et Vetera Nova Winter 2016 • Volume 14, Number 1 The English Edition of the International Theological Journal Senior Editor Georges Cardinal Cottier, O.P. Co-Editors Matthew Levering, Mundelein Seminary Thomas Joseph White, O.P., Dominican House of Studies Associate Editors Holly Taylor Coolman, Providence College Gilles Emery, O.P., University of Fribourg Paul Gondreau, Providence College Scott W. Hahn, Franciscan University of Steubenville Thomas S. Hibbs, Baylor University Reinhard Hütter, Duke University Divinity School 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 C. Pecknold, Catholic University of America Michael S. Sherwin, O.P., University of Fribourg Board of Advisors Anthony Akinwale, O.P., Dominican Institute, Ibadan, Nigeria Khaled Anatolios, University of Notre Dame Robert Barron, Auxiliary Bishop of Los Angeles, CA John Betz, University of Notre Dame Bernhard Blankenhorn, O.P., Angelicum Christopher O. Blum, Augustine Institute 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 Archbishop J. Augustine Di Noia, O.P., Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith Douglas Farrow, McGill University Anthony Fisher, O.P., Archbishop of Sydney, Australia Simon Francis Gaine, O.P., Blackfriars, University of Oxford Timothy Gray, Augustine Institute Nicholas J. Healy, Jr., Pontifical John Paul II Institute (Washington, DC) Russell Hittinger, University of Tulsa Paige Hochschild, Mount St. Mary’s University Andrew Hofer, O.P., Dominican House of Studies 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) Michał Paluch, O.P., Dominican House of Studies Trent Pomplun, Loyola University Maryland Christopher J. Ruddy, Catholic University of America 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., Dominican House of Studies William Wright, Duquesne University Instructions for Contributors 1. Address all contributions, books for review, and related correspondence to Matthew Levering, mjlevering@yahoo.com. 2. Contributions should be prepared to accord as closely as possible with the typographical conventions of Nova et Vetera. The University of Chicago Manual of Style (16th edition) is our authority on matters of style. 3. Nova et Vetera practices blind review. Submissions are evaluated anonymously by members of the editorial board and other scholars with appropriate expertise. Name, affiliation, and contact information should be included on a separate page apart from the submission. 4. Galley-proofs of articles are sent to contributors to be read and corrected and should be returned to the Editors within ten days of receipt. Corrections should be confined to typographical and factual errors. 5. Submission of a manuscript entails the author’s agreement (in the event his or her contribution is accepted for publication) to assign the copyright to Nova et Vetera. Nova et Vetera The English Edition of the International Theological Journal ISSN 1542-7315 Winter 2016 Vol. 14, No. 1 Commentary Le goût du monde.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Romanus Cessario, O.P. 1 Symposium on the Virtue of Religion Happiness and Religion: Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End, A Re-lecture of Thomas Aquinas with an Eye to His Contemporary Relevance. . . . . . . . . . Reinhard Hütter Religion and Election: Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bruce D. Marshall Sacrifice, Social and Sacramental: The Witness of Louis Billot, S.J... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Romanus Cessario, O.P. Religion, Human Law, and the Virtue of Religion: The Case of Dignitatis Humanae.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . F. Russell Hittinger The Universal Mediation of Christ and Non-Christian Religions.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Thomas Joseph White, O.P. 15 61 127 151 177 Articles Is There Divine Providence According To Aristotle?.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Carlos A. Casanova “Being Bishoped by” God: The Theology of the Episcopacy According to St. Ignatius of Antioch.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kevin M. Clarke St. Thomas Aquinas “Rightly Dividing the Word of Truth”: The Historical and Theological Contours of Thomas’s Principia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Joseph K. Gordon Aquinas and the Sins of Ignorance. . . . . . . . . . . . Matthew R. McWhorter Extra Ecclesiam Nulla Salus and the Substance of Catholic Doctrine: Towards a Realization of Benedict XVI’s “Hermeneutic of Reform”.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Matthew Ramage 199 227 245 271 295 Review Essay On The Unity of Christ by Christopher A. Beeley.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Michel René Barnes 331 Book Reviews Unlocking Divine Action: Contemporary Science and Thomas Aquinas by Michael J. Dodds, O.P.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . William E. Carroll A Service of Love: Papal Primacy, the Eucharist and Church Unity by Paul McPartlan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Adam G. Cooper 343 347 Incarnation Anyway: Arguments for Supralapsarian Christology by Edwin Chr. van Driel. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Justus H. Hunter Dust Bound for Heaven: Explorations in the Theology of Thomas Aquinas by Reinhard Hütter. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Matthew Levering Aquinas at Prayer: The Bible, Mysticism and Poetry by Paul Murray. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bruno M. Shah, O.P. God the Father in the Theology of St. Thomas Aquinas by John Baptist Ku, O.P.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . T. Adam Van Wart Philosophical Virtues and Psychological Strengths: Building the Bridge edited by Romanus Cessario, O.P., Craig Steven Titus, and Paul C. Vitz. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kevin White 349 353 362 367 371 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; ISBN 978-1-941447-48-2) is published quarterly by St. Paul Center for Biblical Theology, 1468 Parkview Circle, Steubenville, OH 43952. Nova et Vetera is distributed to institutional subscribers for the St. Paul Center by the Catholic University of America Press. All materials published in Nova et Vetera are copyrighted by St. Paul Center for Biblical Theology. © Copyright 2016 by St. Paul Center for Biblical Theology. All rights reserved. POSTMASTER: Please send address change to Nova et Vetera, 1468 Parkview Circle, Steubenville, OH 43952. This periodical is indexed in the ATLA Catholic Periodical and Literature Index® (CPLI®), a product of the American Theological Library Association, 300 S. Wacker Dr., Suite 2100, Chicago, IL 60606, USA. Email: atla@atla.com, www.atla.com. Nova et Vetera Subscription Rates: • Individuals: one-year $40.00, two-year $75.00 International: one-year $60.00, two-year $115.00 • Students: one-year $30.00, two-year $50.00 International: one-year $40.00, two-year $70.00 • Colleges, Universities, Seminaries, and Institutions: one-year $110.00, two-year $205.00 International: one-year $130.00, two-year $245.00 To subscribe online, please visit http://store.nvjournal.net. For subscription inquiries, email us at novaetvetera@stpaulcenter.com or phone 740-264-9535. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 1 (2016): 1–131 Le goût du monde ROMANUS CESSARIO, O.P. Saint John’s Seminary Brighton, MA The Voyage The American novelist Ernest Hemingway, whom Father Guy Bedouelle esteemed for the author’s lapidary English style, counseled readers of his short novel, A Moveable Feast, “Never to go on trips with anyone you do not love.”1 From that happily auspicious October day in 1976, when I first met Father Guy Bedouelle at the Albertinum in Fribourg, travel knitted our friendship up. It was not whatsoever travel from one place to another—although the highly competent Guy excelled in making the best practical travel arrangements possible. In fact, I learned from him how to handle the intricacies (for a newly arrived American in Europe) of the French railroad system (“demi-tarif,” etc.) and the Paris subways (“carnet”). No, the travel that brought us together was the travel of discovery, of learning, and of aesthetic experience. In simpler terms, the travel that Michelin guides facilitate. Guy traveled in order to acquaint himself with diverse destinations, their cultures, and the people who construct a manner of human living. He wanted, in short, to broaden his horizons of the world that God has created “very good” (Gn 1:31). Throughout the second half of the 1970s, during the university vacation periods, Guy and I often found ourselves heading toward la gare de Fribourg provisioned with a brown-bag lunch hastily purchased at Suard’s on the Rue de Romont. Traveling came easy to us. I, a young American living in Europe for the first time, regarded the European continent as a vast ency Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast (New York: Collier Books, 1985), 175. 1 2 Romanus Cessario, O.P. clopedia whose volumes were kept locked up at Kuoni, the local agence de voyages. Old and distinguished European that he was, Father Guy’s interests encompassed the entire span of the globe. Aristotle has observed that friendship develops out of common loves. “Those who have nothing can share nothing,” comments the English author C. S. Lewis, “those who are going nowhere can have no fellowtravelers.”2 From the beginning of our acquaintance in the Dominican Order, love of travel provided the shared basis for our friendship. This common love of travel endured even after my stay in Fribourg came to an end. Gladly then, Guy’s and my voyaging remained active for more than thirty-five years. Even at the time of his death, a trip to Montenegro with our good friend and collaborator, frère Daniel Bourgeois, stood in the planning stages. Wherever we found ourselves, we celebrated the Eucharist each day. Guy had thought that the Vatican embassy in Podgorica would provide us a place for saying Mass. Our planning, however, had not progressed to the point of our discovering that no Vatican representation exists in Montenegro. Were God to have allowed that we make this trip, however, the three of us would have done what Guy and I did in Tunisia—namely, we would have brought along a portable altar and Mass kit. Travel was not an escape from our priesthood or Dominican consecration, but an occasion to discover a different venue for living out both vocations. During the course of the many trips that we took, Guy and I surely verified the wisdom of Hemingway’s sage counsel to voyagers: “Never to go on trips with anyone you do not love.” But let me add immediately that one should not construe this remark as exclusive or, still less, mawkish. Traveling was not our private affair. Because Guy and I shared a love for traveling, we were able to reach out to others. In fact, this common love heightened in us a perspective on a deep truth about friendship. True friendships always stand ready to receive others. Again, C. S. Lewis expresses it well: “By myself I am not large enough to call the whole man into activity; I want other lights than my own to show all his facets.”3 So the traveling that Guy and I undertook always included other people, other friends, either those who traveled along with us or those whom we met along the way. To this day, my family and friends recall the times when they met Father Guy. His measured taste for the good things of God and man left an impression on those whom he encountered while on the road. It would surprise me to C. S. Lewis, The Four Loves (New York: Collins, 1965), 62. Ibid., 58. 2 3 Le goût du monde 3 discover that anyone who enjoyed the pleasure of Guy’s friendship did not notice to what extent friends of all stations in life multiplied around him. Well instructed men observe this feature of virtuous friendship. “True friendship,” Lewis remarks, “is the least jealous of loves. Two friends delight to be joined by a third, and three by a fourth, if only the newcomer is qualified to become a real friend.”4 Although after my departure from Fribourg in the early 1980s Guy and I dwelt on two different continents, it is a remarkable thing to count the number of common friends that we made over the course of our thirty-six years of here-below friendship. Not every person, indeed not every one of his friends, shared Guy’s enormous zest for travel. Guy and I providentially discovered that we each approached travel with the same set of priorities and dispositions. In a word, we applied ourselves assiduously (to speak malapropos) to our traveling. Since he was brighter than I, Guy was the first to recognize this common feature of what, for lack of a better term, one might refer to as our personalities. The realization came to the fore in London. On a trip early in our acquaintance to this Anglophone destination that Guy knew better than I, our train from the continent arrived late. Some of you will recall the days when crossing the channel by train required railroad ferry boats. In any event, it being evening, we scavenged a discarded issue of The Times in order to see which films were available in London. I found a British film playing in a movie house on the opposite side of the city from where Guy had secured very modest (to speak euphemistically) hotel rooms. (The hotel, one should note, was close to London’s Russell Square so that Guy could arrive easily at the British Museum. Need I observe that traveling with Guy always included some time dedicated to “son travail,” his intellectual labors properly so called?) In any case, as we headed for the Underground, Guy turned to me and said, “You know, we share a same passion. If there were a film that I wanted to see and it was only playing on the other side of one of the world’s densest metropolises, I also would figure out how to get there.” I forget which film we saw, but I will never forget that occasion when I realized that I had found a fellow traveling mate. We not only shared the same passion for travel but also possessed a common zeal and zest for traveling to foreign places and for discovering what best to accomplish once we arrived there. Because of this common enthusiasm, we rarely wasted a moment. Ibid., 59. 4 4 Romanus Cessario, O.P. During the summer vacation of 1978, the occasion arose for us to visit the United States together. In the collection of personal testimonies that Father Stéphane-Marie Morgain, O.C.D., kindly organized under the title, “J’attends les amis,” I included a recollection of Guy’s first visit to New York City. On that occasion, I heard him exclaim, “I’ve never seen such things in my life!” I suspect that few persons ever witnessed the distinguished Guy Bedouelle express a sentiment of this kind. He, after all, was too urbane, too stately, of a man to succumb to unmodulated gushiness. So this particular moment, when Guy let out just such a spontaneous exclamation, will remain forever etched in my memory. It occurred just as I introduced Guy Bedouelle to the capital of the new world, that is, the exact second when, for the first time, Guy caught a glimpse of downtown Manhattan. I think it fair to observe that Guy favored many things American— certainly American films. Woody Allen, to be sure, captured Guy’s aesthetic appreciation, as did also, no doubt, American literature. In addition to Hemingway, Guy liked William Faulkner, who shaped Guy’s imagination of what Mississippi—the South—looks like. Guy, in short, enjoyed a notional acquaintance with the United States, one that intelligent Europeans acquire from films, literature, and, of course, from meeting Americans in Paris. Still, for all his urbanity and globe-trotting, Guy had not yet managed to travel to the United States, even though, as a result of his deep conversance with the Dominican who restored religious life in France, Guy was fully acquainted with Henri-Dominique Lacordaire’s idyllic conception of America.5 After our arrival by plane in New York, friends kindly drove us from Kennedy Airport on Long Island into the city. It was night. Guy was peering left and right out of the windows of the sedan in which we were driving. As we emerged from the midtown tunnel, Guy found himself surrounded by the illuminated skyscrapers of the “Big Apple.” By this time, I had accustomed myself to Guy’s European sense of reserve and poise. More so, I had begun to imitate it. So I confess to being overcome by a certain surprise when Father Guy, bent over in the back seat of the sedan, and stretching his neck to follow a long See Guy Bedouelle, “Monsegneur D’Hulst, Prédicator de Notre-Dame” in Monseigneur d’Hulst: fondateur de l’Institut catholique de Paris, Actes du colloque de Paris, November 21–22, 1996, ed. Institut catholique de Paris, Faculté de théologie et de sciences religieuses, prefaced by Claude Bressolette (Paris: Beauchesne, 1998), 268. See also Romanus Cessario, O.P., “Lacordaire et les États-Unis,” in Lacordaire, son pays, ses amis et la liberté des ordres religieux en France, ed. Guy Bedouelle (Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1991): 333–347. 5 Le goût du monde 5 line of Manhattan skyscrapers, cried out like a child who descends the stairs on Christmas morning to discover a tree and gifts: “I’ve never seen anything like it in my life!” For Guy, traveling meant discovery. Discovery awakened wonder. He once remarked that he did not share the view of those Dominicans who felt constrained to remain within the convent when circumstances required them to visit a foreign place. He stood resolutely in favor of discovery for the sake of increasing that knowledge that one gains only through sense experiences. The illustrations for his important book, An Illustrated History of the Church: The Great Challenges, confirm that, for Guy Bedouelle, travel unfolded as an extension of his scholarship. The original illustrations for this high-end textbook come from photos that Guy himself took during the course of his around-the-world traveling.6 The rest of the images he chose judiciously from professional reproductions. It has never been my practice to keep a journal, and so it would be impossible for me to establish a complete, chronological list of the trips that Guy and I made. It is easier, instead, to remember the people with whom we traveled. Oftentimes, these trips included one or another cleric or student. Several times, such as the memorable visit to North Africa, we traveled with Guy’s brother, Jacques, and his sister-inlaw, Jackie Bedouelle. No matter with whom we traveled however, our trips rarely transpired without meeting up with other friends of Guy or of mine. Frequently, it happened that we encountered both. Highlights of some trips happily do remain fresh in my memory. For instance, once while driving through Wales, Guy (whose English was perfect in grammar and vocabulary) observed that it was helpful to have a native English-speaker to interpret the automobile directions given by a knowledgeable but heavily accented Welshman. Truth to tell, I made an educated guess as to what the man in fact said to us. Then there was the time that an American Franciscan, Father Ross Syracuse, joined us for a study-trip to Sicily. Immediately after arriving in Palermo, street bandits robbed us of our luggage from the trunk of a rented car. I immediately lamented the loss of my personal effects necessary for travel, such as toothpaste, etc. The Franciscan, while cheerfully offering to share some extra socks that he had kept on his person, praised Lady Poverty. Guy simply exclaimed, “Mes livres!” Undaunted by our misfortune, however, we continued on to marvel at the mosaics in the cathedral of Monreale and other remarkable Guy Bedouelle, An Illustrated History of the Church: The Great Challenges (Milan: Jaca Book, 1993). 6 6 Romanus Cessario, O.P. cities of the Italian island that has witnessed so much of the world’s history. Despite our depleted supply of things necessary to live, we even pursued a planned visit to Argrigento and its Valle dei Templi. It was within the context of planning for this visit that I had learned from Guy the French expression, “fouler aux nos pieds.” He told me that I would impress the other Dominicans at the Albertinum if, after returning home, I would respond to the question, “What did you do in Sicily?,” with this phrase: “Nous avons foulé aux nos pieds dans les temples de Agrigente.” Very Bedouellian! After the trip however, Guy also may have thought that my fledgling effort to pronounce this elegant French phrase would distract the Fathers from inquiring about our mishap at the hands of Sicilian vandals. One hears the expression, “the gift of friendship.” Those who have traveled with Guy—and let me add emphatically that I was not Guy’s only traveling partner—will agree that the experience came as an unexpected gift, a concrete expression of friendship that not only unites two friends, but as I have observed above, joins two friends with a universe of other friends. No wonder that the Christian tradition speaks about life as a journey with heaven as its terminus. Heaven, in fact, represents a place of consummate friendship. The beatific vision, we are told, satisfies all our expectations. Guy was a master of that exquisite erudition that begins in wonder and leads, for the Christian humanist, to the beholding of the Source of all Truth and Beauty. May we not imagine that, upon seeing the Lord, Guy would exclaim in words similar to those of a song that the Billy Graham crusades made popular in the States, “How Great Thou Art”? (Guy also liked some American music, especially jazz.) And then, after a period of reflection proper to participated eternity, would he not again cry out, “I’ve never seen such things in my life!” Heaven also unveils a place of ultimate communion. So we may also imagine that, in response, the souls of the blessed will observe, as Dante puts it in the Paradiso, “‘Look, someone comes who shall augment our love!”7 Dante Alighierri, Il Paradiso, 5.103–105, trans. James Finn Cotter (Amity, NY: Amity House, 1987): “So I did see more than a thousand splendors / Drawing toward us, and in each I heard, / ‘Look, someone comes who shall augment our love!’” (available also at http://www.italianstudies.org/comedy/ index.htm). 7 Le goût du monde 7 Food and Film Father Jean-François Noël has spoken eloquently about Guy Bedouelle and his refined tastes in cinema (le cinéma). As I have suggested above, “seeing un petit cinéma” played a determining role when it came to planning travel with Guy. No visit to Manhattan, for instance, went by without Guy’s collecting the show times and theaters for the films that he wanted to see. Meal times were set as a function of the showings that were available to our schedule. “If we take supper at 5:00 P.M.,” Guy might say, “then we can make the 6:30 showing of [such-andsuch a film],” his eyes sparkling. Guy’s determination to see the latest film did not arise from a mania. Like everything that this talented and gracious Dominican did, viewing films formed part of his preparation for evangelization, for his dedication to the service of the Word. Within this frame of reference, I would like to recall the tribute that Father Daniel Bourgeois published in Choisir, the Swiss magazine to which Guy regularly contributed movie reviews: “Silence! on rêve . . . .”8 In this text that displays the author’s own distinctive style, Daniel Bourgeois reminds us that Guy sought both to evangelize the human imagination and to sanctify the aspirations of men that emerge in their dreams.9 Father Bourgeois—who remains an indispensable collaborator on a literary project that Father Guy launched in 1995, the annual journal of religion and culture, Pierre d’Angle—captures what is essential in Guy’s taste for life. Like the Saint Dominic whom he portrayed with exquisite delicacy in his very successful book, Dominic, The Grace of the Word, Father Guy Bedouelle—to adapt a line from Saint Paul—used the things of this world as though he had no dealings with it (see 1 Cor 7:31).10 The film provided Guy with the opportunity to envisage what he was seeking throughout his whole span of years. To borrow the penetrating insight of frère Daniel, evangéliser l’imaginaire, Guy Bedouelle the film critic realized that movies are capable of awakening in us a desire for the only Presence that satisfies human longing and imagination: The Face of God. Food and film share something in common. His daily nourishment—as the quintessential Christian prayer, the Our Father, reminds us—arouses in man a desire for the Banquet that continues forever. In Choisir 631–632 (July–August 2012), 4–6. Ibid., 6. 10 Dominic, The Grace of the Word, trans. Sister Mary Thomas Noble, rev. ed. (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1995). 8 9 Romanus Cessario, O.P. 8 deed, the sacred authors sometimes picture heaven as a rich meal. “The kingdom of heaven may be likened to a king who gave a wedding feast for his son” (Mt 22:2). Or again, the Vulgate text from Saint Luke states, “Homo quidam fecit coenam magnam et vocavit multos” (Lk 14:16: “a man once gave a great banquet, and invited many”). One may draw many conclusions from this biblical theme that, as it happens, Aquinas employs in the liturgical Office for the Solemnity of Corpus Christi.11 To descend to the almost banal, we may observe, for example, that fast food chains—which have eroded what la belle France has preserved better than any other modern Western culture, namely, the pleasures of the table—find no warrant in divine revelation. And there is no need to mention that during Bedouellian travels, no hunger was so great that one ever considered for a moment the expedient purchase of either a McDonald’s hamburger or Kentucky Fried Chicken. Cheap imitations of food would betray the rich use that the sacred authors make of foodstuffs. On the contrary, Guy combined a wonderful talent for adapting the best of French cuisine to the venerable traditions of Christian living. He remained alert always to the influence that monastic customs have played in Dominican life. Once when we were in Toulouse together, I suggested that we share a cassoulet in imitation of Saint Dominic who, so I fancied, would have tasted the recipe during his travels around Castelnaudery. Dear Guy took the occasion to remind me, gently, that Saint Dominic observed perpetual abstinence—that is, he never ate meat! In order to grasp Guy’s approach to foodstuffs and common eating, one needs only to recall the practices that governed the refectory at St Julien, the Dominican summer priory in Provence that welcomed so many diverse guests. In any case, I learned early on in our wanderings that we should avoid those restaurants that, to use another Bedouelle phrase, were “sophisticated without cause.” “Sophistiqué sans raison” is what English speakers call “shi-shi” places. Instead, when we were on the road, we looked for honest restaurants where the food was good and the prices reasonable. Such restaurants, of course, were required Office of Corpus Christi, First Vespers, Responsory: “R/. Homo quidam fecit coenam magnam et misit servum suum hora coenae dicere invitatis ut venirent, quia parata sunt omnia. V/. Venite, comedite panem meum et bibite vinum meum quod miscui vobis. Quia parata sunt omnia. Gloria patri et filio et spiritui sancto. Quia parata sunt omnia.” For the full text, see the Brevarium Ordinis Praedicatorum (Rome: S. Sabina, 1962). 11 Le goût du monde 9 to serve desserts. How could one forget the taste that Guy maintained for the after-dinner sweet, the dessert. In retrospect, even this wellknown feature of his tastes may be interpreted as a sign of the heavenly banquet. Thus, the prophet Isaiah writes: “On this mountain the Lord of hosts / will provide for all peoples / A feast of rich food and choice wines, / juicy, rich food and pure, choice wines” (Is 25:6). There is an English hymn that captures the relationship that the Christian tradition associates with eating and friendship. In all likelihood, Guy would have heard this hymn sung during one of his many stays at Oxford. “Draw Us in the Spirit’s Tether” concludes with a verse that points up the relationship of the Eucharist, the common meal of Christians, and friendship: “As the brethren used to gather / In the name of Christ to sup, / Then with thanks to God the Father / Break the bread and bless the cup, / Alleluia! Alleluia! / So knit Thou our friendship up.”12 In Church usage, the love of friendship supplies a preferred way of talking about the distinctively Christian virtue of charity that forms the basis for the unity of the Church. Guy recognized that food and friendship both point us toward the God who made the food and who Himself lives and reigns as a communion of persons. Other things that Guy Bedouelle had to say about the spiritual meaning of common foodstuffs merit our attention. In his book, Thomas l’Apôtre, Guy comments on the passages of the Gospels where the apostle Thomas—his patron and name in the Dominican Order—appears, whether explicitly or implicitly, along with “the twelve.” When Guy comes to comment on the sixth chapter of Saint John’s Gospel, his meditations turn to consider the words that Christ addresses to the twelve, including Thomas. Two expressions especially capture Guy’s attention: “the bread of God” (Jn 6:33) and “the bread of life” (Jn 6:35). These texts evoke themes that throw light on how Father Guy looked at his life and the world in which he lived and traveled and which he so much enjoyed. What is the “bread of God”? Guy evokes the dynamics of divine grace that Dominicans, following Saint Thomas Aquinas, discuss under the rubric of physical pre-motion: “Il ne convient pas tant de se préoccuper des œuvres à faire, que de regarder l’œuvre de Dieu, qui est de croire en celui qu’il 12 “Draw us in the Spirit’s Tether.” This hymn was written by Oxford-educated Percy Dearmer (1867–1936) and first published in 1931 by Oxford University Press. 10 Romanus Cessario, O.P. a envoyé.”13 In other words, the starting point for all good works remains le Christ, the one whom God has sent into the world, and to whom the Christian unites himself or herself by faith—Thomas’s faith. Guy-Thomas’s engagement with the natural and cultural gifts with which God diversely endows his creation also led him to appreciate the distinctiveness of the Christian life. Theologians speak about the lumen gloriae, the light whereby human creatures receive the adequate means by which a saint comes to behold the Face of God.14 Aquinas held the view that the “Vision of God” itself strengthens the human intellect whereby mortal men might behold the thrice-holy and immortal Godhead.15 Here below however, we see divine things only by faith, not with vision. Guy-Thomas Bedouelle made the life of faith his own. He possessed an uncommon appreciation for the words that Jesus addresses to Thomas the Apostle, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe” (Jn 20:29). Those possessed of a Christian intelligence—that is, who look at creation with the eyes of faith—acquire not only a liberty of spirit that belongs uniquely to Christian believers, but also an experience of the true and beautiful that remains proper and unique to them. In the true, and therefore beautiful, things of this world, Guy Bedouelle beheld in faith a foretaste of heaven. What explains this capacity? It is nothing other than his possession of the theological virtues of faith and charity, his vie théologale. Most biblical scholars label John 6:22–59 “the Bread of Life Discourse.” Guy observes that the inspired discussion about the “bread of life” contained in these verses of Sacred Scripture concludes with an eschatological promise. Christ himself said as much to the twelve, including the apostle Thomas: “he who eats this bread will live for ever” (Jn 6:58). One may assume that the life and teaching of the apostle Thomas exercised a strong influence on the young Guy Bedouelle. If his biography of Saint Dominic reflects Guy’s understanding of his religious consecration, then I believe that his book on the apostle Thomas represents Guy’s spiritual autobiography, his Apologia pro Vita Sua—to borrow from John Henry Newman’s classic defense of his own religious opinions published in 1864. Surely Guy would smile to hear me compare his writing to that of a saintly English author whom he admired. Still, my estimate is correct. The faith of the apostle 13 14 15 Guy Bedouelle, Thomas l’Apôtre (Montrouge: Nouvelle Cité, 1997), 47. See for instance, Summa theologiae (hereafter, ST) I, q. 12, a. 5, ad 2. See ST I-II, q. 5, a. 6, ad 2. Le goût du monde 11 Thomas governed his approach to life and his personal attachment to the blessed Eucharist. To support this claim, one need only to reflect on the reasons that Guy chose the Prieuré de St Julien d’Olargues, a renovated monastic dwelling with a first-millennium Romanesque church attached to it, as a summer residence. The daily Mass kept before Guy the end that dominates all human history: “the vision of his glory.” So the Church still prays: “May our faith be rewarded by the vision of his glory, who lives and reigns for ever and ever.”16 The Museum As much as he loved the movie theater, Guy Bedouelle also found his taste for life, his goût du monde, deeply satisfied at the museum. Within the halls of a museum, preferably a small and little-known one (though a place with exhibits of exceptional beauty), Guy demonstrated his zest for life. C. S. Lewis has remarked rightly that, whereas lovers face each other, friends stand shoulder to shoulder, side by side. Each friend looks out at the same truth, the truth that they share and which unites them.17 This axiom describes the many friendships that Father Guy Bedouelle enjoyed. Sometimes, however, even a friend must relish being alone. Friends, it is true, belong together, but each one must also find contentment when he stands apart. Guy Bedouelle, when he visited a museum, did not like standing side by side with anyone. Museums visits, therefore, always began with our setting a rendezvous time and place. Gregarious American that I am, I once asked Guy Bedouelle, “Why don’t you want to visit this museum with others?” Guy turned toward me with the air of the professor that came naturally to him, and he said: “I prefer to be alone because the aesthetic experience is incommunicable” (or words to that effect). Then Guy pointed to a piece of art that hung on the museum wall before which we were standing and said, “Look at that rouge!” Stunned by the intensity of his artistic contemplation, I quietly withdrew from his company in order to leave him with the aesthetic pleasure for which he possessed the most refined sensibilities. Is it not true, though? Even close friends may not be able to appreciate with the same degree of intensity things like the colors that artists (who merit to find their paintings in a worldclass museum) apply to their canvasses (reds, for example). One may also imagine other experiences that enrich friendships even though the 16 17 Sacred Congregation for Divine Worship, Decree Holy Communion and Worship of the Eucharist Outside Mass (1975). Lewis, Four Loves, 58 and 67. 12 Romanus Cessario, O.P. friends best experience them apart from one another. I suspect that this feature of friendship belongs especially to those who are possessed of strong aesthetic abilities, that is, the artists. At this juncture, one recalls how Guy Bedouelle entered into collaboration with his Dominican confrere and artist, Kim En Joong, on the composition of the book Rythmes, a text that only one with an appreciation of solitude could have written.18 Museums evoke the professional qualifications that distinguished Guy Bedouelle among his peers. He was a “sixteenth-century-ist,” to Anglicize a French expression. In my view, Guy’s love for history and the providential guidance that he acknowledged behind the course of world events, even though he recognized the difficulties of sustaining a “providentialst” account of history, especially in the face of the difficult circumstances that emerged during the twentieth century, shaped his outlook on life.19 Travel, film, and culture (expressed culinarily and otherwise) all bore testimony to the God who directs all things sweetly and still forcefully. As Guy himself once concluded, “nothing impedes the historian of the Church to be also a theologian and even a poet.”20 So in the end, Guy Bedouelle looked at the world through the lens of nature and grace, without however succumbing to the bifurcation that some critics of Thomism lament as inescapable when one wishes to respect the two orders of divine activity in the world. Guy often would remark, approvingly, that one of his friends enjoys a certain gift for identifying the good things of God and of man. (The friend took the remark as a compliment.) No other option exists for the true intellectual than to try to discover the authentic dimensions of created nature and supernatural grace. We human mortals stand in the middle of creation, between spirit and matter, between time and eternity, as St Albert the Great puts it.21 Guy felt at home in the place that God has established for incarnate spirit, even as he transcended, as much as virtuously permitted, the limitations that matter necessarily imposes on those human experiences that find their origin in the human soul. Dare I propose that the “goût du monde” refers most properly to Father Guy Bedouelle’s profoundly Christian and eminently Dominican, nay Thomist, conviction that all creation incarnates the wisdom 18 19 20 21 Guy Bedouelle and Kim En Joong, Rythmes (Vence: Galerie Chave, 2000). For more information, see Guy Bedouelle, L’Histoire de L’Église: Science Humaine ou Théologie? (Paris: Mentha, 1992). Ibid., 73. “Der Mensch steht in der Mitte der Schöpfung, zwischen Stoff und Geist, zwischen Zeit und Ewigkeit” (at http://gutezitate.com/zitat/106886). Le goût du monde 13 of God? Guy appreciated that the original way to gain access to God’s wise and loving providence relies on the human sensory powers. After all, Aquinas never forgot his Aristotelian lessons: “the pleasures of sight and taste and smell inasmuch as they bear on and contribute to our pleasurable application through touch to indispensable requirements” of everyday living fall under the cardinal virtue of temperance.22 Guy excelled at effecting well-tempered pleasures, whether on the road, in the restaurant, or at the museum. He displayed a taste for this world that enabled him to praise the Creator of the world. The world will miss his voice. The Catholic world will miss his presence deeply. Our consolation rests on the promise of a friendship within the beatific communion of heaven that God reserves for his saints. There, as we N&V know, Guy awaits his friends. “J’attends les amies!” 22 See ST II-II, q. 141, a. 5. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 1 (2016): 15–6015 Happiness and Religion: Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End A Re-lecture of Thomas Aquinas with an Eye to His Contemporary Relevance1 Reinhard Hütter Duke University Divinity School Durham, NC Religet nos religio uni omnipotenti Deo. —St. Augustine, De vera religione 2 Introduction Pope Francis , then-cardinal Jorge Mario Bergoglio, in his notes addressed to his fellow cardinals during the congregations of cardinals preceding the 2013 conclave, named what he regards to be the most 1 2 All the essays comprising the symposium on “The Virtue of Religion” have their origin in the Rev. Robert J. Randall Conference on Christianity and Culture that took place at Providence College, Providence, RI, April 19–20, 2013. The theme of the conference was “The Virtue of Religion—Then and Now.” A considerably abbreviated version of this essay was presented at the plenary session of the Pontifical Academy of St. Thomas Aquinas, Casa Pio IV, Vatican, June 19–20, 2015. Special thanks to the University of Our Lady of the Lake/Mundelein Seminary for providing the contemplative space to complete this piece while serving as Paluch Chair of Theology. “May religion bind us to the one Almighty God” (Augustine, De vera religione 55, in Migne, Patrologia Latina [hereafter, PL], 34:172), cited by Thomas Aquinas in Summa theologiae II-II, q. 81, a. 1. All citations from the Summa theologiae (hereafter, ST) are taken from the translation of the Fathers of the English Dominican Province (New York: Benziger Bros., 1948; repr. Christian Classics, 1981). Alterations are indicated by brackets. Translations from other works of Thomas Aquinas, if not indicated otherwise, are mine. 16 Reinhard Hütter pressing margins of human existence to which the Catholic Church is called to evangelize: the margins of the mystery of sin, of pain, of injustice, of ignorance—and, of doing without religion. Arguably, doing without religion is an increasingly widespread mode of living in the secular societies of the western hemisphere.3 For very good reasons, Pope Francis identifies this pervasive mode of living as one of the margins of human existence, for it is neither neutral nor benign. Rather, doing without religion constitutes a significant impediment to attaining the surpassing final end to which humanity is ordained in the extant order of providence—to perfect and everlasting happiness in union with God. The Catechism of the Catholic Church renders this surpassing final end in its programmatic opening statement thus: “God, infinitely perfect and blessed in himself, in a plan of sheer goodness freely created man to make him share in his own blessed life.”4 Thomas Aquinas advances an account of the virtue of religion that is theologically profound, philosophically robust, and especially relevant for a context in which doing without religion has become a widespread phenomenon. He takes the virtue of religion to be indispensable for attaining the surpassing final end to which divine providence has ordained humanity—genuine and everlasting happiness in communion with God. To put Aquinas’s central insight in a nutshell: the gratuitous ultimate end of perfect and everlasting participation in the divine life—the beatific vision—is unattainable without the Christian viator, the sojourner on the way to this end, living the virtue of religion. This vital virtue signifies the stable disposition, formed by 3 4 For the standard Western narrative account of how it came to pass that large segments of European and North American societies are doing without religion, see Charles Taylor’s magnum opus, A Secular Age (Cambridge, MA: Belknap, 2007). See Matthew Rose, “Tayloring Christianity: Charles Taylor is a Theologian of the Secular Status Quo,” First Things (December 2014) (http://www.firstthings.com/article/2014/12/tayloring-christianity) for an astute critique of Taylor’s ambitious project. Taylor promotes a problematically resigned Christian spirituality that accommodates itself all too willingly to the new secular establishment of doing without religion. The passage continues the following way: “For this reason, at every time and in every place, God draws close to man. He calls man to seek him, to know him, to love him with all his strength. He calls together all men, scattered and divided by sin, into the unity of his family, the Church. To accomplish this, when the fullness of time had come, God sent his Son as Redeemer and Savior. In his Son and through him, he invites men to become, in the Holy Spirit, his adopted children and thus heirs of his blessed life” (Catechism of the Catholic Church [hereafter, CCC], §1). Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End 17 charity, to submit one’s will to God in the interior act of devotion, to direct one’s mind completely to God in the interior act of prayer, and to render one’s due honor and reverence to God in exterior acts of adoration, sacrifice, oblation, tithes, and vows. The necessary relationship that, according to Aquinas, obtains between the attainment of the surpassing ultimate end and the exercise of the virtue of religion may usefully be cast into this syllogism: (1) If humanity is ordained to the gratuitous supernatural final end of union with God, then the virtue of religion is indispensable for the attainment of this end. (2) Humanity is ordained to the gratuitous supernatural final end of union with God. (3) Consequently, the virtue of religion is indispensable for attaining this end. Doing without religion constitutes a grave impediment in regard to attaining the ultimate end and places one, therefore, on a margin of human existence. The major premise encapsulates the crucial claim. In the following, I shall advance a brief systematic re-lecture of Aquinas’s warrant for this premise. But why should doing without religion constitute one of the margins of human existence in the first place? For the educated elites of the western hemisphere, doing without religion is the welcome effect of an ineluctable progress from ignorance and bigotry to enlightenment and tolerance. For them, doing without religion does not constitute at all one of the margins of human existence but, quite on the contrary, the precondition for the ultimate flourishing of the sovereign self. Therefore, in order to answer the question above in a theologically sound way, two tasks must be accomplished: first, the recovery of the virtue of religion that has suffered unjust neglect from philosophers and theologians during the last fifty years; and second, the recovery of the reason why the virtue of religion is indispensable for attaining the surpassing ultimate end—perfect and everlasting happiness in union with God. Because accomplishing the first task presupposes the accomplishment of the second, I shall attend to them in reverse order. Yet first of all, two preliminary questions must be answered: one, how does the use of “religion” in the virtue of religion relate to and differ from the currently dominant uses of “religion”? And two, what essentially is the virtue of religion? 18 Reinhard Hütter The Virtue of Religion versus “Religion” in Contemporary Parlance There are at least five currently dominant uses of the term “religion” from which the virtue of religion must be clearly distinguished:5 Political Liberalism’s Use of “Religion” The first is the quite recent but now widespread secularist—or in the European context, “laicit”—use of “religion,” a use that has risen to the position of virtually unchallenged hegemony in the secular media of Europe and North America. This use is so utterly influential because it is part of the conceptual matrix of a normative secularism that frames—primarily by way of the media—the public discussion in virtually all Western societies. The positive contrastive terms to this negative use of “religion” are “secular reason” and its present instantiation, “secular discourse.” “Religion” stands for sets of beliefs that are presumably more or less arbitrary in nature, beliefs impossible to warrant and adjudicate rationally. Because of its inherently irrational nature—so secularist reasoning goes—“religion” must establish its claims by way of more or less subtle forms of violence, ranging from psychological manipulation to open terror, torture, and religious war.6 In order to secure peace in the public square, a pure “secular” reason and discourse must dominate the public sphere, while “religion” in all shapes and forms is to be relegated to the private, or at best, social sphere. While in virtually all Western societies there exists, of course, a constitutional right to religious freedom, the political and judicial powers of current Western liberal democracies interpret this religious freedom not as a constitutional human right antecedent to normative political categories of “public” versus “private,” but 5 6 These five contemporary uses of the term “religion” are far from comprehensive. Rather, they are of paradigmatic significance for the reconsideration of the virtue of religion in the current intellectual, political, social, and cultural climate of the western hemisphere. Incidentally, already in 1912, the American naturalist psychologist of religion, James Henry Leuba, who was committed to the program of an explanatory reductionism of religion to physiological phenomena, collected no fewer than forty-eight different definitions of “religion.” See his A Psychological Study of Religion: Its Origin, Function, and Future (New York: Macmillan, 1912), 339–361. For an astute critique and deconstruction of this founding myth of modern political liberalism, see William T. Cavanaugh, The Myth of Religious Violence: Secular Ideology and the Roots of Modern Conflict (New York: Oxford University Press, 2009). Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End 19 merely as a political right within them. Conditioned in such a way, the right to religious freedom turns into a right of free exercise that pertains first and foremost to the private sphere and, under increasingly restrictive conditions, also to the social sphere. According to this by now quasi-hegemonic secularist interpretation of the freedom of religion, the public sphere belongs exclusively to “secular” reason and discourse. Religious belief and practice are constitutionally protected as long as they remain within the parameters of the private and social spheres.7 This secularist use of “religion,” integral to the strategic 7 The “founding theory” of this construal of “public” and “private” was advanced by John Rawls in his magnum opus, A Theory of Justice, rev. ed. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), and fine-tuned in his later Political Liberalism, exp. ed. (New York: Columbia University Press, 2005). Jürgen Habermas, in his somewhat more nuanced and sophisticated approach to religion by way of his speech act theory, seeks to assign to “religion” a role in the deliberative political process of law making characteristic of liberal procedural democracies. On this, see especially his: A Theory of Communicative Action, 2 vols. (Boston, MA: Beacon, 1985); Religion and Rationality: Essays on Reason, God, and Modernity (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002); Between Naturalism and Religion: Philosophical Essays (Cambridge: Polity, 2008); Nachmetaphysisches Denken 2 (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 2012); and together with Joseph Ratzinger, The Dialectics of Secularization: On Religion and Reason (San Francisco: Ignatius, 2007). For Habermas on Rawls, see Habermas’s important essay, “Reconciliation through the Public Use of Reason: Remarks on John Rawls’ Political Liberalism,” Journal of Philosophy 92.3 (1995): 109–131. “Religion,” in Habermas’s theory of communicative action, becomes identical with the speech acts of believers. He differentiates strictly between the unregulated and the regulated public discourse. In the unregulated public discourse, religious reasoning is permitted, while in the regulated deliberative public discourse that involves law-making, religious reasoning is strictly prohibited. Hence, Habermas distinguishes in the “public” between a wider social public and a more specific and restrictive political public. While Rawls requires all citizens committed to “religion” to translate their arguments into a language that is accessible to all citizens, Habermas expects a similar translation process only in regard to the restricted deliberative public discourse that pertains directly to law making. Rawls and Habermas share the underlying assumption that there exists a “rational discourse” whose normative commitments are, in essence, different from the rational commitments that a “religious” interlocutor would hold. Hence, a person who, in the restricted deliberative public discourse of law-making, draws conceptually and semantically, let’s say, on Mill’s Utilitarianism, Kant’s Critique of Practical Reason, or Hegel’s Philosophy of Right, differs categorically from a person who draws conceptually and semantically on Augustine’s Civitas Dei, Aquinas’s Summa theologiae, or for that matter, the social encyclicals of Pope Leo XIII. Holding such tacitly operative convictions as Rawls and Habermas do is, of course, 20 Reinhard Hütter global outreach of free-market consumer capitalism, constitutes the most preeminent and also most subtle instance of what Pope Francis has identified as the “colonization of the mind.” American Protestantism’s Use of “Religion” There exists a second, quite different but equally problematic dominant use of “religion.” Unlike the first use, it is a uniquely Christian use, alive among various strands of Protestantism, first and foremost in North America, and there especially among Baptists, Pentecostals, Evangelicals, and new post-denominational and post-institutional Christian movements. But like the first use, this one also has a distinctly negative connotation. Here “religion” means “organized religion,” a linguistic marker that identifies negatively institutional management, dissemination, and control of Christian beliefs and behavior. “Religion” in this sense is critiqued and dismissed as an inauthentic and estranged institutional temptation to works-righteousness. It is contrasted with the positive ideal of a non-institutional, “free,” and therefore purportedly authentic faith in Jesus. This use has its roots in the constitutive individualism and the operative anti-Catholicism that are at the heart of what is characteristically American about American Protestantism.8 The Consumer-Capitalist Use of “Religion” A third dominant use of “religion” differs from the first two in that it lacks their principally negative connotations. This use refers to comprehensive world-views or “spiritualities” that pertain to ultimate 8 nothing but a sophisticated way of being beholden by a rather unreflective (should one say quasi-“religious”) attitude about unexamined Enlightenment presuppositions. And, incidentally, Charles Taylor, in his probing engagements of Habermas’s political thought, has pressed the question quite convincingly whether non-religious philosophical systems do not share central characteristics of their “religious” counterparts. If Taylor is right—and I think he is—the distinction between a pure “secular reason” and merely “religious views” is a self-serving fiction of political liberalism. For a striking analysis and critique of how the artificial restrictions of Rawlsian secularist rationalism have emptied public discourse of intellectual and moral substance and authenticity, see Steven D. Smith, The Disenchantment of Secular Discourse (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2010). This dominant use is best captured not by this or that book—their name is legion—but by the extremely popular YouTube video “Why I Hate Religion, But Love Jesus” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1IAhDGYlpqY). I am indebted to Holly Taylor Coolman for pointing me to this greatly instructive performance. Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End 21 matters and that answer what one might usefully call “Life Questions” such as: “What should I live for, and why?”; “What should I believe, and why should I believe it?”; “What kind of person should I be?”; and “What is meaningful in life, and what should I do in order to lead a fulfilling life?”9 Hinduism, Buddhism, Judaism, Islam, Christianity, and innumerable other religions constitute distinct species of the overarching genus of a spiritual world-view option. In Western capitalist consumer societies governed by the dictatorship of relativism—that is, by the unfettered rule of the free market—“religions” constitute spiritual commodities in the ambit of a comprehensive wellness life-style liberalism—to be sampled, acquired, returned, or discarded by their demanding consumers. The Religionswissenschaft Use of “Religion” A fourth dominant use of “religion” is found primarily among cultural anthropologists, as well as sociologists and philosophers of religion. According to this use, “religion” denotes a unique constant in the evolution of the homo sapiens, the origin and ultimate point of reference of which is a pre-linguistic and pre-reflective awareness of the primordially “numinous” or “sacred.” “Religion” expresses a fundamental and ultimately ineffable experience of “being-in-the-world,” of utter dependency, contingency, and finitude toward death, but also of unity with the cosmos, with ancestors, with the totality of life, and last but not least, with the numinous or sacred. The interior perspective of each religion is not reflective of a distinct transcendent truth about God or the world. Rather, it is a distinct reception and expression of what remains essentially ineffable but is universally shared by all religions. The exterior scientific methodologies of Religionswissenschaft facilitate a genealogical account of “religions” as the emerging cultural-historical expressions of a primordial anthropological constant in the evolution of homo sapiens. Under the gaze of the exterior scientific perspective, “religions” become the object of historical, linguistic, cultural-anthropological study in the “departments of religion” found in contemporary secular colleges and universities.10 The theoretical 9 10 I borrow these questions from Brad S. Gregory, who, in the introduction to his important study, The Unintended Reformation: How a Religious Revolution Secularized Society (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 2012), advances an astute discussion of these life questions. For the most substantive and comprehensive account that deploys this use of “religion,” see Robert Bellah’s commanding magnum opus, Religion in Human Evolution: From the Paleolithic to the Axial Age (Cambridge, MA: Belk- 22 Reinhard Hütter commitments hidden in such a notion of “religion” have their roots either in the reductive naturalist accounts of “religion” advanced in the “natural history of religion” during the Enlightenment period11 or in the romantic anti-Enlightenment experiential-expressivist concept of “religion.” Also, given that Liberal Protestantism (represented especially by Schleiermacher) and Catholic Modernism favored an understanding of “religion” as arising from a faculty completely different from the intellectual and volitional faculties, such an emphasis on religion as a feeling or awareness that is essentially pre-conceptual and pre-linguistic would only underscore religion as something essentially ineffable.12 Unsurprising, therefore, is the probably most central tenet of “religion” according to liberal Protestantism and Catholic Modernism: the doctrine that religious experience arises fundamentally from the transcendental constitution of human subjectivity itself, a subjectivity that emerges slowly but inexorably in the long history of human evolution and that extends itself into the intersubjectivity of linguistically configured complexes of symbol and ritual. Consequently, religious narratives and doctrines purportedly constitute secondary and inherently insufficient linguistic and conceptual expressions of these primordial religious experiences of the sacred, or in Rudolf Otto’s famous term, the mysterium tremendum et fascinosum.13 11 12 13 nap, 2011). For an astute identification of the tacit but normative theological framework characteristic of liberal Protestantism that arguably informs Bellah’s account in this extraordinary work, see Thomas Joseph White, O.P., “Sociology as Theology: Robert Bellah’s Book Renews the Liberal Protestant Project,” First Things (June 2013), http://www.firstthings.com/article/2013/06/ sociology-as-theology, and for a devastating Augustinian critique of Bellah’s grand narrative, see Paul J. Griffiths, “Impossible Pluralism: Choosing Between Universal Academic History and Christian Faith,” First Things (June 2013), http://www.firstthings.com/article/2013/06/impossible-pluralism. See paradigmatically David Hume’s Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion and The Natural History of Religion, best accessible in David Hume, Dialogues and Natural History of Religion, ed. J. C. A. Gaskin (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993). The probably iconic early nineteenth-century locus classicus of this use of “religion” is the programmatic work of the young Friedrich Schleiermacher, On Religion: Speeches to Its Cultured Despisers (Louisville, KY: Westminster/ John Knox Press, 1994), especially the second speech, “The Nature of Religion.” Among the paradigmatic twentieth-century works that encapsulate this use of “religion” are Rudolf Otto’s Das Heilige. Über das Irrationale in der Idee des Göttlichen und sein Verhältnis zum Rationalen (Breslau: Trewendt, 1917)— English: The Idea of the Holy: An Inquiry into the non-rational factor in the idea of the divine and its relation to the rational, trans. John W. Harvey (London: Oxford Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End 23 The Use of “Religion” in Protestant Dialectical Theology A fifth conventional use of “religion” has become prevalent in one influential strand of twentieth century Protestant theology. Karl Barth and his disciples deploy the liberal Protestant notion of “religion” as a contrast term that puts into relief the principal concept of Barth’s theology—“revelation.” In the Barthian theological scheme, “religion” represents a fundamental and irrepressible human dynamic arising again and again from the post-lapsarian universal condition of original sin—“natural theology” purportedly constituting its purest expression—a condition that can only be overcome again and again by God’s own definitive self-revelation in Christ as witnessed to by Holy Scripture. In his theological critique of “religion,” Barth fuses Calvin’s radicalization of Augustine’s critique of pagan religion in books 1 through 10 of the Civitas Dei with the famous projection theory of Feuerbach’s Essence of Christianity, so that his hyper-Augustinian use of “religion” signifies the ever recurring attempt of a humanity, fundamentally alienated from God, to project their hopes, wishes, and desires onto a fabricated product, the religious idol. The agent of this theological critique of religion is, of course, a dialectical theology exclusively funded by God’s self-revelation in Christ.14 Significantly, the notion of “religion” (religio) as used in the virtue of religion cannot be subsumed under any of these five dominant contemporary uses of “religion.” Rather, as we will see later, the virtue of religion puts fundamentally into question the central assumptions on which each of the five dominant uses of “religion” rests. Having accomplished the first preliminary task, we must turn to the second and examine what the virtue of religion signifies and what its proper definition is. The Virtue of Religion According to Thomas Aquinas: A Brief Introductory Account Thomas Aquinas is the first theologian to compose a comprehensive and complete treatise on the virtue of religion in which he develops an original and unitary conception of what he regards as the most 14 University Press, 1950)—and Mircea Eliade’s The Sacred and the Profane: The Nature of Religion (New York: Harcourt, Brace & Co., 1959). For the by now classical expression of this notion of “religion,” see Karl Barth, Kirchliche Dogmatik I/2, §17, “Gottes Offenbarung als Aufhebung der Religion” (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 1940), 304–397. This part of Barth’s Church Dogmatics is now available in an affordable English edition: Karl Barth, On Religion: The Revelation of God as the Sublimation of Religion, trans. Garrett Green (New York: T&T Clark, 2006). 24 Reinhard Hütter eminent of the moral virtues.15 Drawing upon Cicero, Isidore of Seville, and especially Augustine, he conceives of religio as a specific moral excellence that comprises a set of operations characteristic of the human being as a rational creature. It denotes both interior and exterior operations (interior acts of devotion and prayer and exterior acts of adoration, sacrifice, oblation, tithes, vows, etc.) by way of which the human being renders what is due to the source of all being and life, to “the first principle of the creation and government of things.”16 Because these acts denote a human excellence in relationship to a common object (the habitus—a stable disposition hard to lose) that enables and facilitates these specific acts, religio constitutes a distinct virtue.17 It “denotes properly a relation to God.”18 By the proper and immediate acts that the habitus of religio elicits (such as adoration and sacrifice), the human being is directed to God alone.19 This virtue is akin to the cardinal virtue of justice, which Aquinas defines as “rendering to everybody his [or her] due by a constant and perpetual will.”20 But since justice is “the virtue of actions among equals,”21 constitutively asymmetrical relationships—children to parents, citizens to their homeland, and, first and foremost, rational creatures to their Creator—cannot belong directly to the virtue of justice. For the constitutive inequality characteristic of these relationships makes it impossible to render what is properly due. Consequently, acts of moral excellence that pertain to these essentially asymmetrical relationships must belong to virtues different from justice in the strict sense, but 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 ST II-II, qq. 80–100. In his introduction to La virtù di religione, the Italian Dominican Thomist Tito Centi, O.P., characterizes “S. Tommaso come la fonte primaria del trattato De Religione. Si risale a lui perché egli ha avuto il merito di costruire per la prima volta, e quasi d’inventare l’argumento . . . Non c’è dubbio che, già prima di S. Tommaso, molto si era parlato di devozione, di adorazione, di preghiera, di sacrificio, di voti e giuramenti: ma non era chiaro il legame di tutti questi atti come esercizio di un’unica virtù, specificamente distanta da quelle teologali e dalle altre virtù morali” (Tommaso d’Aquino, La Somma Teologica, vol. 18 [Siena: Salani, 1967], 8). ST II-II, q. 81, a. 3. ST II-II, q. 81, a. 3: “Habits [habitus] are differentiated according to a different aspect of the object. Now it belongs to religion to show reverence to one god under one aspect, namely as the first principle of the creation and government of things.” ST II-II, q. 81, a. 1: “Religio proprie importat ordinem ad Deum.” ST II-II, q. 81, a. 1, ad 1. ST II-II, q. 58, a. 1. ST I-II, q. 61, a. 3, ad 2. Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End 25 insofar as some due is rendered, they must nevertheless still be related to justice. Hence, religio cannot be a subjective part of justice—that is, one of the species into which a cardinal virtue may be divided. Rather, it must be a potential part of justice. And so, as “a virtue which resembles a cardinal virtue without manifesting its complete specific nature,”22 religio occupies a position similar to “piety” (pietas)23 and “observance” (observantia).24 These two virtues facilitate those acts of rightly acknowledging what is due and what cannot be rendered according to the order of justice in the constitutively unequal relationships all human beings have to their parents and to their homelands. A fortiori, no rational creature is able to render what is justly due to God. The virtue of religion is the operative habitus that enables human beings to exercise the greatest approximation to justice possible in the most asymmetrical relationship of all, the rational creature to “the first principle of the creation and government of things.”25 Consider the real (and not merely stipulative) definition of religio that the noted Hungarian Dominican Thomist, Alexander M. Horvath, formulates based on Aquinas’s account: religio is (1) a moral 22 23 24 25 Kevin D. O’Rourke, O.P., in St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, vol. 39 (2a2ae 80–91), Religion and Worship (New York/London: Blackfriars in conjunction with McGraw-Hill Book Company and Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1964), xxiii. ST II-II, q. 101. ST II-II, q. 102. ST II-II, q. 81, a. 3. The first principle (primum principium) signifies the transcendent universal source and cause of all that exists. Since every cause contains the perfections characteristic of its proper effect to a higher degree than the effect, all genuine extant perfections are in a surpassing way characteristics of the first principle. These perfections include among others intellect, will, life, personhood, and with them love, justice, mercy, providence, and blessedness. Given this understanding—implicitly as a vague awareness to which conscience gives rise or explicitly as the knowledge natural theology affords—it is a dictate of natural reason that the first principle is to be honored by way of acts of adoration and sacrifice. However, since the metaphysical knowledge of the first principle’s perfections remains notional and limited and its implicit awareness weak and insecure, the former tends to a reductive, de-personalized rationalization (Plato’ religion and Hindu mysticism) and the latter to a multi-personal mythologization (the pantheon of pagan deities). Only by way of a personal self-introduction to Abraham and Moses and culminating in the Incarnate Logos, Jesus Christ, does the first principle’s identity, He Who Is, as triune Lord become accessible—to faith, an act of assent to a testimony that surpasses and simultaneously affirms what natural reason is implicitly aware of or may come to know explicitly as the existence of the first principle of the creation and government of things. 26 Reinhard Hütter virtue, whose (2) acts (3) through an ordination of reason refer (4) to God as the first principle in order (5) to testify our reverence and submission and to participate in God’s gifts. The formal cause of the acts of the virtue of religion is the ordination of reason to God. Reason’s ordinatio ad Deum occurs in regard to interior religious acts (submission of the will, mental prayer, etc.) by way of a purely transcendental relation to God and in regard to all exterior acts by way of a predicamental relation to God. The efficient cause of this ordination is its very ratio, the judgment and command of reason that are the very origin of the relation to God, be it transcendental or predicamental. The material cause signifies everything that is taken up or chosen as an offering in order to signify the honor that is due to God. These things may include acts of the will, the intellect, or the other virtues and all things that, through their ordination, may be ordered to God directly or indirectly. The final cause, the cause of all causes, is the person’s intention to testify reverence and submission to God and to participate in God’s gifts. From the formal and material cause of the acts of religio issues the formal object of religio—cultus. Cultus signifies what is offered to God and that through which God is honored and revered; that is, all the acts that the habitus of religio elicits and commands. Cultus broadly understood signifies (1) the act of religio (oblation), (2) the matter or object in and through which oblation is exercised, and (3) the end (finis) of oblation, which is reverence of God and participation in God’s gifts.26 The virtue of religion presupposes some rudimentary universal knowledge of God’s existence and providence and is rooted in the third inclination of the natural law. The principles of the natural law govern and guide the acquired virtue of religion.27 It is this mostly tacit and implicit knowledge of God and its rootedness in the natural law that account for the integrity of the formal cause of the acquired virtue of religion, the ordination of reason and of its ratio, the judgment and command of reason to exercise acts of religion. The material cause— everything taken up or chosen as offering in order to signify the honor that is due to God—may be more or less deficient due to the state of wounded nature (status naturae corruptae) in which humanity finds itself 26 27 Alexander M. Horvath, O.P., Annotationes ad II-II Quaest. 81–91 De Virtute Religionis (Pro Manuscripto) Pontificum Institutum Internationale “Angelicum” (Rome: Tipografia Agostiniana, 1929), 3–8. ST I-II, q. 94, a. 2: “Thirdly, there is in [the human being] an inclination to good, according to the nature of his reason, which nature is proper to him; thus [the human being] has a natural inclination to know the truth about God and to live in society.” Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End 27 after the fall.28 Importantly, the de facto deficiency of its material cause does not compromise the formal integrity of religio as a moral virtue. It is precisely this constitutive formal integrity that affords the definition of the virtue in the first place. Aquinas states: A virtue is that which makes its possessor good, and his act good likewise, wherefore we must needs say that every good act belongs to a virtue. Now it is evident that to render anyone his dues has the aspect of good, since by rendering a person his due, one becomes suitably proportioned to him, through being ordered to him in a becoming manner. But order comes under the aspect of good. . . . Since then it belongs to religion to pay due honor to someone, namely to God, it is evident that religion is a virtue.29 The formality of the object of all the operative habitus—including religio—and the formal integrity of their respective acts account for the teleological perfectibility of human nature (regarding the good of moral excellence). Since grace does not destroy but rather presupposes and perfects nature, it is divine grace that, in the extant order of providence, accounts for the surpassing perfection of the virtue and the agent, a perfection that comes about by way of the healing and elevation of human nature by sanctifying grace and the infusion of the theological virtues, especially charity. The acquired virtue of religion differs from its infused analogue in that, in the case of the latter, the material cause is definitively perfected by way of divine and human instruction. According to Aquinas, the New Law of the Gospel and human law (that is, Christ’s mandates and the additional determinations of the Church) establish what specific things are to be done in reverence of God.30 Furthermore, and more importantly, the acts of the infused virtue of religion are commanded by the three theological virtues, faith, hope, and charity, and formed by the virtue of charity, which already unites the person in some fashion with God “by a union of the spirit.”31 Furthermore, in order to make the human soul amenable to the motions of the Holy Spirit, the human being receives, together with the theological virtue of charity 28 29 30 31 ST I-II, q. 109, a. 2. ST II-II, q. 81, a. 2. ST II-II, q. 81, a. 2, ad 3. ST II-II, q. 82, a. 2, ad 1. 28 Reinhard Hütter also the gifts of the Holy Spirit, infused habitus of their own. The apostle Paul states, in Romans 8:15: “You have received the spirit of adoption of sons, whereby we cry, Abba, Father.” Precisely because it is the Holy Spirit who moves to this effect, to have such filial affection toward God, Aquinas argues, there must be a corresponding gift of the Holy Spirit, a stable disposition that facilitates and elicits such acts: Since it belongs properly to piety to pay duty and worship to one’s father, it follows that piety, whereby, at the Holy Spirit’s instigation, we pay worship and duty to God as our Father, is a gift of the Holy Spirit.32 The gift of piety perfects the infused virtue of religion. While the latter elicits acts of worship to God the Creator, the former elicits worship to God the Father. Last but not least, the person receiving the infused virtue of religion and the gift of piety also receives an imprinted seal or character on the soul that efficaciously capacitates him or her to the worship of the Triune God. This very seal or character that the rational soul receives is the effect of the sacraments, first and foremost of baptism.33 Because of the gift of piety and the seal of baptism, the cultus of religio is now worship of the Father through the Son in the Holy Spirit. Unsurprisingly, but nevertheless significantly, Aquinas regards the virtue of religion to be “the chief among the moral virtues.”34 The virtue of religion acquires its surpassing preeminence among the moral virtues from its relationship to the end to which the agent is ordered. The closer something is to this end, the greater is its goodness. Since the virtue of religion, whose acts are directly ordered to the honor of God, approaches nearer to God than any other moral virtue, this virtue holds a position of preeminence among all the moral virtues.35 32 33 34 35 ST II-II, q. 121, a. 1. ST III, q. 63, a.1: “As is clear from what has been already stated [ST III, q. 62, a. 5] the sacraments of the New Law are ordained for a twofold purpose; namely, for a remedy against sins; and for the perfecting of the soul in things pertaining to the Divine worship according to the rite of the Christian life.” ST II-II, q. 81, a. 6, s.c. ST II-II, q. 81, a. 6: “Whatever is directed to an end takes its goodness from being ordered to that end; so that the nearer it is to the end the better it is. Now moral virtues are about matters that are ordered to God as their end. And religion approaches nearer to God than the other moral virtues, in so far as its actions are directly and immediately ordered to the honor of God. Hence religion excels among the moral virtues.” Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End 29 This brief account and definition of the virtue of religion shall suffice. We are now in position to turn to the two interconnected tasks. By demonstrating that the virtue of religion is indispensable for humanity to attain its final end—happiness or beatitude—the centrality of the virtue of religion for genuine human flourishing is established, as is the reason given why doing without religion constitutes an existential margin of the first order. The Ultimate End of the Human Being: Perfect and Everlasting Beatitude In his prologue to the Prima Pars of the Summa theologiae, Aquinas offers the key to answering the question why religio is indispensable for attaining the supernatural end: Since, as Damascene states (De Fide Orthod. ii, 12), [the human being] is said to be made to God’s image, in so far as the image implies an intelligent being endowed with free-will and self-movement: now that we have treated of the exemplar, i.e., God, and of those things which came forth from the power of God in accordance with His will; it remains for us to treat of His image, i.e., [the human being], inasmuch as he too is the principle of his actions, as having free-will and control of his actions.36 Aquinas’s programmatic announcement of the fundamental correlation between the Divine exemplar and the human image makes immediately plain the striking structural parallel in the Summa theologiae between questions 1 through 5 of the Prima Secundae and questions 2 through 43 of the Prima Pars. Both treat the essential actus of intellectus, its finality, and its beatitude: the former treats the exemplar, God; the latter treats the image, humanity. Indeed, in the whole Prima Pars, Aquinas considers the actus ad intra and the actus ad extra of the exemplar, God, and in the whole Secunda Pars, the structure and the constitutive principles of the actus of the image as viator toward beatitude. The universal principle of causality and the priority of the final cause apply to both the exemplar and the image, albeit analogically according to the difference between the transgeneric order of divine causality and the contingent order of secondary causality. The end or purpose that an intelligence (intellectus) conceives constitutes the final cause according to which efficient causes are ordained. Consequently, 36 ST I-II, prologue. 30 Reinhard Hütter the end that is conceived first in the order of intention will, in the order of execution, be accomplished last. Final causality presupposes rational agency, not proximately but ultimately. The transcendent universal First Cause of Aquinas’s five ways is necessarily also the transcendent universal Final End.37 Since the transcendent universal First Cause must contain in a surpassingly eminent way all the perfections extant in the universe, and since intellectus is one such perfection, the universal transcendent First Cause must, in a surpassingly eminent way, be intellectus.38 Two important consequences follow. First, because beatitude is the perfect good of an intellectual nature, “beatitude belongs to God in the highest degree.” 39 The perfection of an intellectual nature is its intellectual operation by which it grasps in some way everything. Hence, the beatitude of an intellectual nature consists in understanding (intelligendo). Because in God intellectus and esse are identical, “beatitude must be assigned to God in respect to his intellectus.” Importantly, Aquinas adds: “as also to the blessed, who are called blessed (beati) by reason of the assimilation to His beatitude.”40 Second, the final end of all God’s acts ad extra must be God. “God wills Himself as the end, and other things as ordained to that end; inasmuch as it befits divine goodness that other things should be partakers therein.”41 Divine goodness is the final end to which the divine will directs all the eternal divine decrees that efficaciously unfold the extant order of divine providence: creation, salvation, and divinization (the 37 38 39 40 41 ST I, q. 2, a. 3: “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.” ST I, q. 14, a. 4. ST I, q. 26, a. 1: “Beatitude belongs to God in a very special manner. For nothing else is understood to be meant by the term beatitude than the perfect good of an intellectual nature, which is capable of knowing that it has a sufficiency of the good which it possesses, to which it is competent that good and ill may befall, and which can control its own actions. All of these things belong in a most excellent manner to God—namely to be perfect and to possess intelligence. Whence beatitude belongs to God in the highest degree.” ST I, q. 26, a. 1. ST I, q. 19, a. 2. Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End 31 diverse modes of participation in the divine goodness). Hence, due to the intrinsic, divinely ordained finality of creation, every created agent, constituted by a specific nature, acts for an end that is proportionate to and perfective of that nature and is thereby directed to the final end of the whole universe. Due to its specific nature, the human being qua animal rationale acts in a specific way in order to attain its twofold final end, natural and supernatural.42 The determination to one—that is, to a specific—proximate end is conceived by the intellect and effected by the rational appetite, the will. Aquinas argues that the order of ends to which the rational appetite, the will, is directed is an essential, or a per se (rather than per accidens) order. Unlike an accidental order, an essential order is characterized this way: each end is actually here and now ordered to another end in such a way that the whole order of ends is actually here and now ordered to a single final end. “For that which is first in the order of intention, is the principle, as it were, moving the appetite; consequently, if you remove this principle, there will be nothing to move the appetite.”43 Hence, in an essential, per se order, all other ends are subordinated to this single final end. Why does Aquinas insist on the initially counterintuitive point that the order of ends to which the will is directed must be an essential, per se order? Consider this line of reasoning: if there were no single end to the human life, the purposes of human agency would only accidentally interconnect. But such a merely accidental connection 42 43 Nota bene: In virtue of the ontological structure of the created intellect (intellectus), the created image of the divine exemplar, and its specific finality, the two orders of finality do not entail two distinct ultimate ends for the human being, one natural and one supernatural. Rather, there obtains one, albeit twofold, ultimate end for the human being. This twofold ultimate end is God: as First Truth, Author of Nature, and the Common Good of the whole universe, the final end of the created intellect (angelic and human), and as the Holy Trinity, the absolutely surpassing reality of participative union of vision and love that characterizes the beatific vision. Grace presupposes and perfects human nature such that the finality of the created intellect is subsumed under and included in the supernatural final end. Hence, the natural final end is neither extrinsic nor intrinsic to the supernatural ultimate end. Rather, their relationship is analogical. There obtains an analogy of proper proportionality between the supernatural ultimate end and the natural finality of the created intellect. For an astute rendition of the twofold finality of the human being, see Benedict M. Ashley, O.P., “Integral Human Fulfillment according to Germain Grisez,” in The Ashley Reader: Redeeming Reason (Naples, FL: Sapientia Press, 2006), 225–269. ST I-II, q. 1, a. 4. 