never fully know themselves, until, that is, the time when they will be fully known.18 God’s self-knowledge is perfect, requiring no external reference for the completion of the divine identity. Aquinas’s formulation of divine self-knowledge is influenced by the Neoplatonism of Plotinus, Proclus, and the Pseudo-Dionysius.The tradition 16 ST I, q. 14, a. 2, ad 1; Blackfriars IV, 11. 17 De veritate, q. 1, a. 9 co.; Truth I, 42. 18 See 1 Cor 13:12. 876 Cyrus P. Olsen, III of self-reference from Plotinus and Proclus is particularly important, since it is built upon an ontological metaphor from physical motion whereby circular motion is considered the most perfect type of “movement”:19 that which “returns upon itself ” is the most perfect being. Oliva Blanchette calls the human intellect “pivotal” in the “emanation and return of being in the universe, from the Principle to the effect and back from the effect to the Principle, that is, in function of the intellectual creature whose role it is to collect (colligere) all things through its knowledge and lead them back to the Creator. Indeed, the very notion of return is closely related to the idea of universe, since verti in Latin means to turn.”20 As Rousselot noted, however, Aquinas had not read the third of Plotinus’s Enneads, which contained the classical exposition on the appetite of all things for God; had he read this, according to Rousselot, he “would have found there some ideas he had made his own,” namely the commonality between connaturality and the “principle” of love.21 In the case of created intellects, ontological perfection is achieved through movement; this is in contradistinction to the divine intellect’s unmoved act.22 Yet for Aquinas movement must be understood “equivocally” (æquivoce) in any discussion of this “act of understanding” (intelligere).23 Aquinas clarifies what he means by “equivocally” in relation to the expressions “to move” and “to be passive” in the act of understanding: “Aristotle uses the word ‘equivocal’ in a broad sense to include the analogical; thus he sometimes says that ‘being’ which is used analogically, is used equivocally of the different categories.”24 Aquinas agrees with Aristotle that an “equivocal” definition is a particular type of analogy. An equivocal term can include analogy, but an analogous term need not be equivocal. “Movement” is considered equivocal for persons, because the intellectual act is always one; its operations are simultaneous in the order of understanding.We nonetheless require an explanation as to the “order” of the simultaneity of this understanding. The result is an account that must entail language that is like movement in that something is going from potency to act but unlike movement in that the intellect is not undergoing some material change in its location. 19 Cf. De veritate, q. 1, a. 2 co.; Truth I, 10; De veritate, q. 10, a. 8, ad 10; Truth II, 43. 20 Oliva Blanchette, The Perfection of the Universe According to Aquinas (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1992), 298. Rousselot, The Problem of Love in the Middle Ages (Milwaukee, WI: Marquette University Press, 2005), 117. 22 Cf. De veritate, q. 13, a. 1 co.; Truth II, 342. 23 ST I, q. 14, a. 2, ad 2; Blackfriars IV, 11. 24 ST I, q. 13, a. 10, ad 4; Blackfriars III, 89. 21 Pierre “Turning” and “Returning” in Aquinas 877 What is equivocal about “motion” or “passivity” for Aquinas is the shared ratio of knowing through contact with something that was previously unknown or not encountered, as in human knowing. The divine intellect obviously differs from this human process of “movement.” The divine intellect is not moved by anything external: God beholds things within Himself and requires no external reference.25 In accounting for God’s knowledge of other things, we must note “that a thing can be known in two ways: in itself, or in another.” To know something in another is to know in something that is not one’s own; for instance, Aquinas uses the image of a mirror in which is seen a “likeness” of one’s self.26 Or, when the “eye” perceives a person through the likeness of a “species” the eye knows in another, as in seeing a picture of a person. God’s knowing differs. God can reflect upon God’s own essence, which contains all other essences. God has no need of “sensible likenesses,” because God’s power of creation, God’s “ideas” of created existents, are contained in the divine essence. Beings issue forth from God as from the first cause. God thus knows their being through God’s own power of causality. God requires no conversion to a phantasm, simply because the entirety of creation is “ ‘in” God through God’s creative knowledge. It is through participation in this divine creative “light” that humanity is capable of exercising its own intellectual powers to come to know self, world, and God. Material Rendered Immaterial in the Act of Knowing: Conversio ad Phantasma Aquinas’s account of human cognition is related to his account of angelic and divine knowing. Angels and God are entirely immaterial in nature with no intrinsic or necessary relation to matter. The human person, on the other hand, is inseparable from matter and must seek to emulate the degrees of perfect return that angels and God make upon themselves as intellectual immaterial beings. In human knowing, the conversion to the sensible phantasm makes possible the “return of the subject to itself,” the latter being Aquinas’s expression of self-consciousness. The act of human knowing is a self-return involving contact with matter. 25 De veritate, q. 2, a. 1, ad 5; q. 2, a. 2, ad 2; q. 2, a. 3, ad 2; q. 2, a. 3, ad 6; q. 2, a. 3, ad 14; q. 2, a. 14, ad 11; Truth I, 57–58, 63, 72, 74, 75, 129. 26 Cf. Rodolphe Gasché, The Tain of the Mirror: Derrida and the Philosophy of Reflec- tion (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1986), 43–45 for use of the “mirror” in German Idealism; cf. also Cyril O’Regan, Gnostic Apocalypse: Jacob Boehme’s Haunted Narrative (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2002), 261, n. 40: “since ‘speculation’ is not other than ‘reflection’ but rather its realization, then speculative knowledge means self-authenticating knowledge derived through the activity of mirroring.” Cyrus P. Olsen III 878 Aquinas’s attribution of potentiality to the human intellectual soul emphasizes its receptivity while leaving open its genuinely active nature.27 The light of the human intellect is its own; its illuminating capacity is not something coming from without, but a power possessed by the human being reflecting a participation in a higher intellect. The distinction between human and divine knowing must be maintained: the knowing that occurs in the human intellect is genuinely the activity of the individual and not a mere manifestation of a higher intellect making use of human form. Each individual human being makes use of their own intellectual capacity to know material objects in an immaterial way.28 This process requires phantasms. Phantasma can have two English meanings: (1) appearance, illusion, or apparition, synonymous with phantasia and visio; (2) as image or fancy, the representation of a thing in its absence and synonymous with imaginatio, phantasia, and theorema.29 Notice the synonym “visio” in the first sense; Aquinas frequently uses the metaphor of “seeing” color to illustrate what is meant by the conversion to the phantasm.30 “The object is related to the actuation of a potency as its source and cause of change (movens); thus in affecting sight, colour is the source of the act of sight (color enim inquantum movet visum est principium visionis).”31 Similarly, in being the “likeness” of an object in the intellect, the phantasm can be said to be the source and cause moving the intellect toward knowledge. For instance, God is said to be the cause of created motion by “touching” creation, but in God’s own unique fashion as in grief touching the griever, which is a “contact” of power.32 Phantasmata occur in beings endowed with sensibility (intellect wedded to sense) as they come into physical contact with objects. What the intellect sees at first glance when “lighting” objects in the world is likened to the seeing of non-essential (accidental) properties like colors. Phantasmata are like accidental properties. Their role in the process of knowing is to be present to the mind as likenesses of properties through which the substance of an object can be known.33 27 Cf. ST I, q. 79, a. 4 co.; Blackfriars XI, 159–61. 28 Cf. ST I, q. 105, a. 5 co.; Blackfriars XIV, 75–79 for divine activity in humanity that leaves the latter intact. 29 Cf. Roy J. Deferrari, A Latin-English Dictionary of St. Thomas Aguinas (Boston: Daughters of St. Paul,1986), 791. 30 Cf. ST I, q. 75, a. 2, ad 3; Blackfriars XI, 13. 31 ST I, q. 77, a. 3 co.; Blackfriars XI, 99. 32 Cf. ST I, q. 105, a. 2, ad 1; Blackfriars XIV. 65; De potentia, q. 3, a. 7 co. Cf. Simon Oliver, Philosophy, God and Motion (New York: Routledge, 2005), 5, 103–4 for further references. 33 Cf. De veritate, q. 13, a. 1, ad 1; Truth II, 343. “Turning” and “Returning” in Aquinas 879 The complete act of knowing occurs through abstraction from phantasms, which makes the substantial essence “visible” to the mind’s eye in a manner similar to the way in which color makes form visible through giving form determinative properties available to the five senses. Accidents give particular sensate properties to the form, thus enhancing the dimensionality and texture of form. Similarly, phantasms are the likenesses of these sensate properties through which the mind makes truly visible the extra dimension of a form’s intelligibility or essence. Something touched, for example, may not be visible per se, but the activity of touching provides the intellect with phantasms that permit a person to make a judgment about that which is touched. The touched object is; it has existence as a being in a particular material form that can be known by intellect. The form existing in the intellect is produced by the intellect in conjunction with what it has received through the senses, the species corporum or phantasms. Through the species corporum and phantasms the intellect is able to possess the form of an existent immaterially;34 this is in accordance with the immaterial form of the knower. Since the mode of action of the agent’s form renders received material immaterial, forms existing in the intellectual soul do not enjoy an independent order of esse; neither are they subsistent existents nor mere recollections. Existing in the soul they are rather of the same immaterial esse as the immateriality of the human soul. The act of the knower thus renders matter immaterially. Only in this way is the immaterial soul united to a material body able to receive and have conscious knowledge of material bodies other than itself. Aquinas thinks that a being’s degree of immateriality determines its capacity as a knower as well as its freedom.35 The greater the immateriality, the greater the expanse of knowledge for that being, since it is in possession not only of its own form but also of the form of another as well.36 Possession of others’ forms in oneself is a display of a higher degree of (material) esse, not of a different order of (immaterial) esse. Human consciousness for Aquinas is an activity internal to the soul incorporating the material “other” in an immaterial mode. The intellectual soul may be non-material, but phantasms are only potentially non-material. Aquinas must thus explain how it is that this likeness is rendered immaterially. Then we will be better situated for understanding how the intellectual soul itself is moved to actuality in grasping the natures of things. For Aquinas, the human intellect is divided into the “active intellect,” which abstracts from matter and renders it immaterial in the knower, and the “passive intellect,” which is able to be in-formed by 34 ST I, q. 84, a. 1, ad 1; Blackfriars XII, 11. 35 ST I, q. 14, a. 1 co.; Blackfriars IV, 7. 36 ST I, q. 14, a. 1 co.; Blackfriars IV, 7. Cyrus P. Olsen III 880 sensible species, which are “likenesses” (similitudines) of sensed objects.37 The senses provide “likenesses” that are always-already intellectually constituted, since sensibility itself is an activity of an animal endowed with intellect (hence the ambiguity of the active-passive distinction, since even the “passive intellect” is not merely a “storehouse” of received impressions). Aquinas holds that “in sense-knowledge the knowledge-form (species sensibilis) is the likeness (similitudo) of one individual only; so by means of it only one individual (individuum) can be known.”38 It is “by means of ” this likeness that the essence (quidditas) is known; the likeness itself is to be passed through. The “active intellect,” in contrast, works upon the sensible likeness and extracts an “intelligible species” (species intelligibilis). The “intelligible species” has a universal character and must accordingly be “abstracted” from the sensible species; the sensible, being a likeness of a particular thing, cannot be said to be “universal.” The particular thing is known, but it is known under the aspect of the “universal nature” that has been abstracted from the received senseimages. The proper object of the intellect still remains the essence: the “universal natures existing in a particular things.” Natures of things (species rerum) are thus non-material essences. The essence is not found behind, or in spite of, the existent itself, but is always already wrapped into the particular and individual existent as it appears (whether in the past, for the imagination, or present, for the senses in act).Yet this essence is universal. “The name intellect arises from the intellect’s ability to know the most profound elements of a thing; for to understand (intelligere) means to read what is inside a thing (intus legere).”39 What is “read inside a thing” is its essence. Universals are abstracted from all material relations: their non-materiality in the mind of the human knower constitutes their universality, since “universals” are not in themselves encountered by the senses. Particulars are experienced by the human knower in sensibility (an intellectual endowment resulting from the interaction of sense and intellect), yet they are not “known” by the intellect until the mind has gone through the process of abstracting the universal from the particular and then returned to itself. This process of knowing the universal in the particular—however active the “mind” of the knower—is initiated by the object. “Thomas Aquinas has a non-subject-centred conception of the self: the objects out there in the world become intelligible in the act of awakening the intellectual acts on our part which mani37 ST I, q. 79, a. 4, ad 4; Blackfriars XI, 161–63. Cf. also ScG lib. 2 cap. 77 n. 3; Anderson, 247. 38 ST I, q. 14, a. 12 co.; Blackfriars IV, 43. 39 De veritate, q. 1, a. 12 co.; Truth I, 50. “Turning” and “Returning” in Aquinas 881 fest our intelligence.”40 Only in the contrastive light of things in the world does the human intellect become aware of its own light. When the sensible species is turned into the intelligible species, the sensible can then be understood, at least in one of the presentations of “species,” as being a particular instance of the universal. The species intelligibilis in the intellect is applicable to an unlimited number of objects; in the case of having the species “human,” one knows the nature of all humans without knowing specific instances. The species intelligibilis “is not the likeness of humans in what makes them individuals, but only in what makes the species.”41 Species are uniquely identifiable through the “principle” (principia) underlying that species. The principle “makes” or “constitutes” the species. Intelligible species, then, are cognitive “likenesses” of principles latent within created species, and the ultimate “principle” existentially sustaining the human being is God. But God can be “seen” (in this life) only through embodied likenesses, excepting the “rapturous” moment which we shall explain near the end of this essay. Both the intellectual soul and the phantasms are brought from potency to act through their openness and receptivity to something other. Aquinas’s juxtaposition of “potentialities” is quite clear: the non-material intellectual soul is receptive to (in potentia) non-material “likenesses” of material objects, whereas the phantasms are still too weighed down by their “likenesses” to material objects and are thus in need of some external act through which they will become non-material. Phantasms that have been “acted upon” by the intellect become intelligible species. “Since the phantasm is itself a likeness of a particular thing, the imagination does not need a further likeness of a particular, as does the intellect.”42 The intellect needs the likenesses of material things derived from the phantasms. Phantasms themselves are thus necessary for the human intellectual soul insofar as it turns to them for the true and complete grasp of the “proper object” or essence. Again, by turning to phantasms the intellect is able to “look at” (speculetur) an essence.43 However, the human intellect does not “look at” the world through the mirror (speculum) of its own essence, for that would require the possession of innate species, which is contrary to Aquinas’s notion of turning to the phantasms.44 This mode of knowing is proper to God in whom all things 40 Fergus Kerr, Versions of Aquinas (Oxford: Blackwells, 2003), 27. 41 ST I, q. 14, a. 12 co.; Blackfriars IV, 43; translation amended. 42 ST I, q. 84, a. 7, ad 2; Blackfriars XII, 43. 43 ST I, q. 84, a. 7 co.; Blackfriars XII, 43. 44 Cf. ST I, q. 84, a. 3 co.; Blackfriars XII, 19–21. Cf. also Kevin Corrigan, Plotinus’ Theory of Matter-Evil and the Question of Substance: Plato, Aristotle, and Alexander of 882 Cyrus P. Olsen III are contained immaterially: “God alone . . . understands everything by means of his own essence—not so the human soul or even an angel.”45 The human soul requires its own fashioned nature (species), which is the result of the soul’s activity and therefore imbued with its substance. What is “looked at” is still not in the mirror of the human soul, however. The “seen” object is an immaterial essence of the thing outside the self. The reason (ratio) that material things known exist in the knower not materially but immaterially “is that the act of knowing goes out (se extendit ) to things outside the knower—for we do know things which are outside ourselves.”46 Alternative word-choices to the Blackfriars translation of se extendit as “goes out,” provide new insight into article 84: the terms comprises, or embraces, or includes, capture more readily the sense that knowing is an immaterial possession of a material object within the self. For the human act of knowing is an assimilation of another into the higher form of the intellectual soul. By giving greater prominence to the spatial metaphor of an inclusive embrace, we also gain a clearer view of the way in which human knowing images divine knowing, since God knows all created existents through knowing God’s self.47 Human selfreflection uncovers the ways in which the human intellectual embrace falls short of God’s perfect beholding of created existents. Humanity’s access to the essence of an existent depends upon direct contact with an existent’s sensible properties, and these can be received at varying levels of depth and accuracy. The “treasury” that is the human imagination requires constant re-filling, unlike the freely overflowing divine imagination that brings forth new forms that humanity can only receive and imitate. Aquinas’s awareness that human beings can never “comprehend” or “embrace” God speaks well to the dissimilarity present in the similarity between human and divine intellection. There are no limits to God’s embrace, whereas the human being’s intellectual embrace is limited to its capacities. And since the human being’s “capacity for God” is itself a gift, one consummated in the “created” light of glory, the analogy with God’s embrace is simply related to humanity’s embrace of worldly existents. However, we must not overlook the fact that this assimilation also requires the exiens ab ipso which occurs through the senses. The intellectual remaining (manens) is only possible through the union of the soul with the body; it is through its contact with what is “other” in sense Aphrodisias (Leuven: Peeters, 1996), 212, n. 32 for a brief history of “matter” as the receptacle, or “mirror,” of the intelligible universe. 45 ST I, q. 84, a. 2 co.; Blackfriars XII, 17. 46 ST I, q. 84, a. 2 co.; Blackfriars XII, 15. 47 Cf. De veritate, q. 2, a. 3, s. c. 2; Truth I, 68. “Turning” and “Returning” in Aquinas 883 knowledge that the intellect knows anything. This is of the essence of the conversion-return pattern of knowing. Summa theologiae I, q. 84, a. 2 co., concerns the appropriate interpretation of the Aristotelian dictum “anima esse est quodammodo omnia.”48 The human soul can be in a way all things. To be another thing while remaining one’s own particular material self requires some mode of interior relation to the other in the act of knowing. As we have seen, the solution lies in immateriality. Another thing can be in a knower in the mode of immateriality and looked at as it is comprised by the intellect. The act of knowing includes things which are outside: the knower has greater scope and extension (amplitudinem et extensionem).49 The human is thus a material comprehensor, one who includes other bodies within its own body in an immaterial mode. Since the intellect converts itself to a species that exists within itself, the act of knowing is a remaining in the self.50 Knowing takes place within the agent, which means that it has its terminus in itself through its possession of the object: “the object in the agent is the activity actually taking place.”51 Yet this remaining greatly differs from the divine remaining, for it is possible only because the human soul is first in a state of embracing what is external to itself as a result of its being a material body-soul unity. The agent’s form is constituted to receive other forms in accordance with the principle that the higher (immaterial) power can encompass lower (material) determinations. Whereas divine knowing always possesses the knowledge-likeness of a thing (species intelligibilis) present in God’s own substance, human knowing is always in potency to knowledge-likenesses that are external to its own substance.52 By converting to the phantasm the human knower beholds the “other” in itself immaterially, just as God beholds all things, possible and actual, within God’s own self, since God’s knowledge is the cause of things.53 In human knowing, the conversion to the phantasm makes possible the “return of the subject to itself ” (reditio subjecti in seipsum), involving the subject in an exitus-reditus pattern of motion. In the “return to self ” we find the chiaroscuro in Aquinas’s contrast between the divine and human intellects: the divine intellect is the perfect “return to self,” 48 Cf. ST I, q. 14, a. 1 co.; Blackfriars IV, 7; ST I, q. 84, a. 2, arg. 2; Blackfriars XII, 11; ST I, q. 84, a. 2, ad 2; Blackfriars XII, 17; De veritate, q. 2, a. 2 co.; Truth II, 561. 49 ST I, q. 14, a. 1 co.; Blackfriars IV, 7. 50 ST I, q. 14, a. 4, ad 1; Blackfriars IV, 7. 51 ST I, q. 14, a. 2 co.; Blackfriars IV, 9. 52 ST I, q. 14, a. 2 co.; Blackfriars IV, 11. 53 ST I, q. 14, a. 8 co.; Blackfriars IV, 31; ST I, q. 14, a. 9, ad 3; Blackfriars IV, 35. 884 Cyrus P. Olsen III whereas the human intellect must engage in a movement beyond itself in order to achieve a “return to self ” that is the mark of a free intellectual being. We must turn next to the place of the phantasm in consciousness as such, in order to fill out our understanding of how Aquinas renders human knowing analogous to the act of divine knowing. Consciousness, Movement, and the Analogy of Generation The human intellect converts to the phantasm received from another existent in order to gain intellectual distance54 from the other and to offer a judgment as to its nature. It is also through the phantasm that the human intellect is able to offer a judgment as to the nature of itself: “even our intellect understanding itself is within itself, not only as identified with itself by its essence, but also as grasped by itself in the act of understanding.”55 That self-knowledge is naturally internal brings Aquinas to the judgment that the dictum that one knows oneself by a self-return is metaphorical.56 Being directed away from the self can coexist with the reality that the self is never completely lost in its contact with the other. Returning from the phantasm is still an occurrence, and eventful happening, within the self, even though what is known is external. A “return” implies that a journey “away” from the self has occurred. When speaking of the motion of the human intellect, the body is always included: “Whereas we tend to imagine motion in terms of ‘towards’ or ‘away from’ something, for Aquinas it seems that motion is more fundamentally understood to take place ‘within,’ or ‘enveloped by,’ esse ipsum.”57 This does not mean that all creaturely knowing is ultimately God’s activity, as Avicenna would have it. Rather, this notion of being always “enveloped by” God aptly expresses God’s intimacy with the created order. The motions of human intellectual activity, always related to the motion of other bodies, are thus enmeshed within the act of “to be” (esse) such that all human knowledge is rooted in divine actuality. Where precisely has the subject returned from? Our question is of particular interest when we ask it of Aquinas’s account of God’s own return to self, since it is again in comparison to God’s perfect return to self that the human return is adjudged and where the contrast is to be found in the notion of the act of 54 According to Aristotle, “it seems that in defining contraries of every kind men have recourse to a spatial metaphor, for they say that those things are contraries which, within the same class, are separated by the greatest possible distance.” Aristotle, Categories, part 6, trans. E. M. Edghill. 55 ScG lib. 4, cap. 11, n. 9; O’Neil, 83. 56 De veritate, q. 2, a. 2, ad 2; Truth I, 63. 57 Oliver, Philosophy, God and Motion, 104. “Turning” and “Returning” in Aquinas 885 “movement.” If humanity images divinity in its exit and return from self, how does Aquinas account for a similar divine motion without compromising God’s immutability? Next we must examine the connections between the movement implied in the “return to self ” (consciousness) and Aquinas’s attempt to address the “motions” of eternal generation. Aquinas simultaneously addresses the theological doctrine of eternal generation and the philosophical dilemmas of movement and immutability through the use of an analogy of generation: the generation of a word by the human intellect. Not only does Aquinas offer an explanation as to how self-consciousness occurs in human knowing through its relationship to language, but he also manages to offer an explanation as to how God the Father can eternally generate the Son without involving Himself in change. The key to the analogy is intelligibility: since God is immaterial and eminently intelligible, all generation within God can also retain the character of immateriality, and thus, of immutability. Our experience of the intellectual generation of a word is as close as the human person approximates to an immaterial form of perfect activity like God’s. In Summa contra Gentiles book 4 article 11, Aquinas offers a hierarchical account of self-reflexivity (“reflection”) as it relates to the movement of “emanation.” For Aquinas, only animate bodies provide us with examples of emanation that will aid our understanding of the primacy and perfection of intellection, since there can be no emanations in inanimate bodies “except by the action of some one upon another one.”58 A proper understanding of the movement of “emanation” must thus incorporate those bodies that exhibit self-movement. All imperfect creatures lack the perfection of absolute self-movement, “since the emanation is always from some first to some second.”59 This includes the phenomenon of human intellectual self-reflection. “For the human intellect, although it can know itself, does indeed take the first beginning of its knowledge from without, because it cannot understand without a phantasm.”60 The human being is the highest instance of an embodied self-mover, but even its own “emanation” is contingent. This is because of the composite nature of the human being: it is a soul-body, form-matter composition. God however is no composite, but ultimate simplicity: “the ultimate perfection of life belongs to God, in whom understanding is not other than being . . . accordingly, the intention understood in God must be the divine essence itself.”61 God’s “emanation” is never “from some first to 58 ScG lib. 4, cap. 11, n. 2; O’Neil, 80. 