32 Reinhard Hütter of purposes would immediately destroy the structure of an intelligible action that is the most basic unit of a human action (actio humana).44 For, every action receives its end (and thereby its intelligibility and, hence, desirability) from being embedded—not chronologically, but actually here and now—in a wider essential order of intelligible purposes. Without the final end bearing actually (but not necessary consciously) here and now causally upon the proximate end, human actions would lack their constitutive intelligibility and, hence, their desirability for the rational appetite, the will, that they receive ultimately from the last end. Aquinas puts it tersely: “That in which a [human being] rests as in his last end, is master of his affections, since he takes therefrom his entire rule of life.”45 Bereft of the last end, these actions would receive their intelligibility (and, hence, their desirability) for the rational appetite exclusively from some proximate end. For, absent an essential order of finality, the relationship between ends—or clusters of ends—becomes purely accidental, indeed arbitrary. When several ends are not ordained to one another by one last end—in short, when ends lose their teleological embeddedness in relationship to the final end and hence their ratio—they become pointless and virtually indistinguishable from what Aquinas calls “acts of man” (actiones hominis),46 like scratching one’s head—which is obviously absurd. Hence, all basic actions qua intelligible (and hence, desirable) are ordered here and now to a single last end in an essential order of finality. While human beings actually desire here and now everything that they in fact desire for the sake of one last end, they obviously do not always think of the last end when desiring or doing something particular. But nevertheless, it is the case that “the virtue of the first intention, which was in respect of the last end, remains in every desire directed to any object whatever, even though one’s thoughts be not actually directed to the last end. Thus while walking along the road one needs not to be thinking of the end at every step.”47 44 45 46 47 ST I-II, q. 1, a. 1. Following the original insight of Aristotle and Aquinas, G. E. M. Anscombe and Alasdair MacIntyre have made the case in the modern context that intelligible actions are the basic units of human moral agency in Anscombe’s Intention, 2nd ed. (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1963), and MacIntyre’s “The Intelligibility of Action,” in Rationality, Relativism, and Human Sciences, ed. J. Margolis, M. Krausz, and R. M. Burian (Dordrecht: Nijhoff, 1986), 63–80. ST I-II, q. 1, a. 5, s.c. ST I-II, q. 1, a. 1. ST I-II, q. 1, a. 6, ad 3. Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End 33 Furthermore, while all human beings agree that “happiness means the acquisition of the last end,”48 they differ widely about what this end consists in and, therefore, how happiness is achieved. Hence, Aquinas distinguishes between the formal aspect of the last end and its material aspect: We can speak of the last end in two ways: first, considering only the aspect of last end; secondly, considering the thing in which the aspect of last end is realized. So, then, as to the aspect of last end, all agree in desiring the last end: since all desire the fulfilment of their perfection, and it is precisely this fulfilment in which the last end consists. . . . But as to the thing in which this aspect is realized, all [human beings] are not agreed as to their last end: since some desire riches, as their consummate good; some, pleasure; others, something else.49 Regarding the formality of the last end, there is necessarily universal agreement among human beings, for the formality of the last end corresponds to the formality of human nature in its teleological constitution. The disagreement about the material aspect of the last end Aquinas understands to be a factual, perennial human phenomenon of fallen, post-paradisiacal life. This disagreement comes to an end concretely but tenuously for the person who pursues the wisdom afforded by first philosophy or the metaphysics of being and who will come to understand God, the universal First Cause and Sovereign Good to be the ultimate end. Consider the highest insight that Aquinas grants to the wisdom first philosophy affords: It is impossible for any created good to constitute [human] happiness. For happiness is the perfect good, which lulls the appetite altogether; else it would not be the last end, if something yet remained to be desired. Now the object of the will, [that is, of the rational appetite], is the universal good; just as the object of the intellect is the universal true. Hence it is evident that [nothing] can lull [the human] will, save the universal good. This is to be found, not in any creature, but in God alone; because every creature has goodness by participation. Wherefore God alone can satisfy the [human] will, according to the words 48 49 ST I-II, q. 1, a. 8. ST I-II, q. 1, a. 7. 34 Reinhard Hütter of Ps. cii. 5: Who satisfieth thy desire with good things. And consequently, God alone constitutes [human] happiness.50 The person thus enlightened by the wisdom of first philosophy will, however, remain profoundly uncertain about how to attain this end. Only the person who receives divine faith and who pursues the wisdom afforded by sacra doctrina (especially the person who receives the surpassing wisdom of infused contemplation) will be endowed with the certainty that the theological virtue of hope affords, namely that, with the help of the omnipotent God, he or she will attain the ultimate end of surpassing beatitude permanently. For such a person, God is indisputably and definitively the sole reality in which the aspect of the ultimate end is realized and in union with whom alone perfect beatitude is attained. In order to take into consideration the ultimate ontological incommensurability between the transcendent First Cause, the very plenitude and infinite actus of being, ipse esse subsistens, and the contingent creature that receives its existence and its essence from another, Aquinas draws upon Aristotle’s distinction between the objective and the subjective end, between the thing itself and its use.51 While God is indeed the objective ultimate end of the rational creature, the subjective ultimate end cannot be the uncreated absolute beatitude of God, but must be a created participating beatitude, the fruition of the objective ultimate end.52 Consider Aquinas’s argument: As the philosopher says (Phys. ii.2), the end is twofold—the end for which (cuius) and the end by which (quo); viz., the thing itself in which is found the aspect of good, and the use or acquisition of that thing. . . . If, therefore, we speak of [the human being’s] last end as of the thing which is the end, thus all other things concur in [the human being’s] last end, since God is the last end of [the human being] and of all other things.—If, however, we speak of [the human being’s] last end, as of the acquisition of the end, 50 51 52 ST I-II, q. 2, a. 8. Aristotle, Magna Moralia I, 3 (1184b10–17), in Metaphysics Books X–XIV. Oeconomica. Magna Moralia, trans. Hugh Tredennick, C. Cyril Armstrong, Loeb Classical Library 28 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1935); Physics II, 2 (194a35–36), in Physics, or Natural Hearing, trans. and intro. Glen Coughlin, William of Moerbeke Translation Series (South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press, 2004). ST I, q. 26, a. 3, ad 2. Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End 35 then irrational creatures do not concur with [the human being] in this end. For [the human being] and other rational creatures attain to their last end by knowing and loving God: this is not possible to other creatures, which acquire their last end, in so far as they share in the Divine likeness, inasmuch as they are, or live, or even know.53 The two faculties of the rational creature that make this fruition possible are the intellect and its appetite, the will. Like the senses and the sense appetites, intellect and will are ordered to their respective proper object, the intellect to universal truth and the will to universal good and to its fruition, perfect happiness. Significantly, the human will is constitutively directed to will happiness; it is “hardwired” to happiness.54 Happiness is the epitome of those things that “the will is incapable of not willing.”55 This being the case, Aquinas must draw an indispensable distinction pertaining to the way the attainment of happiness comes about: the distinction between the happiness human beings can attain on their own and that perfect happiness they can attain only by way of a special divine assistance—sanctifying grace: Imperfect happiness that can be had in this life, can be acquired by [human beings] by [their] natural powers (per sua naturalia), ST I-II, q. 1, a. 8. See also ST I-II, q. 2, a. 7: “As stated above [q. 1, a. 8], the end is twofold: namely, the thing itself, which we desire to attain, and the use, namely, the attainment or possession of that thing. If, then, we speak of [the human being’s] last end, as to the thing itself which we desire as last end, it is impossible for [the human being’s] last end to be the soul itself or something belonging to it. . . . But if we speak of [the human being’s] last end, as to the attainment or possession thereof, or as to any use whatever of the thing itself desired as an end, thus does something of [the human being], in respect of his soul, belong to his last end: since [the human being] attains happiness through his soul. Therefore the thing itself which is desired as end is that which constitutes happiness, and makes [the human being] happy; but the attainment of this thing is called happiness. Consequently we must say that happiness is something belonging to the soul; but that which constitutes happiness is something outside the soul.” See also ST I-II, q. 11, a. 3, ad 3. 54 ST I, q. 82, a. 1; I-II, q. 10, a. 2. 55 Josef Pieper, Happiness and Contemplation, trans. Richard and Clara Winston (South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press, 1998), 21. ST I-II, q. 5, a. 4, ad 2 reads: “homo non potest non velle esse beatus.” “[The human being] craves by nature happiness and bliss” (ibid., 20). Consider Pieper’s felicitous rendition: “[The human being], as a reasoning being, desires his own happiness just as the falling stone ‘seeks’ the depths, as the flower turns to the light and the beast hunts its prey” (ibid., 21). 53 36 Reinhard Hütter in the same way as virtue, in whose operation it consists. . . . But [the human being’s] perfect Happiness . . . consists in the vision of the Divine Essence. Now the vision of God’s Essence surpasses the nature not only of [the human being], but also of every creature. . . . Consequently, neither [the human being], nor any creature, can attain final Happiness (beatitudinem ultimam) by his natural powers (per sua naturalia).56 While the regular way of attaining imperfect happiness is by living the life of virtue in a full human life (Aristotle’s bios praktikos), the extraordinary but surpassing way of attaining imperfect happiness is by a life of virtue that is crowned by and has as its overarching focus the pursuit of wisdom (Aristotle’s bios theoretikos). The goal of this bios is the contemplation of the unchanging eternal truths and, ultimately, of the first principle of the creation and government of things. For such a person, the subjective attainment of the ultimate end will issue in a genuine, but transient, and therefore imperfect, beatitude of a natural contemplation of the First Cause as mediated by the created effects. But only for the person elevated to the beatific vision, the intellectual and volitional union with the Triune God, will the subjective attainment of the ultimate end issue in a surpassing fruition, in everlasting, unitive, and therefore perfect, beatitude. Whether this happiness is imperfect or perfect depends on the way in which the human intellect participates in the objective ultimate end, God. If the participation is mediated and transitory, the corresponding happiness is imperfect, albeit genuine. This scenario pertains to the person who pursues the life of virtue and, in addition, the wisdom of prima philosophia. Quite different is the situation of the person who has the theological virtues of faith, hope, and charity. The intellect of such a person is still bereft of the beatific vision, for the light of glory does not yet actualize the possible intellect such that the likeness of the divine essence is in the intellect.57 For, recall that the intellect’s act attains completion when the object’s likeness is in it. The will’s act, on the contrary, attains perfection by being “inclined to the thing itself as existing in itself.”58 “Charity works formally; . . . by justifying the soul, it unites it to God.”59 And for this reason “the charity [of the viator] 56 57 58 59 ST I-II, q. 5, a. 5 (my emphasis). ST I, q. 12, a. 2. ST I, q. 82, a. 3: “. . . ex eo quod voluntas inclinatur ad ipsam rem prout in se est.” See also ST I-II, q. 27, a. 2, ad 2, and ST II-II, q. 27, a. 4. ST II-II, q. 23, a. 2, ad 3. Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End 37 adheres to God immediately.”60 “Charity, by loving God, unites the soul immediately to Him with a chain of spiritual union.”61 Because of the inclination of charity, the will of the person who has faith formed by charity is already united with “the thing itself as existing in itself”62 and, consequently, already attains inchoatively its ultimate perfection. And therefore such a person is in a state of inchoative perfect happiness or beatitude, the immediate consequence of which is spiritual joy (spirituale gaudium): Charity is love of God, Whose good is unchangeable, since He is His goodness, and from the very fact that he is loved, He is in those who love Him by His most excellent effect, according to 1 John 4:16: ‘He that abides in charity, abides in God and God in him.’ Therefore, spiritual joy, which is about God, is caused by charity.63 The perfect beatitude that is achieved when the intellect receives in itself the likeness of the First Truth is anticipated in the inchoative spiritual joy that issues from the charity-engendered spiritual union between God and the soul.64 At the very moment the intellect’s participation in the First Truth becomes unmediated, “when by His grace God unites Himself to the created intellect, as an object made intelligible to it,”65 the viator becomes the comprehensor. The dawn of perfect beatitude, encapsulated in the life of charity, of friendship with God, turns into the beatific vision’s noon-day of everlasting perfect beatitude. To summarize: According to Aquinas, the happiness of the human being is twofold (duplex): the genuine but transitory, and therefore imperfect, happiness is proportionate to human nature, and thus the 60 61 62 63 64 65 ST II-II, q. 27, a. 4, s.c. ST II-II, q. 27, a. 4, ad 3. ST I, q. 82, a. 3. ST II-II, q. 28, a. 1. The transient but genuine happiness that the bios theoretikos affords, the contemplation of the eternal truths (metaphysics, mathematics, cosmology) is accessible only to a very small minority of intellectually gifted and exceedingly well educated persons. The everlasting perfect beatitude that the beatific vision affords is, by contrast, open to every human being irrespective of natural disposition and cultural formation, since every created human soul has the natural capacity to be elevated to the beatific vision and to the concomitant everlasting perfect beatitude. ST I, q. 12, a. 4. 38 Reinhard Hütter human being has the natural potency to obtain this beatitude, and so can obtain it. The everlasting, unitive, and therefore perfect, beatitude surpasses the capacity of human nature and can be obtained “by the power of God alone, by a kind of participation of the Godhead, about which it is written (2 Pt 1:4) that by Christ we are made partakers of the Divine nature.”66 The perfect beatitude of the human being is the subjective fruition of the objective ultimate end by way of an unmediated direct union of the intellect and the will with God, who is the first cause of the rational soul’s creation and enlightenment and who also is the rational soul’s final end as the soul’s universal good.67 And since the rational soul is the substantial form of the body, it is the whole human being, soul and body, whose final end in the extant order of divine providence—gratuitously decreed from all eternity as merited by Christ—is to become a partaker of the divine nature, and thus a partaker of the unfathomable bliss of the divine life.68 66 67 68 ST I-II, q. 62, a. 1. ST I-II, q. 3, a. 8: “Final and perfect happiness can consist in nothing else than the vision of the Divine Essence. To make this clear, two points must be observed: first, that [human beings are] not perfectly happy, so long as something remains for [them] to desire and seek; secondly, that the perfection of any power is determined by the nature of its object. Now the object of the intellect is what a thing is, i.e., the essence of a thing, according to De Anima iii. 6. Wherefore the intellect attains perfection, in so far as it knows the essence of a thing. If therefore an intellect know the essence of some effect, whereby it is not possible to know the essence of the cause, i.e., to know of the cause what it is, that intellect cannot be said to reach that cause simply, although it may be able to gather from the effect the knowledge that the cause is. Consequently, when [the human being] knows an effect, and knows that it has a cause, there naturally remains in [the human being] the desire to know about that cause, what it is. And this desire is one of wonder, and causes inquiry, as is stated in the beginning of the Metaphysics I, ch.2. . . . If therefore the human intellect, knowing the essence of some created effect, knows no more of God than that He is, the perfection of that intellect does not yet reach simply the First Cause, but there remains in it the natural desire to seek the cause. Wherefore it is not yet perfectly happy. Consequently, for perfect happiness the intellect needs to reach the very Essence of the First Cause. And thus it will have its perfection through union with God as with that object, in which alone [human] happiness consists.” ST I, q, 26, a. 3. As one noted interpreter of Aquinas’s thought rightly emphasizes, “[Human beings] cannot know that they are capable of attaining the vision of God except through faith based on divine teaching. That God actually does ordain [human beings] to Himself is a revealed truth known only by faith. Only the believer can hope and pray for this divine gift” (Denis J. M. Bradley, Aquinas on the Twofold Human Good: Reason and Human Happi- Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End 39 The Attainment of Perfect and Everlasting Beatitude and the Rectitude of the Will Significantly, there obtains an essential requirement for the attainment of this everlasting perfect beatitude. In order to illustrate this requirement, Aquinas adduces a central principle of the philosophy of nature and puts it to analogical use in his theological argument of fittingness (convenientia): “Matter cannot receive a form, unless it be duly disposed thereto.”69 Material cannot be shaped unless it is duly prepared. Wood must be cut and dried in order to receive the form of fire; iron must be heated in order to receive the form of a plow. Similarly, nothing achieves its end unless it is well adapted to the end. And therefore no one can attain perfect beatitude without a right good will.70 The rectitude of the will is, of course, necessarily a concomitant condition of attaining perfect happiness. For, “happiness or bliss by which [the human being] is made most perfectly conformed to God, and which is the end of human life, consists in an operation,”71 and this operation that realizes the perfect conformity to God entails necessarily the concomitant rectitude of the will. But the rectitude of the will, the will properly set on the ultimate end, is also a condition antecedent to attaining perfect beatitude. Why so? Could God not conceivably have created a rational creature that, 69 70 71 ness in Aquinas’s Moral Science [Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1997], 524f.). See also Compendium theologiae II, ch. 7 in Opera omnia, vol. 42 (Rome: Ex Typographia Polyglotta S.C. de Propaganda Fide, 1979) and in English: Thomas Aquinas, Light of Faith: The Compendium of Theology (Manchester, NH: Sophia Institute Press, 1993). Aquinas states explicitly: “The ultimate happiness [of the human being] consists in a supernatural vision of God: to which vision [the human being] cannot attain unless he be taught by God. . . . Hence, in order that a [human being] arrive at the perfect vision of heavenly happiness, he [or she] must first of all believe God, as a disciple believes the master who is teaching him” (ST II-II, q. 2, a. 3). ST I-II, q. 4, a. 4. ST I-II, q. 4, a. 4: “Final Happiness consists in the vision of the Divine Essence, Which is the very essence of goodness. So that the will of him who sees the Essence of God, of necessity, loves, whatever he loves, in subordination to God; just as the will of him who sees not God’s Essence, of necessity, loves whatever he loves, under that common notion of good which he knows. And this [to love everything our will loves in explicit subordination to God, or to love everything our will loves in implicit subordination to God, namely by loving God within the common notion of goodness] (sub communi ratione boni) is precisely what makes the will right. Wherefore it is evident that Happiness cannot be without a right will” (my emphasis). ST I-II, q. 55, a. 2, ad 3. 40 Reinhard Hütter in the original state, is endowed with a will rightly ordered to the ultimate end and that, in the next instance after its creation, would be elevated by God to the attainment of the ultimate end and to perfect and everlasting beatitude in the beatific vision? Because any answer to this question refers necessarily to the mystery of the divine wisdom and will, Aquinas advances an argument of convenientia, of what seems to be most fitting for divine wisdom. It is worth quoting at length: [T]he order of Divine wisdom demands that it should not be thus; for as is stated in De Caelo ii. 12, of those things that have a natural capacity for the perfect good, one has it without movement, some by one movement, some by several. Now to possess the perfect good without movement, belongs to that which has it naturally; and to have Happiness naturally belongs to God alone. Therefore it belongs to God alone not to be moved towards Happiness by any previous operation. Now since Happiness surpasses every created nature, no pure creature can [fittingly] gain Happiness, without the movement or operation, whereby it tends thereto. But the angel, who is above [the human being] in the natural order, obtained it, according to the order of Divine wisdom, by one movement of a meritorious work. . . . whereas [the human being] obtains it by many movements of works which are called merits. Wherefore also according to the Philosopher (Ethic. i. 9), happiness is the reward of works of virtue.72 The reception of the gratuitous gift of perfect and eternal beatitude requires antecedent movement or operation by the embodied rational creature. And such movement—initiated by grace, ordered by the restored rectitude of the will to God, and united inchoatively with God by way of the theological virtue of charity—merits the attainment of everlasting perfect beatitude. “Merit” denotes the essential cooperation of rational creatures with divine grace in attaining the ultimate end and their perfect beatitude.73 Aquinas takes Augustine’s 72 73 ST I-II, q. 5, a. 7 (my emphasis). ST I-II, q. 111, a. 2, esp. ad 2; q. 114, a. 2. For an excellent analysis and interpretation of the theological concept of “merit” in Thomas Aquinas, see Joseph P. Wawrykow, God’s Grace and Human Action: “Merit” in the Theology of Thomas Aquinas (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1995). And for an astute ecumenical defense of this concept, see Michael Root, “Aquinas, Merit, and Reformation Theology after the Joint Declaration on the Doctrine of Justification,” Modern Theology 20.1 (2004): 5–22. Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End 41 universally accepted axiom, “God created us without us: but he did not will to save us without us,”74 to be the guiding theological principle that accounts for the proper preparation of the rational creature for eternal union with God. The proper preparations of the created image, the human being, to receive an essentially disproportionate, surpassing realization of its perfection—conformity to and union with the exemplar—are acts chosen and executed by a right good will. But the goodness of the will depends on the intention of the end. The last end of the human will is the sovereign good, God. Hence, for the will to be good, the will has to be properly set on the ultimate end, God, the sovereign good. The sovereign good—God’s own infinite goodness—relates to the divine will as its proper object. In other words: God, always and in all, wills His own goodness, and God wills things apart from Himself by willing His own goodness, the sovereign good.75 Hence, God wills also our will to be ordered to the sovereign good. And so for the rectitude of the human will to obtain, the human will must be properly conformed to the divine will.76 Consequently, the rectitude of the human will, the intellectual appetite, depends on the intellect being instructed by the natural and the Divine law77 and on the will being thus ordered by right reason and the acquired moral virtues to a due end,78 and by sanctifying grace, the theological virtues, the infused moral virtues, and the gifts of the Holy Spirit to the gratuitous ultimate end. The Rectitude of the Will and the Virtue of Religion The rectitude of the will finds its proper realization in virtues that are about operations. The paradigm is the virtue of justice, which applies 74 75 76 77 78 St. Augustine, Sermo 169, 11, 13 (PL 38, 923). ST I, q. 19, a. 2, ad 2. ST I-II, q. 19, a. 9: “As stated above [a. 7], the goodness of the will depends on the intention of the end. Now the last end of the human will is the Sovereign Good, namely, God, as stated above [q. 1, a. 8; q. 3, a. 1]. Therefore the goodness of the human will requires it to be ordained to the Sovereign Good, that is, to God. Now this Good is primarily and essentially compared to the Divine will, as its proper object. Again, that which is first in any genus is the measure and rule of all that belongs to that genus. Moreover, everything attains to rectitude and goodness, in so far as it is in accord with its proper measure. Therefore, in order that [the human being’s] will be good it needs to be conformed to the Divine will.” ST I-II, q. 19, a. 4. ST I-II, q. 55, a. 4, ad 4. 42 Reinhard Hütter the will to its proper act,79 thereby realizing its rectitude in actu.80 “Wherefore,” Aquinas concludes, “all such virtues as are about operations, bear, in some way, the character of justice.”81 The virtue of religion resembles the virtue of justice, for it is also about operations, but it is not an integral part of justice, but rather annexed to it because its operations fall short of justice due to the impossibility to render what exactly is due in the relationship of the rational creature to the Creator.82 Precisely because the virtue of religion belongs to a family of related virtues whose head is the virtue of justice—the virtue that applies the will to its proper act and thereby actualizes the will’s rectitude—it would be a grave error to mistake the virtue of religion for some supererogatory moral excellence that is up to one’s personal discretion.83 Aquinas emphasizes that: It belongs to the dictate of natural reason that [the human being] should do something through reverence for God. But that [the human being] should do this or that determinate thing does not belong to the dictate of natural reason, but is established by Divine or human law.84 79 80 81 82 83 84 ST I-II, q. 59, a. 5. ST II-II, q. 58, a. 1: “Justice is a habitus [a stable disposition of the will] whereby a [human being] renders to each one what is his [or her] due by a constant and perpetual will” (my emphasis). ST I-II, q. 60, a. 3. ST II-II, q. 80:“Whatever the [human being] renders to God is due, yet it cannot be equal, as though the human being rendered to God as much as he [or she] owes Him, according to Psalm 115:12: What shall I render to the Lord for all the things that He hath rendered to me?” While the strict equality of commutative justice is out of the question, there must be some semblance of equality, since Aquinas, after all, understands the virtue of religion as a part of justice: “Religion is . . . a moral virtue, since it is a part of justice, and observes a mean, not in the passions, but in actions directed to God by establishing a kind of equality in them. And when I say equality, I do not mean absolute equality, because it is not possible to pay God as much as we owe Him, but equality in consideration of [the human being’s] ability and God’s acceptance” (ST II-II, q. 81, a. 5, ad 3). For the most comprehensive recent study of the virtue of religion in the thought of Thomas Aquinas, see Robert Jared Staudt, “Religion as a Virtue: Thomas Aquinas on Worship through Justice, Law, and Charity” (PhD diss., Ave Maria University, 2008). ST II-II, q. 80, a. 1. Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End 43 Natural reason dictates the very ratio of the virtue of religion, namely that reverence to God is due and this due is so necessary “that without it moral rectitude cannot be ensured.”85 Without the acts of religio, moral rectitude cannot be ensured. And if moral rectitude is deficient, the integrity and unity of the cardinal virtues is compromised, if not lost. This sequence of entailments leads to two problematic alternatives pertaining to those who do not have charity—that is, those whom Aquinas would have called practitioners of pagan virtue. The first alternative is what is conventionally considered as straightforwardly Aristotelian: since moral rectitude requires the practice of the virtue of religion and since Aquinas assumes that pagans were able to practice the acquired moral virtues, or as he also calls them, the social or political virtues,86 pagans were able to practice the virtue of religion. What complicates, or even undercuts, this alternative is that according, to Aquinas, it is impossible for human beings in the state of wounded nature to fulfill the natural duty to love God above all things.87 Yet, falling short of this natural love of God above all things “in the appetite of his rational will,”88 the human being in this state seems incapable to acquire the specific habitus of religio, the cultus of God as “the first principle of the creation and government of things.”89 This complication at the heart of the first alternative compels consideration of the second alternative, which is conventionally considered as the Augustinian one. Since moral rectitude requires the practice of the virtue of religion and since the acquired moral virtue of religion is only a counterfeit, moral rectitude cannot be assured. Yet, without moral rectitude, the unity, and with it the integrity, of the cardinal virtues is destroyed. Hence, all moral virtues except the infused moral virtues are mere counterfeits. Only the virtue of religion that is infused and formed by charity is a genuine virtue because, through healing grace, the natural love of God above all things can again be exercised. But Aquinas expressly denies this consequence.90 Each alternative leads to unsavory consequences that, as a matter of fact, contradict aspects of Aquinas’s complex doctrine of virtue. Certain aspects of both the straightforwardly Augustinian and the straightforwardly Aristotelian approach find support, others do not. It 85 86 87 88 89 90 ST II-II, q. 80, a. 1 (my emphasis). ST I-II, q. 61, a. 5. ST I-II, q. 119, a. 3. ST I-II, q. 119, a. 3. ST II-II, q. 81, a. 3. ST I-II, q. 61, a. 1, a. 5. 44 Reinhard Hütter would be all too precipitous to conclude at this point that Aquinas’s attempt to integrate Aristotle’s virtue ethics and Augustine’s theology of sin and grace into one coherent system ultimately failed. Neither of the all too conventional alternatives matches the daring and depth of Aquinas’s actual synthesis. Rather, as David Decosimo puts it rather felicitously in his recent Ethics as a Work of Charity, “Aquinas strives to be Aristotelian by being Augustinian and vice versa.”91 In order to appreciate how Aquinas does this, it is apposite to recall the various distinctions he makes between the perfection and imperfection of virtue in different respects and between different sets of virtues.92 The first distinction between perfection and imperfection pertains to the supernatural final end and regards the crucial difference between acquired and infused moral virtues. While the theological virtues are always infused, moral virtues can be acquired or infused. Infused moral virtues are perfect and simply true, for they conduce to the supernatural final end. Because acquired moral virtues do not, they are imperfect in this respect.93 The second distinction between perfection and imperfection pertains to what is conducive to the principal good, the ultimate final end. Here Aquinas introduces two distinctions. The first distinction pertains to what conduces directly to the principal good, the ultimate final end, versus what leads away from it. Virtues that conduce to the 91 92 93 David Decosimo, Ethics as a Work of Charity: Thomas Aquinas and Pagan Virtue (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2014), 9. Decosimo’s book is the best recent study on the complex and controverted matter of Aquinas’s teaching on the acquired and the infused moral virtues. His conceptually astute and textually meticulous analysis and interpretation demonstrates that what are conventionally considered as the straightforwardly Aristotelian and Augustinian alternatives are ultimately unhelpful interpretive strategies because they fall, in their respective ways, short of the daring and depth of Aquinas’s synthesis. Nota bene: The following core distinctions rest on the supposition that the Christian can have both acquired and infused moral virtues, not only in general, but simultaneously and specifically. On this very complex and greatly controverted matter, I agree with Brian J. Shanley, O.P., in “Aquinas on Pagan Virtue,” The Thomist 63 (1999): 553-577, Angela McKay Knobel in “The Infused and Acquired Virtues in Aquinas’ Moral Philosophy” (Ph.D. diss., University of Notre Dame, 2004), Michael Sherwin, O.P., in “Infused Virtues and the Effects of Acquired Vice: A Test Case for the Thomistic Theory of Infused Cardinal Virtues,” The Thomist 73 (2009): 29-52, Markus Christoph, S.J.M., in “Justice as an Infused Virtue in the Secunda Secundae and Its Implications for Our Understanding of the Moral Life” (Ph.D. diss., University of Fribourg, 2010), and Decosimo, Ethics as a Work of Charity. ST I-II, q. 65, a. 2. Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End 45 principal good, the ultimate final end, are perfect and simply true. They are the infused moral virtues we encountered already above. What leads human beings away from the ultimate final end can only be an apparent good, and what conduces to it is consequently a counterfeit virtue. The second distinction pertains to acquired moral virtues and differentiates between those that are directed to the virtuous good, the good simpliciter, or the good in itself (bonum honestum),94 and those that are directed to a merely useful or pleasurable good (bonum utile; bonum delectabile). In the latter we encounter again the counterfeit virtues.95 But the former, those directed to the bonum honestum, are true but imperfect virtues. Because they are true, they can be perfected when referred to charity. Consider the following: Civic fortitude is directed to the welfare of the state (conservatio civitatis), which is a bonum honestum. Consequently, civic fortitude is a true, albeit imperfect virtue—imperfect, unless it is referred by charity to the principal good and ultimate final end, whereby it becomes a perfect and simply true virtue.96 The third distinction between perfection and imperfection pertains to the very constitution of moral virtues qua habitus. According to Aquinas, moral virtues are virtues simpliciter because they make the persons who possess them good and render their activity good too— good in respect to the connatural final end proportionate to human nature, not good in the sense of acceptable to God as meritorious of an increase in charity.97 Moral virtues simpliciter are to be differentiated from non-moral or “natural virtues.” The latter are virtues secundum quid, virtues in only a qualified sense, because they indicate a vague natural inclination either to true goods common to all human beings or to the specific form such an inclination takes in an individual soul/ 94 95 96 97 ST I-II, q. 39, a. 2: “Every virtuous good results from these two things, the rectitude of the reason and the will.” ST II-II, q. 23, a. 7: “If this particular good is not a true, but an apparent good, it is not a true virtue that is ordered to such a good, but a counterfeit virtue.” Then Aquinas cites at length Augustine, who uses the example of the miser whose prudence, justice, temperance, and courage are counterfeit virtues because his particular good is not a true but an apparent good. ST II-II, q. 23, a. 7: “If, on the other hand, this particular good be a true good, for instance the welfare of the state, or the like, it will be a true virtue, imperfect, however, unless it be referred to the final and perfect good. Accordingly, no strictly true virtue is possible without charity.” ST I-II, q. 56, a. 3: “Since virtue is that which makes its possessor good, and his work good likewise, these habits are called virtues simply [simpliciter]; because they make the work to be actually good, and the subject good, too.” 46 Reinhard Hütter body composite.98 This mere disposition to act (virtus inchoata) is fundamentally different from and imperfect in relation to the acquired habitus that is stable and difficult to lose (difficile mobile). Compared with this natural virtue, or virtus inchoata, an acquired moral habitus is perfect, true, and simple. For the “difficile mobile” belongs to the ratio of virtue; it is proper to virtue per se. In light of these central distinctions, we are now in a position to consider again the acquired virtue of religion and the solution Aquinas advances, a solution that the two conventional alternatives do not consider. Aquinas immediately grants the fundamental Augustinian point, but in an Aristotelian way: among the acquired moral virtues, the virtue of religion indeed has a unique deficiency. For, in regard to this unique acquired virtue, it matters significantly that human beings in the state of wounded nature are unable to exercise the natural love of God above all things. Hence, far from being a mere semblance or counterfeit of virtue, the acquired virtue of religion is nevertheless a uniquely imperfect virtue. Like all the other acquired virtues, it is imperfect in respect to the supernatural ultimate end. But unlike all the other acquired moral virtues, the virtue of religion is also imperfect in respect to the proper realization of the cultus of God as the first principle of the creation and government of things. Recall, cultus results from the formal and the material cause of the acts of religio. Here Aquinas is Aristotelian, but in an Augustinian way: the formal cause, reason’s ordination to God, and the efficient cause, the ratio of this ordination, accounts for the constitutive integrity, the proximate perfection characteristic of an acquired operative habitus. But its material cause—everything taken up or chosen as offering in order to signify the honor that is due to God—remains de facto deficient. For the proper perfection of the material cause presupposes the capacity to exercise the natural love of God above all things qua final end. Only if human beings were able, in the state of wounded nature, to exercise this natural love of God above all things would the virtue’s proper ratio, the judgment and command of reason, be matched consistently and stably by an equivalent volition of God as ultimate good. Hence, despite its formal integrity qua specifying object and despite its proper ratio, the cultus of the acquired virtue of religion remains de facto 98 ST I-II, q. 58, a. 4, ad 3: “The natural inclination to a good of virtue is a kind of beginning of virtue, but is not perfect virtue. For the stronger this inclination is, the more perilous may it prove to be, unless it be accompanied by right reason, which rectifies the choice of fitting means towards the due end.” Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End 47 deficient. However, due to its formal integrity, the acquired virtue of religion is able to ensure moral rectitude and, consequently, also the unity of the acquired moral virtues. While not at all a counterfeit of virtue, the acquired virtue of religion, due to its material imperfection, nevertheless produces necessarily a deficient cultus. The material imperfection that causes the deficient cultus is overcome only through the restoration of the capacity of the natural love of God above all things. Yet, this restoration comes about only by healing grace and the infusion of faith, hope, and charity.99 And there is more: the person who receives, together with faith, hope, charity, and all the other infused moral virtues, also the infused virtue of religion receives in addition an imprinted seal or character on the soul that efficaciously capacitates him or her to the worship of the Triune God. This very seal or character that the soul receives is the effect of the sacraments, first and foremost, of baptism: The sacraments of the New Law [which derive their power especially from Christ’s passion, ST III, q. 62, a. 5] are ordained for a twofold purpose, namely for a remedy against sins, and for the perfecting of the soul in things pertaining to the Divine worship according to the rite of the Christian life.100 The New Law and its correlative human law (that is, Christ’s commands and the additional determinations of the Church) establish what determinate things are to be done in reverence of God.101 Thanks to the gift of piety, the range of what is to be done for the sake of reverence to God, now worshipped as Father, is remarkably expansive: By the gift of piety [a human being] pays worship and duty not only to God, but also to all [human beings] on account of their relationship to God. Hence it belongs to piety to honor the saints, and not to contradict the Scriptures whether one understands them or not . . . Consequently [piety] also assists those who are in a state of unhappiness.102 99 100 101 102 ST I-II, q. 109, a. 3. ST III, q. 63, a.1. ST II-II, q. 81, a. 2, ad 3: “It belongs to the dictate of natural reason that [the human being] should do something through reverence for God. But that he should do this or that determinate thing does not belong to the dictate of natural reason, but is established by Divine and human law.” ST II-II, q. 121, a. 1, ad 3. 48 Reinhard Hütter The gift of piety and the theological virtue of charity display a similar structure. In each, the unique relationship with God—in the case of piety worship of God as Father and in the case of charity friendship with God—includes those to whom God’s Fatherhood and friendship extends.103 The theological virtues have God as their direct object; faith and hope are directly engaged by God as their immediate object, and the theological virtue of charity already realizes a certain union with God, the perfect ultimate end. Higher virtues, like faith, hope, and charity, can command the acts of lower virtues.104 The acts of the infused perfect virtue of religion—commanded by faith, hope, and charity105— are not in reference directly to God (like believing God, hoping in God, loving God with God’s own shared love of charity), but rather are about things referred to the ultimate end; they are acts issued by faith, hope and charity and are done out of due reverence for God.106 There obtains a unique relationship between the theological virtue of charity and the infused moral virtue of religion. By way of charity, the Christian adheres to God “by a union of the spirit.”107 For this reason, charity is the form of all the infused moral virtues, first and foremost the virtue of religion. But the relationship between charity and the infused virtue of religion goes even deeper: It belongs immediately to charity that [the human being] should give himself to God, adhering to him by a union of the spirit; but it belongs immediately to religion, and, through the medium of religion, to charity which is the principle of religion, 103 104 105 106 107 See ST II-II, q. 23, a. 1, ad 2 and ad 3. ST II-II, q. 81, a. 5, ad 1: “[T]he theological virtues faith, hope, and charity have an act in reference to God as their proper object, wherefore, by their command, they cause the act of religion, which performs certain deeds directed to God.” ST II-II, q. 81, a. 5, ad 1. ST II-II, q. 81, a. 5. But how do the theological virtue of charity and the infused moral virtue of religion relate exactly? By way of charity, the Christian adheres to God by a union of the spirit (ST II-II, q. 82, a. 2, ad 1). And for this reason, charity informs all the infused moral virtues, also the virtue of religion; but here the relationship goes deeper. For, “it belongs immediately to charity that [the human being] should give himself to God. . . . but it belongs immediately to religion (and through the medium of religion, to charity . . .) that [the human being] should give himself to God for certain works of Divine worship” (ST II-II, q. 82, a. 2, ad 1). ST II-II, q. 82, a. 2, ad 1. Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End 49 that [the human being] should give himself to God for certain works of Divine worship (divini cultus).108 The person who adheres to God by a union of the spirit receives a supernatural principle or cause that issues immediately in the infused habitus of religion and orders that person immediately to acts of divine worship, cultus divini. In short, it is impossible for a person who adheres to God by a union of the spirit not to practice the virtue of religion. These works of divine worship arise from two principal interior operations facilitated by the infused habitus of religio. Devotion is the first and is a special act of the will “to devote [oneself] to God so as to subject [oneself] wholly to God.”109 Devotion applies the will to its proper act, namely, to refer all the other moral virtues to the service of God, who is the ultimate end. Devotion, the principal act of religio (that is, of actualizing the will’s rectitude regarding what is due to God) ensures that the service of God constitutes the end or purpose of all the other acts of religion and, indeed, of all the other moral virtues.110 The second principal operation of the virtue of religion is prayer, the surrendering of one’s mind to God by presenting the mind to God and asking becoming things of God.111 Devotion and prayer are the interior constitutive acts of the infused virtue of religio, and among the two, devotion holds the position of primacy.112 Exterior acts of adoration, sacrifice, oblation, vows, tithes, and others become proper acts of the infused virtue of religion only by way 108 109 110 111 112 Ibid. ST II-II, q. 82, a. 1, ad 1: “Since devotion is an act of the will whereby [a human being] offers himself for the service of God Who is the last end, it follows that devotion prescribes the mode of human acts, whether they be acts of the will itself about things directed to the end, or acts of the other powers that are moved by the will.” ST II-II, q. 82, a. 1, ad 1: “The mover determines the manner or mode of action of the object it moves. The will moves the other powers of the soul to their actions, and because it is concerned with the end, the will also moves itself to the means which lead to the end. Hence, since devotion is an act of the will by which a man promptly offers himself to the service of God who is the last end, devotion determines the mode of human acts, whether they are actions of the will concerning the means to the end, or acts of the other powers moved by the will” (O’Rourke’s translation). ST II-II, q. 83, a. 1; a. 3, ad 3. As O’Rourke rightly stresses in his commentary: “As the first and principal act of religion, inward devotion must be in every religious act, otherwise it will not be a true act of religion at all, though it may have the external appearance” (Summa Theologiae, vol. 39 [II-II, qq. 80–91], 257). Reinhard Hütter 50 of their mediation through the interior acts of devotion and prayer. The infused virtue of religion is analogous to the theological virtue of charity in that, similar to the way charity unites all the other infused virtues with the last end (by being their form) and commands acts of all the other virtues, the infused virtue of religio unites all the other infused moral virtues by submitting their acts to the interior worship of God. “Religion” in Contemporary Parlance—Revisited in Light of the Virtue of Religion After having accomplished the two interconnected tasks—demonstrating the indispensability of the virtue of religion for the attainment of the final end and, hence, demonstrating the centrality of the virtue of religion for genuine human flourishing—we return now to the dominant contemporary uses of “religion” and ask what difference the virtue of religion makes to each one of them. Political Liberalism’s Use of “Religion” Recall that the specific moral excellence of the virtue of justice is to render “to everybody his [or her] due by a constant and perpetual will.”113 Hence, it is according to very nature of the virtue of justice to transcend and to encompass both the public and the private spheres. All the operative virtues that are annexed to justice share this essential feature. The virtue of religion, rightly understood and practiced— which is the essential feature of virtue simpliciter—cannot submit to the superimposition of a political disciplinary distinction that compromises the essence of the virtue itself. And what holds for the acquired virtue of religion holds even more so for the infused virtue of religion. While rooted in the person’s soul in the interior acts of devotion and prayer, true cultus arises from there to take an ineluctably public, communal, and also a quasi-political form. Being directed to the most eminent bonum honestum, reverence of and honor to the first principle of the creation and government of things, the First Truth and Sovereign Good—in short, the Triune Lord—this virtue is only practiced authentically according to its nature when it is practiced in the political public such that the political public itself is rightly ordered to the first principle of the creation and government of things. Now, to say the least, this is obviously not how contemporary democracies constitute themselves in the spirit of sovereign secularism. Banishing the practice of the virtue of religion from the political 113 ST II-II, q. 58, a. 1. Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End 51 public is a constitutive element of their self-understanding. Of course, to force the virtue of religion into the purely private sphere is to force it to turn into its own counterfeit. During his apostolic journey to the United States of America in September of 2105, Pope Francis made the following pointed statement that pertains to the essentially public nature of the virtue of religion: Religious freedom certainly means the right to worship God, individually and in community, as our consciences dictate. But religious liberty, by its nature, transcends places of worship and the private sphere of individuals and families. Because religion itself, the religious dimension, is not a subculture; it is part of the culture of every people and every nation.114 Not only does the virtue of religion suffer from the profoundly alienating imposition of its privatization, but also does the body politic suffer eventually. One of the foremost post-Second World War German legal philosophers, Ernst-Wolfgang Böckenförde, argued famously—and persistently—that a truly just, and therefore free, democratic society lives from moral sources that transcend its scope, sources that secular liberalism per se cannot provide and replenish on its own terms, but on which a truly free and just society at the same time vitally depends.115 These sources are fundamentally connected with and accessed by way of the public practice of the virtue of religion. And this practice of religio, according to Böckenförde, will be ideally and preferably Christian because it is nothing but the Christian understanding of the human being that is presupposed in the tenets and the program of genuine liberalism: the human being as created in the image of God and, therefore, endowed with an indelible dignity and an intrinsic orientation toward transcendence, an orientation expressed first and foremost in humanity’s universal desire for knowledge and happiness and consequently in the public practice of the virtue 114 115 My emphasis. Pope Francis made this symbolically charged statement in his speech at the Meeting for religious liberty with the Hispanic community and other immigrants at the Independence Mall in Philadelphia, September 26, 2015 (found on the Vatican’s website, http://w2.vatican.va/content/francesco/en/speeches/2015/september/documents/papa-francesco_20150926_ usa-liberta-religiosa.html). Ernst-Wolfgang Böckenförde, State, Society and Liberty: Studies in Political Theory and Constitutional Law, trans. J. A. Underwood (New York: Berg Publications, 1991). 52 Reinhard Hütter of religion that gives honor and reverence to the first principle of the creation and government of things, the Triune Creator and Lord who is the fount of every good. By privatizing the virtue of religion, late modern secularist democracies cut themselves off from the trans-political moral and spiritual roots that fund the public ethos of their own citizens. This development leads to the transformation of the citizen into the essentially private consumer of goods, the sovereign self in the order of consumption, for whom the public “secular discourse” is nothing else but the interminable negotiation of the competing interests of consumers, customers, and clients. American Protestantism’s Use of “Religion” The virtue of religion also defies the modern American evangelical and post-denominational dichotomization between inauthentic “organized religion” and authentic free individual faith and spirituality. For, the proper practice of the infused virtue of religion does, as we have seen, entail an ordered relationship between, on the one hand, the deep interior submission of the will and mind to God—a profound personal “spirituality,” the end and purpose of which is nothing but holiness, the inclusion of everything into the ordo ad Deum—and, on the other hand, personal and communal practices that can only be facilitated and sustained by way of what some rather infelicitously choose to call “organized religion.” Hence, the practice of the virtue of religion entails necessarily the full existential involvement of the person and, simultaneously, their communal, public, and institutional embodiments. The virtue of political justice and the politically organized body politic are correlative realities; analogously, the virtue of religion and the organized ecclesial body politic, the visible one, holy, catholic, and apostolic church, are correlative realities. Abolish the latter, and you will eventually lose the former. The Consumer-Capitalist Use of “Religion” Because all moral excellence presupposes a discerning moral agency, the virtue of religion, when properly practiced, necessarily defies the dynamic of commodification characteristic of late modern consumer capitalism and its concomitant life-style liberalism. The will and the intellect’s ordinatio ad Deum constitutes a real relation of reason that blocks the dynamic of the subtle estranging reification that is the heart of the commodification of “religion,” a reification that makes it absorbable as one more item enriching the life-style options in late modern consumer societies. Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End 53 The Religionswissenschaft Use of “Religion” As has become sufficiently clear by now, the virtue of justice and all its practices are about operations, that is, about interior or exterior acts in relationship not to oneself (as the virtues of courage and temperance are), but rather in relationship to specific others. These operations are specified by their object, which communicates itself to the individual agent as he or she is embedded in a specific cultural-linguistic matrix of traditioned practices. The very constitution of the virtue of religion by its specific object undercuts the experiential-expressivist use of “religion.” For, if the experiential-expressivist use of “religion”—being a reductive explanatory strategy—were to be applied consistently to the virtue of religion, the latter would instantaneously lose its intelligibility as a moral excellence. For justice, or a virtue close to justice, to be intelligible (let alone operative), it must formally presuppose the objective reality that specifies its acts. Hence, the interior formal constitution of the virtue of religion as moral excellence for a practitioner of religion and the exterior explanatory perspective of experiential-expressivism are mutually exclusive. Adopting the latter means to understand the operations of the virtue of religion as rituals, customs, and disciplines that symbolically express some pre-conceptual and pre-linguistic awareness of the numinous or sacred. According to this explanatory framework, there cannot exist a justice-like virtue of religion, for the latter presupposes the existence and the knowledge of some personal Other to whom honor and reverence are due. Practicing the virtue of religion, on the other hand, presupposes formally the existence of such an Other, and that necessarily makes for such a practitioner experiential-expressivism a misguided, reductively non-referential strategy of explanation. The Use of “Religion” in Protestant Dialectical Theology Quite obviously, the Barthian theological critique of “religion” does not at all affect the virtue of religion the way Thomas Aquinas conceives it primarily—namely in its proper Christian instantiation as an infused moral virtue. On the contrary, the infused virtue of religion—in theory and in practice—puts into full relief the interminably dialectical character of the Barthian concept of revelation and its corresponding dialectical ecclesiology. For, the infused virtue of religion is a gift of grace that presupposes not only divine and justifying faith, but also the efficacious sacramental mediation of grace through the Church’s sacraments, especially Baptism and Holy Eucharist. In short, there cannot exist any infused moral virtue of religion without the 54 Reinhard Hütter grace that flows from the head through the sacraments to the members of Christ’s body, the Church. The infused virtue of religion presupposes the prolongation of the Incarnation into the Church and her sacraments and thereby exposes Barth’s theological critique of religion as the necessary correlate of his dialectical ecclesiology.116 A Modern Theological Use of “Religion” Congruent with the Virtue of Religion As it has become clear in the course of these considerations, the virtue of religion can be defended against the Barthian critique of “religion” not only in its instantiation as an infused moral virtue, a virtue that is a direct consequence of sanctifying grace and the indwelling Holy Spirit. Rather, it is also possible, on a more fundamental level, to defend the virtue of religion as a necessary constant of created human nature, a constant that, after the fall, is enacted in weakened and variously compromised ways. Hence, the acquired virtue of religion is not simply a surd; rather, precisely in its imperfection, the virtue of religion remains a distinct moral excellence that reflects aspects of truth about the human condition vis-à-vis the Creator. One eminent Catholic thinker of the modern period who captures this insight well is John Henry Newman. Awareness of God, of the self, and of human need characterizes, according to his view, “natural religion.” According to his semantics, natural religion stands in opposition, on the one hand, to civilized or artificial religion (the religion of liberalism) and, on the other hand, to revealed religion that culminates in Jesus Christ. Because of the fall, natural religion in actual practice focuses on the dark side of the human predicament. Natural religion depicts the human being first and foremost in need of expiation in order to be reconciled to God. Hence, Newman takes atonement to be central to natural religion. Consequently, practices of sacrifice and prayer—fueled by a hope of deliverance from suffering and confidence in divine providence—are the most common traits of natural religion.117 Newman’s use of “religion” in his notion of natural religion 116 117 See chapter 5, “Karl Barth’s Dialectical Catholicity,” in my Bound to Be Free: Evangelical Catholic Engagements in Ecclesiology, Ethics, and Ecumenism (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2004), 78-94. John Henry Newman, Sermon 2, “The Influence of Natural and Revealed Religion Respectively,” in Fifteen Sermons Preached before the University of Oxford between A.D. 1826 and 1843 (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997), 16-36; Newman, An Essay in Aid of a Grammar of Assent (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1979), 95-107 and 303–17. Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End 55 amounts to possibly the best modern appreciation of what, on the one hand, is true and valid as a moral virtue in the acquired natural virtue of religion encountered in countless instantiations outside of the orbit of the special revelation that culminates in Christ and what, on the other hand, is the surpassing perfection of the virtue of religion—a habitus infused by sanctifying grace and formed by charity, the inchoative union with God. On the supposition of Newman’s understanding of natural religion and of revealed religion—an understanding that, incidentally, is fully congruent with Aquinas’s understanding of the acquired and the infused virtues of religion—doing without religion is both contra naturam and contra gratiam, and consequently amounts to a uniquely modern margin of human existence, a margin made possible by the advent of the surpassing perfection of religio as instantiated in the human life and oblation on the cross of the Incarnate Lord. Doing without religion becomes a possibility only after natural religion has been perfected by revealed religion. By spurning revealed religion, one necessarily also foregoes natural religion and is consequently left with doing without religion. Doing without religion constitutes the most elusive, and simultaneously the deepest, form of injustice the human being is capable of—injustice against God, the first principle of the creation and government of things, the Triune Creator and Lord. Practicing this injustice of doing without religion is, of course, far from the often announced end of religion. On the contrary, doing without religion introduces the ultimate counterfeit of religio, the last religion, ushered in silently but devastatingly in modern philosophy with the anthropocentric turn and the adoption of the principle of immanence.118 The “last religion” is the counterfeit religion of the sovereign self, the erection of the quasi-divine self-will and its unquenchable desires for all imaginable semblances of true happiness. Its central feature John Henry Newman would characterize as infidelity. With remarkable prescience he states in his 1873 sermon “The Infidelity of the Future”: The special peril of the time before us is the spread of that plague of infidelity, that the Apostles and our Lord Himself have 118 See the unjustly neglected, but still utterly relevant, magnum opus by Cornelio Fabro, God in Exile—Modern Atheism: A Study of the Internal Dynamic of Modern Atheism, from Its Roots in the Cartesian Cogito to the Present Day, trans. and ed. Arthur Gibson (New York: Newman Press, 1968). For the third edition of the Italian original and the first edition of Fabro’s complete works, see Cornelio Fabro, Introduzione all Ateismo moderno. Opere Complete, vol. 21 (Segni: EDIVI, 2013). 56 Reinhard Hütter predicted as the worst calamity of the last times of the Church. And at least a shadow, a typical image of the last times is coming over the world. I do not mean to presume that this is the last time, but that it has had the evil prerogative of being like that more terrible season, when it is said that the elect themselves will be in danger of falling away. . . . Accordingly, you will find, certainly in the future, nay more, even now, even now, that the writers and thinkers of the day do not even believe there is a God. They do not believe either the object—a God personal, a Providence and a moral Governor; and secondly, what they do believe, viz., that there is some first cause or other, they do not believe with faith, absolutely, but as a probability. . . . Christianity has never yet had experience of a world simply irreligious.119 In 1883, only ten years after Newman delivered his all too clairvoyant homily, Friedrich Nietzsche published the first two parts of his Thus Spoke Zarathustra: A Book for All and None. Zarathustra personifies the spirit of infidelity and utters, as clearly as one could wish, the credo of this counterfeit cultus of the sovereign self: “But that I may reveal my heart entirely to you, my friends: if there were gods, how could I endure it to be no God! Therefore there are no gods.”120 While the cultus of the “last religion,” the celebration and adoration of the self-constituting self beyond good and evil, is still on the rise, Aquinas’s account of the profound relationship between the attainment 119 120 “The Infidelity of the Future. Opening of St. Bernard’s Seminary, 2nd October 1873,” in Faith and Prejudice and Other Unpublished Sermons of Cardinal Newman, ed. The Birmingham Oratory (New York: Sheed & Ward, 1956), 113–128; here: 117, 124–125. “Aber dass ich euch ganz mein Herz offenbare, ihr Freunde: wenn es Götter gäbe, wie hielte ich’s aus, kein Gott zu sein! Also giebt es keine Götter. . . . Auch im Erkennen fühle ich nur meines Willens Zeuge- und Werde-Lust; und wenn Unschuld in meiner Erkenntnis ist, so geschieht dies, weil Wille zur Zeugung in ihr ist. Hinweg von Gott und Göttern lockte mich dieser Wille; was wäre denn zu schaffen, wenn Götter—da wären! Aber zum Menschen treibt er mich stets von Neuem, mein inbrünstiger Schaffens-Wille; so treibt’s den Hammer hin zum Steine. . . . Vollenden will ich’s: denn ein Schatten kam zu mir – aller Dinge Stillstes und Leichtestes kam einst zu mir! Des Übermenschen Schönheit kam zu mir als Schatten. Ach, meine Brüder! Was gehen mich noch—die Götter an!—Also sprach Zarathustra” (Friedrich Nietzsche, Also sprach Zarathustra: Ein Buch für Alle und Keinen, “Zweiter Teil, Auf den glückseligen Inseln,” in Friedrich Nietzsche, Sämtliche Werke: Kritische Studienausgabe vol. 4, ed. Giorgio Colli and Mazzino Montinari [Munich: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1980], 110–12). Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End 57 of authentic happiness and the practice of the virtue of religion makes plain that such a cultus compromises the rectitude of the will detrimentally and thwarts the attainment of the twofold final end, connatural as well as supernatural. Unsurprisingly, the modern counterfeit cultus does not adduce to happiness, but to a world bereft of transcendence and delivered over to the principle of immanence, the vice of sloth, traditionally called acedia,121 and the boredom it breeds—a very far cry from the noon-day ecstasy of Nietzsche’s Übermensch. The Indispensability of the Virtue of Religion for the Attainment of Perfect, Everlasting Beatitude It is nothing but the virtue of religion that actualizes the will’s rectitude through acts of honor and reverence due to God. Minimally, doing without religion is a failure at doing justice to the most fundamental and most essential relationship, that of the rational creature to the Creator. Precisely because “it belongs to the dictate of natural reason that [the human being] should do something through reverence to God,”122 doing without religion is a mode of existence contrary to the dictate of natural reason. And because the dictate of natural reason is always according to nature, doing without religion is contra naturam humanam and therefore constitutes a unique margin of human existence. For a baptized and confirmed Christian, acts of religio commanded by charity are meritorious and thus contribute essentially to preparing the viator, the sojourner, for attaining the ultimate end and perfect 121 122 Acedia is arguably the root cause of the typically modern boredom of which Martin Heidegger has offered an intriguing phenomenological analysis. Due to the inescapably supernatural character of the extant providential order, however, acedia itself becomes the theological key to Heidegger’s phenomenological analysis of boredom. The scope of his analysis coincides with the existential horizon of Dasein zum Tode (“being towards death”), which is nothing but a shrewd philosophical elevation of acedia to the constitutive characteristic of Dasein, being-in-the-world (“Die Verfallenheit des Daseins an die Welt”). See Martin Heidegger, Die Grundbegriffe der Metaphysik: Welt—Endlichkeit—Einsamkeit (Freiburger Vorlesung 1929/30), ed. Friedrich-Wilhelm von Herrmann (Frankfurt: Vittorio Klostermann, 1983), 117–249 (English: The Fundamental Concepts of Metaphysics: World, Finitude, Solitude, trans. William McNeill and Nicholas Walker [Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1995], 78–167). For a robust and relevant analysis of acedia as the source of the pervasive boredom modern people face, see the penetrating study by the Christian philosopher, R. J. Snell, Acedia and Its Discontents: Metaphysical Boredom in an Empire of Desire (Kettering, OH: Angelico Press, 2015). ST II-II, q. 80, a. 1. 58 Reinhard Hütter beatitude as comprehensor, as partaker in the beatific vision. But for a baptized and confirmed Christian, due to neglect or indifference, not to practice the acts of the infused virtue of religion as established by Divine and human law is a serious sin of omission, and to commit intentional acts of irreligion and irreverence is a grave sin of commission.123 Since the acts of religion are commanded by God—they fall under the precepts of justice and are expressed as revealed divine law in the second commandment of the Decalogue, where they make explicit a dictate of natural reason124—intentional acts of irreverence and irreligion cause persons who know the precept to lose friendship with God and do damage to the rectitude of their will and, consequently, err from the path to everlasting perfect beatitude. For a baptized and confirmed Christian, doing without religion is something contra gratiam Dei that in view of the supernatural ultimate end of eternal unitive beatitude constitutes a perilous placement at the periphery of human existence.125 “Nel mezzo del cammin di loro vita si ritrovarono per una selva oscura, che la diritta via era smaritta.”126 Midway upon the journey of their lives, ST II-II, q. 97, preamble; and q. 122, a. 3. ST II-II, q. 122, a. 3. 125 Displaying indifference or even open contempt to the Lord’s Day by neglecting the public worship of God, prayer, recollection, and resting in God and replacing it with the cultus of the “last religion” and its characteristic rituals, with wellness, sports, entertainment and, of course, shopping, is the most widespread and widely accepted form of irreverence and irreligion practiced by baptized Christians in the West—supposing, of course, they do not belong to the working class of the new service industry that has to cater around the clock to the demands of the counterfeit cultus. To advance the objection that this phenomenon is merely the result of the “24/7” work and consumption schedule of Western consumer societies run amok, is to confuse the effect with the cause. Western modern capitalism is, to a large degree, the result of the replacement of the good life (to which the virtue of religion is central) with the “goods life” (to which the counterfeit virtues of acquisitiveness and self-indulgence are central). See Brad S. Gregory, The Unintended Reformation: How a Religious Revolution Secularized Society (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 2012), especially ch. 4 (“Subjectivizing Morality”) and ch. 5 (“Manufacturing the Goods Life”). 126 The opening stanza of the first Canto of Dante’s poem reads thus: “Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura, che la diritta via era smarrita.” In his noted translation, Anthony Esolen renders this opening stanza thus: “Midway upon the journey of our life I found myself in a dark wilderness, for I had wandered from the straight and true.” 123 124 Why the Virtue of Religion is Indispensable for Attaining the Final End 59 having wandered from the straight and true, and thus finding themselves lost in a dark and hard wood of indifference, irreverence, and irreligion, all of these persons—whether Christian or not—still desire happiness. They seek the universal good to which their will is directed by necessity, but with the rectitude of the will compromised, or even corrupted, they will not find what they crave even in fame, wealth, pleasure, power, a long life, and the accumulation of things. Because all of these are, at best, only aspects of the universal good, the persons possessing them still desire the universal good in toto. Short of attaining it, they will ultimately fail in their quest of finding perfect and everlasting beatitude. Recall the syllogism from the introduction and its major premise: (1) If humanity is ordained to the gratuitous supernatural final end of union with God, then the virtue of religion is indispensable for the attainment of this end. The systematic re-lecture of Aquinas has yielded a coherent, and arguably compelling, warrant for this premise. It has also afforded a Thomistic recapitulation of Pope Francis’s identification of a religionless wasteland. In the practical order, where the mandate and challenge of a new evangelization is paramount, Pope Francis exemplifies in his own papal ministry a crucial insight of Aquinas’s treatment of humanity’s surpassing ultimate end: the subjective attainment of beatitude, fruition, is necessarily accompanied by joy. And insofar as the theological virtue of charity brings about an inchoative participation in the life of God, in the final attainment of everlasting beatitude, the Christian life, even in the midst of profound suffering, is one of deep joy, a joy that arises from the inchoative union with God in charity.127 That is why the deep joy of the saints attracts almost irresistibly. Hence, persons lost in the dark and hard wood of indifference, irreverence, and irreligion are best encountered with the joy that is one of the fruits of the Holy Spirit.128 Encountering such joy might serve as the first impulse of desiring the happiness that blossoms in the existential center of faith—the life of charity, the inchoative friendship with God, the very beginning of eternal beatitude—and that moves us from the margin where both religion is eschewed and ignorance abounds. Becoming a viator presupposes receiving at least (Dante Alighieri, Inferno, trans. and ed. Anthony Esolen [New York: Modern Library 2002], 2–3). 127 ST II-II, q. 28, a. 1. 128 Following the Vulgate, Catholic tradition as synthesized and interpreted by Aquinas lists twelve fruits of the Holy Spirit: charity, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, generosity, gentleness, faithfulness, modesty, self-control, and chastity. (See ST I-II, q. 70, a. 3, as well as CCC, §1832.) 60 Reinhard Hütter some knowledge through reason and through faith of the journey’s destination—God. Becoming again a viator, a sojourner—the universal ordination of all human beings in the extant order of divine providence—has one characteristic, indeed one indispensable feature: the ready submission of the will and intellect to God. From these two interior acts, devotion and prayer, flow all other interior and exterior acts of religio. Thus joyfully and devoutly, as the Psalmist says, “I incline my heart to perform thy N&V statutes, forever, to the end” (Psalm 119:112 RSV). Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 1 (2016): 61–12561 Religion and Election: Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ BRUCE D. MARSHALL Southern Methodist University Dallas, Texas The Religion of Mary and Jesus Should we wish to understand the religion of Mary of Nazareth and of her only child, modern historical scholarship offers us a clear path of inquiry. Mary and her son were Jews, living and practicing their religion in the land of Israel in the last years of the Second Temple.The traditional, biblically mandated cultic life of the Jewish people still flourished, and at the same time, Sadducees, Pharisees, Essenes, and Zealots offered competing normative accounts of day-to-day Jewish existence. We can get a grip on the religious life and practice of Mary and Jesus, to the extent that such a grasp is available to us, by using the evidence we have to reconstruct their religious and broader social environment. That done, we can then view Mary and Jesus as more or less typical inhabitants of this environment, the shape of their religious lives as more or less typical for Jews of the late Second Temple period. If we follow this path of inquiry, the text of the New Testament is one possible source of evidence for the religious life Jesus and Mary led. Depending on what one makes of the historical reliability of the various documents contained in the New Testament, and depending on what one takes to be a correct interpretation of those documents, the historical scholar may find Jesus, in particular, to be a more typical or a less typical practitioner of Second Temple Judaism. Broadly speaking, the less historical reliability the interpreter attributes to the texts of the New Testament, the more the interpreter is likely to regard Jesus, and a fortiori Mary, as typical Jews of their time. Conversely, the more histor- 62 Bruce D. Marshall ical reliability one attributes to the New Testament texts, the less one is likely to see Jesus, and perhaps Mary, as typical Jews of the Second Temple. Jesus becomes “a marginal Jew,” in the phrase of the Catholic biblical scholar John Meier. Either way, though, modern historical scholarship mandates that we understand the religion of Mary and Jesus within the limits established by the best available historical reconstruction of the Jewish religious world in which they lived. What we can understand to be a realistic religious option within the world of late Second Temple Judaism has to govern what we can reasonably believe to have been the religion of these two individual Jews. We can understand the religion of Mary and Jesus by understanding the Judaism of their time and place, giving the picture color and nuance by adding whatever reliable evidence of their individual words and deeds we think the New Testament offers us. What if we approached the matter the other way around? We might, that is, take the unique individuality of Jesus and Mary as the key to understanding their religion, their own practice of the Judaism of their time. If we take our knowledge of Jesus and Mary as individual persons only from what we regard as the historically reliable evidence available from the New Testament texts, the results are likely to be the same as when we start from our historical knowledge of Second Temple Judaism. What, though, if we were to take our knowledge of Jesus and Mary as particular persons from what Catholic faith, on the basis of the New Testament, believes to be true of them? In that case we would, for example, see as basic to our understanding of the religion of Jesus the fact that this human being is true God, his humanity hypostatically united to and existing in the person who is God the eternal Son. Similarly we would see as basic to our understanding of the religion of Mary the fact that she is without sin from the first moment of her existence, and that she possesses the fullest measure of grace God has given to a created person. Thinking about the religion of Mary and Jesus from this vantage point does not, of course, require us either to reject or to ignore historically warranted claims about what either of them said and did, or about the religious world in which they lived. But the results of the inquiry are likely to be quite different when we take Catholic teaching about Mary and Jesus to be basic than when we take as basic an historical reconstruction of Second Temple Judaism. My purpose here is to search out the results of this alternative path of inquiry into the religion of Mary and Jesus. To put the aim in a different way, I will seek a primarily theological, as distinguished from Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 63 a primarily historical, understanding of the religion—the Jewishness— of Mary and Jesus. My chief interlocutor in this undertaking will be Thomas Aquinas. Thomas is helpful on this score, in part because his rich account of the virtue of religion gives us a lot to go on in thinking theologically about the Judaism and the Jewish identity of Mary and Jesus. In our context, he is also helpful just because he does not share many of the assumptions we are likely to bring to the task. Whether or not we end up agreeing with him on any particular point, St. Thomas can give us critical leverage on two matters of great importance to contemporary Catholic theology. In the first place, he helps us, perhaps surprisingly, to understand the deep theological significance of the Jewishness of Mary and Jesus. As Thomas sees it, God incarnate and his mother could only be Jews. What makes them to be Jews, in particular the election of Israel and the cultic life of the Jewish people, is essential to who they are, to their being the Mother of God and the incarnate Word of God. Appreciating the Jewishness of Mary and Jesus is therefore essential for understanding the Christian message about God become flesh, his redemptive mission, and the place of his mother in it. The religion of Israel—the Old Testament—and not a universal religiosity belonging to human nature or natural law, gives us the needed background against which the gospel of Christ becomes intelligible and plausible. In the process of spelling this out, Aquinas confronts us, secondly, with the need to think in a fresh way about the abiding place of the Jewish religion and the Jewish people in the saving purposes of God. The Virtue of Religion: Overview As Aquinas uses the term, “religion” orients us to God, and to God alone. The first thing to be asked about religion is whether it “consists solely in being ordered to God,” and the first thing to be said about it is yes: religion, in fact, orders those who have it or do it to God alone.1 This insistence that we find “religion” where, and only where, human beings are rightly ordered to God serves as the cornerstone 1 Summa theologiae (hereafter, ST) II-II, q. 81, prooem.: “utrum religio consistat tantum in ordine ad Deum.” However we understand the etymology of the term, Aquinas observes in reply (ibid., a. 1, resp.), “religion, properly speaking, involves being ordered to God” (“religio proprie importat ordinem ad Deum”). All translations are my own. Latin quotations from the ST are from Sancti Thomae de Aquino Summa theologiae, 3rd ed. (Milan: Edizioni San Paolo, 1999), and my English translations are based on this text. I am grateful to my graduate assistant, Mitchell Kennard, for his considerable assistance in preparing this essay for publication in Nova et Vetera. 64 Bruce D. Marshall upon which Aquinas will construct an elaborate concept of religion, its manifold interior and exterior acts, and its countervailing vices. Religion belongs under the heading of justice, as its first “potential part.” As such, religion is the virtue that gives to God what is due to him, as every part of justice in some way gives what is due to another.2 What the rational creature owes to God is worship (cultus or latria).This worship is the free and reverent submission of body, mind, and heart to God in devotion, prayer, adoration, and sacrifice, in the offering of first fruits, tithes, and vows. “Religion” is the disposition to engage in all these acts, each of which “professes the divine excellence,” the surpassing goodness of God as creator and ruler of all things.3 Worship is due to God alone, however, not simply as the “unfailing source” of all that the creature is and has, “but also as the one to whom our choices ought to be assiduously directed as our ultimate end, the one whom we negligently cast away by sin, and whom we ought to recover by believing and by professing our faith.”4 Religion just is this protestatio fidei.5 “Religion” so conceived clearly orients the person who has it not simply to “a god,” “some god,” or “whatever everyone calls ‘god.’”6 Religion is a virtue, specifically a moral virtue, and like any moral virtue, it gets its unique nature and content from the end or goal at which it aims.7 The finis of religion cannot simply be whatever a person On religion as a potential part of justice, see ST II-II, q. 80, a. 1. See ST II-II, q. 81, a. 3, ad 2: “all the acts of religion have in common that “through them all, a human being professes the divine excellence and his own subjection to God” (“per omnes homo protestatur divinam excellentiam et subiectionem sui ad Deum”); and the corpus of the same article: “Moreover, it pertains to religion to exhibit reverence to the one God for one reason, namely insofar as he is the first principle of creation and of the government of things” (“Ad religionem autem pertinet exhibere reverentiam uni Deo secundum unam rationem, inquantum scilicet est primum principium creationis et gubernationis rerum”). Cf. ibid., a. 4, resp. 4 ST II-II, q. 81, a. 1, resp.: “Ipse enim est cui principaliter alligari debemus, tanquam indeficienti principio; ad quem etiam nostra electio assidue dirigi debet, sicut in ultimum finem; quem etiam negligenter peccando amittimus, et credendo et fidem protestando recuperare debemus.” 