59 ScG lib. 4, cap. 11, n. 4; O’Neil, 81. 60 ScG lib. 4, cap. 11, n. 5; O’Neil, 81. 61 ScG lib. 4, cap. 11, n. 5; O’Neil, 81; ScG lib. 1, cap. 45; Pegis, 173–74. 886 Cyrus P. Olsen III some second” but always a circular self-generation that only “goes out” of itself in a free decision to will the other.62 Creation is one such freely willed result. At the center of this hierarchy of movement and emanation in human beings is the intention understood or “what the intellect conceives in itself of the thing understood.”63 This is not the “thing” understood, nor is it the “substance of the intellect.” Rather, “it is a certain likeness of the thing understood conceived in the intellect . . . which the exterior words signify.”64 Aquinas calls this the verbum interiore (interior word). The soul does not know itself directly by looking within because “its being is not its act of understanding.”65 The verbum interiore gives a person access to him- or her-self, but since it is an element in the process of converting to the phantasm, it remains simply a medium through which the essence is known, for it contains material reference. The divine intellect, in contrast, “does not pass from potency to act, but is always actually existent . . . must necessarily have always understood itself.”66 It is also important to note that the context of the treatise on Trinitarian generation “does not deal directly with the necessary presence of the word in all processes of intellectual understanding, for its focus is narrowed more precisely to the knowledge of self in order to consider by analogy a true Word in God.”67 This narrowed sense of the analogy then focuses our attention also toward the generation of truth in the use of language—hence the importance for Aquinas and subsequent tradition of the “intention” as it is manifested in the word itself. Since God is incorporeal, we are “left to understand the divine generation according to an intellectual emanation.”68 As we have only begun to illustrate, God does not receive anything from without, and thus the “very Son begotten by the Father is not outside the Father, but in Him.”69 The “Word” of God, the Son, is generated in like manner to the interior generation of the intellectual word, but since God’s essence actually is 62 Cf. Philipp W. Rosemann, Omne Agens Agit Sibi Simile: A “Repetition” of Scholas- tic Metaphysics (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1996), 35, 278 for background on this notion of circularity. 63 ScG lib. 4, cap. 11, n. 5; O’Neil, 81. 64 ScG lib. 4, cap. 11, n. 5; O’Neil, 81. Cf. Emery, Trinity in Aquinas, 99. 65 ScG lib. 4, cap. 11, n. 6; O’Neil, 82. Cf. T. F. Torrance, “Scientific Hermeneutics, According to St. Thomas Aquinas,” Journal of Theological Studies 13 (1962): 266, n.2. 66 ScG lib. 4, cap. 11, n. 10; O’Neil, 83. 67 Emery, Trinity in Aquinas, 99. 68 ScG lib. 4, cap. 11, n. 8; O’Neil, 83. 69 ScG lib. 4, cap. 11, n. 8; O’Neil, 82. “Turning” and “Returning” in Aquinas 887 existence, the “being of the Word interiorly conceived, or intention understood, is the very act of being understood.”70 Procession and generation here must therefore be understood analogously with the operations of the intellect: the movement of change implied is intellectual and can be said to occur in a more eminent (eminenter) manner within God, an eternal movement that never required, yet freely chose to involve, finite being. The generation of the Son within the Godhead is the principium— principle and beginning—of the generation of the world. Just as our act of understanding takes its beginning from the senses, so divine self-understanding is related to the beginning (inner-Trinitarian relations) that is God’s own self: “his act of understanding is the principle of things understood by Him, since they are caused by His intellect and will; but His act of understanding is referred to the intelligible which He Himself is as to a beginning, for this intelligible is identified with the intellect understanding, whose emanation, so to say, is the Word conceived.”71 By echoing the Trinitarian mode of eternal procession through their generation of words expressing intelligible content, conscious beings are capable of reflecting God’s own self-understanding. Accordingly, the analogy must preserve the similarity in difference, in order that we might read Aquinas more precisely. Aquinas may not equate the soul’s emanation with God’s freely creative emanations, but he does liken the “light” of the human intellect to the divine uncreated light. “For the intellectual light in us is nothing more than a participating likeness of the uncreated light in which the divine ideas are contained.”72 Here Aquinas lays the ground for subsequent use in apologetics of the comparison between the human “light” of the intellect and knowledge of the divine light based upon participation. Aquinas understands this participation in two ways. First, he thinks in terms of the effect’s participation in its cause: “God is the first exemplar cause of all things,” and this gives each being its distinctive pattern of intelligibility.73 Each being in the world has its place and purpose based upon the intelligible pattern of its form, which must be given to it from the divine intellect. In this way, the world can again be likened to the generation of words, since created beings express an intelligible content in a physical, incarnated manner. As the “effects” of God’s causality, created things show forth their participation in the intelligibility of the cause. While “a relationship to a cause does not enter into 70 ScG lib. 4, cap. 11, n. 11; O’Neil, 83; ScG lib. 1, cap. 16; Pegis, 100–101. 71 ScG lib. 4, cap. 11, n. 14; O’Neil, 86. 72 ST I, q. 84, a. 5 co.; Blackfriars XII, 33. 73 ST I, q. 44, a. 3 co.; Blackfriars VIII, 17; ST I, q. 44, a. 4, ad 4; Blackfriars VIII, 23. 888 Cyrus P. Olsen III the definition of a being that is caused, nevertheless it follows from what is bound up in a being by participation, for from the fact that a thing is such it follows that it is caused by another.”74 A “being by participation” is not self-caused but caused by another. Second, for Aquinas there is participation through the likeness of created form to divine form. “Each thing participates in being according to its relation to the first principle of being. Now what is composed of matter and form has being in virtue ( per consecutionem) of its form; therefore it is related through its form to the first principle of being.”75 The notion of imperfect resemblance in participation (“God’s effects resemble God as far as they can, but not perfectly”)76 shows itself here as well, since the “form” that any participatory being is happens to be an imperfect realization or approximation to God’s perfect form that is esse subsistens. Every being is actual to the degree that it measures up to God’s non-composite form, and each one contributes to the hierarchy of being with the human person at the top of the created material order since the human form includes the “likeness” of the intellectual soul. Every form has being, and every being approaches the likeness of God’s simple being; therefore “it must be that form is nothing else than a divine likeness that is participated in by things . . . the nearer a thing comes to divine likeness, the more perfect it is.”77 The human person is “privileged” to participate fully in both the material and immaterial created orders. Although the human person is a “composite” in the sense of being both matter and form, body and spirit, and is thus “less” than a perfect example of God’s nature, this creature is able to express most fully within material creation the “form” of God through its “participative” intellect. In both notions of participation there is a likeness or “similitude” between the participant and the origin. “This likeness . . . is rather indicative of a certain imperfect image than of any consubstantiality.”78 The “light” of the human intellect must then be understood as an effect of the divine light as cause, as well as an aspect of the total human form that reflects God’s form, but in a limited manner. The first type of participation is exemplified by a likeness of selfknowledge, which in God’s case never involves a conversion to the phantasm or recourse to a “journey” away from self. Rather, God is the perfect 74 ST I, q. 44, a. 1, ad 1; Blackfriars VIII, 7. 75 Thomas Aquinas, Super librum De Causis expositio, lect. 25 [84260]; Commentary on the Book of Causes, trans. V. A. Guagliardo, C. R. Hess, R. C. Taylor (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1996), prop. 25. 76 ST I, q. 3, a. 3, ad 2; Blackfriars II, 31. 77 ScG lib. 3, cap. 97, n. 3; Bourke II, 67. 78 ScG lib. 2, cap. 85, n. 14; Anderson, 289. “Turning” and “Returning” in Aquinas 889 form of self-relation, who knows even created things by means of His own creative power, the source of all intelligible natures: “we should say that the divine wisdom holds the originals of all things, and these we have previously called the Ideas, that is the exemplar forms existing in the divine mind.”79 Reading the effect for its cause requires that one discern the intelligible nature resident in God’s mind but inchoately displayed in the creature. “Thomas held that the power of the intellect in penetrating into the essence of a thing, into its ultimate structure or spiritual content [intelligible pattern], would not be possible were it not that man has been given to share in the divine light.”80 Human knowledge of the cosmos is thus conceived as a gift of participation in divine knowledge. Without the participation of the intellect in God’s light, we could not make sense of Aquinas’s use of mensura (measure), which proves so central to his view on how persons know the world: he explicitly relates mens (mind) and mensura.81 For example, the nature of the light of intellect to “measure” things in the world requires that things be measured according to their nearness to God’s perfection, which implies that the knower possesses some sense or awareness of this measure. “ ‘Thou hast ordered all things in measure, and number, and weight’82 (Wisd. 11:21). Thus, we may understand by measure: the amount, or the mode, or degree, of perfection attaining to each thing.”83 The ability to “measure” things in the world, in other words, points us toward the idea that the human intellect participates in a measure greater than its own. The second type of participation allows “light” to be understood as a deficient yet fully active mode of God’s light, and the mark of this is the human “need” of conversion to the phantasm. Form gives being to matter, and the material “being” of the human “form” is given by God, Being itself: spiritual-corporeal: “Form is something ‘of God’ in things created by God.”84 Since form relates an existent to the perfection of God—the more perfect the form the more like God that form is—the 79 ST I, q. 44, a. 3 co.; Blackfriars VIII, 17. 80 Torrance, “Scientific Hermeneutics,” 262. 81 Cf. De veritate, q. 10, a. 1 co.; Truth I, 61. Cf. Francesca Murphy, “The Sound of the Analogia Entis: Part I,” New Blackfriars 74 (1993): 508–21, esp. 516. 82 Augustine sees from this how all creatures bear the Trinity with the Father as measure, Son as number, and Holy Spirit as weight: cf. Augustine, Confessions 5.4.7; De Trinitate 3.9.18; De Doctrina Christiana, 4.20.41; Serge Lancel, Augustine (London: SCM Press, 2002), 133. Thanks are owed to David V. Meconi, S.J. for these references. 83 ScG lib. 3, cap. 97 n. 10; Bourke II, 69. 84 Rudi te Velde, Participation and Substantiality in Aquinas (Leiden: Brill Academic Publishers, 1995), 233. 890 Cyrus P. Olsen III most spiritual aspect of the human person (his or her “light”) is therefore, for Aquinas, the highest likeness to God’s own perfect being: the complete self-return without the obstruction of matter. The self-world relation in Aquinas stands upon the ideal of the simultaneity of the illuminating action of light. The light of the knower goes out to the world and lightens (makes intelligible) things in the world, but the process by which a thing (res) is illuminated is instantaneous. Light is thereby likened to movement because of its aptness as a metaphor of an active stasis, since the light is “in act” but the act cannot be said to move. Knowing the world through participation in God is understood as analogous to divine contemplation of the archetypal “form” of created existents which “flow out” of God in a generative exitus from the divine life: “processiones personarum aetarnae sunt causa et ratio productionis creaturarum.”85 Creation is accordingly “brought forth” ( pro-ductio) from the eternal divine processions like the bringing forth of a word in speech. It is primarily in analogies of the will that we find Aquinas utilizing concepts of motion.Yet he does apply such notions to the intellect in his imagery of light, in a modified sense. Aquinas shows that the generation of the Son is an act of nature as well as will—creation of the world is simply an act of will. In furthering his reflections on eternal generation, Aquinas tries to make sense of how the Word of God is “conceived” by analogy to animal and intellectual situations of conception and birth. Since corporeal conception and birth involve motion and succession, Aquinas must look again to the “conception and birth of an intelligible word” which “involves neither motion nor succession.”86 The intelligible word is at one and the same time conceived and in existence; “at once it is born and distinct; just as that which is illuminated, at the moment of being illuminated, is illuminated because in illumination there is no succession.”87 Although Aquinas himself does not explicitly connect divine “conception” of the Son with the simultaneity of illumination that we (purportedly) experience in bringing to birth a word, in bringing divine conceiving into closer proximity with the simultaneity of illumination in our analysis we will show how Aquinas’s use of imagery of light lends itself to an interpretation in terms of movement, even though in this context his emphasis is more upon the static possession of a word that can be contemplated. 85 In I Sent., I, d. 14, a.1, qla 1, sol. Cf. Emery, Trinity in Aquinas, 60. 86 ScG lib. 4, cap. 11, n. 18; O’Neil, 89. 87 ScG lib. 4, cap. 11, n. 18; 89. Aquinas is here dependent upon medieval optics for his understanding of light. Modern science has since shown that light does travel and “move,” but it does so at such a high speed that the experience of illumination is such as to appear instantaneous. “Turning” and “Returning” in Aquinas 891 In wrestling with the tension between rest and motion, Aquinas is attempting to avoid subordinationist doctrines of the Trinity. Illumination as simultaneity shows that Aquinas has condensed this movement into a singular event, not only for God’s divine life, but also for human experience. Illumination seems to have a point-like immediacy to it, and if we understand the word in terms of a “moment of inspiration,” this characterization seems apt. In fact, following Aristotle’s Categories,88 medieval logicians “tended to classify the terminus of a movement, the acquisition of a changed state, not as successive but as instantaneous: a state that could occur only at an instant (and that was therefore not to be confused with the persistence of a state).”89 As we will see, this accords well with Aquinas’s notion of the intellect being “raptured” momentarily into an illuminative vision of God. Ultimately, the instantaneous nature of cognition and intellectual movement come together in the identification of Word, Wisdom, and light: But the very word of wisdom conceived in the mind is a kind of manifestation of the wisdom of the one who understands, just as in our case all habits are manifested by their acts. Since, then, the divine Wisdom is called light (for it consists in the pure act of cognition, and the manifestation of light is the brightness proceeding therefrom) the Word of divine Wisdom is named “the brightness of light.” Thus the Apostle speaks of the Son of God: “Who being the brightness of His glory” (Heb. 1:3). Hence, also, the Son ascribes to Himself the manifestation of the Father. He says in John (17:6): “Father, I have manifested Thy name to men.”90 Conceived by the Father, the Son as Word and Wisdom is the expression of God’s essence.91 Aquinas thus likens eternal generation of the Son within a Trinitarian pattern of “self-movement” to movement experienced in the illuminative conception of a human word. Also, based on the Son as the manifestation of wisdom, Aquinas points forward to a possible appropriation of a logic of “life.” Human acts manifest the “logic,” the inspiration, by which they operate. All acts have the potential to express that inchoate light noted by Aquinas and known in a manens in ipso. As this 88 Aristotle, Categories, Part 13: “The term ‘simultaneous’ is primarily and most appropriately applied to those things the genesis of the one of which is simultaneous with that of the other; for in such cases neither is prior or posterior to the other. Such things are said to be simultaneous in point of time.” 89 Norman Kretzmann, The Metaphysics of Creation: Aquinas’s Natural Theology in Summa contra Gentiles II (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999), 92. 90 ScG lib. 4, cap. 12, n. 4; O’Neil, 91–92. 91 ScG lib. 4, cap. 12, n. 5; O’Neil, 93–94. 892 Cyrus P. Olsen III section has shown us, Aquinas can conceive of such manens in the more dynamic terminology of generation. Aquinas’s openness to such terminology opens him to various interpretations, particularly to those concerned with presenting a more active and eventful God in a Thomistic vein. Human Knowledge of God and the Importance of Imagery of Light Most often and quite naturally, Aquinas’s imagery of light references the sun. The metaphor of the sun allows for an emphasis upon that which enacts the lighting itself. For instance, the divine intellect is likened to the sun in its illumination of the human mind and in its provision of intelligible structures for things in the world. An acting created intellect is subsequently modelled upon the divine act of letting light flow forth into the world. How the natural light (lumen naturale) makes knowing possible is analogous to the way that the light of glory (lumen gloriae) makes knowing of the divine essence possible. In De veritate, q. 8, a. 6 co., we find Aquinas again referring to the De causis, but this time in relation to angelic knowing in particular. Here we are told that there are two types of action. “One proceeds from the agent and goes out to an exterior thing, which it changes. An example of this type is illumination, which can properly be called an action. The second type of action does not go out to an exterior thing but remains in the agent as its perfection. Properly speaking, this is called operation. Shining is an example of this type.”92 At issue in this passage is the motion of going out “to an exterior thing”: illumination is such an action, whereas “shining” is not. Aquinas continues by asserting that these two actions are one, “that both issue only from a thing which is actually existing and only in so far as it is in act. Consequently, a body does not shine unless it actually has light; and the same is true of its illuminating action.”93 Light, here, is intrinsically related to “act” in that a body, though it may be in a state of actually existing, cannot be said to be luminous unless that state of existing is accompanied by the act of lighting. Light is an active principle, and it seems that in the case of illumination, an action of light “going out” can bring something about in an object that was previously without lighting. In the case of “shining,” however, what is luminous is the interior of that which possesses the act of light, and any consequent “illumination” of that which is external happens as a result of the interior machinations. A knower in act, whether that knowing be appetitive, sensate, or intel92 De veritate, q. 8, a. 6 co.; Truth I, 344. 93 De veritate, q. 8, a. 6 co.; Truth I, 344. “Turning” and “Returning” in Aquinas 893 lectual, is a “shining.”94 For the light to shine within the agent as its perfection is for the mutual interaction between what is external (the object itself) and what is internal (the phantasms and intelligible species of the object) to come into agreement in the judgement, since this is the process by which the agent intellect “shines” its light upon what is received and pronounces upon its measured adequacy: “just as a bright body shines when light actually exists in it, so also does the intellect understand everything that is actually intelligible in it.”95 Such quidditative knowledge is the perfection of the human intellect, since its proper object is the essence existing in a particular thing. Where the human intellect cannot grasp an essence, it cannot be in a relation of the “perfected” to “perfection.” All that can be attained in relation to something whose essence remains unknown is an approximation to that essence by way of analogous description—that is, unless there is a means by which the “natural” attainment of knowledge is superseded. In this latter case, the “natural” operations of the intellect, although bound as they are to phantasms, would be elevated to understand something otherwise closed to its “natural” operations. Aquinas considers this to be a possibility in the case of “rapture,” based upon the actuality of Paul’s experience of being “taken up to the third heaven,” or in the Beatific Vision whereby the blessed will see God’s essence without any mediation.96 “Activities of physical things which come from a divine ordination are said to be natural when the sources of these activities are implanted in things in the way in which their natures are. However, God does not ordain the elevation of rapture for the human being in this way. Hence, they are not alike in this respect.”97 According to Aquinas, therefore, it is not in the human being’s “natural” dynamism to attain rapturous vision of God. Augustine’s assertion that in this life we experience a “sprinkling of God’s glory” is affirmed.98 Nevertheless it is not beyond God to bring about such transportation, for some. Aquinas explains the possibility of this transportation in this life by way of an analogy to light: some light “abides” and appears as if it is “connatural” in things like stars or rubies; other light is received as a merely passing impression, such as light in air. 94 De veritate, q. 8, a. 6 co.; Truth I, 344. 95 De veritate, q. 8, a. 6 co.; Truth I, 355. 96 Cf. Pamela Reeve, “Exploring a Metaphor Theologically: Thomas Aquinas on the Beatific Vision,” in Studies in Thomistic Theology, ed. Paul Lockey (Houston: Center for Thomistic Studies, 1996), 294: the light of glory is not a medium, rather “the only effect of the ‘light’ is to increase the power of the intellect.” 97 De veritate, q. 13, a. 1, ad 9; q. 13, a. 1, ad 11; Truth II, 185. 98 De veritate, q. 13, a. 3, s. c. 6; Truth II, 193–94. Cyrus P. Olsen III 894 In like fashion, also, the light of glory is infused into the mind in two ways. In one, it follows the mode of a form which becomes connatural and abiding. This makes the mind blessed without qualification, and is the manner in which it is infused in the blessed in heaven. In the other way, the mind receives the light of glory as a passing impression. It was in this way that Paul’s mind was enlightened with the light of glory when he was enraptured. The very name shows that this took place quickly (raptim) and in passing.99 The relationship between “shining” and “illumination” is like the passing sun shedding its light upon all in its path; to be blessed is to have a “shining” connaturality with the divine light that is internal (intrinsic) to the agent. But the light of glory cannot be light received from the essence of God, as if God were the sun shining or illuminating the human receiver. For Aquinas the light of glory is created. This light raises the created intellect to the vision of God, “not on account of its affinity to the divine substance, but on account of the power it receives from God to produce such an effect.”100 The light of glory (lumen gloriae) can be given briefly to a person in this life, but only through (instant) illumination. The distinction is between what abides (connaturally) and what is given staccato-like, since it departs the receiver as quickly as it was given: only Christ was both wayfarer and possessor of the beatific vision; the rest of humanity can only be wayfarers.101 Any consideration that a “vision of God’s glory” would be natural to the process of “visio” in general is here foreign;102 this fact reinforces Aquinas’s position that the light of the intellect remains a participation in God’s light through its likeness and approximation to that perfect act. For a person to make a “complete return to self ” is to “shine” upon the intelligible things of the intellect as marked by phantasms and thereby to come upon its own act of knowing and to see it in its degree of likeness to God’s perfection: the activity of remaining in the self. Aquinas further comments on “rapture” in relation to vision of God.103 Here he states that rapture does not take place “according to the act” (non secundum actum) whereby the person no longer uses the senses or even the imagination; striving, dynamic motion seems absent. Yet previous to this, Aquinas does attribute some form of movement to the contemplative mind. 99 De veritate, q. 13, a. 2 co. 100 ScG lib. 3, cap. 54. 101 Cf. De veritate, q. 18, a. 1 co.; Truth II, 341. 102 Cf. George Pattison, Thinking about God in an Age of Technology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 154. 103 Cf. ST II–II, q. 175, a. 2, ad 1; Blackfriars XLV, 101: “Rapture (raptus) adds some- thing to ecstasy (extasis). For ecstasy implies simply ‘standing outside oneself ’ as “Turning” and “Returning” in Aquinas 895 Contemplation does indeed enjoy rest from external movements. Nevertheless, to contemplate is itself a certain movement of mind, so far as every operation is called a movement. Accordingly, Aristotle states that sensation and understanding are a kind of movement in the sense that movement is the act of a perfect thing. In like manner, Dionysius distinguishes three movements in the soul while contemplating, namely straight, circular and spiral.104 We are to understand by the act of a perfect thing as indicating a state of highest actuality. The higher degree of actuality is again likened to intellectual intensity, which is meant to signify a single repose, even though it is described in Dionysian language as circular movement: “in intellectual operations one that is simply uniform is described as a circular movement.”105 The image of a spiral, however, suggests an active motion of deepening or heightening. Movement as the act of a perfect thing combined with this image can alter our understanding of act in Aquinas. To be in act, in the sense of the divine actus purus, is to be in a kind of perfected movement, a vital activity. Summary Conclusion The conversion to the phantasm and the return of the subject to itself have proven to be of central importance to Aquinas’s account of knowledge. Human knowledge is obtained always through an interaction between subject and object wherein both elements of the relation are active. The object summons the human subject to consciousness through its self-presentation and the subject realizes its place within the world (through self-return) by means of its embrace of the object. Consciousness arises in this circuit of exchange, but we have seen that knowledge of God is not directly linked to human consciousness for Aquinas. Such knowledge is an inference that can be made from what can be known of the interaction of intellect with things in the world, but other than the rare ecstatic moments of rapture encountered by some, knowledge of God does not enter into the subject-object relation. Participation in God for Aquinas is indirect, by analogy, and a cause-effect relation (in this life). when a person is placed outside his usual disposition. But rapture (‘being caught up’) adds a note of violence to this.” Cf. Peter A. Kwasniewski, “St.Thomas, Extasis, and Union with the Beloved,” The Thomist 61 (1997): 587–603, esp. 588, n. 1 and 591, n. 10 for extensive references to ecstasy in Aquinas. 104 ST II–II, q. 179, a. 1, ad 3; Blackfriars XLVI, 7. Cf. ST II–II, q. 180, a. 6 co.; Blackfriars XLVI, 37–39. 105 ST II–II q. 180, a. 6 co.; Blackfriars XLVI, 37. Cyrus P. Olsen III 896 Through experiencing the movements of our own minds, according to Aquinas, we come to an understanding of what it might mean for the divine intellect to be involved in active self-movement (and so for this God to be triune). Our understanding is thus analogous and taken also from our experience of how other beings in the world are involved in movement, intellectual as well as material. Although we can know “movement” in God metaphorically, there is nonetheless no human participation directly in divine “movement.” For Aquinas, human beings imitate God’s (so-called) creative way of self-existing in an exitus-reditus pattern. We do move in a process of return to God, but we are not a “part” of God’s own self-movement of exit and return, for that is an interior “movement” remaining in itself whereby the exitus is understood as entailing God’s extension of power through creating. Creation is therefore “encompassed” by God’s power at all times, but the perfection of divine circular motion is not considered the “space” in which all other motion occurs. Rather, God’s power is an extension outside God until the eschaton, at which time a fullness of inclusion inside divine circular motion becomes possible. The final union with God—attained in this life only in rare circumstances of rapture—intended for the intellectual being is a contemplative union, one of rest in the paradox of stasis wedded with kinesis as the intellect beholds the ever-incomprehensible fullness of the divine essence. Aquinas’s understanding of the movement of the intellect as it relates to God’s own manner of knowing, though filled out in every direction and considerate of ambiguities, remains susceptible to different emphases concerning the nature of the activity of human and divine knowing. Some modern theologians have exploited such ambiguities in order to claim Aquinas for their own.106 N&V 106 A note of gratitude is owed to Paul S. Fiddes and Simon Gaine, O.P. for helping me to read Aquinas. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 11, No. 3 (2013): 897–922 897 The Enlightenment University and the Creation of the Academic Bible: Michael Legaspi’s The Death of Scripture and the Rise of Biblical Studies J EFFREY L. M ORROW Immaculate Conception Seminary School of Theology Seton Hall University South Orange, NJ “[H]istorical criticism is the form of biblical studies that corresponds to the classical liberal political ideal. It is the realization of the Enlightenment project in the realm of biblical scholarship.” —Jon Levenson, The Hebrew Bible, the Old Testament, and Historical Criticism1 B IBLICAL SCHOLARS rarely concern themselves with the history of their discipline. In part this is because the discipline of modern biblical studies has for so long styled itself on the hard sciences, and participates in what Pascal termed l’esprit géométrique, the spirit of geometry, whereby mathematics serves as the paradigm for true rationality. John Barton explains well historical criticism’s original ostensible intent; it “was meant to be value-neutral, or disinterested. It tried, so far as possible, to approach the text without prejudice, and to ask not what it meant ‘for me’, but simply what it meant.”2 In 1988, Pope Benedict XVI—then Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger—delivered his now famous lecture, “Biblical Interpretation in Crisis,” wherein he issued a clarion call for a “Kritik der Kritik,” a criticism of criticism; a self-criticism of historical critical 1 Jon D. Levenson, The Hebrew Bible, the Old Testament, and Historical Criticism: Jews and Christians in Biblical Studies (Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1993), 118. 2 John Barton, The Old Testament: Canon, Literature and Theology (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), 203. Jeffrey L. Morrow 898 methodology.3 The debate about biblical exegesis, including the role of history and of theology in biblical interpretation, has continued to be a major theme in Pope Benedict’s thought.4 Far from a lone voice, Pope Benedict has been joined by a number of scholars—Jewish, Protestant, and Catholic—in his concern over the present status of biblical interpretation. One important area of study, a field that needs many more laborers, is the history of biblical scholarship. Biblical scholarship should be encouraged to examine its own foundations, its own history, in part to understand better the philosophical and political influences that gave shape and texture to the methods that continue to be uncritically employed. The present volume under consideration, Michael Legaspi’s 3 Josef Ratzinger, Schriftauslegung im Widerstreit (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1989), 22. 4 Ibid., 15–44; J. Ratzinger, “Kirchliches Lehramt und Exegese. Reflexionen aus Anlass des 100-jährigen Bestehens der Päpstlichen Bibelkommission,” Internationale Katholische Zeitschrift: Communio 32 (2003): 522–29; idem/Pope Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth, Part I: From the Baptism in the Jordan to the Transfiguration (New York: Doubleday, 2007), xi–xxiii; idem, Verbum Domini, Post-Synodal Apostolic Exhortation on the Word of God in the Life and Mission of the Church (Vatican City: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 2010), nos. 29–41; and idem, Jesus of Nazareth, Part II: Holy Week: From the Entrance into Jerusalem to the Resurrection (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2011), xiv–xv. For important studies of Ratzinger/Benedict’s thoughts on modern biblical criticism see, e.g., Scott W. Hahn, “The Authority of Mystery: The Biblical Theology of Benedict XVI,” Letter & Spirit 2 (2006): 97–140; Frederic Raurell, “Mètode d’aproximació de la Bíblia en el Jesús de Natzaret de Joseph Ratzinger/Benet XVI,” Revista Catalana de Teologia 32, no. 2 (2007): 435–58; Scott Hahn, “At the School of Truth: The Ecclesial Character of Theology and Exegesis in the Thought of Benedict XVI,” in The Bible and the University, ed. David Lyle Jeffrey and C. Stephen Evans (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2007), 80–115; idem, “The Hermeneutic of Faith: Pope Benedict XVI on Scripture, Liturgy, and Church,” The Incarnate Word 1, no. 3 (2007): 415–40; and idem, Covenant and Communion:The Biblical Theology of Pope Benedict XVI (Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos Press, 2009), especially chapter 2, “The Critique of Criticism: Beginning the Search for a New Synthesis,” 25–40, and chapter 3, “The Hermeneutic of Faith: Critical and Historical Foundations for a Biblical Theology,” 41–62. When addressing the difficulties posed by the unrecognized philosophical presuppositions of modern biblical criticism, Ratzinger often brings up the example of Rudolf Bultmann. A number of important works situating Bultmann’s hermeneutics in their broader intellectual/cultural/philosophical context have come out, e.g., Hans Jonas, The Gnostic Religion: The Message of the Alien God and the Beginnings of Christianity, 3d ed. (Boston: Beacon Press, 2001 [1958]), 320–40; Reiner Blank, Analyse und Kritik der formgeschichtlichen Arbeiten von Martin Dibelius und Rudolf Bultmann (Basel: F. Reinhardt, 1981); Michael Waldstein, “The Foundations of Bultmann’s Work,” Communio 2 (1987): 115–45; and idem, “Analogia Verbi: The Truth of Scripture in Rudolf Bultmann and Raymond Brown,” Letter & Spirit 6 (2010): 93–140. The Enlightenment and the Academic Bible 899 The Death of Scripture and the Rise of Biblical Studies, is a welcome contribution to this ongoing discussion.5 The pressures and influences exerted on the discipline of biblical studies as it developed that have been most neglected in scholarly discussions involve those exerted by the modern state. Legaspi brings this to the fore of his discussion in numerous enlightening ways, as when he underscores the importance of the state-sponsored Enlightenment universities. Commenting on “the fate of theology” among German scholars in the nineteenth century, he explains: Striking a Faustian bargain with the growing power of the state, they maintained their religious and cultural inheritance by folding the authority of the Bible and of the Protestant theological tradition into the larger programs of Verwissenschaftlichung (scientization), Entkonfessionalisierung (deconfessionalization), Professionalisierung (professionalization), and Verstaatlichung (nationalization)—all programs centered at the university. (29) I. A Brief History of the History of Biblical Scholarship: Situating Legaspi within the Context of the History of Scholarship Over the past several decades, a number of important studies have been published highlighting the historical, political, theological, and philosophical contexts to the development of modern biblical criticism, from the medieval period to the twentieth century. Prior to the 1980s there had been some scholarship in this field, like Hans-Joachim Kraus’s 1956 Geschichte der historisch-kritischen Erforschung des Alten Testaments and Hans Frei’s 1974 The Eclipse of the Biblical Narrative.6 It was especially after the 5 Michael C. Legaspi, The Death of Scripture and the Rise of Biblical Studies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). 6 Hans-Joachim Kraus, Geschichte der historisch-kritischen Erforschung des Alten Testa- ments (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 1956); and Hans W. Frei, The Eclipse of the Biblical Narrative: A Study in Eighteenth and Nineteenth Century Hermeneutics (New Haven, CT:Yale University Press, 1974). There were likewise a few specialized books that dealt with one or a few of the significant figures in this early history or with the scholarship of discrete biblical books, e.g., Jean Steinmann, Richard Simon et les origins de l’exégèse biblique (Paris: Desclée de Brouwer, 1960); Sylvain Zac, Spinoza et l’interprétation de l’Écriture (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1965); Klaus Scholder, Ursprünge und Probleme der Bibelkritik im 17. Jahrhundert (Munich: Kaiser, 1966); André Malet, Le traité théologico-politique de Spinoza et la pensée biblique (Paris: Sociéte les belles letters, 1966); F. Saverio Mirri, Richard Simon e il metodo storico-critico di B. Spinoza. Storia di un libro e di una polemica sulla sfondo delle lotte politico-religiose della Francia di Luigi XIV (Florence: Felice Le Monnier, 1972); W. Ward Gasque, A History of the Criticism of the Acts of the Apostles (Tübingen: Mohr, 1975); and Olivier Fatio and Pierre Fraenkel, ed., Histoire 900 Jeffrey L. Morrow end of the 1970s, however, that a scholarly focus on the history of modern biblical scholarship grew to become a field in its own right.7 Legaspi’s The Death of Scripture and the Rise of Biblical Studies fits within the context of these more recent studies in the history of scholarship. A brief select survey of the state of the field will help better situate Legaspi’s project. In 1980 Henning Graf Reventlow published Bibelautorität und Geist der Moderne.8 Reventlow’s groundbreaking work demonstrated the importance of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century England to the rise of modern biblical criticism.The idea that modern biblical criticism’s roots can be traced to eighteenth- or nineteenth-century Germany remains the commonly received scholarly opinion. Reventlow’s work, however, showed how Germany was a late-comer to modern biblical criticism; eighteenth-century German biblical criticism built upon the critical work of English biblical exegetes from the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries.9 de l’exégèse au XVIe siècle (Geneva: Librairie Droz, 1978). Some early studies existed as well in the form of scholarly articles and book chapters, but these were very rare, e.g., Paul Hazard, La crise de la conscience européenne, 1680–1715 (Paris: Boivin et Cie, 1935), 2d part, chapter 3, “Richard Simon et l’exégèse biblique,” 125–36; Raymond Delville, “Richard Simon critique catholique du Pentateuque,” Nouvelle revue théologique (1951): 723–39; and Arnaldo Momigliano, “La nuova storia romana di G. B. Vico,” Rivista storica italiana 77 (1965): 773–90. 7 A large amount of scholarship in this field was already building in the 1970s in the form of scholarly articles. One important example here is the work on Isaac La Peyrère and Baruch Spinoza published by Richard Popkin, within the history of philosophy, e.g., his “Bible Criticism and Social Science,” in Methodological and Historical Essays in the Natural and Social Sciences, ed. Robert S. Cohen and Marx W. Wartofsky (Dordrecht: Reidel, 1974), 339–60; “The Development of Religious Scepticism and the Influence of Isaac La Peyrère’s Pre-Adamism and Bible Criticism,” in Classical Influences on European Culture, A.D. 1500–1700, ed. Robert Ralf Bolgar (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), 271–80; and “Spinoza and La Peyrère,” Southwestern Journal of Philosophy 3 (1977): 172–95. Similarly important works had also been published by Bible scholars, but these were even rarer, e.g., M. H. Goshen-Gottstein, “Christianity, Judaism and Modern Bible Study,” in Congress Volume: Edinburgh 1974 (Leiden: Brill, 1975), 69–88. 8 Henning Graf Reventlow, Bibelautorität und Geist der Moderne. Die Bedeutung des Bibelverständnisses für die geistesgeschichtliche und politische Entwicklung in England von der Reformation bis zur Aufklärung (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1980). 9 The 1980s witnessed an incredibly rapid increase in scholarly literature, in the form of both books and articles, dealing with the history of modern biblical criticism in the early modern era, coming especially from historians of philosophy and Bible scholars interested in the history of their discipline. Examples include: Juan José Garrido, “El método histórico-crítico de interpretación de la Escritura según Spinoza,” in El método en teología. Actas del primer Simposio de Teología e Historia (29–31 mayo 1980), ed. The Faculty of Theology of Saint Vincent Ferrer (Valencia: The Faculty of Theology of Saint Vincent Ferrer, 1981), 269–81; The Enlightenment and the Academic Bible 901 Although it is not primarily a work in the history of scholarship, mention should be made of the first installment, in 1982, of the soon-to-be fivevolume series Critique textuelle de l’Ancien Testament, edited by Dominique Anthony Grafton, Joseph Scaliger: A Study in the History of Classical Scholarship Volume I: Textual Criticism and Exegesis (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1983); M. H. GoshenGottstein, “The Textual Criticism of the Old Testament: Rise, Decline, Rebirth,” Journal of Biblical Literature 102, no. 3 (1983): 365–99; Nahum M. Sarna, “The Modern Study of the Bible in the Framework of Jewish Studies,” Proceedings of the Eighth World Congress of Jewish Studies (1983): 19–27; Aaron L. Katchen, Christian Hebraists and Dutch Rabbis: Seventeenth Century Apologetics and the Study of Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah (Cambridge: Harvard University Center for Jewish Studies, 1984); François Laplanche, L’écriture, le sacré et l’histoire: Érudits et politiques protestants devant la Bible en France au XVIIe siècle (Amsterdam: Holland University Press, 1986); Moshe Goshen-Gottstein, “Foundations of Biblical Philology in the Seventeenth Century: Christian and Jewish Dimensions,” in Jewish Thought in the Seventeenth Century, ed. Isadore Twersky and Bernard Septimus, 77–94 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1987); Richard H. Popkin, Isaac La Peyrère (1596–1676): His Life, Work and Influence (Leiden: Brill, 1987); Jean Pierre Osier, “L’herméneutique de Hobbes et de Spinoza,” Studia Spinozana 3 (1987): 319–47; Jacqueline Lagrée, “Louis Meyer et la Philosophia S. Scripturae interpres. Projet cartésien, horizon spinoziste,” Revue des sciences philosophiques et théologiques 1 (1987): 31–44; Christian Hebraism:The Study of Jewish Culture by Christian Scholars in Medieval and Early Modern Times, ed. Charles Berlin and Aaron L. Katchen (Cambridge: Harvard University Library, 1988); Moshe Goshen-Gottstein, “The Revival of Hebraic Studies as Part of the Humanist Revival Around 1500,” Hebrew University Studies in Literature and the Arts 16 (1988): 185–91; Pierre-François Moreau, “Le méthode d’interprétation de l’Écriture Sainte: déterminations et limites,” in Spinoza: science et religion, ed. Renée Bouveresse (Paris: Vrin, 1988), 109–14; J. Garrido Zaragoza, “La desmitificación de la Escritura en Spinoza,” Taula 9 (1988): 3–45; all of the articles in Topoi 7, no. 3 (1988), which include important pieces on Hobbes, Spinoza, and Simon; Jean-Robert Armogathe, ed., Le Grand Siècle et la Bible (Paris: Beauchesne, 1989); and Yirmiyahu Yovel, Spinoza and Other Heretics, 2 vols. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989). This decade also saw a number of important studies contextualizing later seventeenth-, eighteenth-, and nineteenth-century scholarship, e.g., Georg Schwaiger, ed., Historische Kritik in der Theologie: Beiträge zu ihrer Geschichte (Göttingen:Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1980); Rolf Rendtorff, “Die Hebräische Bibel als Grundlage christlich-theologischer Aussagen über das Judentum,” in Jüdische Existenz und die Erneuerung der christlichen Theologie. Versuch einer Bilanz des christlich-jüdischen Dialogs für die Systematische Theologie, ed. Martin Stöhr (Munich: Kaiser, 1981), 32–47; Arnaldo Momigliano, “Religious History Without Frontiers: J. Wellhausen, U. Wilamowitz, and E. Schwartz,” History and Theory 21, no. 4 (1982): 49–64; all of the articles in Semeia 25 (1982) devoted to Wellhausen; Yvon Belaval and Dominique Bourel, eds., Le siècle des Lumières et la Bible (Paris: Beauchesne, 1986); and Henning Graf Reventlow, Walter Sparn, and John Woodbridge, eds., Historische Kritik und biblischer Kanon in der deutschen Aufklärung (Wiesbaden: Harrossowitz, 1988). 902 Jeffrey L. Morrow Barthélemy.10 Critique textuelle de l’Ancien Testament is the result of the Hebrew Old Testament Text Project Committee of the United Bible Societies, which began in 1969 and has resulted in the new Biblia Hebraica Quinta editions of the Hebrew text of the Old Testament, which is in the process of replacing the Biblia Hebraica Stuttgartensia.The purpose of Critique textuelle de l’Ancien Testament is to serve as a text-critical commentary on the Hebrew text of the Old Testament. Thus the focus is more on textual criticism than on historical criticism. In the first volume, however, Fr. Barthélemy wrote an introduction spanning more than 100 pages, roughly the first half of which he spent detailing the history of modern biblical scholarship, from the medieval period (including the important work of Judeo-Arabic exegesis) through the development of modern historical criticism, including a very good discussion of seventeenth-century figures like Spinoza and Simon. Regretably, Critique textuelle de l’Ancien Testament has been too little utilized by scholars, and Fr. Barthélemy’s fine monograph-length essay has received even less attention. 1984 witnessed John Rogerson’s Old Testament Criticism in the Nineteenth Century.11 Rogerson’s important work, in a sense, picks up where Reventlow’s earlier volume left off. Whereas Reventlow traced the early years of modern biblical criticism in England (especially among the Deists) to Germany, Rogerson focuses more on how biblical criticism then developed in Germany and how eventually German biblical criticism was received by England. In 1991, J. C. O’Neill published The Bible’s 10 The volumes that have been published thus far include: Dominique Barthélemy, ed., Critique textuelle de l’Ancien Testament 1: Josué, Juges, Ruth, Samuel, Rois, Chroniques, Esdras, Néhémie, Esther (Fribourg: Editions Universitaires; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1982); idem, ed., Critique textuelle de l’Ancien Testament 2: Isaïe, Jérémie, Lamentations (Fribourg: Editions Universitaires; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1986); idem, ed., Critique textuelle de l’Ancien Testament 3: Ezéchiel, Daniel et les 12 Prophètes (Fribourg: Editions Universitaires; Göttingen:Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1992); and idem, ed., Critique textuelle de l’Ancien Testament 4: Psaumes (Fribourg: Editions Universitaires; Göttingen:Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2005). The fifth volume, on the Pentateuch, is forthcoming. I owe James Sanders, who served on the committee with Fr. Barthélemy, tremendous gratitude for making me aware of this supremely important multi-volume work. Recently, the introductions to these volumes have been published in English in a single edition as Dominique Barthélemy, Studies in the Text of the Old Testament: An Introduction to the Hebrew Old Testament Text Project: English Translation of the Introductions to Volumes 1, 2, and 3 Critique textuelle de l’ancien testament, trans. Stephen Pisano and Peter A. Pettit for vol. 1, Joan E. Cook and Sarah Lind for vol. 2, and Sarah Lind for vol. 3 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2012). 11 John W. Rogerson, Old Testament Criticism in the Nineteenth Century: England and Germany (London: SPCK, 1984). The Enlightenment and the Academic Bible 903 Authority.12 This was an important text, walking through several significant figures within the history of biblical scholarship from the eighteenth to twentieth centuries. Most significantly, O’Neill placed these figures within their intellectual and historical contexts. The following year, 1992, saw the publication of Hava Lazarus-Yafeh’s tremendously important Intertwined Worlds.13 Lazarus-Yafeh showed how influential medieval Muslim biblical criticism was on significant medieval Jewish and Christian exegetes, likely making its way into the modern period.14 The same year Lazarus-Yafeh’s work was published, Rogerson came out with his important study of one of the most significant early nineteenth-century biblical critics, W. M. L. de Wette: Founder of Modern Biblical Criticism.15 De Wette’s work was foundational for nineteenthcentury historical criticism of the Old Testament, and particularly pentateuchal criticism. Rogerson’s intellectual biography places de Wette in his broader social, political, and historical context. Also in 1992,William Baird published his History of New Testament Research Vol. I.16 This volume placed many New Testament critics in their historical and intellectual contexts. 12 J. C. O’Neill, The Bible’s Authority: A Portrait Gallery of Thinkers from Lessing to Bult- mann (London: T & T Clark, 1991). 13 Hava Lazarus-Yafeh, Intertwined Worlds: Medieval Islam and Bible Criticism (Prince- ton: Princeton University Press, 1992). Some earlier scholarship exists that is in line with Lazarus-Yafeh’s work, highlighting the importance of medieval Muslim biblical scholarship for what came later in the Renaissance, Reformation, and Enlightenment, e.g., Ernest Algermissen, “Die Pentateuchzitate Ibn Hazms. Ein Beiträg zur Geschichte der arabische Bibelübersetzungen” (Thesis, Westfälische WilhelmsUniversität, Münster, 1933); Roger Arnaldez, “Spinoza et la pensée arabe,” Revue de Synthèse 89–91 (1978): 151–74; David S. Powers, “Reading/Misreading One Another’s Scriptures: Ibn H . azm’s Refutation of Ibn Nagrella al-Yahud̃i,” in Studies in Islamic and Judaic Traditions: Papers Presented at the Institute for Islamic-Judaic Studies, ed. William M. Brinner and Stephen D. Ricks (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1986), 109–21; Camilla Adang, “Schriftvervalsing als thema in de islamitische polemiek tegen het jodendom,” Ter Herkenning 16, no. 3 (1988): 197–98; and R. David Freedman, “The Father of Modern Biblical Scholarship,” Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society 19 (1989): 31–38. 14 She also published important articles that would be well worth reading for Bible scholars interested in the probable influence of medieval Muslim biblical criticism and philosophy on medieval Jewish and Christian biblical exegesis, which likely contributed to the rise of modern biblical criticism in western European - and Thirteen Scrolls of Torah,” Jerusalem Studies universities. See, e.g., her “Tah.rif in Arabic and Islam 18 (1992): 81–88; and “Some Neglected Aspects of Medieval Polemics against Christianity,” Harvard Theological Review 89, no. 1 (1996): 61–84. 15 John W. Rogerson, W. M. L. de Wette: Founder of Modern Biblical Criticism: An Intellectual Biography (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1992). 16 William Baird, History of New Testament Research Volume I: From Deism to Tübingen (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1992). 904 Jeffrey L. Morrow 1995 witnessed another of Rogerson’s volumes in the history of modern biblical scholarship, The Bible and Criticism in Victorian England, which highlighted, especially, William Robertson Smith’s important place in bringing German biblical criticism back to the English-speaking world, where, ironically, the seeds of German biblical criticism had partially germinated a century and a half earlier.17 In 1999 David Dungan published A History of the Synoptic Problem.18 Dungan’s volume has proved controver17 J. W. Rogerson, The Bible and Criticism in Victorian England: Profiles of F. D. Maurice and William Robertson Smith (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995). 