5 Cf. ST II-II, q. 94, a. 1, ad 1: Religion “is not faith, but the profession of faith by exterior signs” (“[R]eligio non est fides, sed fidei protestatio per aliqua exteriora signa”). 6 “[Q]uidquid . . . apud omnes dicitur Deus” (ST II-II, q. 85, a. 1, resp.); more on this will follow below. 7 ST II-II, q. 81, a. 5, resp.: “God is related to the virtue of religion not as matter or object, but as end” (“Deus non comparatur ad virtutem religionis sicut materia vel obiectum, sed sicut finis”). There are some subtleties here; see the discussion below of “formal” and “material” objects. 2 3 Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 65 takes to be “god,” or whatever she looks to for help and guidance, or whatever she takes to be of highest importance. Human beings, after all, frequently submit mind, heart, and body to existents, real or imagined, besides the God to whom alone we owe this submission. We worship false gods, offering to them adoration and sacrifice that in justice are owed to another, and only to him. By offering our worship to anything or anyone other than the God to whom alone it is due, we commit a profound injustice. Obviously no unjust submission and reverence can be an act of the virtue of religion. Just because it is a virtue, religion orders the human being toward the true God, the only God there is: “Divine worship . . . ought to be shown to the supreme uncreated God alone.”8 “The supreme uncreated God” is, as it happens, the Holy Trinity, and only he. Having the virtue of religion and rightly offering divine worship thus requires the ability to identify “the supreme uncreated God” correctly as the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. In fact, Aquinas considers it a serious objection to the unity of the habit of religion that there are three divine persons, to each of whom we presumably owe a distinctive act of devotion, a particular protestation of his surpassing excellence. On the contrary, Thomas replies, a single act of devotion will do. But religion is a unitary habit with a single act not because it aims at God in some way other than as the Trinity of persons he is, but because the three persons themselves create and rule the world by a single act (a single act, that is, undertaken by the three— opera ad extra indivisa sunt). As a result, “we can serve them”—and no one else—“by a single religion,” that is, by a single disposition or habit.9 We can reach the same conclusion by bearing in mind that religion is a virtue. The presence of a virtue implies success in the acts that the virtue enables to take place.Virtues can never lead us astray; in one way or another, they orient those who possess them toward the good. “A virtue is a habit that is always disposed toward the good.”10 The good ST II-II, q. 94, a. 1, resp.: “[D]ivinus cultus . . . [d]ebet autem exhiberi soli summo Deo increato.” See also ST II-II, q. 85, a. 2, resp., and, for a considerable elaboration of this point, Summa contra gentiles [hereafter, SCG] III, ch. 120: “latriae cultus soli uni summo Deo debetur” (S. Thomae Aquinatis Liber de Veritate Catholicae Fidei contra errores Infidelium: seu Summa Contra Gentiles, 3 vols, ed. C. Pera et al. [Turin/Rome: Marietti, 1961], no. 2939; cf. no. 2926. Paragraph numbers in references to SCG are from this edition). 9 ST II-II, q. 81, a. 3, ad 1: “[T]res personae divinae sunt unum principium creationis et gubernationis rerum, et ideo eis una religione servitur.” 10 ST I-II, q. 55, a. 4, resp.: “[V]irtus autem est habitus semper se habens ad bonum.” Cf. ibid., a. 3, resp.: “The virtue of a thing is spoken of as ordered to 8 66 Bruce D. Marshall towards which the virtue of religion disposes us is “the supreme uncreated God,” under the aspect of “the one to whom our will ought to be assiduously directed as our ultimate end.”11 In order to succeed—in order to be a virtue—“religion” must itself either include or in some fashion presuppose the ability to identify the supreme uncreated God correctly. To this God alone the reverent submission of divine worship may justly be offered. And so, resources sufficient to distinguish the true God from all the other candidates for worship on offer among human beings are necessary for the virtue of religion. It is no wonder, then, that Thomas sees an intimate connection between religion and faith. More precisely, the habit of religion is tightly bound up with the theological virtue of faith, the faith whose act is to believe what God alone, as first truth, can teach us about himself.This faith, not coincidently, holds true what God teaches about himself in Scripture rightly interpreted by the Church. The virtue of faith “holds to the articles of faith for only one reason: for the sake of the first truth, proposed to us in Scripture rightly understood according to the doctrine of the Church. Anyone who falls away from this reason [for holding the articles true] entirely lacks [the virtue of] faith.”12 In the nature of the case, this faith is strictly supernatural; it cannot be arrived at by any natural effort of mind or will, but can only be given by God. “When a human being assents to the truths of faith, he is raised above his nature. . . . therefore assent, which is the principal act of faith, is from God moving him inwardly by grace.”13 The habit of religion is not exactly the same as the habit of faith. Faith knows the most intimate truths about God, embracing them on the authority of God, who is truth itself, while religion offers God the worship owed to him, and does so precisely out of reverence for God. So religion depends on faith in just the sense in which means depend on—derive their character as genuine means from—the end to which they are means. By the habit of faith, we locate or identify the God to whom worship is truly owed, and by the habit of religion the good” (“[O]portet quod virtus cuiuslibet rei dicatur in ordine ad bonum”). ST II-II, q. 81, a. 1, resp. (note 4 above). 12 ST II-II, q. 5, a. 3, ad 2: “[O]mnibus articulis fidei inhaeret fides propter unum medium, scilicet propter veritatem primam propositam nobis in Scripturis secundum doctrinam Ecclesiae intellectis sane. Et ideo qui ab hoc medio decidit totaliter fide caret.” 13 ST II-II, q. 6, a. 1, resp.: “Quia cum homo, assentiendo his quae sunt fidei, elevetur supra naturam suam, oportet quod hoc insit ei ex supernaturali principio interius movente, quod est Deus. Et ideo fides quantum ad assensum, qui est principalis actus fidei, est a Deo interius movente per gratiam.” 11 Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 67 we reverently offer to just this God the worship justice requires. “God is not related to the virtue of religion as its matter or object, but as its end. Therefore religion is not a theological virtue, whose object is the ultimate end [itself], but a moral virtue, which has to do with the means to this end.”14 In all this, we can see clearly a basic difference between the way Thomas deploys the concept “religion” and the way we ourselves are likely to do so. For us, it has become second nature to use the term “religion” descriptively. We may disagree about how to define religion, or indeed whether there is much use in trying to define it precisely, but in any case, we use the term to collect a wide array of phenomena, of practices, beliefs, and communal ways of life. We may make judgments about the truth or falsity of beliefs we classify as religious, and we may assess the moral value of particular religious practices. Or we may refrain from such judgments. Either way, we regard decisions about truth or goodness in matters religious to be quite separate from our recognition that they ought to be counted as religious matters. Aquinas, by contrast, evidently uses the term “religion” in a robustly normative way. To classify an act or practice as religious is to judge that it orients the person who does it to the triune God, the one true God, as her final end, that it springs from supernatural faith in (and so from true beliefs about) this God, and that it serves justice by offering to this God the worship that is inherently his due from the rational creature. “Religion” does not simply name a class of dispositions and practices of indeterminate value; it connotes excellence. The term names, in other words, a virtue. Where this virtue is present, the “supreme uncreated God” is rightly worshipped. Where it is absent, a countervailing vice must in some degree be present.This is not an arbitrary negative stipulation about other ways of worship—your worship is a vice because it is not mine. It goes with the normative use of the term “religion.” The grammar of “virtue” requires this: since virtue is a needed orientation to some good, where a virtue is absent, so is the rational creature’s orientation to that particular good. And this absence is, by definition, vice.15 Aquinas’s covering term for the vices opposed 14 15 ST II-II, q. 81, a. 5, resp.: “Deus non comparatur ad virtutem religionis sicut materia vel obiectum, sed sicut finis. Et ideo religio non est virtus theologica, cuius obiectum est ultimus finis, sed est virtus moralis, cuius est esse circa ea quae sunt ad finem”; see note 7 above. This is assuming that the good in question is in fact needed—viz., that a human being ought to be oriented to that good. This clearly obtains in the case of religion, since the good at which this virtue aims is the triune God, the 68 Bruce D. Marshall to religion is “superstition.”16 The most obvious of the many cases is idolatry, in which “divine worship is shown to that to which it ought not to be shown,” to anyone or anything save “the supreme uncreated God alone.”17 There is no need to choose between these two uses or meanings of “religion,” but it will pay large dividends to keep them straight. Aquinas notes this by distinguishing between descriptive and normative uses of “latria,” or worship. If we take the term “latria” descriptively to refer to “any human act pertaining to the worship of [a] god,” then “latria” can be applied to idolatry in the same sense in which it applies to true religion. But if we take the term normatively, as Aquinas usually does, then it refers to a virtue, which, as such, “includes in its very definition that divine worship is shown to the one to whom it ought to be shown.” In this sense, latria “is simply the same thing as religion,” rather than being a class to which religion and idolatry equally belong.18 16 17 18 highest good and final aim of all human life, and indeed of all creatures. There can also be goods to which a person may be oriented but need not be. The absence of an orientation to this sort of good can be a vice, but it can also be a sign that the person is simply not engaged with this sort of good. Appreciating the unearthly beauty of the symphonies of Anton Bruckner is a virtue, and deliberate aversion to them a manifest vice. But one might simply have no attitude toward them at all, not having heard them, or not having acquired enough of an ear for orchestral music to apprehend the good that one is hearing. Since it involves no deliberate aversion from a needed good, this sort of inability to appreciate Bruckner cannot be counted as a vice, however great a misfortune it is for those who are subject to it. ST II-II, q. 92, a. 1, resp.: “Superstition is a vice contrary to religion by excess, not that it offers more in the way of divine worship than true religion, but because it offers divine worship either to whom it ought not, or in a way it ought not” (“[S]uperstitio est vitium religioni oppositum secundum excessum, non quia plus exhibeat in cultum divinum quam vera religio, sed quia exhibet cultum divinum vel cui non debet, vel eo modo quo non debet”). ST II-II, q. 94, a. 1, resp.: “[A]d superstitionem pertinet excedere debitum modum divini cultus. Quod quidem praecipue fit quando divinus cultus exhibetur cui non debet exhiberi. Debet autem exhiberi soli summo Deo increato”; cf. note 8 above. ST II-II, q. 94, a. 1, ad 2: “[N]omen latriae dupliciter accipi potest. Uno modo potest significare humanum actum ad cultum Dei pertinentem. Et secundum hoc, non variatur significatio huius nominis latria, cuicumque exhibeatur, quia illud cui exhibetur non cadet, secundum hoc, in eius definitione. Et secundum hoc latria univoce dicetur secundum quod pertinet ad veram religionem, et secundum quod pertinet ad idololatriam. . . . Alio modo accipitur latria prout est idem religioni. Et sic, cum sit virtus, de ratione eius est quod cultus divinus exhibeatur ei cui debet exhiberi. Et secundum hoc latria aequivoce dicetur de latria verae religionis, et de idololatria.” Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 69 How then do we come to possess and to exercise the virtue of religion—to offer worship solely to the one to whom it ought to be given, and in the way it ought to be given? If we are to be religious, we will need both the interior capacity or disposition to undertake the manifold acts of religion and the precepts to guide our worship—a liturgical or ceremonial law to specify the exterior acts the worship by embodied beings needs in order to be latria of the one true God rather than idolatry. Nature can provide neither of these. Both the virtue of religion and the rules for worship must be given by God, beyond the gift of nature and nature’s capacities. That the interior virtue of religion has to be a supernatural gift is already clear from the dependence of religion on the theological virtue of faith. Aquinas is, in any case, explicit that only a person who has supernatural faith—indeed, faith formed by charity—can exercise the virtue of religion. “The theological virtues, namely faith, hope, and charity . . . by their own command, cause the act of religion, which undertakes various operations as ordered to God.”19 This only stands to reason, since religion is concerned with those acts of devotion and submission that serve as means to the ultimate end of human life, and this end, as Aquinas insists from the outset, is beyond the capacities of nature as such.20 Thus, St.Thomas can sometimes speak of faith as the source or origin (principium) of the virtue of religion: “Faith is the cause and source of religion. For no one would choose to worship God unless he held by faith that God is the creator, governor, and rewarder of human acts.”21 At other times, he speaks with equal directness of charity as the principium of religion: “That a human being gives himself over to God by cleaving to him in a kind of spiritual union belongs first of all to charity. That a human being gives himself over to God by doing the works of divine worship belongs first of all 19 20 21 ST II-II, q. 81, a. 5, ad 1: “Virtutes autem theologicae, scilicet fides, spes et caritas, habent actum circa Deum sicut circa proprium obiectum. Et ideo suo imperio causant actum religionis, quae operatur quaedam in ordine ad Deum.” ST I, q. 1, a. 1, resp.: “Man is ordered to God as to an end that exceeds the comprehension of reason, according to Isaiah 64:4: ‘Apart from you, O God, eye has not seen what things you have prepared for those who love you’” (“[H]omo ordinatur ad Deum sicut ad quendam finem qui comprehensionem rationis excedit, secundum illud Isaiae 64[:4], ‘oculus non vidit Deus absque te, quae praeparasti diligentibus te’”). “[F]ides est religionis causa et principium: non enim aliquis eligeret cultum Deo exhibere, nisi fide teneret Deum esse creatorem, gubernatorem, et remuneratorem humanorum actuum” (Super Boetium De Trinitate 3, 2, c [Leonine ed., vol. 50 (1992), 111.162–112.166]). 70 Bruce D. Marshall to religion, but ultimately to charity, which is the source of religion.”22 There is no problem to be solved here, no need to choose between faith and charity as the source of religion. All three theological virtues must be present in order for the virtue of religion to be present. Possession of the theological virtues is, in other words, a necessary condition for possession of the moral virtue of religion. “Religion is a profession of faith, hope, and charity, which are the first beginning of our ordering to God.”23 Neither are the precepts of religion, the laws needed to direct human cultic practice to its proper end and so distinguish it from idolatry, available to us by the exercise of our natural powers. For this, there are several reasons, of which the first is, once again, the vocation of humanity to God as supernatural end. “Because the human being is ordained to the end of eternal blessedness, which exceeds the measure of our natural capacity . . . it was necessary that, beyond both natural and human law, the human being be directed to his end by a divinely given law.”24 Sin aggravates the situation, adding malice, weakness, concupiscence, and ignorance to nature’s inherent inadequacy for its supernatural end.25 But it neither alters nor creates the underlying need for a divinely given law—not least a cultic law—in order that we might attain our final end. Apparently Aquinas knows nothing of what will later be called “natural religion.” To be sure, “natural reason dictates that the human being do something out of divine reverence. But natural reason does not dictate that he do precisely this or that. This must be instituted by divine or human law.”26 At its best, human law aims only at “the ST II-II, q. 82, a. 2, ad 1: “[A]d caritatem pertinet immediate quod homo tradat seipsum Deo adhaerendo ei per quandam spiritus unionem. Sed quod homo tradat seipsum Deo ad aliqua opera divini cultus, hoc immediate pertinet ad religionem, mediate autem ad caritatem, quae est religionis principium.” 23 ST II-II, q. 101, a. 3, ad 1: “[R]eligio est quaedam protestatio fidei, spei et caritatis, quibus homo primordialiter ordinatur in Deum.” 24 ST I-II, q. 91, a. 4, resp.: “[Q]uia homo ordinatur ad finem beatitudinis aeternae, quae excedit proportionem naturalis facultatis humanae . . . ideo necessarium fuit ut supra legem naturalem et humanam, dirigeretur etiam ad suum finem lege divinitus data.” 25 See, e.g., Super Gal. 3, lec. 7 (S. ThomaeAquinatis Super Epistolas S. Pauli Lectura, ed. R.Cai, 8th ed., vol. 1 [Turin/Rome: Marietti, 1953], no. 165). Paragraph numbers in all references to Thomas’s Lecturae on Paul are from this Marietti edition. 26 ST II-II, q. 81, a. 2, ad 3: “[D]e dictamine rationis naturalis est quod homo aliqua faciat ad reverentiam divinam, sed quod haec determinate faciat vel illa, 22 Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 71 temporal tranquility of the state.” A cultic institution that aims at eternal felicity must be established by God.27 The Virtue of Religion: Questions Can the Virtue of Religion be Acquired? Among the distinctive features of St. Thomas’s moral theology is his claim that there are moral virtues infused directly by divine action, and not only those acquired by habituation from our own actions. In addition to the infused theological virtues of faith, hope, and love, infused moral virtues are necessary, he argues, for human beings to reach a supernatural end. Since the final end of human life is beyond the reach of created nature and its powers, it is beyond the reach of the acts those natural powers can by themselves produce and of the acquired habits those acts can engender. If morally virtuous acts (of justice, for example) can contribute to the attainment of our ultimate end—as surely they can—then the virtues that elicit those acts must themselves, he reasons, be supernatural gifts. Otherwise, we have to deny either that acts of justice and the other moral virtues can be perti- 27 istud non est de dictamine rationis naturalis, sed de institutione iuris divini vel humani.” ST I-II, q. 98, a. 1, resp.: “[A]lius finis legis humanae, et alius legis divinae. Legis enim humanae finis est temporalis tranquillitas civitatis. . . .Finis autem legis divinae est perducere hominem ad finem felicitatis aeternae.” All laws, whether human or divine, aim at the common good, that is, the good of the community subject to the law. But there are different kinds of communities, requiring different kinds of laws. For the common life of human beings with one another, human laws suffice, but for the common life of human beings with God, divine law is necessary. See ST I-II, q. 100, a. 2, resp.: “Human law is ordered to one kind of community, and divine law to another. Human law is ordered to civil community, which is that of human beings with one another. . . . But divine law is ordered to the community of human begins with God, in either the present or the future life. Therefore, divine law proposes precepts concerning all matters by which human beings are well ordered to sharing life with God” (“Est autem alius modus communitatis ad quam ordinatur lex humana, et ad quam ordinatur lex divina. Lex enim humana ordinatur ad communitatem civilem, quae est hominum ad invicem. . . . Sed communitas ad quam ordinat lex divina, est hominum ad Deum, vel in praesenti vel in futura vita. Et ideo lex divina praecepta proponit de omnibus illis per quae homines bene ordinentur ad communicationem cum Deo”). “Divine law” here means a network of precepts made known to us by God, beyond what natural law contains or human reason could discover. See ST I-II, q. 91, a. 4, resp. (note 24 above). 72 Bruce D. Marshall nent to the attainment of beatitude, or that the beatitude they aid us in attaining is truly supernatural. We avoid such unfortunate recourse by granting that the moral virtues, including religion (as a part of justice), can be infused, and not just acquired. “The virtue that orders a human being to the good as measured by divine law and not by human reason cannot be caused by human acts, whose source is reason, but must be caused in us by divine operation alone. Thus Augustine, defining this kind of virtue, includes in its definition ‘that which God works in us without us.’”28 Later medieval theology was divided over the notion of infused moral virtues. John Duns Scotus influentially held that there was no need to posit virtues of this sort. They merely add a redundant layer of complexity to our picture of human action and the attainment of beatitude; moral theology is therefore better off without them. Scotus’s arguments against requiring infused moral virtues are imbedded in his treatment of the distinctions (or lack thereof) among the virtues, the gifts and fruits of the Holy Spirit, and the beatitudes, and in his discussion of the connections among the virtues.29 With characteristic 28 29 ST I-II, q. 63, a. 2, resp.: “Virtus vero ordinans hominem ad bonum secundum quod modificatur per legem divinam, et non per rationem humanam, non potest causari per actus humanos, quorum principium est ratio, sed causatur solum in nobis per operationem divinam. Et ideo, huiusmodi virtutem definiens, Augustinus posuit in definitione virtutis, ‘quam Deus in nobis sine nobis operatur’” (cf. a. 3, resp.). “Measured by divine law” means “ordered to the ultimate end of human life,” while “measured by reason” means “ordered to the goods of this present life.” Cf. De virtutibus in communi a. 10, ad 8: “Infused temperance seeks the mean in a different respect than does acquired temperance. For infused temperance seeks the mean as measured by divine law, which orders [us] to the ultimate end, but acquired temperance takes its mean as measured by inferior rules, ordered to the goods of this present life” (“[A]lia ratione requirit medium temperantia infusa quam temperantia acquisita. Nam temperantia infusa exquirit medium secundum rationes legis divinae, quae accipiuntur ex ordine ad ultimum finem; temperantia autem acquisita accipit medium secundum inferiores rationes, in ordine ad bonum praesentis vitae,” in S. Thomae Aquinatis Quaestiones disputatae, 10th ed., vol. 2 [Turin/Rome: Marietti, 1965], 736b). On the background to Thomas’s view of infused moral virtues and the debates preceding him, see Artur Michael Landgraf, “Die Erkenntnis der Übernatürlichen,” in Dogmengeschichte der Frühscholastik, vol. 1i (Regensburg: Pustet, 1952), 141–201, esp. 161–83. See Ordinatio III, d. 34, nos. 24–30, in Opera Omnia, ed. Scotistic Commission (Vatican City: Typis Polyglottis Vaticanis, 1950–), 10:187–90 (hereafter, Vat.), and d. 36, nos. 101–13 (ibid., 10:261–9). For a complete translation of these two distinctions of the Ordinatio (though one not based directly on the Vatican edition), see Allan B. Wolter, O.F.M, Duns Scotus on the Will and Morality, ed. Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 73 reserve, he proposes that “one can say, without making it an unqualified assertion, that the only habits necessary in this life are the intellectual, moral, and theological virtues,” of which only the last are infused.30 With equally characteristic rigor, though, he argues that “it does not seem necessary to posit infused moral virtues alongside the acquired [moral] virtues in those who have, or can have, the acquired ones.”31 The infused virtue of charity is not only necessary, but sufficient, for attaining the final end at which all human acts aim, blessedness in God, and infused faith is likewise both necessary and sufficient for locating the end. Charity and faith therefore suffice to raise any human act (of justice, temperance, and so forth) to the ultimate perfection of which that act is capable. “The end of all [acts], which they cannot have in virtue of their own nature or kind, is sufficiently fixed by the inclination of charity, and their manner or measure is sufficiently fixed by infused faith.”32 An intermediate layer of infused moral virtues is needless. Aquinas and Scotus agree that human acts, of whatever sort, can reach their ultimate end only when joined with charity and that charity also suffices to raise any human act to its final end. This is central to Aquinas’s claim that there is no true virtue without charity, and that charity is the form of all the virtues. “Without charity,” he observes, “an act can be good with respect to the kind of act it is, but it cannot be perfectly good, because it lacks the needed ordering to the ultimate end.”33 Given charity, though, “the acts of all the other virtues are ordered to the ultimate end. In this sense charity gives form to the 30 31 32 33 William A. Frank (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1997), 237–274. Ordinatio III, d. 34, no. 24: “[P]otest dici (sine tamen assertione) quod non sunt necessarii in via nisi illi habitus qui sunt virtutes intellectuales, morales et theologicae” (Vat., 10:187.139–41; Wolter, Will and Morality, 240). Ibid., d. 36, no. 109: “[N]on videtur necessitas ponendi alias virtutes morales (infusas) quam acquisitas in iis qui habent eas acquisitas vel habere possunt” (Vat., 10:265.746–266.749; Wolter, Will and Morality, 272). Ibid.: “[F]inis omnis, quem non possunt habere ex specie sua, sufficienter determinatur ex inclinatione caritatis, modus autem vel medium sufficienter determinatur per fidem infusam” (Vat., 10:265.744–746; Wolter, Will and Morality, 271–272). “Modus . . . vel medium” here is close to what Aquinas will call the “formal object” of a habit or act. ST II-II, q. 23, a. 7, ad 1: “[S]ine caritate potest quidem esse aliquis actus bonus ex suo genere, non tamen perfecte bonus, quia deest debita ordinatio ad ultimum finem.” Thus, “there can be no genuine virtue without charity” (“nulla vera virtus potest esse sine caritate” [ibid., resp.]). 74 Bruce D. Marshall acts of all the other virtues.”34 Despite the sufficiency of charity for attaining the last end, though, Thomas insists that only infused virtues are productive of acts that charity can raise to the level of meriting beatitude.35 This is, indeed, the chief point of claiming that there must be infused as well as acquired moral virtues. If charity can perfect the acquired virtues and their acts so as to fit the agent for beatitude—as Scotus argues it can—then there is no need for infused moral virtues.36 From this it is plain that the virtue of religion can only be infused and cannot be acquired. So St. Thomas, at least, sees the matter. Religion requires charity; the infused virtue of charity is a necessary condition for possessing the virtue of religion in the first place. And charity is sufficient both for us to have the virtue of religion (since all the infused virtues are given along with charity) and for the virtue of 34 35 36 ST II-II, q. 23, a. 8, resp.: “[P]er caritatem ordinantur actus omnium aliarum virtutum ad ultimum finem. Et secundum hoc ipsa dat formam actibus omnium aliarum virtutum.” ST I-II, q. 65, a. 3, resp.: “Charity . . . is the source of every good work that can be ordered to the ultimate end. Therefore it is necessary that all the moral virtues, by which the human being fully carries out each different kind of good work, be infused together with charity” (“[C]aritas, inquantum ordinat hominem ad finem ultimum, est principium omnium bonorum operum quae in finem ultimum ordinari possunt. Unde oportet quod cum caritate simul infundantur omnes virtutes morales, quibus homo perficit singula genera bonorum operum”). Conversely, “moral virtues of this [infused] kind cannot exist without charity” (ST I-II, q. 65, a. 2, resp.: “[H]uiusmodi virtutes morales sine caritate esse non possunt”). The need (or not) for infused moral virtues remained a subject of vehement controversy well into early modern theology. Here, as on a number of other matters, Thomists (eventually including Jesuits, Carmelites, and others, as well as Domincans) were ranged against Scotists (typically Franciscans) in often highly intricate, and sometimes bitter, argument. Already in the late Middle Ages, John Capreolus (d. 1444) defended St. Thomas’s view against the criticisms of Scotus and others; Cardinal Cajetan (d. 1534) later did the same at less length. There is an English translation of the section of John Capreolus’s Defensiones that treats this question in On the Virtues, trans. Kevin White and Romanus Cessario, O.P. (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2001), 299–376. For Cajetan, see (among others) his commentary on ST I-II, q. 63, a. 3 (Leonine ed., 6:409–410). Scotist ripostes were numerous and forceful. See, e.g., John Punch (Pontius or Poncius, d. 1661), Commentarii theologicii quibus Io: Duns Scoti questiones . . . elucidantur, & illustrantur, vol. 4 (Paris: Simeon Piget, 1661), 386–92, 506–518 (reprinted in the Wadding-Vivès edition of Scotus, vol. 15 [Paris: Vivès, 1894], 482–93, 701–25), and Angelo Volpi (Angelus Vulpes, d. 1647), Sacrae theologiae summa Ioannis Duns Scoti . . . et commentaria, pt. 2, vol. 3 (Naples: Lazarus Scorigium, 1635), 110–114 (disp. 118, a. 3). Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 75 religion to attain, in its way, the final end of human life: God under the aspect of the one to whom we owe the highest honor and the surrender or subjection of our whole self. A virtue we can have only if we have charity, and of which charity makes use in attaining the ultimate end of human life, is for St. Thomas an infused virtue by definition. So religion, for St. Thomas, is by definition an infused virtue, a supernatural gift. Whatever may be the case with the other moral virtues and their acts, only they can possess the virtue of religion and undertake its acts who are in a state of grace, living in friendship with God. For St. Thomas, in other words, the virtue of religion is possible only among the baptized, whether by water, desire, or blood—that is, only among Christians. It might be objected that all the moral virtues require charity for their perfection and the attainment of the ultimate end, yet genuine (if imperfect) moral virtues can be acquired, and not only infused. So it is in other cases; why not in the case of religion?37 In Thomas’s lexicon, infused moral virtues aim at the ultimate good for human beings and require charity, while acquired moral virtues aim at a proximate good and do not require charity. If we divide up the moral virtues in this way, then in many cases, there can be both infused and acquired virtues concerned with the same sort of thing, virtues, that is, of the same genus (but not in every case). Justice, for example, is concerned with what we owe to another. The welfare of the country or society in which we live is a proximate good, and in justice we owe a genuine debt to the state. Acquired justice is, or includes, the disposition to pay this debt as a penultimate good. Courage, or fortitude, concerns what we fear and what we may venture in the face of what we fear. Courage, the virtuous disposition to act for the greater good in the face of our fears (say, in military service to our country), can likewise be acquired. Religion, as we have seen, concerns the honor and subjection we owe to God alone as the supreme good.What, then, would acquired religion be? Acquired virtues 37 Dispositions to seek what Aquinas calls proximate or particular goods, such as the welfare of one’s country, are clearly virtues, even if they lack the perfection that comes from charity. “If a particular good is a genuine good, for example the preservation of the commonwealth, or something of this kind, then [the disposition that seeks it] will be a genuine virtue, but an imperfect one, since it does not aim at the final and perfect good” (ST II-II, q. 23, a. 7, resp.: “Si vero illud bonum particulare sit verum bonum, puta conservatio civitatis vel aliquid huiusmodi, erit quidem vera virtus, sed imperfecta, nisi referatur ad finale et perfectum bonum”). 76 Bruce D. Marshall are ordered to proximate or penultimate ends. But in this case, there can be no proximate or penultimate end. There can be, obviously, no proximate good to which we are ordered as the supreme good, no proximate source of our life to which we are ordered as the total cause of our existence, no penultimate guide in our lives to which we are ordered as the providential governor of all that is. Religion is simply the disposition to offer to God what we owe in justice to him alone. While there can be an acquired justice with regard to creatures, there can be no acquired justice—religion—with regard to God. What we owe to God alone cannot, naturally, be offered rightly to anyone save God alone. We can and do offer to countless others besides God alone what we owe only to him, but to do so is not the act of an acquired virtue that rightly honors as God some penultimate good. It is the vice of idolatry, acquired by our own effort, as all vices must be. The doctrinal and theological motivations for finding an acquired virtue of religion in Aquinas are not medieval, but distinctively modern. The Second Vatican Council firmly established as Catholic teaching the universal availability of salvation through Christ (in Gaudium et Spes §22, for example) and the presence, real if partial, of spiritual truth and goodness in non-Christian religions (especially in Nostra Aetate). These doctrinal developments did not come out of nowhere, but were the fruit of long reflection and debate, reaching back to early modernity and the Church’s formative encounters with the native peoples of the new world and the traditional religions of Asia. Though it cannot claim a similarly explicit doctrinal mandate, modern Catholic theology has also been widely concerned to find a natural and universal, or at least universally available, human religiosity. This universal human religious inclination, so the argument goes, can serve as the background the Christian message must have in order to be intelligible and plausible to those who hear it, the soil the Gospel needs in order to grow. On both counts, Thomas has naturally been a frequent recourse. In apologetics, fundamental theology, soteriology, or the theology of religions, there has been a potent motive for seeing in this long discussion of religion an acquired, and not only an infused, virtue. Arguments to these ends can take many forms, but the basic strategy is to root the acquisition of religion in the natural human desires for truth, goodness, and (perhaps especially) happiness. Using the resources native to his intellect and will, every human being who has the use of these powers can acquire what Thomas calls a cultus, or what we call a religion. It may be the only cultus available to him in his social context, Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 77 or he may choose among several available religions in quest of the one most conducive to his happiness. Vicious cultic practices may be acquired in this way (the Nuremberg rallies, for example), but it is quite possible to acquire virtuous practices as well, which genuinely aim at human happiness. The disposition to engage in such practices constitutes an acquired virtue of religion. Even by an acquired religion, a person begins to offer God the honor and subjection all creatures owe him as their ultimate beginning and end. An acquired religion can thus inaugurate a human being’s movement toward God as last end. Christianity perfects this movement and, at the same time, rightly appeals to the acquired religion in order to exhibit its own supreme attractions. Whatever the theological merits of positing a naturally available virtue of religion along these lines, this notion is not, I think, to be found in the teaching of St. Thomas. Seen in light of his distinction between infused and acquired virtues and his account of charity’s relation to the rest of the virtues, Thomas’s whole elaborate discussion of “religion” in questions 81–100 of the Secunda secundae of the Summa concerns only an infused virtue. There can, of course, be an acquired cultus in Thomas’s view, but (by definition) it will lack infused faith and charity. As a result, it will fail to honor “the supreme uncreated God alone,” but will instead offer the honor and submission due only to God to someone or something else. It will be a vice, not an act of the virtue of religion. Our tendency to conflate the descriptive and normative uses of the term “religion” contributes to confusion at this point. For us, a descriptive use of “religion” is second nature, and it leads us to apply the term much more widely than Aquinas usually does. When we go on to view “religion” as essentially a good (here in agreement with Aquinas), the way is open to seeing a genuine virtue wherever “religion” is found. And so we may assume that Aquinas’s questions on religion are basically talking about a naturally accessible virtue, real but imperfect and looking to be brought to fulfillment by the Gospel and infused charity. Thomas, though, deliberately distinguishes these two uses of “religion” and makes it clear that he usually employs the normative one. Countless forms of worship that we (and occasionally Thomas himself) describe as “religion” are not, from the normative point of view afforded by his account of religion and its place among the virtues, practices attesting to a real if imperfect virtue of religion. For him, they belong not to religion at all, but to superstition and idolatry. Scotus’s view of the virtues, in fact, comports much better with the idea of an acquired virtue of religion than St. Thomas’s does and 78 Bruce D. Marshall would more readily serve the theological motives that make the idea seem necessary than would Thomas’s own. For Scotus, infused charity can perfect naturally available virtues and their acts, drawing them up to the ultimate end of human life. This includes, at least in principle, many kinds of cultus or religiosity naturally available apart from Christian faith and baptism, and virtuous as far as they go.38 For Aquinas it does not. Charity perfects the acts of infused virtues, which require charity itself and, so, are not naturally available apart from Christian faith and baptism. These observations raise important and difficult questions about whether, and in what ways, Aquinas may see salvation as available to non-Christians. That Aquinas (or Scotus, for that matter) lived in a world that saw considerably fewer ways to be a “non-Christian” than we do, and in which “non-Christian” often had connotations quite different than it is likely to have for us, compounds the difficulty.39 My purpose here is not to decide these questions, but to make a more limited point. However salvation may be available to non-Christians for St. Thomas, it will not come to them by perfecting a naturally available virtue of religion. On his view, whatever we make of nonChristian religions, we cannot see them as instances or developments of natural human virtue. And since there cannot be an acquired virtue of religion, no human cultus can be a naturally available good serving as background for the intelligibility or attractiveness of Christianity. Can Grace Perfect Natural Religion? The idea of an acquired virtue of religion finds much of its theological appeal in the thought that it can be perfected or completed by the Gospel and the grace the Gospel brings. Seen as an inchoate movement toward God open to any human being, an acquired religious disposition offers both a theological reason for finding value, including a kind of saving value, in non-Christian religions and an explanation for why grace and charity are, nonetheless, necessary if naturally available human religiosity is to attain its true goal. Grace does not destroy nature, but perfects it (the one Thomistic axiom, perhaps, that no Catholic theologian today would think to deny). It may thus seem 38 39 Whether Scotus himself leaves room for worship or other religious practices among naturally available virtuous acts susceptible to perfection by charity is, of course, another matter, which I will not pursue here. On this, see Jean-Pierre Torrell, O.P., “Saint Thomas et les non-chrétiens,” Revue thomiste 106 (2006): 17–49. Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 79 inescapable that a naturally available religiosity provide the basis on which Christian proclamation and supernatural faith in the Gospel can build, the religious “nature” upon which the grace of faith, hope, and charity must work in order to perfect it. For Aquinas, though, even if there could be an acquired virtue of religion, grace and charity could not perfect it. The religion that contributes to our attainment of God would still have to be infused, so it is pointless to posit an acquired virtue of religion. This conclusion stems from the logic of Aquinas’s distinction between infused and acquired virtues, and so is worth tracing from its source. Thomas’s idea that moral virtues can be infused as well as acquired depends on the claim that an infused moral virtue differs in kind (in species, as he puts it) from the eponymous acquired virtue. Infused temperance, for example, is a different virtue from acquired temperance.40 Similarly, infused justice will be different in kind—a different justice—than any we can acquire by our own acts, and infused religion would be different in kind from religion gained by habituation from our own acts (if there were such a thing). This rules out the thought that the infused virtue of religion is one and the same as a naturally available virtue now perfected by grace and charity. Infused moral virtues are not more intense and complete realizations of those that can be acquired, but rather, for Thomas, make up a distinct family of virtues with different objects and different acts from any that an acquired virtue can have or undertake. Temperance is his standard example of this distinction in kind. “[I]nfused temperance assigns due measure to the desire for tactile delights in a different way than acquired temperance. . . . hence they do not have the same act.”41 We have already seen that, for Thomas, infused and acquired virtues differ both in their causes (divine action, human action) and their ends (the ultimate good, proximate goods). But when it comes to virtues of the same genus—roughly, those concerned with the same class of goods to be pursued and evils to be avoided—the clearest way of distinguishing the infused from the acquired is by reference to their different “formal objects.” Thomas’s use of the term “object” may suggest an entity of some sort, a particular with which human acts and capacities can be engaged. That is in fact what he means when he 40 41 See ST I-II, q. 63, a. 4, resp. ST I-II, q. 63, a. 4, ad 2: “[A]lia ratione modificat concupiscentias delectabilium tactus temperantia acquisita et temperantia infusa . . . unde non habent eumdem actum.” 80 Bruce D. Marshall speaks of a “material object,” but a “formal object” is not an entity or particular as such. Rather, it is an aspect or feature that brings the entity within the purview of a human act or capacity. The formal object of the power to see, for example, is color. Anything could be the material object of sight, as long as it has the feature of being colored; in virtue of being colored, entities, whether men, donkeys, or stones, fall within the range, the “formal object,” of the human power of sight.42 The matter of a moral virtue is desire; specifically, in the case of temperance, the desire elicited by what we can touch or taste. This common “material object” defines the genus, as it were, of temperance, of which the acquired and infused virtues are different species. As a moral virtue, temperance’s formal object is the virtuous mean in accord with which practical reason modifies and shapes the desires of touch and taste, and the actions stemming from them, so as to avoid both excess and defect. At just this point, infused temperance has a different formal object from acquired temperance, and so is a different virtue. The mean for tactile desire discerned by human reason is not the same as the mean imposed by divine law. When it comes to food, for example, reason bids us to eat the right amount to keep up the strength and health of our body, whereas “the norm of divine law requires that a person ‘chasten his body and bring it into submission’ (1 Cor 9:27) by abstinence from food and drink and other things of this sort. Thus, it is obvious that infused and acquired temperance differ in kind, and the same goes for the other [moral] virtues.”43 ST I, q. 1, a. 3, resp.: “Est enim unitas potentiae et habitus consideranda secundum obiectum, non quidem materialiter, sed secundum rationem formalem obiecti, puta homo, asinus et lapis conveniunt in una formali ratione colorati, quod est obiectum visus.” 43 The whole passage runs as follows: “Habits are distinquished in kind . . . according to the specific and formal characters of their objects. Now, the object of any given virtue is the good considered in some particular matter, as the object of temperance is the good in respect of the pleasures connected with tactile desire. The formal character of this object comes from reason, which establishes a mean in these desires, whereas the material character of the object belongs to the desires themselves. Now, it is clear that the mean imposed on these desires by the rule of human reason is different in character from the mean imposed by divine rule. For instance, in the consumption of food, the mean established by human reason is that the consumption of food should not harm the health of the body or impede the act of reason, whereas the norm of divine law requires that a person ‘chasten his body and bring it into submission’ (1 Cor 9:27) by abstinence from food and drink, and other things of this sort. Thus, it is obvious that infused and acquired temperance differ in kind, and the same goes for the other [moral] virtues” (ST I-II, q. 63, 42 Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 81 As the example of temperance makes plain, infused and naturally acquired virtues oriented to the same matter are not only different in kind, but can be opposed to one another. Regular fasting to the point of hunger enacts the infused virtue of temperance, instilling as it does a proper disregard for this passing world and encouraging the temperate soul to long for eternal, imperishable goods. By the standard of acquired temperance, this degree of self-denial is not the virtuous mean in what delights our taste, but a want of proper care for the welfare of one’s own body. Conversely the three square meals per day commended by acquired temperance can, in the light of the infused virtue, be an excess amounting to gluttony. “What civil [acquired] virtue regards as excessive is, according to infused virtue, rightly measured—for example that a human being fasts and voluntarily offers herself up to death in defense of the faith.”44 St. Thomas’s reference to martyrdom here helps to explain why acquired moral virtues cannot, as he divides the matter up, be completed by or transformed into infused ones. The virtue disclosed by martyrdom is fortitude, or courage. In fact, martyrdom is the chief or supreme act of this virtue, the act that reveals fortitude at its highest pitch, in its purest and most paradigmatic form. “Regarding fortitude [is] to be considered . . . its principal act, namely martyrdom.”45 If martyrdom is its chief act, then the fortitude under discussion a. 4, resp.: “[H]abitus distinguuntur specie uno modo . . . secundum speciales et formales rationes obiectorum. Obiectum autem virtutis cuiuslibet est bonum consideratum in materia propria, sicut temperantiae obiectum est bonum delectabilium in concupiscentiis tactus. Cuius quidem obiecti formalis ratio est a ratione, quae instituit modum in his concupiscentiis, materiale autem est id quod est ex parte concupiscentiarum. Manifestum est autem quod alterius rationis est modus qui imponitur in huiusmodi concupiscentiis secundum regulam rationis humanae, et secundum regulam divinam. Puta in sumptione ciborum, ratione humana modus statuitur ut non noceat valetudini corporis, nec impediat rationis actum, secundum autem regulam legis divinae, requiritur quod homo ‘castiget corpus suum, et in servitutem redigat’ (1 Cor. 9:27), per abstinentiam cibi et potus, et aliorum huiusmodi. Unde manifestum est quod temperantia infusa et acquisita differunt specie, et eadem ratio est de aliis virtutibus”). 44 In III Sent. d. 33, q. 1, a. 2, qa. 4, ad 2: “[A]liquid superfluum secundum virtutem civilem est moderatum secundum virtutem infusam, sicut quod homo ieiunet, et se voluntarie morti offerat propter defensionem fidei” (Scriptum super libros Sententiarum, vol. 3, ed. M. F. Moos, O.P. [Paris: Lethielleux, 1933], 1031[no. 77]). 45 ST II-II, q. 123, prooem.: “Circa fortitudinem autem consideranda sunt tria: primo quidem, de ipsa fortitudine; secundo, de actu praecipuo eius, scilicet de martyrio; tertio, de vitiis oppositis.” 82 Bruce D. Marshall here, the third of the four cardinal virtues to which Thomas devotes the bulk of the Secunda secundae, is a virtue only a Christian can possess. This virtue elicits as its principal act, after all, what only a Christian can do.The martyr is willing to die for the highest truth—God as he makes himself known to Christian faith—and the highest justice, precisely that divine justice or righteousness, Aquinas observes, which comes to us through faith in Christ.46 The act of martyrdom requires not only the divinely given virtue of faith, but also the virtue of charity. Just as the various acts of religion presuppose, and ultimately are elicited by, not only faith and hope, but also charity, so also the supreme act of courage is, in the end, an act of infused charity.47 In fact, it is the most perfect act of charity, the supreme and paradigmatic act of Christian virtue. Out of love for the God in whom she believes and the neighbor whom she serves, the martyr freely gives up what is most dear to her, as to each of us, in this world—her own life—rather than depart from faith and justice. “An act of virtue can be considered with respect to what first of all moves it, which is the love of charity. . . . Among all virtuous acts, martyrdom most of all exhibits the perfection of charity. . . . [A]mong all human acts martyrdom is the most perfect in kind, since it is a sign of the greatest charity. As John 15[:13] says, greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”48 ST II-II, q. 124, a. 2, ad 1: “Gratuitous fortitude strengthens the soul of man in the good of divine justice, which is ‘through faith in Jesus Christ,’ as is said in Romans 3:22. Thus martyrdom is related to faith as the end in which one is strengthened, but to fortitude as the habit that elicits the act” (“[F]ortitudo gratuita firmat animum hominis in bono iustitiae Dei, quae est per fidem Iesu Christi, ut dicitur Rom. 3[:22]. Et sic martyrium comparatur ad fidem sicut ad finem in quo aliquis firmatur: ad fortitudinem autem sicut ad habitum elicientem”). On God as formal object of faith under the aspect of first truth (veritas prima), see (among others) ST II-II, q. 1, a. 1. I discuss this point in some detail in my essays “Faith and Reason Reconsidered: Aquinas and Luther on Deciding What is True,” The Thomist 63.1 (1999): 1–48, and “Aquinas as Postliberal Theologian,” The Thomist 53.3 (1989): 353–402. 47 On the way the acts of religion depend on infused faith and charity, see above, [6]-[7]. 48 ST II-II, q. 124, a. 3, resp.: “An act of virtue can be considered with respect to what first of all moves it, which is the love of charity. . . . Among all virtuous acts, martyrdom most of all exhibits the perfection of charity, since the degree of a person’s love for a thing is demonstrated by the dearness of that which he despises for its sake or by the odiousness of that which he chooses to suffer for its sake. But it is evident that, among all the goods of the present life, man loves life itself most, and on the other hand he hates death more than anything, especially when it is accompanied by the sufferings of bodily torment, from fear of which even brute animals ‘abstain from the greatest pleasures,’ as Augus46 Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 83 There can be an acquired virtue of fortitude because, unlike religion, fortitude does not have the ultimate end as its sole possible aim. Acquired courage will be different in its formal object and its end from the infused virtue of fortitude, which is Thomas’s main concern. Not moved by faith and charity, it will be a partial and imperfect fortitude, but still a genuine virtue ordered to a real good. Neither this acquired virtue nor its act, however, will be perfected by Christian faith and charity. Rather, the two will coexist in the same breast, acts and virtues different in kind from one another. The common matter of fortitude, whether acquired or infused, is whatever arouses fear in us or, at the opposite extreme, audacity or daring. The formal object of fortitude will thus be the mean between cowardice and recklessness; fortitude will hold fear in check and moderate daring.49 Acquired or “civil” fortitude, therefore, has as its formal object firmness or perseverance in what Aquinas calls “human justice.”50 Its end will be the common good, in particular the peace, of the respublica or society to which one belongs, and its chief act will be readiness to die in the just cause of the respublica, especially in battle.51 The formal object of infused fortitude, by contrast, is perseverance in tine says (in the book 83 Questions ). And on account of this, it is clear that, among all human acts, martyrdom is the most perfect in kind, as the sign of the greatest charity, according to John 15[:13]: ‘greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends’” (“[P]otest considerari actus virtutis secundum quod comparatur ad primum motivum, quod est amor caritatis. . . . Martyrium autem, inter omnes actus virtuosos, maxime demonstrat perfectionem caritatis. Quia tanto magis ostenditur aliquis aliquam rem amare, quanto pro ea rem magis amatam contemnit, et rem magis odiosam eligit pati. Manifestum est autem quod inter omnia alia bona praesentis vitae, maxime amat homo ipsam vitam, et e contrario maxime odit ipsam mortem, et praecipue cum doloribus corporalium tormentorum, quorum metu etiam bruta animalia ‘a maximis voluptatibus absterrentur,’ ut Augustinus dicit, in libro Octoginta trium Quaest. Et secundum hoc patet quod martyrium inter ceteros actus humanos est perfectior secundum suum genus, quasi maximae caritatis signum, secundum illud Ioan. 15, ‘maiorem caritatem nemo habet quam ut animam suam ponat quis pro amicis suis’”). On the respective roles of charity and courage in bringing about the martyr’s act, see also ibid., a. 2, ad 2: charity is the “first and principle motive” (primum et principale motivum) of martyrdom, and necessary (as in the case of any virtuous undertaking) for the act to be meritorious, and so attain God as last end. Apart from charity there can be no genuine martyrdom: “sine caritate non valet” (cf. 1 Cor 13:3). 49 See ST II-II, q. 123, a. 3, resp. 50 ST II-II, q. 124, a. 2, ad 1: “[F]ortitudo civilis firmat animum hominis in iustitia humana.” 51 See ST II-II, q. 123, a. 5, resp. and ad 3; q. 124, a. 5, ad 3. 84 Bruce D. Marshall divine truth, the secrets of his inmost life that God makes known to us through faith in Christ and in divine justice, imparted to us through faith.52 Its end is protestatio of this faith, a witness to others of the truth that is in Christ and, with that, the upbuilding of the divine respublica, the community of those who are “fellow citizens of the saints and of the household of God” (cf. Eph 2:19).53 Its chief act, as we have seen, is martyrdom. Aquinas sums up the matter: “The cause of martyrdom is twofold: the honor of God, and the salvation of the neighbor.”54 Graced and civil fortitude can coexist.This is among the basic points of Thomas’s insistence that infused and acquired moral virtues differ in kind and not simply in degree.55 But the infused virtue and its acts are ST II-II, q. 124, a. 5, resp.: “The martyrs are called witnesses because, by their bodily sufferings unto death, they give testimony to the truth—not to just any truth, but to the truth which is according to godliness, which was made known to us through Christ; hence they are called martyrs of Christ, that is, his witnesses” (“[M]artyres dicuntur quasi testes, quia scilicet corporalibus suis passionibus usque ad mortem testimonium perhibent veritati, non cuicumque, sed veritati quae secundum pietatem est [cf. 1 Tim. 6:3, Tit. 1:1], quae per Christum nobis innotuit; unde et martyres Christi dicuntur, quasi testes ipsius”).On faith as knowledge of the innermost secrets of God, see Super Ioan. 15, lec. 3: “Now God reveals his secrets to us by making us partakers of his wisdom” (“Deus autem faciendo nos participes suae sapientiae, sua secreta nobis revelat”) (Super S. Thomae Aquinatis Super Evangelium S. Ioannis Lectura, ed. R. Cai, 5th ed. [Turin/Rome: Marietti, 1952], no. 2016; Paragraph numbers in all references to Thomas’s Lecturae on John are from this Marietti edition); and ST I, q. 1, a. 6, resp. On the justice peculiar to faith, see the text cited in note 46 above. 53 Thus, an infused virtue differs from its acquired counterpart (if there is one) not only by having a different formal object, but by having a different, and immeasurably higher, end. “In this way the infused moral virtues, by which human beings are rightly ordered to being ‘fellow-citizens with the saints, and of the household of God,’ differ in kind from the acquired virtues, by which a human is rightly ordered to human affairs” (ST I-II, q. 63, a. 4, resp.: “Et per hunc etiam modum differunt specie virtutes morales infusae, per quas homines bene se habent in ordine ad hoc quod sint ‘cives sanctorum et domestici Dei’ [Eph. 2:19]; et aliae virtutes acquisitae, secundum quas homo se bene habet in ordine ad res humanas”). At this point, the logic of the distinction between acquired and infused virtues is the same as that between natural or human law and divine law. Cf. the texts cited in note 27 above. 54 Super II Tim. 2, lec. 2: “Duplex autem est causa martyrii, scilicet propter divinum honorem, et salutem proximi” (Marietti, vol. 2, no. 52). 55 One way by which Thomas argues that infused and acquired virtues must be different in kind is by observing that the adult, who approaches the font with virtues already acquired, receives in baptism the same full panoply of infused virtues as the infant who has not yet been able to acquire any. This baptismal infusion does not alter the acquired virtues, but it gives the newly reborn adult 52 Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 85 not the perfection or intensification of the acquired ones. Martyrdom is not a more perfect way of dying for one’s country. Dying for the earthly respublica is not martyrdom at all, but a different kind of act with a different end; no matter how virtuous and just, it will never become martyrdom. So it is with devotion, prayer, sacrifice, and the other acts of the virtue of religion. Since they depend on the infused virtues of faith and charity, sacrifice and the acts allied to it can no more be the work of an acquired virtue of religion than martyrdom can be the work of acquired courage. Even if, counterfactually, there could be an acquired virtue of religion, this virtue and its acts of prayer, sacrifice, and so forth would not be augmented or perfected by the infused virtue of religion that comes with baptism. Rather, these two, the religion infused with baptism and a hypothetical virtue acquired by practice, would coexist like infused and acquired fortitude. The Christian would be the practitioner of two religions: the worship of the triune God and whatever cultus of whatever deity he had acquired from his natural instincts and his environment. He would offer prayer and sacrifice to the triune God according to that God’s revealed law and stemming from the infused virtue of religion, and he would offer prayer and sacrifice to the gods of his tribe, class, or civitas according to local custom and as acts of the acquired virtue of religion. Thomas, of course, does not distinguish these two cultus as infused religion and acquired religion, but as infused religion and false religion, or idolatry. If we think there needs to be a real distinction between infused and acquired moral virtues, then religion, as we have seen, can be numbered only among those infused. An act of civil fortitude can be the occasion for martyrdom, but this should not be mixed up with the idea that the infused virtue or its act completes or perfects the acquired one. Take, for example, St. Thomas More. He willingly died, we may suppose, both for the good of his moral virtues of a higher kind, with which his previously existing acquired virtues can continue to coexist. Cf. In III Sent. d. 33, q. 1, a. 2, qa. 4, sc 2: “Two forms of the same kind cannot be in one and the same subject. But an infused virtue [can] exist together with an acquired virtue, as is obvious in the case of an adult who approaches baptism with acquired virtue, and receives no fewer infused virtues than a child.Therefore acquired virtue and infused virtue differ in kind” (Moos, 1027 [no. 55]: “[D]uae formae ejusdem speciei non possunt esse in uno subjecto. Sed virtus infusa est simul cum virtute acquisita, ut patet in adulto qui habens virtutem acquisitam ad baptismum accedit, qui non minus recipit de infusis quam puer. Ergo virtus acquisita et infusa differunt specie”). 86 Bruce D. Marshall country (“I am the king’s good servant”) and out of love for Christ and his Church (“but God’s first”). On Aquinas’s analysis, these are not one and the same act of fortitude looked at in two different ways, but two distinct acts of fortitude undertaken by the same agent. Dying for one’s country does not become an act of martyrdom because it is the act of a Christian, of a person living in charity.56 Nor does one and the same act of dying for one’s country mutate, when charity takes hold, into a deed of a different kind, becoming no longer an act of mere civil courage, but the far more perfect act of martyrdom. There is no eliminating the difference between the end of acquired fortitude (the good of a human community) and the end of infused fortitude (the good of the civitas Dei). Having different ends, their acts must differ in kind, and a fortiori in number.57 Speaking of the possible causes of martyrdom, Aquinas observes that any “human good can be rendered divine, if it is referred to God.” The well-being of the earthly respublica and the virtue that seeks its well-being even under the threat of death are “human goods.” These human goods are “referred to God” when they are brought under the regime of faith and charity, which know God as first truth and love him as last end. Such goods do not cease to be “human,” a limited, penultimate end and an acquired virtue, when they are thus “referred to God.” This is not what Aquinas means by “rendered divine.” But 56 57 Thus, Aquinas observes, the Church does not venerate as martyrs Christians who die in the just cause of their country. See ST II-II, q. 124, a. 5, obj. 3. Some complexities lurk here that space prevents us from pursuing. A fuller account of this matter would need to consider Thomas’s complex theory of the human act, and in particular of how acts are individuated. Among the distinctions that structure his theory is that between elicited and commanded acts, e.g., willing to walk and actually walking (for a succinct account of this distinction, see ST I-II, q. 1, a. 1, ad 2; on its structural significance, see ST I-II, q. 6, prooem.). One could employ this distinction to say that St. Thomas More laid down his life only once. Giving his life is, in one very basic sense, a single act—say, the act of putting his neck on the block, or more broadly of accepting death under the circumstances of his time and place. But, on Aquinas’s account, it is a single act commanded by two different virtues, namely, acquired fortitude and infused fortitude. Each of these virtuous habits, moreover, elicits its own characteristic act, an initial interior willing: civil fortitude, the act of willing to accept death for the good of the respublica; infused fortitude, the act of willing to die out of love for Christ, as a witness to faith in him and his saving justice. In the terms familiar from contemporary moral philosophy, Aquinas’s view seems close to saying that a martyr like Thomas More undertakes one and the same act for two irreducibly different reasons, and out of two irreducibly different motives. Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 87 when “referred to God,” these human goods can be the cause of—that is, the occasion for—an act of an entirely different order, one beyond the reach of any “human” ability. They might, perhaps, then become a cause for the Christian to lay down his life out of love for God and his other friends.58 Religion and Natural Law At one point in his discussion of religion and its acts, Aquinas appears to blur his own distinction between infused and acquired virtues. He holds that natural law teaches us of the need to offer sacrifice to God and that it belongs among the dictates of natural reason that “the human being use various sensible realities, offering them to God as a sign of the subjection and honor we owe to him.”59 Sacrifice is among the chief acts of the virtue of religion; it visibly embodies that interior submission to and reverence for God in which religio itself consists. Like all the cultic acts of religion, sacrifice may rightly be offered only to the true God—soli summo Deo.60 Every human being, moreover, is under obligation to offer sacrifice, since this obligation belongs to the law of nature and, consequently, is binding on all.61 What nature enjoins is always good and right as far as it goes. From this it seems to follow that every human being is in a position to offer right sacrifice to the true God, regardless of whether she knows anything of the cultic law God has in fact given to guide the worship of his chosen people. God requires this of us all by way of the natural law, so surely it must be possible for all of us to do it. Some, of course, may fail to fulfill this obligation of nature, but all have in their nature and their human environment resources sufficient to fulfill it. “Those who are under the law are required to offer certain specific sacrifices according to the precepts of the law. Those who were not under the The quoted phrases are from ST II-II, q. 124, a. 5, ad 3: “[B]onum reipublicae est praecipuum inter bona humana. Sed bonum divinum, quod est propria causa martyrii, est potius quam humanum. Quia tamen bonum humanum potest effici divinum, ut si referatur in Deum, potest esse quodcumque bonum humanum martyrii causa secundum quod in Deum refertur.” On “referatur in Deum” as coming to be “sub mandato caritatis,” see ST I-II, q. 100, a. 10, ad 2. 59 ST II-II, q. 85, a. 1, resp.: “[E]x naturali ratione procedit quod homo quibusdam sensibilibus rebus utatur, offerens eas Deo in signum debitae subiectionis et honoris.” 60 ST II-II, q. 85, a. 2, resp.; SCG III, ch. 120 (especially no. 2926). See note 8 above. 61 ST II-II, q. 85, a. 4, sc: “[S]acrificium offerre est de lege naturae. . . . Ad ea autem quae sunt legis naturae omnes tenentur.” 58 88 Bruce D. Marshall law were required to undertake outward actions for the divine honor according to the customs of those among whom they lived, but were not bound specifically to one action or another.”62 Some contemporary readers of Thomas, especially those motivated by the apologetic worries to which I have already alluded, will see in these passages on sacrifice ample proof that Thomas does think there is a virtue of religion naturally available to all, since by nature all have enjoined on them an obligation to engage in one of the primary acts of religion. So one might think, if these passages were read in isolation from the rest of what St. Thomas says about the virtue of religion. But when they are seen in that broader light, the matter becomes rather less straightforward. In fact, it is hard to see how we could square this way of reading Thomas’s claim that natural law imposes an obligation to offer sacrifice with his claims that the virtue of religion can only be present where there is supernatural faith and charity and that infused virtues differ in kind from those that can be acquired, even when they deal with the same matter. These claims, as we have seen, categorically rule out an acquired virtue of religion and, thereby, the idea that any act of the virtue of religion, including sacrifice, could be accomplished by the application of our natural powers in our natural and social surroundings. It may be, of course, that Thomas is simply inconsistent at this point, that the empirically universal human penchant for offering sacrifices to gods has led him down a path opposed to the one he laid out in his treatment of the distinction between infused and acquired virtue and of the dependence of the moral virtues on charity. Traditionally, Thomists have not fled from the thought that Thomas might be inconsistent. In fact, they have drawn up long lists of apparent inconsistencies in the text of Thomas, most notably the enumeration of more than 1,200 dubia and responses compiled by Peter of Bergamo and included in his Tabula Aurea (first published 1475). The purpose of these lists was to locate difficulties in the hope of confronting them and resolving them. Perhaps we can do that here. In this case, the appearance of contradiction depends on the assumption, in reading Thomas on sacrifice and natural law, that whatever 62 ST II-II, q. 85, a. 4, resp.: “[I]lli qui sunt sub lege, tenentur ad determinata sacrificia offerenda secundum legis praecepta. Illi vero qui non erant sub lege, tenebantur ad aliqua exterius facienda in honorem divinum, secundum condecentiam ad eos inter quos habitabant: non autem determinate ad haec vel ad illa.” Cf. ibid, ad 1. Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 89 belongs to natural law is universally accessible to human reason. Natural law requires every human being to offer sacrifice to the one true God. Every human being, on such an assumption, must therefore be capable of knowing this binding obligation and fulfilling it. So it must be possible to acquire the disposition to offer right sacrifice to God— that is, the virtue of religion. Yet Aquinas seems to deny this. Aquinas, however, does not share this high view of the epistemic availability of nature, and in particular of the natural law. It represents a characteristically modern take on our knowledge of the natural, vigorously advocated by Locke and others on moral as well as epistemological grounds. Modernity, in fact, seems to see the very ideas of nature and natural law as inherently epistemic. What belongs to nature or natural law is what can be known to be universal among human beings or to be universally recognized among human beings as morally binding (hence the increasing despair in late modernity over the very ideas of human nature and natural law). For Thomas, this epistemic optimism about nature and natural law is unwarranted and excessive, not only in view of sin and its epistemic effects (a topic I will touch on only briefly below), but in view of the mind’s natural way of grasping moral principles and acting on them. As he sees it, natural law is not an epistemic concept. What belongs to natural law is not what is empirically universal (or universally recognized), but what human nature inclines us to desire or seek, and so what human reason, the differentia that specifies our animal nature, requires or “dictates” is to be done or to be avoided.63 This is clearly a normative, rather than a descriptive, idea of natural reason, and so of natural law. What belongs to the natural moral law may be very widely, even universally, exampled, but that is not what makes it part of the natural law. A moral precept, in Thomas’s terms, belongs to natural law because it is not simply compatible with natural reason (as, for example, all human positive law ought to be), but at least indirectly required by it. Since the notion of natural law is not inherently epistemic—access ST I-II, q. 94, a. 3, resp.: “To the law of nature belongs everything to which a human being is inclined according to his nature. Now each thing is inclined naturally to an operation that is suitable to it according to its form, as fire is inclined to give heat. Hence, since the rational soul is the proper form of a human being, there is in every human being a natural inclination to act according to reason” (“[A]d legem naturae pertinet omne illud ad quod homo inclinatur secundum suam naturam. Inclinatur autem unumquodque naturaliter ad operationem sibi convenientem secundum suam formam, sicut ignis ad calefaciendum. Unde cum anima rationalis sit propria forma hominis, naturalis inclinatio inest cuilibet homini ad hoc quod agat secundum rationem”). 63 90 Bruce D. Marshall to the law is not built into what makes it either natural or binding—it makes perfectly good sense to ask how we know the natural law and to answer, as Aquinas does, that different parts of the natural law are known in different ways. This is decisive for understanding Aquinas on sacrifice as an obligation belonging to natural law. When he considers, for example, “the moral precepts of the old law” (that is, the Decalogue), Aquinas begins by asking whether these belong without remainder to “the law of nature.” They do, he replies, in the sense that they all in fact follow from the first principles of practical reason (beginning with “good is to be sought and evil avoided”) and that we acknowledge these first principles by nature.64 But how do we know that the moral precepts making up the Decalogue follow from the first principles of practical reason, and so belong to the natural law? Diversimode is Thomas’s reply. In some cases, what we are to do (or not) is immediately obvious “to the natural reason of every human being,” for example, that murder or theft are not to be done. But we should not expect the same epistemic clarity with regard to every moral precept. Much of the content of “the natural law” is not directly accessible to us; it has to be taught. When it comes to our relations with other human beings, we often need the direction of those who are wiser and more experienced in moral matters than us to teach us, for example, that we should honor our elders. And when it comes to “divine things,” we have to be taught by God himself, educated by divine teaching concerning even our natural obligations to him. Idolatry, for example, is against the natural moral law. But we need God to teach us not to do it—that we should not make images and worship them.65 ST I-II, q. 94, a. 2, resp.: “Hoc est ergo primum praeceptum legis, quod bonum est faciendum et prosequendum, et malum vitandum. Et super hoc fundantur omnia alia praecepta legis naturae.” 65 ST I-II, q. 100, a. 1, resp.: “[Since] every judgment of human reason is derived in some way from natural reason, it is necessary that all the moral precepts belong to the law of nature, though in different ways. For there are some things that the natural reason of every human being immediately and of itself judges is to be done or not to be done: e.g. ‘Honor your father and your mother,’ and ‘You shalt not kill,You shalt not steal.’ Precepts of this kind belong to the law of nature absolutely. And there are some things that, after more careful consideration, are judged to be obligatory by the wise. These belong to the law of nature, but in such a way that they require the sort of teaching by which the young are instructed by the wise: e.g. ‘Stand up in the presence of a gray head,’ and ‘honor the elderly person,’ and the like. But there are some 64 Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 91 The most basic precept of natural law concerning sacrifice might, then, be of the kind obvious enough to be known by all, or it might be of the kind requiring instruction to be known. To my knowledge, Thomas is not explicit about this either way. He characterizes the content of this precept, however, as follows: “Natural reason dictates to man that he be subject to some superior, because he is aware of his own deficiencies, on account of which he needs to be helped and guided by a superior. Whatever that may be”—whatever, in other words, human beings may look to for help and guidance they cannot themselves provide—“this is what everyone calls ‘God.’”66 Nature further inclines us to exhibit our subjection to the superior whose help we seek, to honor what we look to for ultimate guidance in a way suited to our embodied nature.67 And so we have natural reason’s dictate that we offer sacrifice to whatever it is upon which we pin our last hope. “The offering of sacrifice is a matter of natural right.”68 As Thomas sees it, the precept that bids us to offer sacrifice to a superior is not immediately given to us, but comes as a conclusion inferred from prior premises. We therefore have good reason to think that it cannot be among those contents of natural law obvious enough to be available without instruction, whether human or divine. But let things such that, in order to make a judgment about them, human reason needs divine instruction, through which we are taught about divine things: e.g. ‘You shall not make for yourself a graven image, nor any likeness; nor shall you take the name of your God in vain’” (“[O]mne autem rationis humanae iudicium aliqualiter a naturali ratione derivatur; necesse est quod omnia praecepta moralia pertineant ad legem naturae, sed diversimode. Quaedam enim sunt quae statim per se ratio naturalis cuiuslibet hominis diiudicat esse facienda vel non facienda, sicut ‘honora patrem tuum et matrem tuam,’ et, ‘non occides, non furtum facies.’ Et huiusmodi sunt absolute de lege naturae. Quaedam vero sunt quae subtiliori consideratione rationis a sapientibus iudicantur esse observanda. Et ista sic sunt de lege naturae, ut tamen indigeant disciplina, qua minores a sapientioribus instruantur, sicut illud, ‘coram cano capite consurge,’ et ‘honora personam senis,’ et alia huiusmodi. Quaedam vero sunt ad quae iudicanda ratio humana indiget instructione divina, per quam erudimur de divinis, sicut est illud, ‘non facies tibi sculptile neque omnem similitudinem; non assumes nomen Dei tui in vanum”). 66 ST II-II, q. 85, a. 1, resp.: “[N]aturalis ratio dictat homini quod alicui superiori subdatur, propter defectus quos in seipso sentit, in quibus ab aliquo superiori eget adiuvari et dirigi. Et quidquid illud sit, hoc est quod apud omnes dicitur Deus.” 67 Ibid.: “[N]aturalis ratio dictat homini secundum naturalem inclinationem ut ei quod est supra hominem subiectionem et honorem exhibeat secundum suum modum.” 68 Ibid.: “Et ideo oblatio sacrificii pertinet ad ius naturale” 92 Bruce D. Marshall us assume for purposes of argument that the precept to offer sacrifice is universally obvious. Even so, awareness of the precept is no guarantee that we will correctly identify the superior to whom we ought to look for ultimate help and guidance. That superior is the triune God, who, under the aspect of true source, guide, and goal of our whole existence, alone ought to receive the sacrifice nature inclines us to offer.69 Subjection to any other superior as ultimate source and goal is unowed (indebitum)—that is, unjust and, so, vicious.70 As Aquinas observes, though, Scripture teaches that such undue subjection is pervasive, at least among the nations: “All the gods of the gentiles are demons” (Ps 95[96]:5), and “The gentiles offer sacrifice to demons, not to God” (1 Cor 10:20).71 It is quite possible, in other words, to follow nature’s inclination and the corresponding precept yet aim our sacrifice at someone or something other than the triune God. Otherwise, idolatry would be impossible, which, as Thomas explains in detail, it obviously is not. Natural law requires us to offer sacrifice to a superior, but it does not tell us who that superior is or what sacrifices are required to honor him. For that, we need his own instruction. Thomas is explicit about this: “The offering of sacrifice belongs to natural law in a general way, which is why everyone agrees about it. But the determination of which sacrifices are to be offered depends on human or divine institution, which is why people differ about it.”72 “Determination” is a technical term here. In Aquinas’s lexicon, a determinatio is a command or precept that is not contained in the law itself (here the natural law), even implicitly, but rather is added to it. Such additions are indispens ST II-II, q. 85, a. 2, resp.: “The soul offers itself in sacrifice to God as the source of its creation and the end that makes it blessed. Moreover, according to the true faith, God alone is the creator of our souls, as stated in the prima pars. Likewise, the beatitude of our soul consists in him alone, as stated above. Therefore, just as we ought to offer spiritual sacrifice to the supreme God alone, so too ought we to offer exterior sacrifices to him alone” (“Anima autem se offert Deo in sacrificium sicut principio suae creationis et sicut fini suae beatificationis. Secundum autem veram fidem solus Deus est creator animarum nostrarum, ut in primo habitum est. In solo etiam eo animae nostrae beatitudo consistit, ut supra dictum est. Et ideo sicut soli Deo summo debemus sacrificium spirituale offerre, ita etiam soli ei debemus offerre exteriora sacrificial”). 70 SCG III, ch. 120 (no. 2940): “[I]ndebitum est quod latriae cultus alteri exhibeatur quam primo rerum principio.” 71 Ibid. 72 ST II-II, q. 85, a. 1, ad 1: “[O]blatio sacrificii in communi est de lege naturae, et ideo in hoc omnes conveniunt. Sed determinatio sacrificiorum est ex institutione humana vel divina, et ideo in hoc differunt.” 