18 David Laird Dungan, A History of the Synoptic Problem: The Canon, the Text, the Composition, and the Interpretation of the Gospels (New York: Doubleday, 1999). In the 1990s a flood of scholarly literature continued to expand the field of the history of modern biblical criticism, e.g., James L. Kugel, “The Bible in the University,” in The Hebrew Bible and Its Interpreters, ed. William Henry Propp, Baruch Halpern, and David Noel Freedman (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1990), 143–65; Anthony T. Grafton, Defenders of the Text: The Traditions of Scholarship in an Age of Science, 1450–1800 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1991), especially ch. 8, “Isaac La Peyrère and the Old Testament,” 204–13; Pierre Gibert, Petite histoire de l’exégèse biblique: De la lecture allégorique à l’exégèse critique (Paris: Cerf, 1992); Anthony Grafton, Joseph Scaliger: A Study in the History of Classical Scholarship Volume II: Historical Chronology (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993); The Books of Nature and Scripture: Recent Essays on Natural Philosophy,Theology, and Biblical Criticism in the Netherlands of Spinoza’s Time and the British Isles of Newton’s Time, ed. James E. Force and Richard H. Popkin (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic, 1994); Debora Kuller Shuger, The Renaissance Bible: Scholarship, Sacrifice, and Subjectivity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994); Biblical Studies and the Shifting of Paradigms, 1850–1914, ed. Henning Graf Reventlow and William Farmer (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995); William Robertson Smith: Essays in Reassessment, ed.William Johnstone (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995); Manfred Walther, “Biblische Hermeneutik und historische Erklärung: Lodewijk Meyer und Benediktus de Spinoza über Norm, Methode und Ergebnis wissenschaftlicher Bibelauslegung,” Studia Spinozana 11 (1995): 227–99; Daniel J. Elazar, “Spinoza and the Bible,” Jewish Political Studies Review 7 (1995): 5–19; Harvey Shulman, “The Use and Abuse of the Bible in Spinoza’s Tractatus Theologico-Politicus,” Jewish Political Studies Review 7 (1995): 39–55; Suzanne Marchand, Down from Olympus: Archaeology and Philhellenism in Germany, 1750–1970 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1996); Steven G. Burnett, From Christian Hebraism to Jewish Studies: Johannes Buxtorf (1564–1629) and Hebrew Learning in the Seventeenth Century (Leiden: Brill, 1996); Paul D. Cooke, Hobbes and Christianity: Reassessing the Bible in Leviathan (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 1996); Gottfried Hornig, Johann Salomo Semler: Studien zu Leben und Werk des Hallenser Aufklärungstheologen (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1996); Heikki Räisänen, Marcion, Muhammad and the Mahatma: Exegetical Perspectives on the Encounter of Cultures and Faith (London: SCM, 1997), chap. 9, “The Bible and the Traditions of the Nations: Isaac La Peyrère as a Precursor of Biblical Criticism,” 137–52; Guy G. Stroumsa, “Jewish Myth and Ritual and the Beginnings of Comparative The Enlightenment and the Academic Bible 905 sial, but he includes a number of important chapters dealing with both ancient—e.g., Porphyry—and modern—e.g., Spinoza, Locke, Griesbach, and Holtzmann—figures who are significant within this broader history. In 2001 Reventlow published his Epochen der Bibelauslegung 4.19 In this fourth volume in his impressive series on the history of biblical interpretation, Reventlow provides historical and biographical background to significant figures in early modern to contemporary biblical criticism, from the sixteenth to the twentieth centuries, including Hobbes, Spinoza, Simon, Reimarus, Lessing, Semler, Eichhorn, de Wette, Strauss, F. C. Baur, Ewald, Wellhausen, and Bultmann. Unlike so many others, however, Reventlow examines and summarizes the major works of each scholar. Reventlow’s work, without a doubt, remains one of the most important of its kind. In 2005 Jonathan Sheehan published The Enlightenment Bible.20 Sheehan’s volume is, of all the available books thus far published, the most similar to Legaspi’s. Johann David Michaelis, who is the main focus of Legaspi’s own work, plays an important part in Sheehan’s story. Sheehan’s text describes the ways in which the Enlightenment changed the way in which the Bible was viewed, from a primarily theological text to a cultural-historical one which became foundational to the Western world. In 2007, Rudolf Smend published his From Astruc to Zimmerli.21 Unlike O’Neill’s earlier work, Smend focuses exclusively on Old Testament scholarship. Smend’s portraits of each figure are highly illuminating and would be a very useful introduction to their historical contexts. In 2008 Magne Religion: The Case of Richard Simon,” Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy 6 (1997): 19–35; idem, “Comparatisme et philologie: Richard Simon et la naissance de l’orientalisme,” in Le comparatisme en histoire des religions, ed. François Bœspflug and François Dunand (Paris: Cerf, 1997), 47–62; James Pasto, “Islam’s ‘Strange Secret Sharer’: Orientalism, Judaism, and the Jewish Question,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 40, no. 3 (1998): 437–74; idem, “When the End is the Beginning? Or When the Biblical Past is the Political Present: Some Thoughts on Ancient Israel, ‘Post-Exilic Judaism,’ and the Politics of Biblical Scholarship,” Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament 1, no. 2 (1998): 157–202; Justin A. I. Champion, “Père Richard Simon and English Biblical Criticism, 1680–1700,” in Everything Connects: In Conference with Richard H. Popkin: Essays in His Honor, ed. James E. Force and David S. Katz (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 39–61; and François Tricaud, “L’Ancien Testament et le Léviathan de Hobbes: Une cohabitation difficile,” Rivista di Storia della Filosofia 54, no. 2 (1999): 229–38. 19 Henning Graf Reventlow, Epochen der Bibelauslegung 4.Von der Aufklärung bis zum 20. Jahrhundert (Munich: Beck, 2001). 20 Jonathan Sheehan, The Enlightenment Bible:Translation, Scholarship, Culture (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005). 21 Rudolf Smend, From Astruc to Zimmerli: Old Testament Scholarship in Three Centuries (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007). 906 Jeffrey L. Morrow Sæbø published the edited volume Hebrew Bible/Old Testament: The History of Its Interpretation II.22 The third installment of this important series, Sæbø’s 22 Hebrew Bible/Old Testament: The History of Its Interpretation II: From the Renaissance to the Enlightenment, ed. Magne Sæbø (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2008). The first decade of the twenty-first century saw an immense amount of scholarly literature develop within the history of modern biblical scholarship, e.g., Thomas Albert Howard, Religion and the Rise of Historicism:W. M. L. de Wette, Jacob Burckhardt, and the Theological Origins of Nineteenth-Century Historical Consciousness (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000); Fausto Parente, “Isaac de La Peyrère e Richard Simon: Osservazioni preliminary ad uno studio del Ms. Chantilly, Musée de Condé, n. 191 (698): De Iuifs Elus, Reietés, et Rapelés di Isaac de La Peyrère,” in La geografia dei saperi: Scritti in memoria di Dino Pastine, ed. Domenico Ferraro and Gianna Gigliotti (Florence: La Lettere, 2000), 161–82; Guy G. Stroumsa, “Homeros Hebraios: Homère et la Bible aux origines de la culture européenne (17e–18e siècles),” in L’orient dans l’histoire religieuse de l’europe: L’invention des origines, ed. Mohammad Ali Amir-Moezzi and John Scheid (Turnhout: Brepols, 2000), 87–100; J. Samuel Preus, Spinoza and the Irrelevance of Biblical Authority (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001); R. H. Popkin, “Millenarianism and Nationalism—A Case Study: Isaac La Peyrère,” in Millenarianism and Messianism in Early Modern European Culture Volume IV: Continental Millenarians: Protestants, Catholics, Heretics, ed. John Christian Laursen and Richard H. Popkin (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic, 2001), 74–84; Bill T. Arnold and David B. Weisberg, “A Centennial Review of Friedrich Delitzsch’s ‘Babel und Bibel’ Lectures,” Journal of Biblical Literature 121, no. 3 (2002): 441–57; Noel Malcolm, Aspects of Hobbes (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), chapter 12, “Hobbes, Ezra, and the Bible: The History of a Subversive Idea,” 383–431; Michiel Wielema, “Adriaan Koerbagh: Biblical Criticism and Enlightenment,” in The Early Enlightenment in the Dutch Republic, 1650–1750: Selected Papers of a Conference held at the Herzog August Bibliothek, Wolfenbüttel 22–23 March 2001, ed. Wiep van Bunge (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 61–80; Pierre Gibert, L’Invention de l’exégèse moderne: Les “Livres de Moïse” de 1650 à 1750 (Paris: Cerf, 2003); James Pasto, “W. M. L. de Wette and the Invention of Post-Exilic Judaism: Political Historiography and Christian Allegory in Nineteenth-Century German Biblical Scholarship,” in Jews, Antiquity, and the Nineteenth-Century Imagination, ed. Hayim Lapin and Dale Marin (Bethesda, MD: University Press of Maryland, 2003), 33–52; Allison Coudert, Hebraica Veritas? Christian Hebraists and the Study of Judaism in Early Modern Europe (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004); Sascha Müller, Kritik und Theologie: Christliche Glaubens- und Schrifthermeneutik nach Richard Simon (1638–1712) (St. Ottilien: EOS, 2004); Frank M. Coleman, “Thomas Hobbes and the Hebraic Bible,” History of Political Thought 25, no. 4 (2004): 642–69; Wayne A. Meeks, “A Nazi New Testament Professor Reads the Bible: The Strange Case of Gerhard Kittel,” in The Idea of Biblical Interpretation: Essays in Honor of James L. Kugel, ed. H. Najman and J. H. Newman (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 513–44; Bill T. Arnold and David B.Weisberg, “Delitzsch in Context,” in God’s Word for Our World Volume 2, ed. J. Harold Ellens, Deborah L. Ellens, Rolf P. Knierim, and Isaac Kalimi (London T & T Clark, 2004), 37–45; Noel Malcolm, “Leviathan, the Pentateuch, and the Origins of Modern Biblical Criticism,” in Leviathan After 350 Years, ed. The Enlightenment and the Academic Bible 907 work provides very good brief essays on relevant themes from Old Testament scholarship from the Renaissance to the Enlightenment, as well as on particular exegetes, giving brief biographical accounts which help situate them in their proper historical contexts.Themes include: the idea of history in the Renaissance; Scholasticism and medieval theological education; the rise of universities in medieval Europe; the quest for Hebraica veritas; Renaissance Jewish biblical scholarship; early modern Spanish biblical interpretation; polyglot Bibles; Waldensian, Lollard, and Hussite biblical interpretation; the Reformation in England and Scotland; biblical interpretation at the councils of Constance, Florence, and Trent; Deism; Hasidism Tom Sorell and Luc Foisneau (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 241–64; Geschichte der Hermeneutik und die Methodik der textinterpretierenden Disziplinen, ed. Jörg Schönert and Friedrich Vollhardt (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2005); John Van Seters, The Edited Bible: The Curious History of the “Editor” in Biblical Criticism (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2006); Travis L. Frampton, Spinoza and the Rise of Historical Criticism of the Bible (New York: T & T Clark, 2006); Sascha Müller, Richard Simon (1638–1712): Exeget, Theologe, Philosoph und Historiker (Bamberg: Echter, 2006); Eric Jorink, “Reading the Book of Nature in the SeventeenthCentury Dutch Republic,” in The Book of Nature in Early Modern and Modern History, ed. Klaas van Berkel and Arjo Vanderjagt (Leuven: Peeters, 2006), 45–68; Sacred Conjectures: The Context and Legacy of Robert Lowth and Jean Astruc, ed. John Jarick (London: T & T Clark, 2007); Job Y. Jindo, “Revisiting Kaufmann: Fundamental Problems in Modern Biblical Scholarship,” Journal of the Interdisciplinary Study of Monotheistic Religions 3 (2007): 41–77; Marius Reiser, Bibelkritik und Auslegung der Heiligen Schrift (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), for the purposes of our present discussion, especially chapter 7, “Richard Simons biblische Hermeneutik,”185–217, and chapter 8, “Die Prinzipien der biblischen Hermeneutik und ihr Wandel unter dem Einfluß der Aufklärung,” 219–76; Eric Jorink, “ ‘Horrible and Blasphemous’: Isaac La Peyrère, Isaac Vossius and the Emergence of Radical Biblical Criticism in the Dutch Republic,” in Nature and Scripture in the Abrahamic Religions: Up to 1700: Volume 1, ed. Jitse M. van der Meer and Scott Mandelbrote (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 429–550; Diego Lucci, Scripture and Deism: The Biblical Criticism of the Eighteenth-Century British Deists (Bern: Peter Lang, 2008); Michael M. Homan, “How Moses Gained and Lost the Reputation of Being the Torah’s Author: Higher Criticism prior to Julius Wellhausen,” in Sacred History, Sacred Literature: Essays on Ancient Israel, the Bible, and Religion in Honor of R. E. Friedman on His Sixtieth Birthday, ed. Shawna Dolansky (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2008), 111–32; Antoine Fleyfel, “Richard Simon, critique de la sacralité biblique,” Revue d’histoire et de philosophie religieuses 88, no. 4 (2008): 469–92; Suzanne L. Marchand, German Orientalism in the Age of Empire: Religion, Race, and Scholarship (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009); Reinhard G. Kratz, “Eyes and Spectacles: Wellhausen’s Method of Higher Criticism,” Journal of Theological Studies 60 (2009): 381–402; and Peter Machinist, “The Road Not Taken: Wellhausen and Assyriology,” in Homeland and Exile: Biblical and Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honour of Bustenay Oded, ed. Gershon Galil, Mark Geller, and Alan Millard (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 469–531. 908 Jeffrey L. Morrow and biblical interpretation; the French Revolution; etc. Figures examined include: Nicholas of Lyra; Gersonides; Marsilio Ficino; Pico della Mirandola; Isaac Abarbanel; Erasmus; Reuchlin; Levita; Wyclif; Hus; Luther; Zwingli; Calvin; Bucer; Melanchthon; Cajetan; Bellarmine; a Lapide; Cappel; the Buxtorfs; Socinus; Grotius; La Peyrère; Descartes; Spinoza; Simon; Astruc; Toland; Reimarus; Lessing; Lowth; Geddes; Michaelis; Semler; Eichhorn; et al. Each entry includes very helpful select bibliographies. More recently, in 2010, Pierre Gibert published L’invention critique de la Bible.23 Gibert’s important study focuses on the seventeenth century, and especially on the work of Spinoza and Richard Simon, but he also includes 23 Pierre Gibert, L’invention critique de la Bible: XVe–XVIIIe (Paris: Gallimard, 2010). Of course I have left out many studies, and the examples I provide in the footnotes are far from exhaustive. There are a number of more popular treatments of the history of scholarship, as well, written by scholars like Levenson, Hebrew Bible; and the first chapter, “The Rise of Modern Biblical Scholarship,” in James L. Kugel, How to Read the Bible: A Guide to Scripture, Then and Now (New York: Free Press, 2007), 1–46. In this context, mention should be made of the fine, albeit controversial, work of Roy A. Harrisville and Walter Sundberg, The Bible in Modern Culture: Baruch Spinoza to Brevard Childs (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1995). Presently, Scott W. Hahn and Benjamin Wiker have a mammoth volume forthcoming from Crossroad, entitled Politicizing the Bible: The Roots of Historical Criticism and the Secularization of Scripture 1300–1700, drafts of which I have read and greatly profited from, and which lead me to believe it will prove a milestone in the history of modern biblical scholarship, showing the important roles that numerous figures played in the rise of historical criticism, figures including Marsilius of Padua, William of Ockham, Wyclif, Machiavelli, Luther, King Henry VIII, Descartes, Hobbes, Spinoza, Simon, Locke, and Toland, and situating each of these figures in their broader historical, political, philosophical, and theological contexts. Since 2010 a number of important studies have been published in this field, e.g.: Jean Bernier, La critique du Pentateuque de Hobbes à Calmet (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2010); Nicolai Sinai,“Spinoza and Beyond: Some Reflections on Historical-Critical Method,” in Kritische Religionsphilosophie: Eine Gedenkschrift für Friedrich Niewöhner, ed. Wilhelm Schmidt-Biggemann and Georges Tamer (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2010), 193–213; James Arthur Diamond, “Maimonides, Spinoza, and Buber Read the Hebrew Bible: The Hermeneutical Keys of Divine ‘Fire’ and ‘Spirit’ (Ruach),” Journal of Religion 91 (2011): 320–43; Colette Nativel, “Isaac Vossius, entre Philologie et Philosophie,” in Isaac Vossius (1618–1689): Between Science and Scholarship, ed. Eric Jorink and Dirk van Miert (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 243–54; Andreas Nikolaus Pietsch, Isaac La Peyrère: Bibelkritik, Philosemitismus und Patronage in der Gelehrtenrepublik des 17. Jahrhunderts (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2012); and Hebrew Bible/Old Testament: The History of Its Interpretation III: From Modernism to Post-Modernism (The Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries) Part 1: The Nineteenth Century—A Century of Modernism and Historicism, ed. Magne Sæbø (Göttingen:Vandenhoesck & Ruprecht, 2013), which includes a number of relevant topics, e.g.: the rise of historicism, ancient near eastern and cognate studies, Julius Wellhausen, the Roman Catholic Modernist Crisis, Wilhelm de Wette, Abraham Kuenen, and Hermann Gunkel. The Enlightenment and the Academic Bible 909 very important discussions of earlier work (e.g., Lorenzo Valla, Elias Levita, Erasmus, Luther, and Isaac La Peyrère) and later work (especially Astruc). Michael Legaspi’s The Death of Scripture and the Rise of Biblical Studies fits within this stream of histories of modern biblical scholarship. II. The Decomposition of the Scriptural Bible and the Rise of the Academic Bible The Death of Scripture and the Rise of Biblical Studies, which has been published as part of Oxford University Press’s Oxford Studies in Historical Theology series, began as Legaspi’s 2006 Harvard University doctoral dissertation, entitled “Reviving the Dead Letter: Johann David Michaelis and the Quest for Hebrew Antiquity,” which he completed in the Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations for a doctoral committee composed of Peter Machinist (co-director), Ann Blair (co-director), and Jon Levenson (reader). The dissertation, and thus the book, originated in a course Legaspi took on the history of biblical interpretation, taught by Machinist (xii). Machinist’s influence, and that of Blair, a scholar of culture and intellectual history and the history of scholarship of early modern Europe, is detectable throughout, as is the influence of the other historians of biblical scholarship whom Legaspi acknowledges: Gary Anderson, James Kugel, Levenson, Jonathan Sheehan, Suzanne Marchand, Anthony Grafton, and Rudolf Smend (xii–xiii). Having read the original dissertation, which remains one of the most impressive I have read to date, I think this revised version is an improvement—better written, clearer, and with more punch. Legaspi’s preface (vii–xiv) opens with an elegantly written page-and-ahalf comparison of two “Bibles,” what he terms the “scriptural Bible”— the Bible as encountered in sacred liturgy—and what he labels the “academic Bible”—the Bible as studied at the university. As an example of the first, Legaspi uses his fine prose to paint a picture of an encounter with Scripture in the eastern liturgy of St. John Chrysostom. From behind the icon screen, the priest comes into view, carrying overhead, in solemn procession, an ornately bound, gold-plated volume: the Book of the Gospels. All stand. There is incense in the air. Acolytes, candles in hand, stand by to illuminate the reading of the Gospel. In that moment, the people are told not to look, to follow texts with their eyes, but rather to listen.The priest proclaims, “Wisdom! Let us attend!” and the people go silent. (vii) Turning to the second example, the “academic Bible,” Legaspi depicts a scene, familiar to Bible scholars—the biblical studies seminar classroom in a university setting. 910 Jeffrey L. Morrow It too is filled with people. They sit, not stand. At the center is a long table. On it are many Bibles, various copies in assorted languages: Hebrew, Greek, Syriac, Latin. Some lie open, others are pushed aside into impromptu stacks. They share the table with other writings: teacher’s notes, photocopies, reference works, dictionaries, grammars, commentaries. The atmosphere is sociable but cerebral, quiet but static. Heads are bowed, but over books. There are readers here too, but the oral performances are tracked closely by others whose eyes are attuned carefully to common texts. (vii) What Legaspi hopes to do in his book is attend to the story of the origin of the “academic Bible.” He locates the academic Bible’s roots in the Reformation and its aftermath, “a moment when the scriptural Bible evoked by the liturgical scene above had already receded to the margins of modern Western cultural and public life” (viii). Although the stage had been set for the “academic Bible” prior to the Enlightenment, it was not born until the eighteenth century. What he argues is that “[t]he academic Bible was created by scholars who saw that the scriptural Bible, embedded as it was in confessional particularities, was inimical to the socio-political project from which Enlightenment universities drew their purpose and support” (viii). Legaspi’s preface lucidly summarizes his work’s overture. His basic thesis is: “The history of modern biblical criticism shows that the fundamental antitheses were not intellectual or theological, but rather social, moral, and political. Academic critics did not dispense with the authority of a Bible resonant with religion; they redeployed it” (xii). The eighteenth-century biblical philologist Johann David Michaelis (1717–91) serves as Legaspi’s case study. Michaelis proves to be important because he stands at the crossroads of the transformation Legaspi seeks to describe, but also because he is one of the most significant protagonists in the transformation itself. In effect, as Legaspi narrates the story, Michaelis is one of the figures most responsible for the creation of modern biblical studies. The fact that Michaelis’s theological views were rather traditional—he even adhered to the Mosaic authorship not only of the Pentateuch but also of the Book of Job—allows him to serve as a case in point that simple dichotomies such as secular versus religious are insufficient to grasp what was taking place in the eighteenth century. Legaspi’s first chapter, “From Scripture to Text” (3–26), provides a fine introduction to the early history of modern biblical criticism from the Reformation to the Enlightenment.24 The basic argument Legaspi puts 24 In summary fashion I try to broaden this history from the late medieval period to the nineteenth century in Jeffrey L. Morrow, “The Politics of Biblical Interpretation: A ‘Criticism of Criticism,’ ” New Blackfriars 91, no. 1035 (September The Enlightenment and the Academic Bible 911 forward here is sure to be a controversial one, namely, that the Reformation killed Scripture, and that the Enlightenment attempted to revivify it.25 Legaspi states that one of his main arguments is that “the development of biblical studies as an academic discipline in Germany more than two hundred years after the Reformation was an outworking of what might be called the ‘death of Scripture’ ” (4). This death was in part a result of the textualization of Scripture, wherein Scripture ceased to be thought of primarily as a living Word with its primary home in the Liturgy, and became transformed into a book, eventually a dead historical book, a letter without the living Spirit which inspired it.26 In this context, Legaspi emphasizes that much of the criticism that is evidenced from the eighteenth century already existed in the seventeenth century, in the writings of Isaac La Peyrère, Thomas Hobbes, Baruch Spinoza, and Richard Simon.27 Legaspi wants to underscore precisely how biblical studies began in German-speaking lands during the Enlightenment.The methods and skill sets honed in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century German universities had already been developed in France, England, and the Dutch Republic in the seventeenth century. German biblical criticism was somewhat of a late-comer to these critical methodologies; and yet, it was not until these methodologies were perfected at German Enlightenment universities that “an organized, institutional, and methodologically selfconscious critical program” was born (4). Part of the impetus to this process 2010): 528–45. Elsewhere I show how this history enters the Catholic world during the Modernist Crisis, idem, “The Modernist Crisis and the Shifting of Catholic Views on Biblical Inspiration,” Letter & Spirit 6 (2010): 265–80. 25 In Legaspi’s words, “Scripture died a quiet death in Western Christendom some time in the sixteenth century.The death of scripture was attended by two ironies. First, those who brought the scriptural Bible to its death counted themselves among its defenders. Second, the power to revivify a moribund scriptural inheritance arose not from the churches but from the state. The first development was the Reformation, and the second was the rise, two hundred years later, of modern biblical scholarship” (3). 26 I attempt to describe this same process in Jeffrey L. Morrow, “The Bible in Captivity: Hobbes, Spinoza and the Politics of Defining Religion,” Pro Ecclesia 19, no. 3 (Summer 2010): 285–99. 27 On La Peyrère’s role in this history, see my “French Apocalyptic Messianism: Isaac La Peyrère and Political Biblical Criticism in the Seventeenth Century,” Toronto Journal of Theology 27, no. 2 (2011): 203–13. On Hobbes’s place in this discussion, see idem, “Leviathan and the Swallowing of Scripture: The Politics behind Thomas Hobbes’ Early Modern Biblical Criticism,” Christianity & Literature 61, no. 1 (2011): 33–54. On Spinoza’s importance, see idem, “The Early Modern Political Context to Spinoza’s Bible Criticism,” Revista de Filosofía 66, no. 3 (2010): 7–24. 912 Jeffrey L. Morrow was the splintering of Western Christendom at and following the Reformation. Scholastic and humanist debates within the Catholic world prior to the Reformation, and later Catholic and Protestant polemics, rendered the Bible opaque to would-be interpreters. Moreover, in the wake of the Reformation, and the skeptical erosion of biblical authority in works spanning La Peyrère on the one end and Voltaire on the other, the Bible ceased to function as Scripture for many intellectuals in Western Europe. Legaspi thus drives home to his readers: It was not simply deep curiosity about the language, form, and content of the Bible that spawned the ambitious research programs of eighteenth-century biblical scholars. In the decades surrounding the turn of the eighteenth century, the prestige of the Bible in the Western world was at an all-time low. Skeptics, rationalist critics, and proponents of the new science published widely and influentially on the state of its textual corruption, the unreliability of its historical narratives, the crudeness of its style, and, in some cases, the fanciful, even childish quality of its stories. . . . What developed in the mid-eighteenth century was not a new awareness of the “human” or “historical” character of the Bible. Rather, it was the realization that the Bible was no longer intelligible as scripture, that is, as a self-authorizing, unifying authority in European culture. . . . If the Bible was to find a place in a new political order committed to the unifying power of the state, it would have to do so as a common cultural inheritance. (4–5) What German scholars in the newly formed Enlightenment universities did was redeploy the Bible for their cultural political projects, thus making it of contemporary relevance. Scholars like Michaelis essentially viewed the Bible as a dead historical text which informed modern audiences about a long dead historical civilization. Thus, its pages could be culled for clues that would aid the creation of a more robust German culture, along with well-trained civil servants, loyal subjects of the state. As Legaspi explains, “They used historical research to write the Bible’s death certificate while opening, simultaneously, a new avenue for recovering the biblical writings as ancient cultural products capable of reinforcing the values and aims of a new sociopolitical order. The Bible, once decomposed, could be used to fertilize modern culture” (5). Following the work of Sheehan, Legaspi explains: “The efforts of biblical scholars in this period must be understood as part of a larger attempt to shore up the authority of the Bible by rearticulating its cultural relevance and . . . by creatively demonstrating its value as a philological, moral, aesthetic, and historical resource” (9). In effect, Legaspi argues that the Reformation rendered the Bible unintelligible as Catholic The Enlightenment and the Academic Bible 913 Scripture, in that the Reformation left in its wake as many confessionally specific interpretations as denominations. Thus, the Enlightenment project attempted to create a new catholic (universal) Bible, by eschewing the various Scriptural Bibles born after the Reformation, and seeking instead a Bible as bedrock of Western civilization. III. The Transformation of the University and of Classical Studies Legaspi’s second chapter, “Bible and Theology at an Enlightenment University” (27–51), is one of the most important, succinct discussions of the creation of modern Enlightenment universities I have ever read. His discussion here of the University of Göttingen, which became the paradigmatic Enlightenment university, would be of interest to anyone interested in the history of the modern university, the Enlightenment, as well as the advent of modern biblical studies and modern theology. Legaspi explains: “Over the course of the nineteenth century, academic theologians succeeded in assimilating theology to the realities of the modern state in order to ensure the continued survival of their discipline” (29). Legaspi highlights the role of modern politics, not only in the creation of Enlightenment universities, but also in the transformed role theology began to play at the university, and in the creation of modern biblical studies. As he writes: In the main, the guiding light of our eighteenth-century figures was not a beautiful vision of what criticism as a theological enterprise might look like. It was rather, for them, a matter of what biblical criticism, as a university subject, might do, what it might contribute to the education of men who would one day run the governments under which they themselves would have to live. (31) The universities that originated or were reformed in the eighteenth century existed for the very purpose of serving the state. The raison d’être of German Enlightenment universities like Göttingen was to produce obedient civil servants. Following the work of Ian Hunter, whom he here quotes, Legaspi explains that the first of these new universities, Halle, was exemplary in “the way higher education in the period served the aims of ‘a monarchical court bent on using [the university] to provide the state with a deconfessionalized ruling elite’ ” (40).28 28 Legaspi here is relying upon Ian Hunter, “Multiple Enlightenments: Rival Auf- klärer at the University of Halle, 1690–1730,” in The Enlightenment World, ed. Martin Fitzpatrick, Peter Jones, Christa Knellwolf, and Iain McCalman (London: Routledge, 2007), 576–95, at 579. 914 Jeffrey L. Morrow One of the most crucial figures within the history recounted in this chapter, who helped pave the way for Michaelis, was theologian Johann Lorenz Mosheim. Mosheim helped set the theological program for Göttingen, and unlike many of his theological predecessors, he took the radical skepticism of the late seventeenth century seriously. He envisioned and embodied a theology that was interdisciplinary, and, on theological grounds, advocated a broad interdisciplinarity at the university. Mosheim was completely opposed to theological controversies and debates, which he understood as internecine Christian polemics. As Spinoza had striven, at least ostensibly, for a scientific method of biblical interpretation that would end what he identified as religious conflict, so Mosheim sought to assess theological and religious matters with scientific precision. As Legaspi demonstrates in later chapters, Michaelis would attempt to bring Mosheim’s ideal into the realm of biblical scholarship. At the heart of this discussion is the turn to Bildung (culture).29 Legaspi writes, “By turning to the category of culture, Göttingen scholars created a mode of Wissenschaft that also accorded with political gradualism, conservative reform, and a deep interest in what makes societies strong and distinct” (51). This was a scholarship bent on transforming all of German society by forming elite, classically trained civil servants who would help the state direct the engines of modernity. The third chapter of Legaspi’s book, “The Study of Classical Antiquity at Göttingen” (53–78), is another groundbreaking treatment which he handles deftly and succinctly. This chapter would be of interest not only to those concerned with the history of biblical scholarship, but also those who read in the history of classical scholarship and in modernity in general. The parallels between biblical studies and classical studies have been selectively commented upon in the scholarly literature, but such discussions have been rather sparse.30 More and more scholarly literature, 29 Legaspi describes the sense of Bildung in this context as “education and forma- tion for the whole person” (43). 30 Some of the scholarly works that discuss a few of the connections between clas- sical and biblical studies include Umberto Cassuto, The Documentary Hypothesis and the Composition of the Pentateuch: Eight Lectures ( Jerusalem: Magness Press, 2006 [1941]), 11–14; Edwin Yamauchi, Composition and Corroboration in Classical and Biblical Studies (Philadelphia: Presbyterian & Reformed, 1966); Anthony Grafton, “Prolegomena to Friedrich August Wolf,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 44 (1981): 101–29 (ch. 9 of Grafton’s Defenders of the Text); Baruch Halpern, The First Historians: The Hebrew Bible and History (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1996 [1988]), 18;Van Seters, Edited Bible, xiv, 12, 19, 23–24, 27, 133–63, and 185–243; and Bertram Eugene Schwarzbach, “The Eighteenth Century Confronts Job,” History of Universities 22, no. 1 (2007): 141–97. The Enlightenment and the Academic Bible 915 however, has been demonstrating the importance of understanding the eighteenth-century German turn to classical antiquity and pre-Christian Germanic culture to supplant any Catholic or Jewish heritage.31 Legaspi’s third chapter examines the key period in this history, in which German philhellenism influenced and completely transformed classical studies at the University of Göttingen. Legaspi explains how “German scholars, writers, and intellectuals looking beyond the Christian tradition turned to ancient Greece to recover an integrative vision of life. For several decades, Greek antiquity seemed to exercise a ‘tyranny’ over these figures and over German literature, philosophy, and religious thought” (54). This is how Göttingen became central to this story prior to Michaelis, precisely through the philological seminar, which became the paradigmatic means of studying classical antiquity and served as a model for later universities, like Berlin. As Legaspi observes, “. . . Göttingen at midcentury was not merely a way station on the road from seventeenth-century pedantry to nineteenthcentury Wissenschaft. Rather, Göttingen must be seen as the site of an academic program with its own account of culture and belief, one shaped by the realities of the Enlightenment university” (55). The thrust of the neo-humanist movement, which was born from philhellenism, was to refashion classical antiquity to serve as a practical model to reform contemporary cultural and political problems. The scientific study of classical antiquity, Alterthumswissenschaft, epitomized by Friedrich August Wolf among others, required the mastery of the history and philology of Greek culture in order to dominate the material and redeploy it for contemporary German culture. The early German adherents of the philhellenism movement sought to delve into the world of ancient Greece. At the other end of this movement, neo-humanism sought to appropriate the gold of Athens, as it were, for the German present. The core of this neohumanist project at Göttingen was “aimed at a renewal of culture based on a return to classical sources in their original languages” (61). The first figure Legaspi examines in detail in this chapter is Johann Matthias Gesner, who pioneered his famous Philological Seminar. For 31 E.g., Marchand, Down from Olympus; Brian Vick, “Greek Origins and Organic Metaphors: Ideals of Cultural Autonomy in Neo-Humanist Germany from Winckelmann to Curtius,” Journal of the History of Ideas 63, no. 3 (2002): 483–500; and George Williamson, The Longing for Myth in Germany: Religion and Aesthetic Culture from Romanticism to Nietzsche (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004). Legaspi explains, “German philhellenism was not simply a movement: it was a ‘faith.’ To its proponents, it entailed the monumental task of replacing Christianity with a new form of life derived from an imaginative engagement with Greek antiquity” (55). 916 Jeffrey L. Morrow Gesner, the study of ancient languages was merely a tool to enable students and scholars to make the content of texts accessible and thus usable for present cultural and political purposes. Gesner’s approach would be very influential on Michaelis after the latter became his university colleague and the two became very good friends, and in fact Michaelis temporarily took over Gesner’s Philological Seminar. Eventually, Gesner was replaced by Christian Gottlob Heyne, who was responsible for transforming classical studies in a totalistic and holistic way. Heyne’s approach to the investigation of classical antiquity was to employ every scholarly tool: art history, epigraphy, archaeology, mythology, religious and political history, etc. Michaelis would bring this methodology into the study of the Bible, creating the discipline of modern biblical studies. IV. The Premier German Philologist: Johann David Michaelis and the Birth of Modern Biblical Studies In Legaspi’s fourth chapter, “Michaelis and the Dead Hebrew Language” (79–104), he begins his treatment of Michaelis. Prior to Michaelis, the study of the Bible, even the study of Hebrew, had been primarily ancillary to theology. Michaelis’s genius made Hebrew philology and biblical studies their own separate and distinct disciplines severed from theological inquiry. Legaspi explains: “Far from being an effort to promote abstractions like ‘rationalism’ or ‘criticism,’ Michaelis’s recovery of Hebrew was an attempt to move beyond confessional interpretation and to render the Bible relevant as a new but old sort of cultural authority” (81). The rationale of Hebrew study for Michaelis was not primarily about correct biblical interpretation, but instead the enrichment of “European intellectual culture” (84). One of Michaelis’s fundamental moves was to emphasize the deadness of the Hebrew language. Prior to Michaelis, Christian Hebraism (the study of Hebrew and Jewish learning among Christians) had made recourse to Jewish learning on matters of Hebrew and related areas of knowledge. The assumption was that Jewish learning on Hebrew was superior to what Christians could learn on their own, because, in some way Hebrew was viewed as still a living language among European Jewry.32 Even if Hebrew was not the “native” language of educated Euro32 Even as late as about 1880 (thus prior to the advent of Modern Hebrew as a living language), Isaac Margolis taught his son, Max Margolis (famous Jewish Bible scholar and 1923 President of the Society of Biblical Literature), trigonometry and logarithms from a textbook, which he himself wrote, written in Hebrew. See Leonard Greenspoon, Max Leopold Margolis: A Scholar’s Scholar (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987), 2. The Enlightenment and the Academic Bible 917 pean Jews, since the study of the Hebrew Bible continued in Jewish communities, Christian scholars frequently sought out Jewish teachers.33 With Michaelis’s argument of the deadness of the Hebrew language, Christian scholars no longer needed the help of learned Jews. In fact, Michaelis brought a “periodization of Israelite and Jewish history” into the discussion, making a sharp separation within Israelite and Jewish history that would pave the way for later similar periodizations, which became fundamental to nineteenth-century historical critical schemata (88). Later Jewish history and learning was no longer important for understanding ancient Israelite texts.34 What mattered, according to Michaelis, was not whether a scholar was Jewish or Christian; rather, insights into the workings of the Hebrew language were to be gained by comparing it with other Semitic analogues, especially Arabic, which was a living Semitic language (84–95). According to Legaspi, “The systematic effort to interpret the Hebrew Bible ethnographically, in terms of present-day Arab language and culture, then, was one of the most distinctive features of Michaelis’s program for Hebrew study and biblical interpretation” (95). Michaelis thus initiated an unprecedented state-sponsored expedition to Arabia.35 This entire program 33 Spinoza himself wrote a Hebrew grammar (which he never completed) for the aid of his non-Jewish friends; it was later used by a number of Hebrew grammarians, including Wilhelm Gesenius, whose grammar remains in use today. See the studies, A.J. Klijnsmit, Spinoza and Grammatical Tradition (Leiden: Brill, 1986); idem, “Some Seventeenth-Century Grammatical Descriptions of Hebrew,” Histoire Épistémologie Langage 12, no. 1 (1990): 77–101; idem, “Spinoza and the Grammarians of the Bible,” in The History of Linguistics in the Low Countries, ed. Jan Noordegraaf, Kees Versteegh, and E. F. K. Koerner (Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 1992), 155–200; and M. A. Rodrigues, “Algumas notas sobre o Compendium Grammatices Hebraeae de Baruch Spinoza,” Helmantica 49 (1998): 111–29. For Spinoza’s grammar, Compendium Grammatices Linguae Hebraeae, see Baruch Spinoza, Opera, 4 vols., ed. Carl Gebhardt (Heidelberg: Carl Winter, 1925), vol. 1. 34 Legaspi observes, “In emphasizing the importance of ethnography and Near Eastern antiquities for the study of the Bible, Michaelis moved decisively away from what had been for centuries an obvious and important resource in biblical interpretation: Jews and Jewish literature. Christians had been learning Hebrew from Jewish teachers since the Middle Ages. . . . This situation lasted well into the eighteenth century, as even Michaelis’s native Halle suggests. . . . It is striking, then, that Michaelis, who became the most eminent Orientalist and biblical commentator of his generation, flatly denied the relevance of Jewish learning to a historical or philological understanding of the Old Testament” (96). 35 For more on the Danish Arabia Felix Expedition, see Sverker Sörlin, “National and International Aspects of Cross-Boundary Science: Scientific Travel in the 18th Century,” in Denationalizing Science: The Contexts of International Scientific Practice, ed. Elisabeth Crawford,Terry Shinn, and Sverker Sörlin (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic, 918 Jeffrey L. Morrow had the effect of further separating his contemporary Jews from Christian Europeans (97–101).36 For Michaelis, the Bible was to be viewed as any other ancient historical document, and thus could be accessible to the philologist apart from any theological standpoint. In this way, by imposing methodologies culled from classical studies, the Bible could be a source of enrichment, much like classical antiquity, for European culture. In Legaspi’s fifth chapter, “Lowth, Michaelis, and the Invention of Biblical Poetry” (105–28), he shows how Michaelis became a key means of importing English biblical criticism into the world of German scholarship. This is particularly the case with the English critic Robert Lowth, for whom the biblical prophets became Hebrew poets. After showing how Rudolf Smend argues that Michaelis’s editing of Lowth in German filtered Lowth through Michaelis’s thought—so that, in a sense, the German world got more Michaelis than Lowth—Legaspi demurs. Legaspi argues instead that “Michaelis had clear insight into the true value of Lowth’s work and that, as far as he knew, he was fully sympathetic to it.” In his argument he shows how thoroughly English thought and culture influenced Michaelis (117). As I read Legaspi’s discussion of Michaelis’s time in England and the influence of English thought on him, I cannot help but be reminded of the nineteenth-century Scottish biblical critic William Robertson Smith, whose travels to Germany were so influential. As Michaelis brought much English biblical criticism to 1993), 43–72, at 58–64; Han F. Vermeulen, “Anthropology in Colonial Contexts: The Second Kamchatka Expedition (1733–1743) and the Danish-German Arabia Expedition (1761–1767),” in Anthropology and Colonialism in Asia and Oceania, ed. Jan Van Bremen and Akitoshi Shimizu (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon Press, 1999), 13–39, at 23–26; Jonathan M. Hess, “Johann David Michaelis and the Colonial Imaginary: Orientalism and the Emergence of Racial Antisemitism in Eighteenth-Century Germany,” Jewish Social Studies 6, no. 2 (2000): 56–101; Sverker Sörlin, “Ordering the World for Europe: Science As Intelligence and Information As Seen from the Northern Periphery,” Osiris 15 (2000): 65–67; Michel-Pierre Detalle, “Die dänische Expedition nach Arabien, C. Niebuhr und Frankreich,” Historische Mitteilungen der Ranke-Gesellschaft 16 (2003): 1–14; Michael C. Carhart, The Science of Culture in Enlightenment Germany (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2007), 27–68; Hendrik Frederik Vermeulen, “Early History of Ethnography and Ethnology in the German Enlightenment: Anthropological Discourse in Europe and Asia, 1710–1808” (Ph.D. diss., Leiden University, 2008), 161–98; and Michel-Pierre Detalle and Renaud Detalle, “L’Islam vu par Carsten Niebuhr, voyageur en Orient (1761–1767),” Revue de l’histoire des religions 225, no. 4 (2008): 487–543. 36 For how this played out, again especially in German philological studies, in the nineteenth century as the field of comparative religion was born, see Tomoko Masuzawa, The Invention of World Religions: Or, How European Universalism Was Preserved in the Language of Pluralism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005). The Enlightenment and the Academic Bible 919 German scholarship, so Smith would later bring German biblical criticism to the English-speaking world.37 V. The Question of Moses and the Question of the Bible Legaspi’s final chapter, “Michaelis, Moses, and the Recovery of the Bible” (129–53), emphasizes debates concerning Moses in this history. Among other things, Legaspi analyzes Michaelis’s mammoth six-volume work, Mosaisches Recht, Michaelis’s magnum opus published over a span of five years (1770–75). For Michaelis, Moses, as the national leader of Old Testament Israel during the Exodus and wilderness period, would become the means of accessing and appropriating the cultural gold of Israel for Michaelis’s Germanic present. Legaspi begins with an overview of the central role Moses exercised in early modern political thought.38 He explains: “The Pentateuch became a resource for the study of leadership, political change, and statecraft. Biblical narrative was often stripped of its specific theological content and generalized to apply to contemporary political situations” (131). Legaspi proceeds to review the pivotal role of Moses in the thought of Machiavelli and Spinoza before turning to thorny questions surrounding the Mosaic authorship of the Pentateuch. For Machiavelli, Moses was especially important as an exemplar for how to achieve a successful state.39 For Spinoza, as Legaspi points out, “Moses then became an absolute ruler” (133). Spinoza detected a “separation of powers” in the Mosaic legislation, which matched his own views. 37 See, e.g., Rogerson, Old Testament Criticism; idem, Bible and Criticism; the essays in Johnstone, ed., William Robertson Smith; Gillian M. Bediako, Primal Religion and the Bible: William Robertson Smith and His Heritage (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), especially 106–35; and Bernhard Maier, William Robertson Smith: His Life, His Work and His Times (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), especially 86–122. 38 The role of Moses, and of Hebraic learning in general, in early modern European political thought, has thankfully become the focus of a whole host of recent scholarship. E.g., the essays in Political Hebraism: Judaic Sources in Early Modern Political Thought, ed. Gordon Schochet, Fania Oz-Salzberger, and Meirav Jones ( Jerusalem: Shalem Press, 2008); and Eric Nelson, The Hebrew Republic: Jewish Sources and the Transformation of European Political Thought (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2010). 39 See especially Steven Marx, “Moses and Machiavellism,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 65, no. 3 (1997): 551–71; John H. Geerken, “Machiavelli’s Moses and Renaissance Politics,” Journal of the History of Ideas 60, no. 4 (1999): 579–95; Christopher Lynch, “Machiavelli on Reading the Bible Judiciously,” in Political Hebraism, ed. Schochet, Oz-Salzberger, and Jones, 29–55; and Gary Remer, “After Machiavelli and Hobbes: James Harrington’s Commonwealth of Israel,” in Political Hebraism, ed. Schochet, Oz-Salzberger, and Jones, 207–15 and 223–24. 920 Jeffrey L. Morrow Legaspi criticizes Spinoza’s exegesis in places, most notably Spinoza’s reading of Exodus 32, which Legaspi understands as “a willful misreading of the Golden Calf incident” (133). I would agree with Legaspi against Spinoza that what the text describes is not a case of “the vengefulness of the biblical god.” But I do think Spinoza’s exegesis of the replacement of the firstborn sons as priests with the Levites is correct. Legaspi writes: On the basis of a willful misreading of the Golden Calf incident (Ex 32), Spinoza attributes the decline of Israel to the vengeful, capricious character of the biblical god. Prior to the incident, he explains, Moses had entrusted religious leadership to firstborn sons throughout the tribes (Num 8:17). But after witnessing the idolatrous behavior of the Israelites, the biblical god lashed out against the people with the aid of sword-bearing Levites. He then stripped the firstborn of their ministry and made the Levites the priests of Israel, requiring that the people support them with gifts and offerings associated with the ‘redemption’ of the firstborn. . . . Though it was Moses and not God in Ex 32 who rallied the Levites and executed idolaters without explicit instructions to do so, Spinoza attributes the rise of the Levites and the concomitant decline of Israel to the vengefulness of the biblical god. In this way, he makes the biblical god the author of priestcraft and political disorder while saving the reputation of Moses as a philosopher attuned to the wisdom of the true God. (133–34) Legaspi is right to criticize Spinoza here for his subtle attempt to justify his own political reading by denigrating the God of Israel in Exodus 32. Spinoza’s fundamental exegesis of the passage, however—where first-born sons serve as priests on account of their primogeniture, and are then replaced (after the fall of the golden calf) by/because of the actions of the sword-wielding Levites—does appear to be the case in the final canonical form in which the text has come down to us. No one has made a better case for this than Scott Hahn in his rewritten doctoral dissertation, Kinship by Covenant.40 Fathers and their firstborn sons apparently functioned as priests in the canonical Pentateuch prior to the golden calf incident.41 Indeed, at the Passover in Egypt, God ransoms the firstborn sons of Israel. At the initial covenant God makes with Israel at Mt. Sinai in Exodus 24, 40 Scott W. Hahn, Kinship by Covenant: A Canonical Approach to the Fulfillment of God’s Saving Promises (New Haven, CN: Yale University Press, 2009), especially ch. 6, “The Levitical Grant-Type Covenant,” 136–75. 41 See ibid., 39–40 on the role of fathers as priests in the Old Testament and in the ancient Near East; and 136–42 on the priestly primogeniture of firstborn sons in Genesis and Exodus. The Enlightenment and the Academic Bible 921 we find “elders” functioning as priests (24:1 and 5), whom much of the Targumic literature interpreted as firstborn sons.42 What the Levites did, by splitting around 3,000 of their fellows in half, was, on this reading, enact the covenant curses (symbolized in the sacrificing of the animals and sprinkling of blood in Exodus 24:5–6) triggered by the idolatry.43 Thus, when we come to the Book of Numbers, we find the Levites ritually replacing the firstborn sons: first all of the people of Israel (other than Levites) are counted (Nm 1); then the Levites are numbered separately from the people of Israel (Nm 3:14–39); finally, all of Israel’s firstborn sons (except from the Levites) are numbered (Nm 3:40–43), and we read: “the Lord said to Moses, ‘Take the Levites instead of all the first-born among the people of Israel’ ” (Nm 3:44–45, RSVCE), and money from the firstborn sons is handed over to the Levites (Nm 3:46–51).44 It would seem that Spinoza was correct at least as far as the replacement of the firstborn son priests with Levitical priests is concerned. After his discussion of Machiavelli and Spinoza, Legaspi briefly discusses the role Jean Astruc played in the denial of the Mosaic authorship of the Pentateuch. Astruc’s anonymous 1753 Conjectures sur les mémoires originaux dont il paroit que Moyse s’est servi pour composer le Livre de la Genèse was an attempt to defend the Mosaic authorship of the Pentateuch against earlier critics, namely La Peyrère, Hobbes, Spinoza, and Simon. What Astruc argued, however, was that Moses utilized ten minor sources, and two major ones, in composing Genesis through the beginning of Exodus. For Michaelis, Astruc had gone too far. Michaelis was suspicious of the neat-and-clean hypothetical sources Astruc deduced based on different names for God, etc. Michaelis conceded Moses’ reliance on earlier sources, as well as minor editing by Joshua. Michaelis feared, however, that denials of Mosaic authorship would weaken the authority of the text, which was important to him for his cultural and political humanistic program. Moses was important to Michaelis because, as with Machiavelli and Spinoza before him, Michaelis saw in Moses the political ideals of his own time and place: namely, the subordination of church to state. The irony is that it was through Michaelis’s critique of Astruc that Michaelis’s own student Johann Gottfried Eichhorn was made aware of Astruc’s arguments, upon which Eichhorn would build thus setting the stage for the Documentary Hypothesis, which came to full flower in the nineteenth century. 42 See ibid., 44–48 on the covenant at Sinai in Exodus 24. 43 See ibid., 51–56 on covenant oaths/curses and their ritual enactments. 44 See ibid., 146–47 on the golden calf episode causing the firstborn sons of Israel to lose their priestly status and triggering their replacement by the Levites. 