69 Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 93 able because they specify the way general precepts are actually to be carried out in practice. The binding force or value of these “determinations” depends, naturally, on the authority of the one who makes them.73 Since the urge to offer sacrifice to gods is universal, every human community will have its determinationes as to what right sacrifice consists in. But only God himself can give us the determinations above and beyond natural law by which he, and not human idols, may be offered right sacrifice. A cultic law that succeeds in reaching him must be given by him.74 Indeed these cultic determinationes themselves will be the means by which he enables his people to identify him as the superior to whom alone sacrifice is due.75 We reach the same conclusion by attending to the way Thomas characterizes the aim of the natural inclination to offer sacrifice: “Whatever it may be, this is what everyone calls ‘God.’” In its widest use (“apud omnes”), the referent of the term “God” (its supposition, in the language of medieval logic) is whatever human beings may in fact hope will give them the highest kind of help and direction. Human beings pin this hope on all kinds of things. Whatever a given individual or society looks to in this way is, apud omnes, its “god.” “What everyone calls ‘God’” is simply “some superior,”as Thomas puts it (note 66 above), believed by some community or individual to be the best source of help and direction, and so to be the right recipient of sacrificial offerings. Thomas’s view is clearly not that, in naturally seeking superior help and direction, everyone finds (or at least can find) the one true God to whom they apply the correct name (“Deus”) and to whom each offers sacrifice in his own way. That would be to read this text as though it said, “Natural reason dictates to man that he be subject to some superior. . . . et hoc est Deus—and this is God.” But Thomas deliberately speaks not of God, but of the term “God,”not in its specifically Christian, but in its most widespread, and correspondingly indiscriminate, use—hoc est quod apud omnes dicitur Deus, “this is what everyone calls ‘God.’” 73 74 75 On “determinatio” in this sense, see, e.g., ST I-II, q. 95, a. 2, resp., and q. 104, a. 1, resp. As we have already seen. Cf. notes 26–27 and 65 above. Thomas makes a parallel argument regarding the penitential dictate of natural reason, which includes a precept that a person repent of the evils that he has done (see ST III, q. 84, a. 7, resp.; obj. and ad 1). There are also important differences between the two cases. In the first place, the need for a God-given “determination” of our natural tendency to penitence is, like the act of repentance itself, consequent upon sin, while we would need a divine determinatio of our inclination to offer sacrifice even if we had not sinned. 94 Bruce D. Marshall So, when Aquinas holds that natural reason enjoins us to “use various sensible realities, offering them to God as a sign of the subjection and honor we owe to him” (note 59 above), he does not mean that anyone who obeys nature’s inclination to offer sacrifice thereby succeeds in worshipping the one true God, as though the only way of failing to offer sacrifice to the true God is not to offer sacrifice at all. He means, rather, that anyone who follows the natural law on this score succeeds in offering sacrifice to “what everyone calls ‘God’”—that is, to whatever the person or community offering the sacrifice believes they should pin their highest hopes on. About this, of course, individuals and communities are frequently mistaken. Their gods need not even exist to be offered sacrifice, let alone need to be, however indirectly, the one true God. Quoting Augustine, Thomas asks rhetorically, “Who ever thought that sacrifice is to be offered except to one whom he knows, or at least supposes, or imagines, to be God?”76 Human nature thus inclines us to seek help from a nature greater than our own and to offer sacrifice to that nature. Such sacrifice is unjust, however, if given where it is not owed, unless offered to the supreme God alone, the Holy Trinity, from whom we must have instruction if we are to succeed in making sacrifice to him. Aquinas plainly pictures a situation in which nature and natural reason impose moral obligations on us that nature itself is impotent to meet.77 For 76 77 ST II-II, q. 84, a. 1, ad 1: “Quis vero sacrificandum censuit nisi ei quem Deum aut scivit, aut putavit, aut finxit?” The quotation is from St. Augustine’s De civitate Dei X, ch. 4. Similarly, see also, SCG III, ch. 120 (no. 2926): “No one supposes that sacrifice should be offered to someone unless because she judges that it is God—or feigns this judgment” (“[S]acrificium autem nullus offerendum censuit alicui nisi quia eum Deum aestimavit, aut aestimare se finxit”). So, I think, we ought to read Thomas’s remark that even those who are not instructed by God (who are not “under the law”) are “held” (tenetur) to do something suitable “in the divine honor” (ST II-II, q. 85, a. 4, resp.; note 62 above). Nature inclines us to this, and reason requires it, but neither nature nor reason has, without further divine aid, the resources to accomplish it. God might, of course, instruct human beings regarding right sacrifice in other ways than by the gift of an explicit cultic law. Thomas thinks this in fact happened in the period before the call of Abraham and the deliverance of the “old law” to Moses. On this, see ST I-II, q. 103, a. 1, resp.: “Since, even before the law, there were certain outstanding human beings empowered with a prophetic spirit, it should be believed that they were led by a divine instinct—a private law, as it were—to worship God in a certain definite way” (“[Q]uia etiam ante legem fuerunt quidam viri praecipui prophetico spiritu pollentes, credendum est quod ex instinctu divino, quasi ex quadam privata lege, inducerentur ad aliquem certum modum colendi Deum”). How far this Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 95 much modern moral philosophy, especially in a Kantian vein, this is not simply disturbing, but impossible. The free rational agent can have no real moral obligation save one she is genuinely capable of fulfilling. Awareness of the obligation, moreover, must be inseparable from the capacity to fulfill it. Otherwise we forfeit the possibility of coherently affirming either human freedom or moral obligation to which freedom is subject. Here we no doubt have a deep disagreement between classic Christian understandings of what it is to be human and some modern, and culturally potent, philosophical alternatives. Each side in this disagreement correctly sees in the other what it must regard as impossible and ruinous of human flourishing. Once again my aim is not to address this large issue, but only to point out the clarity with which St. Thomas takes sides on it. Human nature is made for a good that it cannot achieve on its own, but only with the constant help of the good it seeks, the triune God himself. To think we ought to do only —have an obligation to do only—what nature enables us to do is not the way to our true good, but rather deprives us of it. The law of nature concerning sacrifice is simply a case in point. The Virtue of Religion and the Apologetic Aspirations of Modern Theology In modernity, Protestant and Catholic theology alike habitually sought to exhibit the intelligibility and attractiveness of faith in Christ by appeal to a religiosity that lay at the heart of all human life or human nature. This effort to justify the existential availability (though not, strictly speaking, the truth) of Christian faith to modern humanity took countless conceptual forms, sometimes self-consciously revisionist, sometimes deliberately traditional, and often a mix of the new and the old. Whatever its conceptual garb, the notion of human religiousness that was supposed to do this work needed to express deep and ineradicable human yearnings, and do so, crucially, in such a way that modern Western humanity could readily see its true self, its own ultimate longings, in the conceptual mirror the theologian held up to cultic instruction by way of prophecy might extend, in Thomas’s view, beyond the time the Mosaic law was given and the people to whom it was given I will not try to decide here. Thomas’s low estimate of worship outside the explicit knowledge of divine cultic law—that is, of gentile worship—gives reason to suppose that he does not take what we would think of as an optimistic view on this score (see notes 102–103 below). In any case, such instruction would not fall under the heading of “natural law,” which is our present concern. 96 Bruce D. Marshall its gaze. That mirror was, again and again, a robust description of “religion” (though sometimes not under that name). At the same time, of course, a theologically useful notion of religion had to depict modern humanity’s deepest desires in such a fashion that only the Christian God, revealed in Christ as proclaimed by the Christian community, could finally and completely satisfy those desires. Christianity, after all, claims that Jesus Christ has unique and universal significance. He is, in Friedrich Schleiermacher’s nicely turned phrase, “redeemer alone and for all,”or as Karl Rahner puts it, he is “the absolute savior.”78 So, the religious feature of human nature or human existence that enables us, on this view, to grasp Jesus’ significance must likewise be universal and, above all, must make a descriptively plausible claim to universality. The apologetic task modern theology often set for itself was thus delicate, and its practitioners regularly accused one another of failing to carry it out coherently. The theologian had to describe human religious need in a way that was existentially evocative, yet without any question-begging appeal to the particular content of Christian faith itself. At the same time, he had to show that faith in Christ satisfies this general human need in a uniquely adequate and obvious way. A notion of basic human religiosity that can do this delicate work has one essential task to perform. It must locate the most basic conceptual content of universal human religious need. Thus armed, the theologian can go on to exhibit the special attractiveness (or as it was often put, the “meaningfulness”) of Christianity by matching up the Christian story and Christian doctrine with this prior description of bedrock human longing. Here the theologian has to be able to say, in general but contentladen terms, what would fulfill or satisfy our religious need should we actually come across it in experience. The meaningful content of any empirical religion, in other words, has to stem from, or at least be immediately recognizable to, our native religiosity. Schleiermacher furnishes a familiar example. If being religious means having an innate “God-consciousness” that we desire to find enhanced or perfected, then an actually existing religion can only be meaningful for us insofar as it promotes our God-consciousness and we can perceive that it does this. To the extent that Jesus as proclaimed by the Church does not 78 Friedrich Schleiermacher, The Christian Faith, §11.4, trans. H. R. Macintosh et al. (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1976); for Rahner, see (among others) Foundations of Christian Faith, trans. William V. Dych (New York: Seabury Press, 1978), 205, 280–1, 298–301. Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 97 promote a more robust God-consciousness in us in the most complete and satisfying way, he and the Church’s proclamation will be unintelligible to us. More precisely, they will be religiously unintelligible or meaningless to us. We could understand the claim that Jesus is the redeemer or savior “alone and for all”—that is, we could grasp the concepts in which the claim is made. But, as the claim failed to answer to our basic religious desires, it would hold no inherent attraction for us, and we could not recognize it as a genuine religious possibility. Terms like “meaningful” and “intelligible” often have this distinctive use in modern theology. Their sense is not simply the familiar one of sounds or inscriptions to which we can assign a determinate meaning and so regard as part of a language. Rather, they connote attraction. What is religiously “meaningful” or “intelligible” is not only what has a meaning, but what any human being can recognize, with due attention to her own nature and experience, as the content of her deepest longings. Absent this correlation with human religiosity, we may understand a ritual and belief system—that is, be able to assign a correct meaning to its words and gestures—and we may have a keen interest in understanding it. But like the classical scholar’s meticulous reconstruction of the religion of republican Rome or Geertz’s thick description of the Balinese cockfight, it will not, on this account of things, describe a world we are actually drawn to inhabit. We may grasp its meaning, but it will not be “meaningful”—existentially available to us. In this apologetic picture, an initiative from God’s side has to answer our underlying religious questions and fulfill our religious longings in the form of a revelation, salvation-historical action or kindred notions. God’s saving deeds are likely to be historically particular, as Christianity clearly maintains that they are, and as such they will not be universally accessible, but will require instruction at the hands of a particular historical community (thus the Church’s proclamation of Jesus). Their religious meaningfulness, though, cannot likewise require particular communal instruction, but must already be accessible to us from our universal and inherent religiosity. Or as the point is often put in modern Catholic theology, religious claims, even those expressed in the most basic Catholic teachings, will be merely “extrinsic” to us unless they answer to an intrinsic need, a natural desire that we not only have, but at some level are already aware that we have. We do not need God to teach us what our deepest needs are; that would be fatal “extrinsicism.” God alone answers our religious needs, but of the needs themselves nature has to teach us. 98 Bruce D. Marshall St. Thomas does hold that human nature has a religious aspect or feature that, since it belongs to nature itself, is universal among human beings. As we have seen, he thinks of this universal human religiosity as a “natural inclination” to be subject to a superior and to express that subjection outwardly in acts of sacrifice. Differently put, human beings “sense by a kind of natural instinct that they are obligated to show reverence to God in their own way, since he is the source of their existence and of every good.”79 This inclination or instinct is a natural desire to serve a superior to whom we owe the good we are and have. Like any natural desire or inclination, it can only be satisfied by attaining the single end for which the triune author of nature gave it, in this case to serve the author of nature himself. An inclination is not a virtue; it can be misused and misdirected, as this one is when we subject ourselves to what we only imagine is the author of all our good. In any case, Thomas does not think we have any virtues by nature.80 As Thomas sees it, in a rational creature, natural inclinations need virtues to perfect them, since virtues consistently give rise to acts that attain the good at which the inclination just inchoately aims. Some natural inclinations can be perfected by acquired virtues, in which case the inclination itself can be thought of as the “seed” or “beginning” of the corresponding virtue.81 But this is not so with the natural inclination to religion. Here we have “a kind of natural instinct” to seek a good wholly beyond the reach of nature itself. Aiming at the cult of the Holy Trinity, the supreme good from whom actually comes all we are and have, nature can reach its goal only by the gift of this good, by the infused virtue of religion. What Thomas says of natural inclination or desire and the infused moral virtues in general applies with particular clarity to the way the infused virtue of religion perfects the natural inclination to serve God as our last end. “In God’s generosity, human beings are ordered to a supernatural good, namely, eternal glory. The seeds of the virtues [that are in us by nature] cannot bring about virtues adequate (proportionatae) to this end. Hence the virtues that order our life to this end must be caused by the one who gave us the inclination to it, that is, by the grace of God.”82 SCG III, ch. 119 (no. 2914): “Hic etiam Dei cultus religio nominatur . . . quodam naturali instinctu se obligatum sentit ut Deo suo modo reverentiam impendat, a quo est sui esse et omnis boni principium.” 80 On this last point, see, e.g., ST I-II, q. 63, a. 1. 81 Here too, see ST I-II, q. 63, a. 1, resp., and In III Sent. d. 33, q. 1, a. 2, qas. 3–4. 82 In III Sent. d. 33, q. 1, a. 2, qa. 3, sol. (Moos, 1030 [no. 69]): “[S]eminaria virtutum quae sunt in nobis, sunt ordinatio voluntatis et rationis ad bonum nobis 79 Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 99 Our inclination to offer sacrifice to the most high, though natural, needs divine instruction to be enacted in a way that begins to attain its natural aim.This follows, as we have seen, from the very idea of a natural inclination to, or desire for, a supernatural end. In this case no amount of help from society or circumstance will enable nature to identify its aim and act to realize it. Sin introduces ignorance and malice, turning the natural inclination to serve the source of all our good to unnatural and unowed ends. Even apart from sin, though, nature is impotent to supply its own cultic precepts, and thus to draw out the content of its own most basic religious aspiration. For this, it needs the gift of divine teaching, regardless of the state in which it may exist. Aquinas’s comments on natural and divine law as they pertain to marriage are instructive here. Unlike the inclination to offer sacrifice, the inclination to marry (once) and to raise children belongs to nature, he argues, in such a way that it can yield its own precepts and be rightly regulated by human as well as divine law. The inclination to marry pertains, in other words, to the connatural end of human nature and not, at least not intrinsically, to its supernatural end. Since, unlike the other acts of nature, procreation concerns the common good of humanity and not only the good of the individual, God has provided for its right ordering by his own explicit instruction and by practical reason, by both divine and human positive law. “Those matters that pertain to generation need, more than others, to be ordered by both divine and human law.”83 Still, sin can so obscure nature’s inclination that precepts deeply against nature can be seen by whole societies as natural, as the content of nature’s law. Concubinage, for example, has been widely regarded as a licit use of the natural inclination to bring forth children, even though it is against the law of nature. “Among the nations, the natural law was in many ways shrouded in darkness. Hence, they did not regard going to a concubine as evil, but everywhere treated fornication as though it were licit.”84 The law or social precept connaturale. Cum autem sit homo ex divina liberalitate ordinatus ad quoddam bonum supernaturale, scilicet aeternam gloriam; ex praedictis virtutum seminariis non possunt virtutes causari fini praedicto proportionatae. Unde oportet virtutes quae vitam nostram ordinant ad finem illum, ex eo causari, ex quo est nobis inclinatio in finem illum. Hoc autem est per Dei gratiam.” See, more briefly but to the same effect, ST I-II, q. 63, a. 3, obj. and ad 3. 83 SCG III, ch. 123 (no. 2965): “Unde, cum lex instituatur ad bonum commune, ea quae pertinent ad generationem, prae aliis oportet legibus ordinari et divinis et humanis.” 84 In IV Sent. d. 33, q. 1, a. 3, qa. 1, ad 1: “[I]n gentibus quantum ad multa lex naturae obfuscata erat; unde accedere ad concubinam malum non reputabant; 100 Bruce D. Marshall that sanctioned this practice, Aquinas goes on to argue, “stemmed not from the instinct of natural law, but from this very darkness into which the gentiles had fallen, not giving God the glory due to him, as Romans 1 says. As a result, where the Christian religion has prevailed, this law has been extirpated.”85 In contrast to marriage, the natural inclination to be subject to a superior not only benefits from direct divine instruction, but requires it. Since it concerns the attainment of our supernatural end, humanity’s religious “instinct” cannot generate effective precepts on its own. The moral laws that successfully order human cultus to the one end nature seeks must stem directly from God. Nature’s inclination itself is inherently incapable of giving rise to them, just as nature is, in general, incompetent to provide what is needed for the attainment of its supernatural end. What Aquinas says of the aid rendered by divine law to our natural inclination to reproduce, where nature itself can instruct us, applies a fortiori to our inclination to offer sacrifice, where it cannot. “If [the laws directing an inclination] are divine, they not only make explicit the instinct of nature, but also make good a deficiency in natural instinct, just as those matters that are divinely revealed exceed the capacity of natural reason.”86 If God gives a cultic law, this law will sed passim fornicatione quasi re licita utebantur” (Opera omnia, vol. 7, part 2 [Parma: Fiaccadori, 1852–1873], 971a [hereafter, Parma]). Aquinas elsewhere notes the widespread acceptance of theft or despoliation, “as among the Germans” (sicut apud Germanos olim), to make the same point (ST I-II, q. 94, a. 4, resp.; cf. a. 6, resp.). The inability of nature to illumine the darkness induced by sin is, in fact, pervasive and not limited to any one area of human conduct. See In III Sent. d. 1, q. 1, a. 4, sol.: “At the time of natural law,”—that is, before and apart from the call of Abraham and the gift of the law to Moses—“many, despite the light of natural reason, fell into the worst errors of idolatry and into the most abominable works. . . . When the habit of sins grew strong, the natural law was truly darkened in many, so that by that time it did not seem to be sufficient for the direction of the human race” (Moos, 25–26 [nos. 71 and 73]: “[T]empore legis naturae multi, lumine naturalis rationis non obstante, in pessimos errores idolatriae prolapsi sunt, et in nefandissima opera. . . .invalescente consuetudine peccatorum, lex naturalis adeo tenebrata est in pluribus, ut jam non videretur ad regimen humani generis sufficere”). Aquinas says much the same elsewhere; see, e.g., ST I-II, q. 98, a. 6, resp. 85 In IV Sent. d. 33, q. 1, a. 3, qa. 1, ad 2: “[E]x praedicta obscuritate, scilicet in quam ceciderunt gentiles, Deo debitam gloriam non reddentes, ut dicitur Rom. 1, lex illa processit, et non ex instinctu legis naturae; unde praevalente Christiana religione lex illa extirpata est” (Parma, 971a). 86 SCG III, ch. 123 (no. 2965): “Si autem divinae sunt, non solum instinctum naturae explicant, sed etiam defectum naturalis instinctus supplent: sicut ea quae divinitus revelantur, superant naturalis rationis capacitatem.” Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 101 draw out for nature the proper content and aim of its own desire to offer sacrifice, a matter on which, unlike marriage, nature is unable to become explicit on its own. In so doing, divine law will make good nature’s otherwise unavoidable deficiency when it comes to the precepts guiding the cultic acts to which it inclines. Because nature cannot yield laws that guide sacrifice to its true end, worship is even more subject to sinful abuse and misdirection than marriage. As a result, the instinctive human tilt toward cultus needs the twofold direction of divine law even more than does the urge to reproduce. Divine law, here, will not only supply guidance to wayward nature, but make good nature’s inherent inability to find the right direction on its own, the inability of which sin makes such devastating use. Or as Thomas puts it, divine law will here need to “correct” natural law in two different ways. “[T]he written law [divine positive law contained in Scripture] is said [in the Glossa ordinaria] to be given for the correction of the law of nature, either because the written law supplies what is lacking in the law of nature, or because in some matters, the law of nature has been corrupted in the hearts of some people to such an extent that they judged to be goods what are naturally evils, and such corruption lay in need of correction.”87 Thomas’s vision of the good accomplished by divine law runs in clear parallel to his view of the good accomplished by divine grace. Sanctifying grace, as readers of Thomas know, confers a twofold benefit. Grace at once elevates human nature so as to make it capable of attaining the immediate vision of God as its last end and heals the wounds nature inflicts upon itself by sin. By this gift, God empowers us to reach him as supernatural end, though this attainment is inherently beyond the capacities of created nature, and at the same time remedies our self-caused inability to attain even the good within nature’s reach.88 The former effect of sanctifying grace we would need even apart from sin; the latter we need only because of sin. ST I-II, q. 94, a. 5, ad 1: “[L]ex scripta dicitur esse data ad correctionem legis naturae, vel quia per legem scriptam suppletum est quod legi naturae deerat, vel quia lex naturae in aliquorum cordibus, quantum ad aliqua, corrupta erat intantum ut existimarent esse bona quae naturaliter sunt mala; et talis corruptio correctione indigebat.” 88 See (among others) ST I-II, q. 109, a. 9, resp.: By “a certain habitual gift [viz., sanctifying grace] . . . corrupted human nature is healed, and that healed human nature is, moreover, raised up to undertake works that merit eternal life, which exceed the capacity of nature” (“aliquod habituale donum . . . natura humana corrupta sanetur; et etiam sanata elevetur ad operandum opera meritoria vitae aeternae, quae excedunt proportionem naturae”). 87 102 Bruce D. Marshall Though less commonly noted, divine law in its own way confers the same twofold benefit. The precepts God reveals both correct nature when it has gone astray by sin from goods within nature’s grasp (as in the case of marriage) and directs nature to the good beyond its inherent grasp, which it can only reach under the guidance of God himself (as in the case of religion, and especially of sacrifice). That law, as well as grace, should have these twin effects should not surprise, since they are the two parallel and mutually necessary means by which God brings about the return of the rational creature to him who made the creature from nothing. “The exterior principle moving us to the good is God, who both instructs us by law and helps us by grace.”89 As Thomas sees the matter, it is not that we know what to do by nature and just need the help of God (grace) to do it. We need the help of God to know what to do, to give us the cultic law that will actually enable us to begin attaining him as supernatural end. These considerations are decisive for our assessment of the claim that, in Thomas’s view, natural human religiosity makes faith in Christ intelligible and meaningful. His account of natural law and sacrifice gives us scant reason to attribute this view to him. But in any case, it is out of keeping with his basic assumptions about the relationship between nature and grace. The law that enables us to attain the triune God as our last end by offering him the devotion, adoration, and sacrifice he is in justice due can no more be natural than the grace and virtue we need to attain him. God himself must give it, beyond what nature can provide; in Thomas’s division of the subject, it must fall under the heading of divine law, not natural law. Our argument so far yields three conclusions about the virtue of religion, the precepts that guide its right exercise, and natural human religious inclination. We need to bear these conclusions in mind if we are to grasp the full import of Thomas’s theology of Jewish election. (1) If there is a religion, in the sense both of interior virtue and of cultic practice, whose conceptual content we need to have in hand in order to understand the meaning and significance of Jesus and the Church’s proclamation about him, that religion cannot be natural. Both as to interior virtue and external precept, it will have to be a gift of unowed divine generosity, beyond the reach of nature even apart from sin. In particular, the conceptual content of that religion, its teachings and precepts, will have to come to us in the form of explicit divine 89 ST I-II, q. 90, prooem.: “Principium autem exterius movens ad bonum est Deus, qui et nos instruit per legem, et iuvat per gratiam.” Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 103 instruction, the content of which nature will be able neither to know in advance nor to change once given, since it comes as supernatural gift. Nature inclines us to embrace these teachings and precepts once they are given and understood, but nature can do no more. In particular, it cannot guarantee access to those teachings and precepts. (2) If there is a religion, or a human religiosity, in virtue of which the Church’s proclamation of Jesus is intelligible and meaningful, that religion or religiosity need not be universal. It will be present where, but only where, God has issued explicit religious instruction, not least cultic instruction, and seen to it that this instruction is embraced. Since the correct conceptual content for our natural religious instinct, the teachings and precepts that will actually lead our natural inclination to its goal, cannot come from nature itself, but must come from God’s generosity, we cannot assume (in the manner of much modern theological apologetics) that they will be at least implicitly present wherever human nature is present. Rather, we will have to look and see what God has done, what religious instruction, if any, God has actually issued, and to whom. The intelligibility and meaningfulness of faith in Christ will be present just to the extent that this instruction has been given and understood. (3) God has not extended the religious instruction presupposed by faith in Christ to all humanity; it is not universal, to be found wherever human religious inclination is found. God has, in fact, instituted a religion by which he may be rightly worshipped, drawn close to, and attained as last end, all by way of anticipating what is to happen in Christ. Remarkably, though, God has not instituted this religion among all peoples, among humanity in general. He has, instead, drawn a bright line between one people and all the rest of the nations. He has elected Israel, and given Israel the law by which he may be worshipped—the true religion. To the extent that any is needed, the conceptual content that makes the Gospel intelligible and desirable stems not from nature or nature’s desire, but from the election of Israel. It is not universal, but highly particular, both as to the content of its teaching and precepts and the people to whom they are given. Christians, of course, may sometimes find in the past or present values of their own or other gentile cultures various signs of what they have received in Christ and of its preparation in Israel. So, among the early Christians the art of the catacombs could depict Jesus arrayed as a distinguished Roman, and early Christian apologetics could see in the notion of a universal Logos common among pagan philosophers a 104 Bruce D. Marshall pointer to the divine Word that spoke to Israel and is now incarnate for our salvation. Not all such gestures at the enculturation of the Gospel are equally successful. But in any case, they fall well short of suggesting divinely willed gentile religions that pave the way for Christ. In the catacombs, Jesus might be crowned with a laurel wreath, but as the New Testament already makes clear, the early Christians saw the religion of the Romans not as a gift from God, but as the abode of demons. If carried out consistently, the post-Enlightenment apologetic strategy we have been considering not only encourages, but requires, those who follow it to bypass the election and the religion of the Jewish people as matters of inherent significance for Christian faith. Theologians who follow this strategy need not reject the election of the Jews outright, as was regularly done by liberal Protestantism.90 The usual Catholic approach in modernity has not been to deny the election of Israel and the unique divine mandate of her religion, but rather to ignore them. The hope was to draw a straight line of intelligibility and meaningfulness between universal human religiosity and the particulars of Christian teaching. But if Aquinas is right, there is no such line to be drawn. The Election of Israel Aquinas has a remarkably strong view of the election of Israel, in some ways a view more radical, in fact, than that of some contemporary theologians who are ready to dismiss patristic and medieval theology in their entirety as hopelessly “supersessionist.” Among medieval theologians, he is not at all alone in this, but it is his way of thinking about Jewish election that has recently drawn the most attention.91 The 90 91 So Schleiermacher, e.g., cannot entirely hide his disgust at the “fetishism” of the Jews, who continue to believe that they are God’s chosen people, when an enlightened religious sensibility recognizes that the idea of God favoring one human clan over another is not simply wrong, but inconceivable, since it ascribes to God what he cannot have—a particular spatial location, roughly coextensive with that of the Jewish people themselves. See Christian Faith, §8.4. See Matthew A.Tapie, Aquinas on Israel and the Church:The Question of Supersessionism in the Theology of Thomas Aquinas (Eugene, OR: Pickwick Publications, 2014); Richard Schenk, Die Deutung vorchristlicher Riten im Frühwerk des Albertus Magnus, Lectio Albertina 15 (Münster: Aschendorff Verlag, 2014); Schenck, “Views of the Two Covenants in Medieval Theology,” Nova et Vetera (English) 4.4 (2006): 891–915; Bruce D. Marshall, “Christ and Israel: An Unsolved Problem in Catholic Theology,” in The Call of Abraham: Essays on the Election of Israel in Honor of Jon D. Levenson, ed. Gary A. Anderson and Joel S. Kaminsky (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2013), 330–350; Jean-Miguel Garri- Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 105 forgoing account of “religion” indicates that, for Thomas, the election of Israel is not simply an unexpected shaft of light in the darkness before Nostra Aetate, a perhaps inexplicable “outlier,” not only in traditional Catholic thinking about the Jews, but even in his own theology. On the contrary, for Thomas, the election of Israel is a soteriological prime number, a truth about the divinely willed economy of salvation that cannot be reduced to anything more basic, and one that belongs among the fundamental structural elements of the economy as a whole. Of Thomas’s teaching on this score there are many important aspects that we can only mention here: Jewish election is not merely spiritual, but “carnal,” inherently tied to fleshly descent from Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; this election is a promise of eschatological salvation to Israel according to the flesh; and it is permanent and unfailing—irrevocable, following Romans 11:29. So much so, in fact, that Aquinas applies to his own Christian contemporaries Paul’s warning for the gentile Christians at Rome: they endanger their very salvation if they fail to stand in awe before the mystery of Israel’s election, and treat the Jews—even though they have rejected Christ—as those who have been abandoned by God. One might object to Paul’s teaching about Israel’s abiding election in Romans 11:29, he observes, on the ground that the hostility of the Jews toward the gospel has voided their election and excluded them from salvation, even though “they were once most dear [to God] on account of the patriarchs.” Aquinas is curt: “The Apostle says this is false.”92 And he warns, commenting on Romans 11:25, “Ignorance of this mystery would be damnable for you.”93 92 93 gues, Le peuple de la première Alliance: Approches chrétiennes du mystère d’Israël (Paris: Cerf, 2011); Steven C. Boguslawski, Thomas Aquinas on the Jews: Insights into his Commentary on Romans 9–11 (New York: Paulist, 2008); and Matthew W. Levering, Christ’s Fulfillment of Torah and Temple (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2002). Super Rom. 11, lec. 4: “Opposing this, someone opposing might say that, even though the Jews were once most dear [to God] on account of the patriarchs, nevertheless the hostility that they show to the gospel prevents their future salvation. But the Apostle says this is false. . . . It is as if he said: that God gives something to certain people or calls certain people is ‘without repentance,’ because God does not repent of this” (no. 924: “Posset enim aliquis obviando dicere quod Iudaei, et si olim fuerint charissimi propter patres, tamen inimicitia, quam contra Evangelium exercent, prohibet ne in futurum salventur. Sed hoc Apostolus falsum esse asserit. . . . quasi dicat: quod Deus aliquid aliquibus donet vel aliquos vocet, hoc est ‘sine poenitentia,’ quia de hoc Deum non poenitet”). Ibid.: “Sed ignorantia huius mysterii esset damnosa vobis” (Merietti ed., no. 913; my emphasis). This need not be taken to mean that every Christian who 106 Bruce D. Marshall Our present concern, though, is specifically with Israel’s cultic life, its relation to Israel’s election, and the difference it makes that this life was lived by the Jews Mary and Jesus. Israel’s divinely mandated worship and prayer aims at her sanctification. The holiness of the Jewish people has, in turn, two deeper purposes. One is to mark, in a clear and public way, the distinction of God’s elect people from the nations. The other is to form this people as the holy stock from whom Christ will one day come, to provide a womb of sanctity from which the redeemer of Jew and gentile alike can be born. If you like, think of these—election and Christ—as each in its own way the final cause of Israel’s sanctification, a twofold telos. We need to say a little about each. Liturgical sanctification and election Israel’s election requires visible signs of her distinction from the nations. As Aquinas sees it (following, of course, a long tradition), a special place among these belongs to circumcision. By this, each generation of Jews makes a public avowal (protestatio) of its separation from the surrounding sea of unbelief and thereby imitates the faith of Abraham, who was the first to “mark himself off ” from the unbelieving nations to worship the one true God who elected him and his descendants forever.94 For 94 fails to appreciate the mystery of Israel’s election may be charged with culpable (still less damnable) ignorance. The Lectura on Romans that has come down to us probably stems from Thomas’s teaching in the Dominican studium at Naples during the last two years of his life. On this, see Jean-Pierre Torrell, Saint Thomas Aquinas, vol. 1: The Person and His Work, 2nd edition (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2005), 252–54. The “vos” to whom he addresses this sharply worded remark would, in the first instance, be those in formation to be preachers and teachers in the Church (as would have been true in his other teaching assignments as well, e.g., in Paris). Thomas does not expect the lay faithful (many of whom would have been illiterate) to have explicit knowledge of the Christian mysteries matching that of their teachers: “Explicitness of belief is not equally necessary for salvation in all cases, since the leaders [of the Church], whose duty it is to teach others, are bound to believe explicitly more things than are the others” (ST II-II, q. 2, a. 6, ad 1: “[E] xplicatio credendorum non aequaliter quantum ad omnes est de necessitate salutis, quia plura tenentur explicite credere maiores, qui habent officium alios instruendi, quam alii”). Ignorance that would be damnable in those who, from their study of sacra doctrina, ought to know better might not even be blameworthy in others: “If in [the subtle matters of faith] some fall short because they are uneducated, they are not to be held responsible for this” (ibid., ad 2: “[S]i in talibus ex simplicitate deficiant, non eis imputatur”). ST I-II, q. 102, a. 5, ad 1: “Because Abraham was the first who separated himself from unbelievers, departing from his home and his kindred, he was Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 107 Aquinas, circumcision has particular importance as a “sensible sign” needed to unite God’s chosen people in a publicly visible way, marking them as adherents of one and the same religion.95 But he also interprets other Jewish practices, including the Levitical dress code—the prohibition against mixing wool and linen—as divinely instituted and public signs that Israel is set apart from all other peoples.96 In fact, God gives the whole of the “old law” and his “other special benefits” to Israel in order to support her election by giving shape and content to her distinction from the gentiles.97 This goes in particular for what Thomas calls the ceremonial and judicial commandments. These govern Israel’s worship of God (the ceremonial precepts) and her civil life (the judicial precepts), the Israelite’s relationship to God and his neighbor.98 Israel’s whole way of life, her singularis conversatio, is to be a testimony not only that she, alone among the nations, has been chosen by God, but that she alone worships him by following his instructions for right sacrifice.99 To the “ceremonial” precepts Aquinas devotes particularly the first to receive circumcision. . . . In order that this avowal and imitation of the faith of Abraham might be made secure in the hearts of the Jews, they received the sign in their flesh” (“[Q]uia Abraham fuit primus qui se ab infidelibus separavit, exiens de domo sua et de cognatione sua, ideo ipse primus circumcisionem accepit. . . . Et ut haec protestatio, et imitatio fidei Abrahae, firmaretur in cordibus Iudaeorum, acceperunt signum in carne sua”). 95 ST III, q. 70, a. 2, ad 2: “The faithful people was to be gathered together by some sensible sign; this is necessary in order for human beings to be united in any sort of religion” (“Populus autem fidelium congregandus erat aliquo signo sensibili: quod est necessarium ad hoc quod homines in quacumque religione adunentur”). 96 ST I-II, q. 102, a. 6, ad 6: “The Lord willed that his people be distinguished from other peoples not only by the sign of circumcision in their flesh, but also by a definite distinction of dress” (“[V]oluit Dominus ut populus eius distingueretur ab aliis populis non solum signo circumcisionis, quod erat in carne, sed etiam certa habitus distinction”). 97 On the “beneficia specialia,” see ST I-II, q. 98, a. 4, resp.; q. 102, a. 4, ad 10, and q. 105, a. 2, sc. For a list and discussion of God’s special benefits to the chosen people, see Super Rom. 9, lec. 1 (nos. 743–747) and note 108 below. 98 See ST I-II, q. 99, aa. 2–4. 