922 Jeffrey L. Morrow Legaspi’s conclusion (155–69)—followed by useful endnotes (171–98) and bibliography (199–213)—summarizes his argument nicely, and it also clarifies what is at stake in such a project. He briefly describes the important heritage Michaelis bequeathed biblical studies, especially through his student Eichhorn, as well as the anti-Jewish baggage that carried through the eighteenth, nineteenth, and into the twentieth centuries in the German academy. Legaspi then examines Johann Georg Hamann’s critique of Michaelis.45 Legaspi concludes with what he has been arguing was the point of the Enlightenment creation of biblical studies: The scattered researches of earlier skeptics and freethinkers, though every bit as critical, did not coalesce into a compelling interpretive program until unified at the university. Guided by methods and assumptions that reinforced the statism and irenicism of the Enlightenment cameralists, the new discipline of biblical studies allowed practitioners to create a postconfessional Bible by reconstructing a pre-confessional Israel. (165) Legaspi’s work is one of the freshest and most important in the field. No one interested in eighteenth-century biblical criticism or in Johann David Michaelis can safely ignore this volume. But, as I hope is already apparent from my comments in this review, Legaspi’s work will prove important for the broader discipline of the history of biblical scholarship. Anyone interested in the origins of modern biblical criticism, the origins of biblical studies in the university setting, or even the debate about the role of history and theology in biblical interpretation—I am thinking here especially about those interested in theological exegesis—must read this book. Legaspi has written one of the most crucial studies on the early history of how the Bible began to be studied primarily as a cultural and historical document rather than as a theological wellspring, and he underscores the broader cultural and political concerns that aided this transformation. Eschewing the standard dichotomy of secular versus religious, and contrary to first impressions the stark title might give, Legaspi’s discussion is one of the most nuanced yet, highlighting important historical developments that demonstrate how so many older dichotomies are problematic and no longer tenable. The Death of Scripture and the Rise of Biblical Studies breaks new ground in the history of biblical scholarship, and justly belongs on the bookshelves of every biblical scholar interested in the history of their discipline. N&V 45 On Hamann and his critique of the new discipline of biblical studies, as well as of Michaelis specifically, see John R. Betz, After Enlightenment: The Post-Secular Vision of J. G. Hamann (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009), especially 93, 99–104, 114–25, and 136–37; and idem, “Glory(ing) in the Humility of the Word: The Kenotic Form of Revelation in J. G. Hamann,” Letter & Spirit 6 (2010): 141–79. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 11, No. 3 (2013): 923–51 923 Book Reviews Did Aquinas Justify the Transition from “Is” to “Ought”? by Piotr Lichacz (Warsaw: Instytut Tomistyczny, 2010 ), 332 pp. I T IS UNDENIABLE that David Hume and G. E. Moore have had a revolutionary influence on the thought of the moral philosophers who have come after them. The Catholic tradition has not been immune to this influence. If Hume really proved that an “ought” cannot be inferred from an “is,” and if Moore really proved that the good cannot be analyzed in terms of natural properties, then it would be incumbent upon any responsible philosopher or theologian wanting to remain relevant to look for the source of moral norms somewhere apart from the world of natures and the “given.” But the Catholic moralist encounters what seems to be quite an obstacle in such a project: St. Thomas Aquinas (whom no Catholic moralist can ignore) does not appear to address explicitly the logical fallacy of inferring an “ought” from an “is,” and the Thomistic moral tradition, at least until the middle of the twentieth century, appears to derive the precepts of the natural law precisely from nature and its finalities. Faced with these facts, the Catholic moralist who esteems St.Thomas has only two choices. One is the option of those who are convinced that Hume and Moore are right: that the naturalistic fallacy is indeed real, its mere identification being enough to reduce a natural law theory containing it to absurdity; but fortunately (some would claim) the naturalistic fallacy is found only in abusive manualist interpretations of St. Thomas, who in reality vindicates the radical autonomy of practical reason. This is the approach of the New Natural Law theory—represented by Grisez, Finnis, Boyle, the two Tollefsens, and Robert P. George—as well as that of Father Martin Rhonheimer. In a manner reminiscent of the Transcendental Thomists, who claimed that Aquinas shared the insights of Kant before Kant’s time, these thinkers hold that St. Thomas took Hume’s law for granted long before Hume—and if this is not so evident in Aquinas, it is only because we miss the point of certain key texts (e. g., Summa theologiae I–II, q. 94, a. 2), interpreting them in rather gross, physicalist categories. The other 924 Book Reviews option is the one taken by those who judge that St. Thomas did indeed infer moral norms from what is intelligible about that which is, and had no qualms about doing so, for not only did St. Thomas not agree with the answers of Hume and Moore; his is a philosophical framework in which the question does not even occur. There is no need to fear “naturalism in ethics,” for there is nothing fallacious about it. This latter position is that of the Polish Thomist and sometime lecturer in Krákow, Piotr Lichacz. As he points out in this book, if this position is correct, it means that the philosophical presuppositions and methods of St. Thomas on the one hand, and those of Hume, Moore, and even the New Natural Law Theorists on the other, must be very different, incompatible even. To blame St. Thomas for failing to see what is today considered a basic logical fallacy and thereby expel his ethics from contemporary dialogue is to be “precipitate” (11); but to hail him as having seen it and made its denial a foundation of his natural law theory is surely to be “anachronistically creative in the interpretation of his texts” (309). Even a superficial knowledge of the history of philosophy should tell us that St. Thomas has at the very least a different epistemology and ontology from those of Hume and Moore, and if we are going to make judgments about his views regarding logical inferences of ethical norms from natural givens, we had better first check to see if his logic and philosophy of nature are different from those generally taken for granted in modern thought. And after we inevitably find that they are, we had better get to know those of St. Thomas well. Only thus can we make valid comparisons and judgments. This is what Lichacz sets out to accomplish in this book, a slight re-working of his doctoral dissertation defended at the University of Fribourg and awarded the 2009 Thomas Aquinas Dissertation Prize by the Aquinas Center for Theological Renewal of Ave Maria University. In the midst of an introduction that presents the problem as just described and an excellent historical preamble that lucidly summarizes the contentions of Hume and Moore, Lichacz describes the general “Is/Ought” thesis as the positing of an “inferential gap” between descriptive statements (marked by the notion of “is”) and prescriptive statements (marked by the notion of “ought” or, in Moore’s case, “good”). Lichacz then divides the “Is/Ought” thesis into three sub-theses that will serve as points of reference at key junctures throughout the book (15, 298). The first sub-thesis is “the internalist assumption,” that is, the supposition in Hume that accompanies the inferential gap and tries to supply for the apparent loss of moral basis by making morals a matter of natural human sentiments of sympathy that generate feelings of approval and disapproval for certain actions (35). The Book Reviews 925 other two sub-theses are divisions of the general inferential gap itself that are based on the argumentation of G. E. Moore. The logical sub-thesis is that no moral conclusion can be deduced from propositions whose terms are exclusively non-moral.The semantic sub-thesis says that no analytic statement can bridge this gap either; that is, there are no analytic statements that establish an implication from the non-moral to the moral (43). The end result is that there can be non-moral discourse with non-moral terms, and there can be moral discourse with moral terms, but never the twain shall meet: a complete autonomy of ethics, but one that has been established by a logic that, at the very least, requires examination. It becomes clear that whoever would make proclamations on the transition from “is” to “ought” needs to approach logic before ethics. Lichacz therefore dedicates the first half of the main body of his book to logic. In chapter 1, he takes up Aristotle and Aquinas’s general approach to cognition. Lichacz counters the vulgar notions that St. Thomas and Aristotle offer an essentialist and/or deductivist approach to philosophy that is little more than checking for coherence between static, established concepts. He shows that, on the contrary, the AristotelianThomistic method is firmly grounded in induction and constant recourse to sense knowledge. The via iudicii, marked by demonstration causing certitude, is preceded and accompanied by the via inventionis, marked by induction and dialectic. Lichacz also includes in this chapter the exhaustive division of the intellectual virtues: wisdom, understanding, science, prudence, the seven liberal arts, and the many servile arts, specified by their end-product. Lichacz notes for every art there is a corresponding science that considers what is of necessity in that art. In preparation for the following chapter, he applies this insight to identify logic—though it is one of the liberal arts—as also a science. This same principle about arts and their corresponding science should be kept in mind when considering questions that have to do with the relations of disciplines to each other: for every order produced by reason, there is a corresponding (and by nature prior) order discovered by reason. Already there are implications for ethics as an art. The order we put into human action has to be preceded by an order discovered in human action. In chapter 2, Lichacz presents the classic Thomistic division of the parts of logic, found in the introduction to the commentary on the Posterior Analytics. In the process, he also makes the important distinction between logica docens, which is the science, from logica utens, which is the art (84–85). For St. Thomas, logic truly is a tool, meant to be used in order to guide the acts of reason in their discovery and judgment of things as they are. Logic is not a mere discipline of pure rational formality for its own sake, like the 926 Book Reviews predicate and propositional calculus of modern logic. Logica utens in natural science, for example, is employed in arguments with terms that are not mere p’s and q’s, replaceable with what-have-you, but terms that signify real mobile beings with natures (104, 143). Nevertheless, logica utens does depend on logica docens, and so this chapter also discusses the subject-domain of logic the science. Here Lichacz takes the opportunity to present the entire division of being (ens), from real being, distinguished into the ten categories (substance, quantity, quality, relation, etc.), to beings of reason, ultimately ending in a consideration of the two kinds of relations of reason: those that are based on things as they actually exist in rerum naturae, and those that are based on things as they are known (98–99). The latter are known as second intentions, and although it is they that are the subject of logic (and hence the goal of the division), the reader should note carefully the other relations of reason that are not logical (based on things as they are), as Lichacz makes use of this tool often later on in the book (234, 238–39, 276). In chapters 3 and 4, Lichacz undertakes an examination of the second intentions themselves. These second intentions are of three kinds, corresponding to the three acts of the mind, of which they are the products: universality, attribution, and consequence. Chapter 3 principally covers St.Thomas’s commentary on the Peri Hermeneias, chapter 4, the commentary on the Posterior Analytics. There are three particular themes discussed in these chapters that set St. Thomas apart from much of modern philosophy. The first is the infallibility of the first act of the mind, which, Lichacz explains well, is a necessity from formal causality (not from efficient causality): the understanding of simple indivisibles is not understanding at all if it is false (116–18). The second is the inherence theory of predication (126–29), which is in opposition to the identity theory that would make tautologies out of analytic statements (it is here that the semantic sub-thesis is dealt a blow). The third is the notion of demonstration through the four causes, and especially final cause, which is not only the most explanatory of the causes, as the cause of their causality, but also provides the only mode of necessity (ex suppositione finis, also called “hypothetical necessity”) that we must often rely on for explanation in natural science, which deals with contingent, defectible efficient causes (158, 163, 224–25). Lichacz then concludes the first part with a very enlightening discussion of the interdependence of the sciences and the notion of science as a habit perfective of the intellect, rather than merely a fenced-off discipline. It is only by viewing science in the latter way that one would refuse to borrow principles from another science (for example, ethics borrowing from natural science); but if one views science as certain knowledge bringing the intellect to rest, then whoever would Book Reviews 927 know a subalternate science perfectly will be impelled to examine the subalternating science to some degree, to explain the propter quid of the principles he has borrowed (164–66). In part two, Lichacz turns to speculative science. Chapter 5 begins with the division of the sciences, primarily from St. Thomas’s commentary on Boethius’s De Trinitate. Lichacz confidently presents the view that metaphysics requires the prevenient judgment of existence of substances separated from matter (often associated with the “River Forest School” of Thomism). The relevance of this view pertains to our question insofar as Lichacz points out that the “is” from which we will infer the “oughts” of morals is an anthropological “is,” and thus it is not properly the “is” of metaphysics.The study of man is a species of the study of nature, of mobile being. This is significant, especially given the energy spent by several authors today in either asserting or denying the necessity of metaphysics for morals (227). As Lichacz points out later, metaphysics certainly has its contribution (294–96), and the metaphysician will provide greater certainty (253, 296), but the “is” from which we infer the “ought” is really an “is” found in natural science, which is also why St. Thomas places morals after natural science and before metaphysics in the order of learning (67–68, 294). In chapters 6 and 7, therefore, Lichacz focuses on natural science. In chapter 6, he basically presents the doctrine of books I and II of the Physics regarding the principles of motion (matter, form, and privation) and the principles of natural science (the four causes). It is in this chapter that Lichacz gives the first hints at the analyzability of goodness. He comes at this twice: once in commenting upon Aristotle’s statement (and St. Thomas’s discussion) of form as something “divinum, optimum, et appetibile” (desirable, namely, to the matter which tends to it, 205–8) and again in the discussion of the final cause as that which explains the introduction of the form by the efficient cause. There is a rather contorted discussion (218–19) that tries to connect these two loci of desirability and goodness, but the lack of clarity there may simply be due to the author having to express himself in a language not his own. At any rate, the point is clear: the good has to do with appetibility. But, as Lichacz points out, the appetibility is the effect (not the explaining cause) of the good. There is something about the thing that is called “good” that makes it desirable to another. Lichacz will revisit what this precisely means in chapter 8. Chapter 7 focuses on three last themes in the philosophy of nature that are relevant to the inquiry.The first is the definition of motion itself and its analysis, particularly the notions of act and potency (in sum, the doctrine of Physics Bk. III). This discussion drives home that when we discourse on man, we are discoursing on a mobile being, and this necessarily entails a 928 Book Reviews recognition of potency aimed at actualization. Otherwise, it is not really the man of nature that we are talking about. The second theme is the importance of the proof of the existence of the Unmoved Mover that operates through intellect. Nature is not explained without a separate intellect; hence, neither will anthropology or ethics be explained without reference to this divine intellect (contrary to the claims of the New Natural Law theorists).The last theme is the role of the cogitative sense as answering the internalist assumption: already, even before moral science, we have a faculty in common with other animals that bids us pursue our good and avoid what harms, but only according to what we are (i.e., a man, a sheep, and a wolf are not driven to or repelled by the same objects). Furthermore, it is in virtue of this faculty that we humans apply our moral reasoning, universal as it is, to the concrete particulars before us. Thus, the cogitative sense works with a presumption of both our distinct nature and our speculative knowledge, not autonomously from them, as Hume would have it. Finally, in chapter 8, Lichacz resumes the discussion of the analyzability of goodness begun in chapter 6.This is the final response to the claims of G. E. Moore. When the good is understood as “that which is appetible,” it is indeed analyzable, for the science of nature teaches us that everything in potency desires/seeks after its perfection.The good is being as perfectivum of another. But as such, a thing’s good depends on its nature, for the ultimate perfection ( perfectio secunda) of a thing can be understood only in reference to its substance ( perfectio prima). The case is no different for the good that we call moral, for this denomination simply refers to that species of goodness that befits actions proceeding from deliberate reason and will (283–84). These actions themselves have their perfection in their order to the ultimate operation of the human being, a perfection toward which they are already disposed by the semi-perfection of habits. And by a consideration of habits and ultimate operation, one can analyze the proper good for man and, by extension, elaborate a science that includes rational discourse on “oughts.” The book as a whole provides the raw materials for an ethic based on natural science, but a head-on refutation of Hume and Moore is only summarily presented in the conclusion. Lichacz does mention, for instance, that an “ought” simply is a kind of “is,” contra Hume, but this allimportant connection is introduced only at the end of the book and with a rather weak argument behind it. Lichacz claims that since “moral” is a determination (he says “an accident”) of action, and action in turn is an accident inhering in a substance (285, 294), therefore the moral “ought” is a species of “is” (308). However, although it is true that perfect knowledge of an accident entails knowledge of the proper subject of that acci- Book Reviews 929 dent, that does not mean that whatever is true of the subject is true of the accident. An “ought” is a kind of “is,” but the real reason for this is that an “ought” arises from the consideration of the relation between the “is-inact” and the “is-in-potency” (which is the first division of real being per se). To the action that would reduce the “is-in-potency” to the “is-in-act,” there is added the mode of hypothetical necessity (necesse is a modification of esse), which is the only kind of necessity that can come upon a free agent from outside (see St. Thomas, Summa theologiae I, q. 82, a. 1). Thus, for example, to say that “it is necessary to exercise” or that one “ought to exercise” is to say that, if one is to obtain the perfection of health (to which one “is in potency”), exercise is “to-be-done” by him or her. The Latin passive periphrastic, used often in general legal/moral principles, makes this easy to see: malum vitandum est, and bonum prosequendum est. In short, Hume’s law is a non-question in an Aristotelian metaphysics that claims that every predication (even “oughts”) is an assertion of being in some way (Meta., Bk. V, ch. 7), even being in potency. It is not evident to me that Lichacz understands this. In one place, he seems to argue in the opposite direction, trying to prove that the “is” of man is already a moral “is” (285). But this meaning of the term “moral” is not to the point, since in this context it indicates the power of free choice, and not “oughtness.” Of course, there still remains the question of how to determine this “bonum” that is “to-be-pursued.” On this point, Lichacz does well in showing, contra Moore, that the good is analyzable only through a consideration of natural properties, for it consists in actualizations that perfect the nature in its motion toward its end. The real problem is to prove that our knowledge of natures includes true understanding of what they are and true judgments about their perfectibility and finality, and that is why a robust epistemology and logic are necessary (particularly as regards the first two acts of the mind). It is clear, then, how much all of the propaedeutic work done by Lichacz is necessary for a full understanding of the connection between speculative science and ethics. All the elements are present. But the book never quite gathers up the loose ends successfully. Did Aquinas Justify the Transition from “Is” to “Ought”? is not so much the presentation of a linear argument terminating in the refutation of the three sub-theses, but a grand tour through all the knowledge that should be possessed in order to undertake the study of ethics, with strikes made at the three theses along the way. It is a little surprising how infrequently and rather laterally the three sub-theses are both introduced and addressed throughout by the author, in spite of his promise to clearly identify them and deal with them (15). Nevertheless, what is clear by the end of the book is that Hume and Moore inhabit a philosophical planet 930 Book Reviews very different from that of St. Thomas, and the reader is at least left with the impression that the chasm between descriptive statements and prescriptive statements is an artificial postulate, characteristic of an era that prefers to fragment knowledge. In this way, the original three subtheses, though not prominently rebutted, are entirely emptied of their power to cause trepidation for the moral philosopher who is armed with an integrated view of science that sets each discipline in its proper place and allows for communication between them. N&V Kevin Keiser Plymouth, MN We Have Seen His Glory: A Vision of Kingdom Worship by Ben Witherington, III (Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 2010 ) x + 166 pp. B EN W ITHERINGTON is urgently concerned about the way Protestant worship services are conducted these days. In this book he presents his ideas about what worship should look like for those who believe that God’s Kingdom is coming. Asserting that New Testament scholars spend little time talking about worship, Witherington says that it’s time to “play it forward” in worship services, that is, to focus on the finish line, the Kingdom Come, the eschaton, rather than dwelling too much on “what has already gone before in the past” (ix). Witherington attempts to reflect theologically on the New Testament in order to arrive at some ideas about what should be the characteristics of contemporary Christian worship. He finds no basis in the New Testament for the rituals that lie at the heart of the Catholic (and even certain mainline Protestant) cultus. Witherington nearly ignores the apostolic and patristic understanding of worship that expressly and necessarily inform the content and structure of Christian worship. No divinely revealed sacramental worship for Witherington. Instead he relies almost exclusively on his interpretation of specially chosen New Testament texts. Nevertheless, some of the principles he enumerates are useful in modern-day critiques and discussions about any form of Christian (and Catholic) worship. A pithy summarizing of Witherington’s most basic premise is that worship is supposed to be about God, not the people who worship. Such a statement may seem self-evident, but, as many Catholics can testify, often enough worship services (and Masses) seem focused more on style and personalities in order to make us “feel good” than on God. One of the comforts of this book is that a leading Methodist professor of Scripture brings the problem of feel-good liturgy into the discussion. Even though the citations of Scripture and the commentaries seem more like Book Reviews 931 a hodgepodge than a systematic and rigorous appraisal of the evidence, Witherington still manages to make the point that worship needs to get back to being focused on God and surrendering to him. Witherington provides discussion questions at the end of each chapter, apparently hoping to provoke conversation about this important matter. Chapter one opens with the gospel story of the Samaritan woman whom Jesus meets at Jacob’s well ( John 4). Witherington notes that the Samaritans were not interested in Temple-focused worship as found in Jerusalem. Rather they based their worship practices on the Pentateuch (2), an historical-based form of worship that Jesus challenges primarily because it is “not at all Davidically messianic in character” (3). But,Temple-worship and the offering of sacrifices and priest-led worship are not the answer either, because the Temple is also a matter of history. “Jesus is inaugurating a worship without temples, priests, and literal sacrifices . . .” (8), an apophatic point that Witherington reiterates often. So much is this the case that it becomes difficult to understand exactly what Christian worship should entail beyond a few principles Witherington eventually enumerates in his last chapter. His abiding point is that true Christian worship is eschatological, meaning, for Witherington, that “worship dwells no more in the past. It is forward-looking and forward-thinking, and it focuses on the future and what it means to worship in spirit and truth” (9). True worship comes from God through Jesus and “is a result of having a saving relationship with God . . . the ultimate aim and goal of salvation” and is “the ultimate ethical act on earth” (7–8). Witherington offers no evaluative tool for distinguishing when eschatological worship is happening. Nor does he tell us how to keep forward looking without losing sight of the saving acts of Christ’s passion, death, and resurrection, that is, incorporating the anamnesis of the Paschal mystery into the present moment of worship. In the second chapter, Witherington tells us that glory is related to the essence of worship: “for it is indeed our task to glorify God and love God forever” (13). He reproduces one of his lengthy sermons on the visions of Isaiah (chap. 6), Ezekiel (chap. 1), and John (Rv 4), in order to stress that if worship is to glorify God, it must be theocentric. It’s not about the minister or the choir or anything else anthropocentric, such as fellowship. “It is about union and communion with God” (20). What Witherington critiques as having happened to much of worship in Protestant America is not without merit as an evaluation tool for Catholic pastors, deacons, lay ministers, and music ministers: “Worship has increasingly modeled itself on some form of entertainment—the performance of the few for the appreciation of the many listeners . . . and of course the congregation begins to see itself as an 932 Book Reviews audience, and, not surprisingly, what we end up with is applause. But in worship, no one but God should be praised and glorified” (21). The problem, Witherington thinks, is that people do not come to church prepared for worship, meaning that, unlike Isaiah, Ezekiel, and John, “they are not prepared to receive any kind of vision, and the result is that they are not prepared to commune with God. They’re just hoping . . . to take a little McNugget away from the sermon, or to enjoy a hymn or a song or two, and then leave” (21). They should be receptive to the action that God initiates in order that his people might experience an encounter with him. An important point for Catholics, clergy and laity alike. To explain the priority of divine glory, Witherington cites Paul’s discussion about head-coverings, especially for women. A woman, Witherington says, has her hair as her glory, but “only God’s glory should show up in Christian worship,” not the glory of human beings (23). The restoration of proper human glory results when human beings find themselves restored as the image of God. “Human beings most perfectly are the glory of God when they most perfectly reflect (and deflect) that glory, and that happens when they are best glorifying God in worship” (24). We become what we worship, Witherington notes, and therefore the more we glorify God by forgetting the self and being caught up in wonder and love and praise of God, “presenting ourselves as a living sacrifice, bowing down . . .” the more we are transformed by divine glory and “changed into the image of Christ” (25). Evidenced by his repeated rejections of ordained priests and rituals, it is most unfortunate that Witherington cannot see that this is precisely what is supposed to happen at the Catholic Mass as a result of Christ coming to us in the Holy Eucharist, worship par excellence because Christ taught it and commanded it (cf. Mt 26:26–28, Lk 22:14–20). Witherington returns to the theme of worship as an eschatological act in chapter three, in the context of the Sabbath rest. “Worship restores order and recognizes the original divine design of space and time . . . looking forward to the new creation . . . the final rest of God and creatures in the Kingdom” (28–29). The Christian “sabbatical” day was transferred to Sunday, Resurrection day, a point that Witherington uses to decry liturgies that involve sacrifices and priests, in what could be taken to be an anti-Catholic screed (see, for example, 42–43). He emphasizes, instead, the need to offer oneself spiritually to God as Jesus did on the cross (35–36). Witherington believes that the act of self-offering must be accompanied by a development of the capacity for Christian moral discernment, that is, “discerning what is good, pleasing, and perfect in God’s sight” (38). Ethical thinking results from “team thinking” or coming Book Reviews 933 together to reason about moral issues (39). He offers no consideration of divine grace, or how it is obtained. There is, however, a faint outline of a magisterium of sorts in Witherington’s proposition that the Christian community should act as a moral guide. But, the community he envisions has no binding authority beyond making suggestions based on a democratic consensus of right and wrong. Witherington portrays Christian worship, in chapter four, as a natural development of Judaism. “Jesus, at least during his earthly life, did not initiate a new pattern of worship” (46). Rather, Witherington thinks that the post-Christ preaching of St. Paul gives the broad outlines of the order for prayer meetings, evidenced in later chapters. Describing the practice of the Christians who continued to attend synagogue but also met together in their homes or even underground churches “for the sharing of a meal, including the Lord’s Supper” (51), Witherington is careful to avoid any mention of the celebration of the Eucharist, opting to interpret New Testament descriptions of worship as the beginning of Christian prayer meetings. He tends to oversimplify when he insists that presbyteros refers to elders (distinct from overseers and deacons, but without explaining how) whose role seems simply to serve as a kind of leader with life experience (59), while he ignores the role of the episkopoi altogether. In chapter five Witherington describes early Christian worship essentially as prayer and praise, song and supplication. He says that the Pentecost story in Acts 2 “suggests that Christian worship was often ecstatic and jubilant, involving loud singing” (63). Based on his reading of St. Paul’s circular homilies (that is, meant to be shared among different churches, 63), Witherington emphasizes the emotional aspect of Christian prayer, even finding a proof-text in John Chrysostom’s homily on Ephesians to support his assertion (64). Witherington wants his readers to note that these worship services were not “clergy-dominated.” There were leaders, but everyone could join in according to his abilities (67). After an excursus on Christological hymns in the New Testament, he comments on the Lord’s Prayer in the context of addressing God as Abba, underscoring the intimacy befitting the prayer of Christians. He ends the chapter with a brief presentation of chapter 10 of the Didache, which serves as evidence that the Lord’s Prayer is most fittingly said after the Lord’s Supper (84). He leaves it to the reader to discern the worth of celebrating the Lord’s Supper as part of Christian worship. Witherington’s socio-rhetorical critical method comes into full play in chapter six. He presents an apologetic for the claim that the apostolic letters in the New Testament, especially those of St. Paul, “are actually homilies, sermons, and rhetorical discourses meant to be delivered in 934 Book Reviews worship settings by whatever co-worker was able to communicate it in person” (87). Paul’s letters were not for private study, he says, but “were surrogates for the speeches Paul would have made could he have been present with his audience. . . .They were intended as timely remarks, their goal being to affect the belief and the behavior of the various audiences” (94–95). “The New Testament documents . . . should in the first instance be analyzed primarily by ancient social and rhetorical conventions, and only secondarily by epistolary ones” (96). Thus, these homilies will then “tell us a good deal about the worship life of the house church” (100). “What has impeded an adequate definition of worship?” he asks in chapter seven (131). While worship is “the ultimate ethical act,” he says that we must also view worship in the context of work and rest (131–32). Christian worship is supposed to be different from Old Testament patterns “not because Christ has inaugurated his kingdom on earth, but because believers are different and should worship differently” (134). For Witherington, the “difference” centers on the eschaton. Christians praise God in a forward-looking way rather than through former sabbatical practices, the old ways of distinguishing work and rest (135). Work, he says, is to be understood as doxological, that is, “doing things to God’s glory” (140). In his eighth and final chapter Witherington reviews the ideas he has laid out to “do worship better” (161). We have to get worship right “because human beings were created for worship” (151). Moreover, good preaching is essential to good worship because, as he puts it “God wants to clear his throat each week and address his people” (155). The most useful and important point that Ben Witherington makes is that worship must be about God, a lesson not only for his Christian evangelical readers, but for Catholics, too. Witherington wants to see Christian worship as invigorated today as it was during the time of apostles. For Catholics, this means, in the words of Sacrosanctum Concilium 14, “fully conscious and active participation,” in the liturgy that is necessarily rooted in the Eucharist, “source and summit of our faith” (Lumen Gentium 11) revealed by Christ. We need not reinvent the worship service; we need to be united by grace to Christ the High Priest and to participate in his worship of the Father in his Body, the Church, already invigorated by the Holy Spirit. N&V Paul Jerome Keller, O.P. The Athenaeum of Ohio—Mt. St. Mary’s Seminary of the West Cincinnati, OH Book Reviews 935 La Trinitaire Théologie de Louis Bouyer by Guillame Bruté de Rémur (Rome: Editrice Pontificia Università Gregoriana, 2010 ), 378 pp. G UILLAME B RUTÉ de Rémur, a priest of the Diocese of Rome and rector of the Eparchial International Interritual Seminary of the Mother of the Redeemer in Beirut, Lebanon, recently completed a dissertation on Louis Bouyer’s Trinitarian theology that has been published by Gregorian Press. The dissertation is notable. It provides (among other things) an important, although not decisive, clarification of Bouyer’s uses of phenomenology for understanding the God-world relationship. Bouyer, on whom several dissertations have been written internationally in recent years, was one of the first theologians to integrate the twentieth-century phenomenological method with theology. His use of phenomenology to understand the data of revelation is omnipresent especially (although not only) in his ninevolume treatise dedicated to systematic theology. An early advocate of the work of Edith Stein, we see in Rémur’s study that Bouyer is among the most important twentieth-century theologians to have used Husserl rather than Heidegger as the primary contemporary philosophical resource for theology. Through the purifying lens of Stein’s Thomist, theological reworking of Husserl, Bouyer develops a phenomenological analysis of intentionality to think anew the Western, Augustinian-Thomist understanding of the Trinity in relation to creation. Moreover, he develops this Husserlian approach in connection with a fully ecclesial phenomenology of the Holy Spirit that overturns the nineteenth-century phenomenological method of Hegel. Rémur’s work is broken up into three lengthy chapters and a conclusion. In the first chapter, he explores the connection that Bouyer establishes between three levels of human consciousness—individual, social, and cosmic—that are, historically speaking, each awakened in man in the framework of religious activity. Bouyer’s use of the phenomenology of religion, especially as found in Mircea Eliade, comes to the foreground here. Myth and ritual are the fundamental cultural activities that give birth to, or that first instance, human self-reflection on its various levels. For Bouyer, divine inspiration works through and in the natural religious forms and patterns of primordial culture and civilization, transforming them progressively through the critique of magic by myth (understood in the sense of Eliade) and through the rational interpretation that is given to the myths through the development of philosophy. Rémur does not explore the interplay between the various meanings that the term “phenomenology” takes in Hegel, Husserl, and Eliade. But he does provide a suggestive exegesis that points a way forward for future research 936 Book Reviews into Bouyer’s unique integration of these different approaches to phenomenological investigation. In chapter 2, Rémur explores Bouyer’s “faith-phenomenology” (my term) of God’s contesting and reworking of natural religion through his re-creative Word in his covenantal revelation established with Abraham and brought, slowly and progressively under the incubation of the Holy Spirit, to a surpassing fullness in the Incarnation and redemptive work of Christ. Bouyer develops in this aspect of his work a historical phenomenology of the Holy Spirit that counteracts Hegel’s a priorism in the analysis of history and his conflation of world and Spirit in metaphysics. We get a sense in Rémur’s study of Bouyer’s impressive attempt to overcome the earlier modern effort to fit the whole of historical, contingent fact, especially as it concerns the manifestation of religious meaning in human culture, into the necessary structures of human consciousness. This earlier modern effort inevitably led to a reduction of the religious fact to some prior natural substratum of cultural or anthropological meaning, such as economic need or psychological reaction. It led to a reduction of Christian revelation to already existing religious forms. Husserl’s more refined phenomenological method requires empathetic openness to the intentional objects of human consciousness and so enables discrete displays of religious meaning in history to be known according to their proper essences.The Husserlian approach thus allows the irreducible character of Christian revelation to shine forth. In chapter 3 and in the conclusion of his study, Rémur brings us into the heart of Bouyer’s understanding of Trinitarian doctrine. It is here that the influence of Edith Stein on Bouyer’s thinking and his correction of the Hegelian approach to the phenomenology of the Spirit becomes most clear. Rémur argues that Bouyer’s lifelong intention to express by means of a philosophical investigation of modern science the permanent value of a Christian vision of the universe corresponds to Husserl’s desire to find an apodictic philosophical foundation for modern science. Rémur argues that Bouyer saw in the theology of Edith Stein the only way forward, ultimately, with Husserl’s project. Basing himself on Stein’s interpretation of Saint Thomas’s De veritate, Bouyer argues that at its base the intentionality that ultimately moves human consciousness is the consciousness that God has of all of creation. Thus, Bouyer would consistently emphasize that we can only know and love ourselves fully if we know and love ourselves, by the grace of God, with the knowledge and love that God has of each of us eternally. The knowledge and love that God has of us eternally is a Trinitarian act, and it is therefore in communion with the Trinity that human consciousness is brought by God in Book Reviews 937 Christ and the Holy Spirit to its summative, supernatural end. The point of Bouyer’s development of the Western tradition of Trinitarian theology is to capture in consideration of the relation of divine to human consciousness the Trinitarian creationism of the tradition that had not always been thematized in modern theology. Bouyer, Rémur shows, holds that human knowledge is ultimately grounded in participation in the Eucharistic communion of the Church. It has been argued that Hans Urs von Balthasar’s project was motivated fundamentally by his desire to recover the anti-Gnostic, sacramental gnoseology of Saint Irenaeus in the face of the recrudescence of heretical Gnosticism in all areas of modern life. The same could certainly be said to be true of Bouyer.Toward that end, Bouyer demonstrates that true gnosis has its roots in religious, ritual sacrifice. In the pre-Christian world, the quest for gnosis was ultimately hindered because religion was not yet fully real or true. God had not yet offered to man true, logical sacrificial cultus. In the case of the heretical Christian Gnostics, the quest for gnosis was detached from the Eucharistic sacrifice of the Church and so led down false or even diabolical paths. Similarly, in the modern age, the quest for gnosis is at times diabolical because it has been abstracted altogether from its proper, Eucharistic site. Bouyer, it should be emphasized, is unique among twentieth-century theologians in the thoroughness of his demonstration of the liturgical basis of human knowledge, both natural and supernatural. Rémur concludes his study by noting the importance of Bouyer’s work today, especially in the context of the new ecclesial movements. Given that Rémur heads a seminary of the Neo-Catechumenal Way dedicated to the new evangelization, it is clear that he himself is involved with these new movements. He suggests that Bouyer’s agitation with the post-Conciliar Church, evident in several of his later writings and in his still-unpublished Memoirs, stemmed from frustration with the inability of the academic community to understand that Catholic theology should find its roots in the cloister rather than in the halls of academe. Bouyer wrote many books on spirituality and liturgy precisely to recover an ecclesial sense of the cloister as the place where theology ultimately lives. Rémur suggests that the new ecclesial movements themselves evince this understanding. Bouyer’s theology is thus quite at home in the new movements. There is much more that could be said about Rémur’s analysis of Bouyer’s Trinitarian theology. He competently demonstrates Bouyer’s sympathies for the Western mystics and for Eastern sophiology and how these sympathies have influenced his reflections on the Trinity. Yet I would insist that the value of Rémur’s dissertation is ultimately that it 938 Book Reviews helps us to see the different ways in which the method of modern phenomenology is at work in Bouyer’s corpus. Husserl’s project, itself corrected in the Thomist, theological perspective of Edith Stein, is the corrective in Bouyer for Hegel’s a priorism. Rémur shows that there is as well a distinct focus on history or genealogy throughout Bouyer’s writings, whereas in Husserl this concern is largely absent, except in his The Crisis of the European Sciences, written near the end of his life. Bouyer’s phenomenology, then, is not only an attempt to uncover the essential structures of human intentionality, grounded in the Trinity, but to uncover by the light of ecclesial faith the distinctive work of Christ and the Holy Spirit in the world against the backdrop of the whole movement of human history. Although Rémur is not quite as explicit about all of these factors at play in Bouyer’s work as one might desire (his study is, after all, only a dissertation), he has nevertheless expounded competently both the phenomenological history of faith in Bouyer’s writings and the phenomenology of human and divine consciousness. It should be said that Rémur himself does not give an account of the place of Bouyer’s work in the vast sweep of modern theology and philosophy. He seldom strays outside of Bouyer’s own texts. This is a good method of research for a dissertation. His goal is simply to uncover the intrinsic logic of Bouyer’s demonstrations and method. Yet even with these limits his study is indicative of why Bouyer’s work is important and why it should be studied as one of the seminal Catholic, theological responses in the modern age to the sorts of concerns raised for theology by the various forms of reductionism that have predominated in public thinking about human meaning. As of now, the most important comprehensive study to have been done on Bouyer’s life and work remains Davide Zordan’s monumental Connaissance et mystère. L’itinéraire théologique de Louis Bouyer (Paris: Editions du Cerf, 2008). But Rémur’s study is more suggestive than Zordan’s of the philosophical depth of Bouyer’s work. Although Rémur’s study was written as a dissertation, its French style is readily accessible to the English scholar with a basic knowledge of French, and so it can help introduce the reader to the philosophical dimension of a writer who, although still little known in the full scope of his work, is one of the most important Catholic theologians of the modern age. N&V Keith Lemna Saint Meinrad School of Theology St. Meinrad, IN Book Reviews 939 Thomism and Tolerance by John F. X. Knasas (Scranton, PA: University of Scranton Press, 2011 ) vii + 168 pp. I N HIS INTRODUCTION , Professor Knasas states that this book is a continuation of the main idea of Being and Some Twentieth-Century Thomists, namely, “looking to our fellows as intellectors of being.” The work is divided into seven chapters, the last one being just a succinct summary of the main conclusions. Chapter I establishes the basis for the compatibility between the person who knows with certainty some truths (the intellector of being) and tolerance.This means that tolerance cannot be mere indifference, which is rooted in a privatization of truth, as Rorty proposes, and which Knasas rightly identifies as another form of skepticism. The undesirable result of this skepticism for our society, and especially for a democracy, is the danger of inhuman, imposed dogmatisms.This could be the case of a government that imposes laws that violate the moral conscience of people. This topic is extremely important, but Knasas is too sketchy here; he does not provide a clear and solid account of how the indifference to truth ends up in intolerance. He provides a few ideas: the natural law and the notion of tolerance as a virtue. A possible line of thought might have been to say that the natural law is based on the truthful notion of the human person. A skepticism about the truth of the human person will imply a failure of the precepts of the natural law. The latter will make it virtually impossible to have a workable virtue of prudence that applies the universal law to particular cases and, specifically, that determines the meaning of the rest of the virtues, here the virtue of tolerance. The lack of a commitment to truth will corrupt tolerance into its two opposite vices: mere indifference (usually under the form of irenicism) and inhuman dogmatism. With this line of reasoning, Knasas shows clearly the need for truth in order to have sincere tolerance. The next logical step is a definition of tolerance, and Knasas proposes “mutual assistance,” that is, “fraternal tolerance” (6) as distinguished from mutual indifference. Chapter II deals with the metaphysical notion of person, and the characterisitic of dignity which is attached to the ontology of person. All of these elements will provide an adequate approach to tolerance. Following St. Thomas Aquinas, Knasas claims that the person is the most perfect being in all nature, because of its fundamental rationality (13). Thus, if rationality is connected with our dignity, then, Knasas proposes, the dignity of the human person derives from the person’s being “an intellector of being.” This formula allows a double metaphysical access to person, one from the person itself as a being fundamentally open to the 940 Book Reviews infinity of being, and the other from the ratio entis in which all our concepts are resolved. The author dedicates most of the chapter to explaining the importance of the latter (the ratio entis) in establishing a correct notion of good, as a transcendental of being; from here, the chapter moves to the first principles of practical reason. In this fashion, Knasas develops an interesting Thomistic personalism: human persons as intellectors of being, and intellectors of good, wherein the good of the person is included. This leads him to the next step: “The first rule of a moral life is to be respectful and solicitous of the human person” (22), which is supposed to be a personalist version of the Thomistic principle of synderesis (the good ought to be done and evil avoided). The change can be explained because being itself prompts us to be respectful, that is, to be respectful to any being, and respectful first to the most important beings of nature, persons. Among the many interesting insights that Knasas presents, there is one I would like to clarify. He characterizes the notion of being, following Phelan and Owens, as “sameness-in-difference” (15), which is strongly reminiscent of the Hegelian formula “identity-in-difference”: the identity of the opposites which are not destroyed but overcome in a higher level, in a dialectical unity that keeps the negativity (of the opposites) as such. On the contrary, the Thomistic notion of being is not of a dialectical unity of negativity but of an analogical unity, which, as Knasas puts it, implies “the sum total of all conceivable perfection” (17). Chapter III is dedicated to the metaphysical underpinnings of the natural law. In addition to the traditional Thomistic primary and secondary precepts of natural law, Knasas advances the cause of human dignity by introducing the fact that “the knowledge of themselves as intellectors of being is present and is explaining their inchoate sense of their own dignity” (33). Hence, Knasas can justify that everyone can know, in some way, the basic principles of natural law because everybody has a certain knowledge of themselves as open to reality, being. The result of this analysis of a person as intellector of being will be the base for an explicit knowledge of natural law. The metaphysical analysis of being, which the intellector of being is and is open to, serves many purposes; one is to connect God as the esse purum and the person as habens esse, and another is to establish the ratio boni (being as perfect and desirable) as the foundation for the first principle of practical reason (to do the good and avoid evil). In a nutshell, “the notion of being controls, and has always controlled human psychology” (41), and human psychology determines ethics. In Chapter IV, Knasas deals with tolerance from the point of view of natural law. By nature (as the intellector of being), human beings are Book Reviews 941 social persons, but “society is not simply for intellectual pursuit” (46). In support of this statement, Knasas points out that “the longing to live upright is more primal than the longing for truth.” This statement is relatively true, but ultimately incorrect, for if happiness is the ultimate contemplation of Truth, our whole life must be ruled by this contemplation, which expresses the priority of the theoretical over the practical intellect, contemplation over ethics, and theoretical over practical truth. The knowledge of truth by itself and contemplation are the ultimate longings of humans as intellectors of being. Next, the author develops a theory of political tolerance from the model of “legitimate and noncontradictory pluralism” (51) on the speculative level. He indicates that “any conceptual attempt to express reality would fall short,” as a consequence of our way of knowing by abstraction, that is, “concepts are abstractions, but abstractions leave something out about reality,” and hence “any concept necessarily only approximates the real.” The conclusion is that “no speculative system can claim to be the expression of truths as such.”This imperfection in our knowledge of truths entails the necessity of tolerance about other approximations to truths. From these insights, Knasas defends the importance of practical reason, applied specifically to society, politics, etc., where tolerance is involved. What Knasas’s argument underlines, if I am not mistaken, is that if practical truth is based on theoretical truth, and the later is not exhausted by one single conception, then with more reason no single belief will exhaust the practical truth, which requires the acceptance of other perspectives. Brief, but with promising arguments, the last part of the chapter is dedicated to the place of tolerance in Heidegger’s philosophy. Our author maintains that Heidegger’s notion of existence, as freedom, seems “to exclude a rational basis for freedom” (55). If being is an a priori projection of Dasein’s freedom, then Dasein’s freedom appears to be ungrounded. Heidegger places freedom before being (unlike Aquinas, who grounds freedom on being). Heidegger prioritizes freedom over being because his notion of being is the emptiest concept, and thus the concept of being is not analogous but univocal. Knasas does not say how tolerance can be accommodated within Heidegger’s philosophy, but it seems obvious that in his philosophy, ethics—and with it the virtue of tolerance—is very difficult to justify. Chapter V, “Defending Tolerance without Becoming Intolerant,” deals with utilitarianism, Kant’s ethics, Rawls, and Rorty. Because utilitarians confuse happiness with pleasure, they do not understand the hero whose happiness is a goal that implies pleasure-extinguishing.The latter is a justification of the claim that tolerance sometimes is pleasure-extinguishing, 942 Book Reviews where utilitarianism fails miserably. In commenting on Kant, Knasas maintains that the idea of a self-legislator is a contradiction in terms, because one cannot be really autonomous and at the same time dependent on reason (categorical imperative) (70). Kantian autonomy is autonomy from any imposition, including the logic of the categorical imperative. In addition to this, the natural consequence of “Kant’s strategy of denying reason to make room for faith” (112) makes Kant’s ethics unsuitable for justifying tolerance, for tolerance is based on truth, and specifically, theoretical truth, which Kant replaces by the practical truth of belief. Rawls’s political liberalism is under the influence of Kant’s autonomous will: “Rawls bases tolerance on power. I should tolerate you because you can cause me trouble. But likewise, if you cannot cause me trouble, then I need not tolerate you.Tolerance is just for those in power” (81). Rorty tries to appeal to the Humean sentimental principle of sympathy between humans. But sentiments are essentially variable and even absent. So the only conclusion that Rorty seems to draw—Knasas believes—is a “hope for tolerance” and not a real tolerance (91). The last section of this chapter is dedicated to Aquinas’s thought on heretics, wherein St. Thomas distinguishes formal from material heresy. Usually there are problems not with tolerance of material heresy but with formal heresy. Formal heresy entails the malice of the will against the truth—at issue is not the obligation of following one’s conscience; at issue is evil conscience, malice. Chapter VI, “Cultural Pluralism,” deals with the present cultural situation of tolerance of other cultures in our own cities. Cultural pluralism in our democracies is in danger of causing the loss of national identity, culture, philosophy, and even religion. Knasas rightly argues that there is the wrong idea that tolerance implies skepticism and the fear that truth is tyrannical. He contrasts this combination of misunderstandings with Aquinas’s understanding of natural law as the fundamental ground for cultural identity: morality is the basis for cultural identity, and this morality springs from our fidelity to ourselves as intellectors of being. Knasas’s analysis of Dawson’s thesis that cultural development follows essentially upon the religious impulse is interesting, but unfortunately, Knasas claims, Dawson does not see that human intelligence is able to achieve an integral view of morality, where tolerance is rooted (121). Our author criticizes also Tracey Rowland’s Augustinian Thomism, because it bases the whole of culture only in tradition and therefore results in possibly incompatible cultures—such as Christian and liberal cultures. Knasas rejects this radical view in favor of people who are intellectors of being, a common feature of the essence of any culture, and tolerance. Knasas objects to Alas- Book Reviews 943 dair MacIntyre for his notion of truth, that moral truth is viewpointdependent. This notion poses the serious possibility of falling into relativism. Knasas is well known for his defense of traditional Thomism (Maritain, Gilson, etc.) against Transcendental Thomism, and he sees in MacIntyre an echo of the latter. Transcendental Thomists interpret the natural inclination of the intellect to the truth as an inclination to project, not to conform. MacIntyre’s perspective moral truth has this flavor of Transcendental Thomism. Knasas’s analysis of Schindler’s criticism of liberal culture, as essentially Cartesian, is very interesting. Schindler states that liberal neutrality is not neutral but is a comprehensive rationalistic doctrine, which is already an imposed pseudo-faith. Nevertheless, Knasas thinks that Schindler’s epistemology is also affected by Transcendental Thomism to some degree; there is the danger in Schindler of a notion of being that is a projectum more than a Thomistic abstractum taken from sensed objects, where the intellect grasps reality as reality (136). I would like to make a minor observation on the main topic, tolerance. Knasas expresses and develops very well the compatibility between tolerance and truth. Not only are they compatible, but it is impossible to have tolerance without truth, and truth is Knasas’s main goal. Nevertheless, I think that he is missing a more precise definition of tolerance, one that does not blur the borders with the virtue of fraternity. Knasas seems to start with a very common notion of tolerance, which is precisely the liberal one, namely tolerance as neutral acceptance. Against this common and liberal notion, Knasas rightly proposes another notion of tolerance as mutual assistance in the way of fraternal love, what he calls “fraternal tolerance.” However, I do not think that this is the nucleus of tolerance. Tolerance is always for what is evil and bad, not for what is good. Tolerance is in reference to something really evil or perceived as evil. I can tolerate an impertinent person, an insult, and even worse evils (real evil), but it would be incorrect to say that I tolerate that I won the lottery, or that I tolerate good food or good company. Tolerance should be guided by the rules of cooperation with evil or other appropriate rules in order to discern the limits of tolerance.The difficulty with tolerance in our society comes from the “perceived evil.” Let us see this case very briefly. In some circumstances, we have to be “tolerant” of something that is good, as in the tolerance of other, minority cultures within a prevalent majority culture. If the minority culture is good, there should be no question of tolerance but only of fraternal acceptance and assistance. If there are problems with acceptance of a good minority culture, then people should be educated to see the good of other cultures, and fraternal acceptance will be a natural result. It is possible to call the latter “tolerance” only if the acceptance of 944 Book Reviews a “perceived” evil is necessitated in regard to a culture that is perceived as hostile; such a perception can result from a failure to see the good in others. Also, it is possible to describe tolerance as the acceptance of a real evil or “perceived” evil that cannot be avoided without bringing worse evil. But the “liberal tolerance” of our democracies is a product of a problematic notion of freedom—as the mere choosing between evil and good; “liberal tolerance” is not founded on the Thomistic notion of freedom as a choosing among several (created) goods, which are means for an end; in this latter view, evil is a defect of created freedom and not part of freedom’s essence, for the essence of freedom is to direct oneself toward an end. The liberal notion of freedom seems to be the foundation of a tolerance for the good and evil of everyone’s freedom, because, according to that notion, the only good is the freedom itself; the effects of freedom are considered to be neutral: one is pro choice (freedom) regardless of the results (good or evil). Paraphrasing Maritain, modern societies seem to be more occupied with the means, and they forget the ends. The liberal notion of tolerance is based on a liberal notion of freedom, wherein freedom is viewed as an (ultimate) end; that “freedom” contrasts with the Thomistic view of freedom (a means to be directed toward an end)— which end, ultimately, is the contemplation of God. In general, the book is clear, sincere, and well articulated, with very valid analyses of the current devastating problems of relativism and the devaluation of tolerance, its transformation into mere indifference. Knasas expresses very well the necessity of a good metaphysics to resolve present practical problems in our society, and specifically, to restore a positive notion of tolerance. N&V Victor Velarde-Mayol Seton Hall University South Orange, NJ Predestination: Biblical and Theological Paths by Matthew Levering (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011 ), x + 228 pp. T EACHING HISTORY of theology in a Catholic university, one often finds that Catholic students are among the most vociferous classroom opponents of the notion that a vigorous doctrine of predestination—one that prioritizes God’s election and grace over the sinner’s exercise of the free will—has ever had a proper place in the Catholic theological tradition. Start out with Paul’s words in Romans 8:28–30 and the students will be sure that the Apostle had nothing more in mind than God’s foreknowledge of right or wrong use of the free will. Mention Augustine’s Book Reviews 945 idea of operating grace and the students may puzzle, but will probably decide he is distant enough to disregard. Toss in the authority of Aquinas and their confused expressions will suggest growing worry. Aquinas couldn’t have said that, could he? Review the Molinist controversy and they will likely puzzle over the intensity of the debate. Confront them at last with the relevant pages from such a classic source as Ludwig Ott’s Fundamentals of Catholic Dogma, which gives both election and reprobation de fide status, and they will likely be baffled. Search for a clincher from the Catechism of the Catholic Church, however, and find scant mention of the theme. The contrast between Ott and the Catechism is glaring. How, one might well wonder, did we get from there to here? Levering’s rich and wide-ranging study offers answers to such questions in the form of an eminently readable and theologically sensitive reflection on the theology of predestination from its roots in the Old and New Testaments down to the present day. A slim volume, it eschews the encyclopedic approach in favor of a method that selects particular theologians over the various periods of church history and sets their views out for analysis and reflection. The goal is wisdom for faith and teaching, that is, “biblical and theological paths” toward a proper Catholic embrace of the mystery of predestination. The volume begins with Levering’s own review of the biblical roots of the doctrine of predestination in the Old and New Testaments. Scripture, Levering argues, presents a generally coherent narrative of a God who providentially directs the cosmos as a whole toward its ultimate fulfillment, who freely elects Israel as the privileged agent of that providential care, and who brings his promises and covenants with Israel to fulfillment through Jesus Christ. At the same time, Scripture also affirms human responsibility. The foundation for God’s own providential care and electing grace, moreover, is solely his own love. More than that, the election of the Father itself stands as the point of origin of the missions of the Son and the Spirit. Examining Romans 8–11 with this broad characterization in mind, Levering sketches out the problem of a God who has “mercy upon all” but also “hardens” the heart, for example, of Pharoah. Attending with care to the results of contemporary exegetical studies of Romans, Levering concludes that the Scriptures challenge the theologian with a difficult balancing act. On the one hand, there is no deficiency in the grace and love of God for every rational creature. On the other hand, God freely elects to allow some rational creatures to remain in their sin. This is the mystery of predestination. The next four chapters examine the treatment of this mystery in the works of a small group of representative theologians. For the patristic 946 Book Reviews period, Levering chooses Origen, Augustine, Boethius, and John of Damascus. In each case, here and throughout the book, Levering demonstrates a remarkably wide and deep reading, not only in the primary sources, but in the relevant secondary literature as well. His conclusions are drawn with care and with an admirable commitment to fairness and attention to nuance, even in theologians with whom he seems to disagree. Augustine and Boethius, Levering notes, emphasize God’s providential control but seem at times to struggle to affirm the universality of God’s love. The latter point is admirably underscored in Origen’s work. John of Damascus, on the other hand, emphasizes creaturely freedom in such a way that human freedom threatens the priority of God’s gift of grace. Moving to the Middle Ages, Levering examines the positions of Eriugena,Thomas Aquinas,William of Ockham, and Catherine of Siena. Both Eriugena and Ockham tend to reduce predestination to God’s foreknowledge. Ockham sees predestination as God’s foreknowledge of human good deeds, although he allows that God is free in rewarding them. Aquinas, on the other hand, makes a series of crucial distinctions. Most fundamentally, perhaps, God’s providential care involves a “transcendent causality” that mysteriously upholds the freedom of “created causality” (78). At the same time, God permits but does not will evil. Instead, God only “wills to permit evil to be done” (79). Antecedently— that is, as the gracious giver of all being and salvation—God wills the salvation of all. Consequently, however—that is, with a view toward their free rejection of his love and persistence in sin, God wills the everlasting punishment of some rational creatures. God gives good to all and does not cause the failure of those who are lost, but the good of eternal life is given only to some, through God’s predestination of particular rational creatures to the good of a supernatural end that lies wholly beyond their natural capacities. Why do not all persons receive this supernatural destination? Catherine of Siena, Levering argues, better balances the sense of the believer’s radical dependence on the gift and grace of God with the superabundant love of God for all rational creatures. In her willingness to live with this tension rather than seeking to resolve it in a conceptually rigorous manner, she points the way forward for those who would be faithful to the Scripture’s own inner tension. Reflecting on the treatment of this problem in the Reformation and early modern period, Levering turns to the writings of John Calvin, Luis de Molina, Francis de Sales, and G. W. Leibniz. In this group, he finds that de Sales best preserves the salutary tension between the priority of God’s gift and the superabundant love of God. Levering offers an ecumenically sensitive but not uncritical treatment of Calvin, whose position on this Book Reviews 947 matter is all too easily caricatured. Calvin did not accept the notion of a “permissive will” in God, and thus he concluded that God, who after all is Lord over all of history, both does not and does will sin. The difficulty for Calvin, then, is to explain how it is that God does not somehow commit the sin that, as part of his “secret plan,” he allows. Calvin’s doctrine of predestination, however, is “asymmetrical,” for he located the cause of election in God’s grace, but the cause of reprobation in the defect of the rational creature itself. In denying God’s permissive will and assigning reprobation to God’s active will, however, “Calvin solves the problem by, as it were, seizing the nettle” (197). Molina, on the other hand, famously distinguished God’s “middle knowledge” of the causal nexus by means of which rational creatures may come to participate in himself from his “natural knowledge” of all possibilities for the created order, as well as his “free knowledge” of what will happen within the created order he has actually chosen to instantiate. On the basis of this “middle knowledge,” God knows how free creatures will act, that is, turning themselves either toward or away from God. Predestination, then, means God’s free choice of that particular order in which some creatures turn toward, others away. Predestination, in short, is not causative; instead, it is a matter of foreknowledge. Leibniz continues the emphasis on causal chains characteristic of Molina, but without the “middle knowledge.” Finally, de Sales radically emphasizes the love of God, even for those who persist in sin. He allows as a possibility the explanation that God wills the beauty of diversity in allowing some to be lost eternally, but he does not wish to assert it. The mystery of predestination will be revealed only in heaven, and every attempt to grasp that now threatens to undermine the revealed knowledge of divine mercy and love. A final historical chapter examines twentieth-century theologians, including Sergius Bulgakov, Karl Barth, Jacques Maritain, and Hans Urs von Balthasar. Both Bulgakov and Barth tend toward a universalism that seems to compromise the revealed truth that some rational creatures are forever lost, as Jesus himself repeatedly warned. For his part, Maritain seeks to resolve the difficulty of the relationship between the creature’s free response and the grace of God. Levering offers a brilliant and illuminating account of Maritain’s proposal of a “non-active nihilation” that renders the grace of God ineffective in some rational creatures without involving God as cause at any level. Levering argues that, in spite of Maritain’s intellectual agility, the latter does not resolve the question why God does not infallibly move all to assent to grace. The mystery of God’s permissive will remains firmly in place. Lastly, in von Balthasar, lostness is taken up into the mystery of the divine life by means of an intra-Trinitarian kenosis, a 948 Book Reviews strategy that (Levering not implausibly complains) “imports horrors into the divine life” (176). His gentle but persistent argumentation here suggests that these twentieth-century strategies for taming the problem of predestination focus one-sidedly upon God’s love to the exclusion of his free and providential decision to allow some to be permanently lost. A concluding chapter engages these problems energetically. Here, Levering observes that the Catechism of the Catholic Church affirms that some of the angels have been irrevocably lost. Likewise, the Catechism warns that we human beings may also be lost if we persist in mortal sin without repentance, even if it does not ask or answer the question who or how many may be lost. If, however, we embrace the position that none will be lost, then we render a good deal of Jesus’ own teaching misleading at the least. In the end, we must in our praise of God affirm the mystery of predestination after the manner of Catherine of Siena and Francis de Sales, that is, that God superabundantly loves each rational creature and that God permits the permanent free rebellion of some of them. In probing the question of predestination in dialogue with Scripture, tradition, and magisterial teaching, and in listening well to a wide range of Protestant and Orthodox voices, Levering offers a fine model of the Catholic theologian at work today. In doing so, moreover, he provides no little assistance for all who would teach not only the history but also the faith of the Church Catholic. N&V Mickey L. Mattox Marquette University Milwaukee, WI Genesis by R. R. Reno (Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos Press, 2010 ), 304 pp. R ENO IS ONE of the editors for the Brazos Theological Commentary on the Bible, and this volume is his particular contribution to the series. The series takes as its starting point the recognition that biblical scholars, who typically produce today’s commentaries, tend not to have a robust theological training, while for its part, “[t]heology has lost its competence in exegesis” (13). Like an army whose corps have retreated each to its own bastion to survive, “each dimension of a formerly unified Christian practice now tends to function independently” (13). The result is that, in commentaries at least, the Bible is not read as Christian Scripture, and therefore the “living voice of Scripture” is not heard. Volumes in this commentary series are written by theologians rather than biblicists, and its authors are asked to offer dogmatic interpretations of Scripture; that is, they are asked to use “the Nicene tradition, in all its Book Reviews 949 diversity and controversy” as the lens through which to illuminate the biblical texts (11, 9–10). This mandate does not supply a particular way of proceeding, however. The volumes are described as reconstructive rather than reactionary, as an [ecumenical collection of] “experiments in postcritical doctrinal interpretation” (13, 14). As such, this volume and the series help fill a void. For, in a typical traditional commentary one may find ample material about scholarly debates, discussion of philological and historical critical issues, along with some interpretation, and perhaps a nod here and there to the history of interpretation. But what if one wants a fuller sense of how a biblical text has been engaged by the Christian theological tradition, or how the text intersects with that tradition? What if one wants to think about a biblical text theologically? This volume, and this series, do precisely that. The Genesis volume is not designed as a comprehensive history of theological interpretation. Nor does it follow Genesis chapter by chapter or verse by verse. Rather, as the author reflects at the outset: Commenting can feel like standing at the headwaters of the Colorado River and trying to see, as in a vision, its long flow as it reaches to the Gulf of Mexico. How does one bring others to see the Grand Canyon in the reflections of the small ponds of the Rocky Mountains? (19–20) Reno’s response is to offer an eccentric, although coherent, approach (20). The eccentricity comes in the choosing of those passages that will be commented on. The coherence comes in an overall approach that traces important theological threads throughout Genesis, grouped under the headings Creation, Fall, Dead Ends, Scandal of Particularity, and Need for Atonement. Simply from these major groupings one can begin to see how the Christian theological tradition is serving as a lens for what is important in, and how to think about, the book overall. Such an approach ensures that some aspects of the text will get less attention, or none at all. But it also means this commentary can be read in large uninterrupted pieces that follow an argument or provide a lengthy elucidation of an issue, unlike a traditional commentary; there, one is more likely simply to dip into it for information. In some of those arguments Reno converses with the biblical guild. For instance, he spends considerable time discussing the translation of Genesis 1:1 (ought it to be “in the beginning God created” or “when God began to create”?), because the concept of beginning is so important theologically. However, his decision to go with the more traditional “in the beginning God created” is not based only on a logic internal to the Christian tradition. 950 Book Reviews In support for it, he draws on traditional Jewish readings, historical-critical judgments about the Priestly material in Genesis, as well as on traditional Christian readings. He observes that, while the three positions differ in their particulars, they all point to the same fundamental logic behind a substantive reading of the term “beginning”: in all three, “[t]he divine plan or project, however spelled out, is the beginning out of which and for which God creates” (32). How that divine project is conceived may vary: it may be “ ‘the world to come’ in which Torah obedience and disobedience define existence”; the “temple and sacrifice along the lines of the Priestly theology”; or Christ, the divine Word.Yet in each of these three cases, creation is seen to emerge “out of a prior plan or purpose” (a “beginning”) whether in the mind of God (in the first and third cases) or in the mind of a particular circle of tradents in ancient Israel (in the second case). This thorough argumentation allows one to see that the translation choice is not simply the result of a traditionalist impulse or of a preference for the Septuagint. It also more than adequately demonstrates that philological choices can be profoundly influenced by, and can profoundly shape, theological conclusions. The discussion over the translation of “beginning” is in effect a programmatic statement of Reno’s approach for the whole commentary, which is why it warrants some serious attention here. Reno speaks of the “double quality” of his interpretation, directed on the one hand toward the details of any given passage and, on the other hand, toward the larger project or aim of his exegesis, which is “to move forward ever more deeply into the beginning,” which is, in the case of his interpretive aim, “to move forward ever more deeply into the mystery of Christ” (38). He writes: . . . theological interpretation necessarily combines a global framework with local color. Our overall take on the divine plan interacts with particular moments of scriptural evidence. The best possible reading of any verse of scripture will be one that allows us to both make sense of the words in front of us and see their role in guiding us toward fulfillment in Christ.” (38–39) In discussing Abraham’s call, he demonstrates a way of thinking Christologically about an Old Testament text without completely leaving the historia or plain sense of the text behind. For example, in discussing the break between Genesis 1–11, with its discussion of the whole world, and Genesis 12, he writes, “The extraordinary and unexpected shift in focus from universal to particular is the clearest way in which the Old Testament prefigures the fulfillment of the divine plan in Jesus Christ.” And it is this shift, this particularity of Abraham, that “prepares us for the claim that the salvation of all rests on the death and resurrection of Jesus” (139). Book Reviews 951 But not all of Reno’s theological readings are Christological. For example, in discussing Abraham’s test, the near sacrifice of Isaac, he talks of how Abraham’s trial, like that of all spiritual trials in the Bible, helps free one “from our implulse to live as children ‘of the world,’ . . . so that we can become more fully capable of living ‘in the world.’ ” He continues: If we no longer invest our worldly powers and capacities with the vain hope that they can be the point and purpose of human life, then we can actually live as finite creatures with bodies, families, and social institutions, and do so without making them into idols. . . . [Trials] purify our loves. They are forms of grace that prepare us to love God and love others in God. (197–98) Reading as a biblical scholar, I found it interesting to be looking over the shoulder of a theologian, observing the kind of issues the text of Genesis raises for him. Certainly, this commentary is helpful in showing how the text of Genesis has been a source for the development of, and how it intersects with, the Christian theological tradition. But also as a biblical scholar, I found some things missing. In particular, there was perhaps not enough attention to the “plain sense” of the text, and not enough attention to or appreciation for the literary artistry of the text. Happily, what this volume demonstrates is that a theological reading of a text as rich as Genesis by no means exhausts the possibilities. In showing what a theological reading of Genesis looks like from where he stands, Reno also opens up one’s horizons for how else the text might speak to, and out of, the Christian theological tradition. Reno’s contribution will surely whet one’s appetite to see how other theologians might engage the conversation in their own distinct ways. But even more interesting would be to see what sort of commentary a biblical scholar and theologian might produce working in concert. N&V Claire Mathews McGinnis Loyola University Maryland Baltimore, MD An introductory text to the moral philosophy of Thomas Aquinas. Steven J. Jensen Living the Good Life Cloth $24.95 eBook $24.95 978-0-8132-2145-8 978-0-8132-2146-5 The Catholic University of America Press 1-800-537-5487 Order Online: cua.press.edu A critical survey of contemporary philosophy of mind that introduces Thomisitic hylomorphism as the most viable solution to the mind-body problem. James D. Madden Mind, Matter, and Nature Paper $34.95 eBook $34.95 978-0-8132-2141-0 978-0-8132-2142-7 The Catholic University of America Press 1-800-537-5487 Order Online: cua.press.edu AVEMARIAUNIVERSITY THEPATRICKFTAYLOR GRADUATEPROGRAMS MAANDPHDINTHEOLOGY Study Sacred Scripture, the Church Fathers, St. Thomas Aquinas, and Blessed John Paul II under the guidance of a world class faculty, including Dr. Michael Waldstein, Dr. Steven Long, and Fr. Matthew Lamb, at our beautiful Southwest Florida campus. Scholarships are available for qualified applicants. FORMOREINFORMATION: www.avemaria.edu/MajorsPrograms/GraduatePrograms Graduate Theology Department 5050 Ave Maria Blvd., Ave Maria, FL 34142 phone: (239) 280-1629 email: graduatetheology@avemaria.edu