99 ST I-II, q. 101, a. 4, resp.: “The ceremonial precepts are ordered to the worship of God. . . . Moreover, this worship consists especially in sacrifices, which are offered up to the honor of God” (“[C]aeremonialia praecepta ordinantur ad cultum Dei. . . . Ipse autem cultus specialiter consistit in sacrificiis, quae in Dei reverentiam offeruntur”). The elect people as a whole and her ministers in particular are consecrated to God, and we ought to consider “their unique way of life, by which they are distinguished from those who do not worship God; and to this pertain the observances, for instance, in matters of food, clothing, and other things of this kind” (“[E]orum singularis conversatio, per quam 108 Bruce D. Marshall extended and detailed attention, as had others before him, including Alexander of Hales, John of la Rochelle (in the Summa Halensis) and Robert Grosseteste. The articles Thomas devotes to the analysis of the ceremonial precepts of Israel’s cultic law and its abiding significance are in fact the longest in the entire Summa theologiae.100 The Jewish people are chosen not only to live apart from the nations, but to live close to God. The proximate purpose of the law is Israel’s own sanctification, her intimacy with the holy God. This begins with the worship of the true God and the rejection of idolatry, which by itself separates Israel from the nations. “It was by reason of the divine cult that they were called the people of God, the ones who served him and were obedient to his precepts.”101 It is not the case, for Aquinas, that Israel worships the one true God in the ways he has commanded while the nations worship the same God in other ways, according to their natural lights. Worship apart from the cult enjoined by God upon his elect people—apart, that is, from Israel’s ceremonial law—is always idolatry. About this, Aquinas is repeatedly explicit. “The rites of the gentiles were repudiated as entirely illicit and were always forbidden by God.”102 While Israel was “espoused” to God from the beginning, the gentiles can share in this intimacy with God—they can be his beloved bride (uxor) rather than an idol’s harlot—only with the coming of Christ, and not before. In fact, the religion of the gentiles before the coming of Christ, and indeed apart from the faith of the Church in any place and time (to which Israel, in Thomas’s view, also belongs), is demonic: “Until the gentiles were espoused to Christ in the faith of the Church, they were corrupted by the devil in idolatry.”103 distinguuntur ab his qui Deum non colunt, et ad hoc pertinent observantiae, puta in cibis et vestimentis et aliis huiusmodi”). On this last point, see notes 102 and 103 below. 100 ST I-II, q. 102, aa. 3–6. 101 Super Rom. 9, lec. 5 (no. 799): “[E]rat divinus cultus, ratione cuius dicebantur populus Dei, quasi ei servientes et eius praeceptis obedientes.” 102 ST I-II, q. 103, a. 4, ad 1: “Nam gentilitatis ritus repudiabatur tanquam omnino illicitus, et a Deo semper prohibitus.” ST I-II, q. 105, a. 2, ad 10: “God was worshipped by that people alone, whereas all other nations were corrupted by idolatry” (“[I]n solo populo illo Deus colebatur, omnibus aliis populis per idololatriam corruptis”). The Jews “served God, when all the other nations were serving idols” (Super Rom. 9, lec. 1 [no. 744]: “Deo serviebant, omnibus aliis gentibus servientibus idolis”). See notes 77 and 99 above. 103 In IV Sent. d. 27, q. 3, a. 1, qa. 3, sol.” “Just as there is one faith of the ancients and of the moderns, so also there is one Church; hence, those who served God in the time of the synagogue belonged to the unity of the Church in which Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 109 Conversely, nature is powerless to secure Israel’s liturgical sanctification, and thus her election, at least under the conditions of sin. This requires the manifold cultic precepts of the divine law, which direct Israel’s worship to her electing God and away from idols. The “ceremonial law” enables the children of Abraham to exercise genuine latria and stays their corporate hand from the idolatry into which they would otherwise fall, obliterating their distinction from the rest of sinful humanity. For Aquinas, the narrative sequence of the book of Exodus bears witness to the need for divine cultic law to secure Israel’s distinction from the idolatrous nations. Among its benefits, the ceremonial law “drew human beings away from sacrifices to idols. For this reason the precepts concerning sacrifices were not given to the Jewish people until after they had fallen into idolatry by adoring the molten calf. These sacrifices were instituted so that a people always ready to offer sacrifice might offer their sacrifices to God rather than to idols.”104 Thus, the gentiles before the coming of Christ “were entirely alienated from God.”105 Idolatry—gentile worship—is not partial and inadequate devotion to the true God, but in fact worship with some other aim, real or imagined. “Whoever believes that God is something which he is not . . . does not worship God, because he does not know God, but something else. . . . For this reason the Lord said [to the Samaritan woman], ‘You worship what you do not know’ [Jn 4:22]. That is, you do not worship God because you do not know him. You worship instead the product of your own imagination, whereby you lay hold of we serve God. . . . Jer 3[:20], Ezek 16[:8, 32], and Hos 2:2 explictly mention the betrothal of the synagogue; hence she was not [God’s] concubine, but his wife. . . . [But] until the gentiles were espoused to Christ in the faith of the Church, they were corrupted by the devil in idolatry” (Parma, 935: “[S] icut est una fides antiquorum et modernorum, ita una Ecclesia; unde illi qui tempore synagogae Deo serviebant, ad unitatem Ecclesiae, in qua Deo servimus, pertinebant. . . Hierem. 3, Ezech. 16, Oseae 2, 2, ubi expresse fit mentio de desponsatione synagogae; unde non fuit sicut concubina, sed sicut uxor. . . gentilitas priusquam a Christo desponsaretur in fidem Ecclesiae, corrupta fuit a Diabolo per idolatriam”). 104 ST I-II, q. 102, a. 3, resp.: “[D]e causa caeremoniarum circa sacrificia potest assignari ratio alio modo, ex hoc quod per huiusmodi homines retrahebantur a sacrificiis idolorum. Unde etiam praecepta de sacrificiis non fuerunt data populo Iudaeorum nisi postquam declinavit ad idololatriam, adorando vitulum conflatilem, quasi huiusmodi sacrificia sint instituta ut populus ad sacrificandum promptus, huiusmodi sacrificia magis Deo quam idolis offerret.” Cf. In III Sent. d. 37, a. 5, qa. 1, sol. (Moos, 1251[no. 88]), and, from a different angle, ST I-II, q. 98, a. 4, resp. 105 Super Rom. 4, lec. 3 (no. 364): “[E]rant omnino alienati a Deo.” 110 Bruce D. Marshall something [else] as though it were God.”106 In reflecting on the election of Israel and Israel’s intimacy with God, Thomas evidently takes particular care to underline the point that there is no natural religion or religiosity, no middle term between the Jewish virtue of religion and the gentile vice of idolatry. Israel, God’s elect, is holy as the nations are not and, post lapsum, cannot be. The ceremonial law and the holiness Israel acquires by practicing it are, of course, pure gifts of God, the fruit of his unmerited generosity, which begins with Abraham himself.107 But out of God’s electing love were given to the Jews under the law gifts from which, Aquinas does not hesitate to say, the gentiles were simply excluded.108 To deny them these special privileges would be to ignore the scriptural testimony to their election.109 All the benefits Israel receives have their root in the privilege of God’s electing love itself, “from which love the gentiles were certainly excluded in former times,” that is, under the old law.110 The Jews were the friends of God (quasi amicis), and God opened up to 106 107 108 109 110 Super Ioan. 4, lec. 2: “Unde quicumque credit Deum esse aliquid quod non est, puta corpus, vel aliquid huiusmodi, non adorat Deum, quia nescit eum, sed aliquid aliud. . . . ideo dicit Dominus ‘vos adoratis quod nescitis’; idest, non adoratis Deum quia nescitis ipsum, sed phantasiam vestram, qua aliquid apprehenditis ut Deum” (no. 603). Aquinas here cites Eph 4, which speaks of gentile vanity and ignorance of God. On this passage, he elsewhere comments that God is not responsible for gentile ignorance of him, since he has revealed himself to all through the things that he has made (Rom 1:19f.). Rather, gentile ignorance of God stems from “the blindness of their own hearts” (Eph 4:18). Super Eph. 4, lec. 6: “And it is rightly called ‘blindness,’ since, from created reality, they were not able to attain to a knowledge of the creator” (no. 234: “Et vere dicit ‘caecitatem’ eo quod ex creaturis non poterant venire in notitiam creatoris”). ST I-II, q. 98, a. 4, resp.: “It is plain that the patriarchs received the promise, and the people descended from them receieved the law, by gratuitous election alone” (“[P]atet quod ex sola gratuita electione patres promissionem acceperunt, et populus ex eis progenitus legem accepit”), citing Dt 4:36–7. Super Rom. 9, lec. 5: “The gentiles were strangers to the three goods that most stood out among the Jews” (no. 799: “[A] tribus bonis quae in Iudaeis eminebant, gentiles erant alieni”). The “three goods” here are divine worship, electing love, and liberation from original sin. See, especially, Rom 3:1–2 (“What advantage has the Jew?”), which Thomas links to the high Deuteronomic view of Jewish election. Cf. Super Rom. 3, lec. 1 (no. 247), and ST I-II, q. 105, a. 1, ad 1. To the Jews belonged the “privilegium dilectionis. . . . in eo scilicet quod eis multa beneficia inducentia ad specialem gratiam praestabat, a qua quidem dilectione gentiles olim erant exclusi” (SuperRom. 9, lec. 5 [no. 799], again referring to Eph 4). Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 111 them the secrets of his own heart, as friends do. For this reason, following Romans 3:2, the oracles of God were entrusted to them alone.111 God’s election of Israel, like all divine electio, has its root in God’s dilectio, his spontaneous love. The love God has for the Jews, as for anyone else, is wholly gratuitous. It has no regard for the achievements or failings of the elect, for any preexisting merit or demerit on their part.112 But God’s electing love results in a definite preference of one over another, the bestowal of goods on this people instead of the rest.113 There is no injustice in this, since the goods God gives to the Jews— the saving goods in particular—are owed to no one.114 But if you want to know why God chose the Jews for their unique role in salvation history, Augustinian caution is in order: “Why he draws one and not another it is better not to judge, unless you want to err.”115 This is what God has done, and all concerned, gentiles and Jews alike, have to accept it as such. Liturgical sanctification and Christ to come Israel’s worship, and thus her holiness, is not only for the sake of her own abiding election from among the nations, but also for the sake of Christ—so that Christ may come. Getting a sense for just how Israel’s cultic life and holiness open the way for the advent of Christ will help us understand why, in worshipping an incarnate God, we ourselves can only worship a God who is, now and forever, a Jew. It will also help us Super Rom. 3, lec. 1: “Above all the Jews have the advantage that ‘the oracles of God are entrusted to them’ [Rom 3:2], as to friends” (no. 250: “[P]raecipue amplius est Iudaeis ‘quia eloquia Dei sunt tradita illis,’ quasi amicis”). 112 God elects “in that by his spontaneous will God himself forechose one [here, Jacob] over the other [Esau], not because he was holy, but in order that he might be holy” (Super Rom. 9, lec. 2: inquantum ipse Deus spontanea voluntate unum alteri prae[e]legit, non quia sanctus erat, sed ut sanctus esset” [no. 759]); cf. ST I, q. 23, a. 4. 113 Super Rom. 9, lec.: “We speak of ‘election’ when by the good that [God] wills for one, he prefers that one to another” (no. 763: “‘Electio’ autem dicitur secundum quod per bonum quod [Deus] alicui vult, eum alteri praefert”). 114 ST I-II, q. 98, a. 4, ad 2: “When [goods] are given because of a debt, there can be respect for persons. . . . But God confers saving benefits upon human beings because of his grace. Hence, he is not a respector of persons if he confers [these benefits] upon some above others” (“[A]cceptio personarum locum habet in his quae ex debito dantur. . . . Salutaria autem beneficia Deus humano generi confert ex sua gratia. Unde non est personarum acceptor si quibusdam prae aliis conferat”). 115 ST I-II, q. 98, a. 4, resp. (citing Augustine, Tractatus in Ioannem 26.2): “Quare hunc trahat et illum non trahat, noli velle diiudicare, si non vis errare.” 111 112 Bruce D. Marshall see how Israel’s life with God, not least her cultic life, constitutes the particular human religiosity needed to grasp what happens in Christ, providing the conceptual content that enables us to understand his saving entry into and departure from this world. That Jesus was a Jew and lived as one it never occurs to Aquinas to doubt. Jesus “numbers himself among the Jews” by owning a share in the worship of Israel’s God (Jn 4:22).116 In fact, the Samaritan woman recognizes him as a Jew by his obedience to the law regarding fringes in Numbers 15:37–41, and Aquinas thinks it a serious issue (against Chrysostom) that Jesus, as a Jew, might sin by getting close enough to a Samaritan to ask for water.117 As God incarnate, he is Lord of the law, but Jesus nonetheless accepts circumcision and the other obligations of the law in order to make it clear that he is really a Jew, “a brother of the Jews.”118 But what difference, exactly, does being an Israelite make to who Jesus is? We can get some purchase on the question by recalling the anti-Nestorian character of Thomas’s Christology (or its deeply Cyrillian cast, which comes to the same thing). Scripture attributes, without distinction, whatever is rightly said of God to this human being and whatever is rightly said of this human being to God.119 “Without distinction,” when Scripture claims, for example, that “The Lord of glory”—that is, God the Son—“was crucified” (1 Cor 2:8), “crucified” is said of God, and, conversely, “is God” is said of the human being who was crucified.120 “The Lord of glory” and “the human being who was crucified” do not have two referents, but one. So, if this sentence is true—as, given the source, it must be—there can be only one person, 116 117 118 119 120 Super Ioan. 4, lec. 2: “And he numbers himself among the Jews, because when it comes to his people, he also was a Jew” (no. 604: “Et connumerat se Iudaeis, quia et Iudaeus erat secundum gentem”). Super Ioan. 4, lec. 1: “Christ was a Jew. . . . the woman knew that he was a Jew from his dress” (no. 572: “Christus iudaeus erat. . . . Cognocebat autem mulier Christum esse iudeum ex habitu”). For the disagreement with Chrysostom, see Super Ioan. 4, lec. 1 (no. 574). In IV Sent. d. 1, q. 2, a. 2, qa. 3, sol. (Moos, 51 [no. 241]): “So that he might show himself a brother of the Jews, in order that they might not have just cause for driving him away” ([U]t fratrem Iudaeorum se ostenderet, ne haberent iustam occasionem ipsum repellendi”). There are, of course, several other reasons why the incarnate God accepts it as fitting to be “born under the law.” SCG IV, ch. 39 (no. 3771): “Scriptura Sacra indistincte quae sunt Dei homini illi attribuat, et quae sunt illius hominis Deo.” See Super I Cor. 2, lec. 2 (no. 92). Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 113 hypostasis, and supposit in Christ, one subject, not two.121 Moreover, this subject is, and can only be, the eternal person of the Word. Thus, God the Son or Word is the human being Jesus, and conversely.122 For Aquinas then, everything that belongs to the human being Jesus, all that he is, does, and undergoes as a human being, belongs to God, in the person of the Son. The Nestorian penchant in Christology wants to drive a wedge, whether large or small, between God and the human being Jesus. What belongs to this human being does not really, or does not quite, belong to God. On Thomas’s account, the Nestorian impulse fails to follow Scripture’s way of speaking about Christ, its radical identification of God the Son with the human being Jesus. On account of the Incarnation, everything about the human being Jesus makes a difference to who Christ is, in the most basic sense: it makes a difference to who the eternal Word himself is, secundum quod homo. According to the logic of Thomas’s anti-Nestorian (Ephesian and Chalcedonian) Christology, then, God himself is now and forever a Jew: the human being Jesus is a Jew; this human being is God; therefore God is a Jew. How big a difference this makes, though, is another matter. According to the logic of Thomas’s Christology, after all, God also has toes and ear lobes, but these do not seem like especially important characteristics of the incarnate Word. Does Thomas make any more of the fact that the incarnate Word is a Jew than of the fact that he has ear lobes? Thomas’s claim that the Jews were elected by God so that Christ could be born from a holy people sheds light on this. The eternal Word became a human being by taking flesh from Adam’s stock, as Aquinas several times observes.123 But it would be out of place, to say the least, for God to be born of an idolatrous people that has forsaken him to worship what its own hands have made. Whatever belongs to the particular human nature that God the Word assumes belongs, in Thomas’s view, to God himself. So if Christ were born outside of the SCG IV, ch. 39: “Only in this way,” Aquinas argues, “can we save what the scriptures hand down concerning the Incarnation. . . . He of whom both [kinds of predicate] is said must be one and the same” (no. 3771: “Hoc enim solum modo salvari possunt ea quae in Scripturis circa Incarnationem traduntur. . . .oportet unum et eundem esse de quo utraque dicantur”). Therefore the two natures in Christ must be united “according to one hypostasis and one supposit” (ibid.: secundum unam hypostasim et suppositum unum). 122 “Homo” is predicated “truly and properly” (vere et proprie) of “Deus,” “just as of Socrates and Plato” (ST III, q. 16, a. 1, resp.: sicut de Socrate et Platone). 123 ST III, q. 4, a. 6; q. 31, a. 1. 121 114 Bruce D. Marshall holy people Israel, God himself would be born of idolatrous flesh, and the eternal Son would be raised up as an idolater, devoted to what has eyes and yet sees not, rather than to the Father who sent him. This, as Thomas likes to put it, would be “unfitting.” Just as the people from whom the savior of all was to be born had to be holy, so this savior, the supremely holy one, could only be a Jew. Holiness and salvation come from knowledge and worship of the true God. If the incarnate Word is to be the source (principium) and cause of salvation, he must take his flesh from that people among whom alone the true God is known and worshipped. But “only the Jews had true knowledge of God, because it was to be that salvation would come forth from them. Just as the source of health must be healthy, so the source of salvation . . . must have the true knowledge of God.” For this reason, salvation is, and can only be, “from the Jews” (Jn 4:22).124 Moreover, the particular woman from whom Christ is born, the one from whom the Father’s only-begotten takes the total reality of his flesh, needs herself to be sanctified by a greater privilege of grace than any other (purely) human being. But this is a holiness available only in Israel. The fullness of grace cannot, presumably, be given to a woman who kneels in the temples of idols—that is, to a gentile. A gentile could not know from whom this grace came, what it was, or what to do with it. The angel’s greeting would not be “troubling” to her (Lk 1:29), but wholly unintelligible. “It is reasonable to believe that she who gave birth to ‘the only-begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth,’ should receive greater privileges of grace than all others. Hence, we read in Luke 1:28 that the angel said to her, ‘Hail, full of grace.’”125 Christ needs a Jewish mother not only because he needs a mother who is holy, but also because he needs specifically Jewish flesh. Only this flesh, as the economy of salvation has actually unfolded, can Super Ioan. 4, lec. 2 (commenting on John 4:22): “Thus, since the source and cause of salvation, viz., Christ, was to come from them, according to Genesis 22:18 . . . it was necessary that God be known in Judah” (no. 605 : “Ideo vera notitia de Deo habebatur solum a Iudaeis, quia futurum erat quod salus ex Iudaeis proveniret; et sicut principium sanitatis debet esse sanum, ita principium salutis, quae habetur per Dei veram cognitionem et verum cultum, oportet veram cognitionem de Deo habere: et ideo, quia ex eis principium salutis et causa, scilicet Christus, provenire debebat, secundum illud Gen. 22:18 . . . oportet Deum notum esse in Iudaea”). 125 ST III, q. 27, a. 1, resp.: “Rationabiliter enim creditur quod illa quae genuit ‘unigenitum a patre, plenum gratiae et veritatis,’ prae omnibus aliis maiora gratiae privilegia accepit, unde legitur, Luc. 1[:28], quod Angelus ei dixit, ‘ave, gratia plena.’” 124 Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 115 receive and possess the holiness that the incarnate Word must have. The savior of sinners cannot himself be a sinner, but must “obtain supreme innocence.” To this end there ought to be a continuous sequence of righteous people who mediate holiness “from the first sinner all the way to Christ” and who visibly radiate signs of the perfect holiness to come.126 Only so can God the Son take flesh from fallen Adam, thereby to redeem all who have Adam’s flesh and at the same time take, as he must, flesh set apart from idolatry and ignorance of God. The election of Abraham guarantees the continuing availability of holy flesh and fixes its public signs. This tradition of sanctity culminates in Mary, who is elected from within Israel to be the mother of God, as Israel is elected from among the nations to be the holy people among whom alone such a mother could be. Chosen for this purpose, Mary alone mediates Jewish flesh, and thus human holiness, to Jesus, and so to God the Son.127 Mary’s election, therefore, has to concentrate all the holiness of Israel in her person. God never elects without preparing those whom he chooses for the purpose he gives them.128 For the purpose of being the mother of God, Mary is elected to perfect sanctification, or, looked at the other way around, to complete sinlessness. So she must be, “since she has a unique intimacy with Christ, who receives flesh from her. As is said in 2 Corinthians 6[:15], ‘What has Christ to do with Belial?’”—that is, with idolatry, the gravest of all sins.129 126 127 128 129 ST III, q. 4, a. 6, ad 3: “Christus . . . quasi summam innocentiae obtinens, conveniens fuit ut a primo peccatore usque ad Christum perveniretur mediantibus quibusdam iustis, in quibus perfulgerent quaedam insignia futurae sanctitatis.” ST III, q. 35, a. 4, ad 1: “Christ is not from the Jews except through the Blessed Virgin” (“Non autem est [Christus] ex Iudaeis nisi mediante Beata Virgine”). On the election of Mary, see ST III, q. 27, a. 4, resp.: “God prepares and disposes those whom he elects for some purpose so that they are able to fulfill it, according to 2 Cor. 3:6: ‘Who has made us able ministers of the New Testament.’ Now, the Blessed Virgin was divinely elected to be the mother of God. Therefore, there can be no doubt that God, by his grace, made her able to do this, according to the words spoken to her by the angel: ‘You have found grace with God: behold, you will conceive,’ etc.” (“[I]llos quos Deus ad aliquid eligit, ita praeparat et disponit ut ad id ad quod eliguntur inveniantur idonei, secundum illud II Cor. 3[:6]: ‘idoneos nos fecit ministros novi testamenti.’ Beata autem virgo fuit electa divinitus ut esset mater Dei. Et ideo non est dubitandum quod Deus per suam gratiam eam ad hoc idoneam reddidit, secundum quod Angelus ad eam dicit, ‘invenisti gratiam apud Deum, ecce, concipies,’ et cetera”). ST III, q. 27, a. 4, resp.: “[Q]uia singularem affinitatem habuit ad Christum, 116 Bruce D. Marshall Being an Israelite makes, it seems, a radical difference to who Christ is. The Word could not become gentile flesh. Jesus Christ could not be God incarnate at all unless he was a Jew, unless his mother was a Jew and they both practiced with supreme holiness, in the way appropriate to each, the Jewish religion. Of course the necessity here is conditional; it is a matter of what Thomas calls suitability or fittingness (convenientia), rather than of what could not under any circumstances be otherwise. In Thomas’s lexicon, the difference Israel makes to Christ’s human origin is a matter of necessity ex suppositione, and not of necessity simpliciter.130 But it was far more fitting for the Word of God to receive his flesh from a Jewish woman than in any other way.131 In the same way, it was more fitting for God to become incarnate as the climax of a deliberate preparation by way of election, law, and prefigurative cult, than at the remote beginning of human affairs.132 Convenientia is the tightest connection one could wish for here, and Thomas regards it as most fitting that Christ be an Israelite, that he take his human origin from this people elected in order to carve out a holy space in creation for his coming. Understanding Salvation in Christ Not only is the saving flesh of God incarnate from Israel. The totality of his redemptive work takes its form from Israel—or, in the terms we have already used, gets its conceptual content from Israel’s life with 130 131 132 qui ab ea carnem accepit. Dicitur autem II Cor. 6: ‘Quae conventio Christi ad Belial?’” On the gravity of idolatry, see ST II-II, q. 94, a. 3. For an important example of this distinction, see ST III, q. 46, a. 2, resp. ST III, q. 31, a. 4, resp.: “While the Son of God could have assumed human flesh formed from whatever matter he wished, it was nonetheless eminently suitable that he receive flesh from a woman” (“[L]icet Filius Dei carnem humanam assumere potuerit de quacumque materia voluisset, convenientissimum tamen fuit ut de femina carnem acciperet”). Super Gal. 4, lec. 2: “For, since he that was to come was great, it was fitting that human beings be made ready for his coming by many signs and many preparations” (no. 201: “Quia enim magnus est qui venturus erat, oportebat et multis indiciis et multis praeparationibus homines ad adventum eius disponi”). Cf. ST III, q. 1, a. 5, resp.: “Nor was it fitting that God should become incarnate immediately after sin. . . . on account of the dignity of the incarnate Word, for on Gal. 4:4, ‘when the fulness of the time had come,’ a gloss says: ‘The greater the judge who was coming, the longer was the series of heralds who ought to have come before him’” (“[N]on . . . statim post peccatum conveniens fuit Deum incarnari. . . . Tertio, propter dignitatem ipsius verbi incarnati. Quia super illud Gal. 4[:4], ‘ubi venit plenitudo temporis,’ dicit Glossa, ‘quanto maior iudex veniebat, tanto praeconum series longior praecedere debebat’”). Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 117 God, especially her cultic life. The saving action and passion of Jesus, all that God the Son did and suffered in the human nature he assumed, comes as the fulfillment of Israel’s whole law and history.133 As St. Paul teaches in 1 Corinthians 10:11, “everything happened to this people as a figure” of what was to come in Christ (Vulg.: “Omnia in figura contingebant illis”). The entire cultus of this people “was a figure of the mystery of Christ, so that everything they did [in worship] figuratively anticipated what belongs to Christ.”134 Not only Israel’s worship, though, but her whole existence (totus status) pointed in complex detail to what would unfold in Christ for the salvation of the world.135 The content-laden figurative significance of Israel’s history reaches all the way down to the scripturally narrated details of her wars and daily life. “Even the wars and exploits of this people have a mystical meaning, and not the wars and exploits of the Assyrians or the Romans, even though the latter are more celebrated among men.”136 Just this law and just this history prefigured the salvation Jesus was to accomplish in the Paschal mystery. It is for the sake of the incarnate God’s redemptive mission as a whole, and not only for his existence in our flesh, that God has distinguished Israel from the nations. Here, basic Christological considerations again come into play. The Father’s Word does not assume universal human nature into the unity of his person (human nature in general) but an individuated (though not yet subsisting) human nature with determinate properties. The eternal In the language of ST III, q. 27, prooem., “quae filius Dei incarnatus in natura humana sibi unita fecit vel passus est.” 134 ST I-II, q. 102, a. 6, resp.: “Cultus autem legis figurabat mysterium Christi, unde omnia eorum gesta figurabant ea quae ad Christum pertinent; secundum illud I Cor. 10[:11], ‘omnia in figuram contingebant illis.’” 135 ST I-II, q. 104, a. 2, resp.: “The whole existence of that people, who were directed by these precepts, was figurative, according to 1 Cor. 10:11: ‘Everything happened to them as a figure’” (“[T]otus status illius populi, qui per huiusmodi praecepta disponebatur, figuralis erat; secundum illud I ad Cor. 10[:11], ‘omnia in figuram contingebant illis’”); ibid., ad 2: “The whole existence of that people had to be prophetic and figural” (“[O]portuit totum illius populi statum esse propheticum et figuralem”; this way of putting the point comes from Augustine, Contra Faustum 22.24, which Thomas invokes several times). On Israel’s whole life as a figure of Christ, see also ST I-II, q. 100, a. 12, resp.; q. 103, a. 1, resp.; and III, q. 27, a. 2, sc. However, all the doctrines and precepts of the New Testament are already taught in the Old, “sub figura” (ST I-II, q. 107, a. 3, ad 1; cf. ad 2). 136 ST I-II, q. 104, a. 2, ad 2: “[E]tiam bella et gesta illius populi exponuntur mystice; non autem bella vel gesta Assyriorum vel Romanorum, quamvis longe clariora secundum hominess.” 133 118 Bruce D. Marshall Verbum assumes (and so actualizes) human nature, Aquinas says, “in atomo” (borrowing the term from John of Damascus).137 This suggests that Israel’s particular history, and especially the determinate features of her cult, is necessary in order to prepare the holy human “atom” that God will assume.The Son of God,Thomas observes in commentary on Hebrews 2:16, took into full personal unity with himself “not an ideal human nature, but one individuated and not further divisible, from the seed of Abraham.”138 The matter that God will assume already has to be shaped in a particular fashion, suitable for the saving mission he will undertake. It not only has to be Jewish matter, flesh descended from the patriarchs, but flesh shaped by the Jewish people’s communal history of love and obedience to God. We cannot here treat in detail the manifold ways Aquinas sees Jesus Christ prefigured in Israel’s cultic life: the redemptive effusion of his blood and the richness of his love by the animal blood poured out on the steps of the altar and the fat consumed in the fire; his opening up for us of heavenly glory by the high priest’s entry into the Holy of Holies on the Day of Atonement; his Paschal sacrifice and his Eucharistic presence as true food of the faithful by the slaying and communal eating of the Passover lamb; the sins he conquers by the prohibited foods; and so forth.139 Whatever his success in individual cases, Aquinas does not simply assume, but tries to show, that Christ’s saving passion and his sacraments are the “truth” of which Israel’s ceremonial law in its totality is the figure. While the richness and density of this truth surpasses that of the realities which anticipate it, the truth nonetheless has to correspond or “answer” (respondere) to the figure.140 The mystery 137 138 139 140 ST III, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3: “‘The Word of God did not assume human nature in general, but “in atomo”’—that is, in an individual—as the Damascene says; otherwise it would belong to every human being to be the Word of God, just as it belongs to Christ” (“Dei Verbum non assumpsit naturam humanam in universali, sed in atomo,’ idest in individuo, sicut Damascenus dicit; alioquin oporteret quod cuilibet homini conveniret esse Dei Verbum, sicut convenit Christo”). Super Heb. 2, lec. 4: “[A]ssumpsit. . .humanam naturam, non tamen idealem, sed in individuo et atomo, et ex semine Abrahae” (Marietti, vol. 2, no. 148). See, respectively, ST I-II, q. 102, a. 3, ad 8; q. 102, a. 4, ad 4; q. 102, a. 5, ads 2–3 (and III, q. 73, a. 6); and I-II, q. 102, a. 6, ad 1. ST III, q. 39, a. 4, obj. 1: “Veritas enim debet respondere figurae.” Naturally, the correspondence cannot be complete, or the figured truth would not fulfill and surpass the figure; it would be the figure. “While the truth suitably answers to the figure, the figure cannot be adequate to the truth” (ST III, q. 76, a. 6, ad 2: “Veritas autem licet figurae respondeat, tamen figura non potest eam adaequare”). Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 119 of Christ has a multiplicity of aspects or benefits for the world that need to be figured by a whole variety of ceremonies.141 But not just any ceremonies will do. Rather, just the ones given in the law are what he requires, what the mystery of his Passion, Resurrection, and sacramental presence calls forth by way of a figurative anticipation. Israel needs this cult so that, by practicing it, she may be joined to the Christ whom it prefigures, and so be saved by him.142 Christ having come in the flesh, the Church no longer practices the ancient cult, but worships God in a new way, with sacraments instituted by God in the flesh (on which more shortly).Yet, the Church still needs Israel’s cult, in at least the sense that the Church cannot do without Scripture’s witness to the liturgical commands God gave and Israel’s implementation of them. All the saving benefits God confers upon the world are given at once in an utterly concentrated form in the single event of the Paschal mystery. We would be powerless to grasp it, to see what God has done for us in Christ, had it not been prefigured for us by the practices of Israel’s worship in all their manifold variety. Precisely because Israel’s cultic life was the divinely constructed figure of Christ’s saving passion, it gives us the many concepts and examples we need so that we may begin to appreciate what has happened to us, and for us, in Christ. This process is already underway, of course, in the New Testament itself. No one concept or example can contain all that happens in the Paschal mystery, or come remotely close to doing so. We need many such notions, and we need to combine them correctly, knowing that, even then, we will not have plumbed the depths of the saving mystery. In a not wholly unrelated fashion, we need many different concepts to speak and think correctly of God, whose one simple essence we nonetheless know we will fall short of grasping. In both cases we need the 141 142 See ST I-II, q. 101, a. 3, resp.: “[M]ysterium Christi, quod per huiusmodi caeremonialia figurabatur, multiplices utilitates attulit mundo, et multa circa ipsum consideranda erant, quae oportuit per diversa caeremonialia figurari.” To be sure, the multitude of cultic laws God gave the Israelites has both literal and figurative purposes: they enable Israel, alone among the nations, to worship the one true God here and now, as well as anticipating Christ to come. See (among others) ST I-II, q. 103 a. 2, resp.: “In the time of the law the minds of the faithful were able to be joined to Christ incarnate in his passion, and in this way they were justified by faith in Christ. Their observation of the ceremonies was a profession of this faith, in that the ceremonies were a figure of Christ” (“Poterat autem mens fidelium, tempore legis, per fidem coniungi Christo incarnato et passo: et ita ex fide Christi iustificabantur. Cuius fidei quaedam protestatio erat huiusmodi caeremoniarum observatio, inquantum erant figura Christi”). 120 Bruce D. Marshall right concepts and guidance on how to combine them, and it is these that scriptural Israel gives us. This is what it means to say that Israel’s whole existence was a figure of Christ “for our instruction” (I Cor. 10:11), as well as for Israel’s own salvation. Jesus Christ, then, needs more from Israel than a holy stock from which God the Son can draw his human flesh.The complex saving role that Christ enacts has to be available, it has to be a real possibility, and its availability consists precisely in its manifold prefiguration. The human “atom” that the eternal Son assumes for the world’s salvation has been given its determinate shape by generations of Jewish obedience. Abraham, as priest and prophet, already began to embody the shape of the coming redeemer. So, in one way or another, did David, the prophet and king, and all Israelite obedience to God’s manifold commands.143 The holiness of Mary’s Jewish flesh, upon which the Incarnation itself depends, is likewise inseparable from her obedience, her whole self ’s yes to the will and command of God. She brings to perfection the shape of Israelite obedience. Mary is, in Thomas’s language, the truth of which the synagogue—Israel at worship—is the figure. She “enacts the figure of the synagogue, which is the mother of Christ,” and so is alone suited to be his mother according to the flesh.144 The redeemer of the world not only needs flesh descended from Abraham and Israel, but flesh formed by the law, by Israel’s religion and worship. He needs the synagogue for his mother; in Mary, this is just the mother he has. Of course, Christ is the ratio of the ceremonies, and indeed of Israel’s whole figurative existence, and not they of him. They take the shape they have because of him, not he because of them.145 But this is simply to say that being the fulfiller of just this law is constitutive of who he is as redeemer.146 He redeems all humanity by accomplishing all that is anticipated in this particular cult, the worship of this particular people. Jesus Christ is, in Thomas’s felicitous phrase, “the fruit of the law,” and 143 144 145 146 On Abraham and David, see ST III, q. 31, a. 2. Super Ioan. 2, lec. 1: Mary “provokes” Jesus to his first miracle at Cana, “realizing in this way the figure of the synagogue, which is the mother of Christ” (no. 346: “gerens in hoc figuram synagogae, quae est mater Christi”). ST I-II, q. 102, a. 3, resp.: “Because the figure takes its shape from what it is a figure of, the contents of the figural sacrifices of the old law are derived from the true sacrifice of Christ” (“Et quia ex figurato sumitur ratio figurae, ideo rationes sacrificiorum figuralium veteris legis sunt sumendae ex vero sacrificio Christi”). Matthew Levering develops this point extensively in Christ’s Fulfillment of Torah and Temple. Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 121 for just this reason he is fit to offer, and to be offered as, the redemptive sacrifice for all humanity.147 He offers a particular sacrifice for the world’s salvation, the sacrifice that only the Jews have prepared by their worship, in which only they have believed, grasping the meaning of their figures. He offers the sacrifice that only a Jew can offer. If just this cult has been prepared by God in order to be the determinate figure of Christ’s passion, then only a Jew can be the redeemer of the world, as only a Jew can be God incarnate. The Purpose of Election Fulfilled: A Perplexity In Thomas, it seems, we have in many ways a far more exalted estimate of both the Jewish people and the Jewish religion than that typically found in recent Christian theology, precisely where recent theology has prided itself on having overcome the hopelessly grave defects of traditional Christian thought about the Jews. For Thomas, in a word, both the Jewish people and Judaism are closer to God, more intimately bound up with God and God’s purposes, than “post-supersessionist” theology usually ventures to suppose. Thomas insists not only on God’s irrevocable election of the Jewish people—the point where recent theology has thought it was returning to the biblical roots of the faith long repudiated in the tradition—but also on God’s irrevocable assumption of Jewish flesh to be his own. In the actual economy of salvation, as we have seen, only Jewish flesh is capable of being assumed in this way. This means not only that Jewish flesh is uniquely as close to God as it is possible for a creature to be— hypostatically united to God the Son—but that Jewish flesh thereby attains an infinite dignity. It is nothing less than the flesh of God, the caro Dei, “from whom it has boundless worth.”148 As we have also seen, the acts of the virtue of religion depend on the availability of precepts God must give, in order for creatures to offer God the worship and honor that is due to him. Judaism, in its biblical By the prohibition of eating the first fruits (Lv 19:23), it was prefigured that, only when the law had fully run its course, “was Christ, who is the fruit of the law, to be offered to God” (ST I-II, q. 102, a. 6, ad 5: “erat Christus Deo offerendus, qui est fructus legis”); cf. Super Gal. 3, lec. 7 (nos. 164 and 166). 148 ST III, q. 48, a. 2, ad 3: “The value of Christ’s flesh is not to be judged only according to the nature of flesh [itself], but according to the person who assumes it, that is, insofar as it was the flesh of God, from whom it has boundless worth” (“[D]ignitas carnis Christi non est aestimanda solum secundum carnis naturam, sed secundum personam assumentem, inquantum scilicet erat caro Dei, ex quo habebat dignitatem infinitam”). 147 122 Bruce D. Marshall form, for Aquinas, consists in just these divinely given precepts. But it is not simply the case, as post-supersessionist theology also typically insists, that Christians must regard the Jewish religion as willed by God, and so as the proper worship of the Jewish people. That is right as far as it goes. But God and his mother both practice this religion and, in just this way, enact the virtue of religion.149 Precisely from her practice of Judaism, from her participation in Israel’s cult and her obedience to Israel’s laws, Mary draws the perfect (that is, sinless) holiness of the created person, the pure creature. And precisely in his full acceptance of the law of Israel, Jesus realizes the supreme holiness possible to the creature at all, the human holiness of God the Son.150 By his submission to the Father, his prayer, and his priesthood, enacted in free obedience to the law of Israel, from circumcision to paschal sacrifice, Jesus fulfills and 149 150 That Jesus possesses all the moral virtues, thereby including the virtue of religion, Aquinas holds explicitly (see ST III, q. 7, a. 2). He must possess these human virtues in the fullest possible way—as fully, in other words, as the subsistence of his humanity in the person of the Word allows. This means that, while he will have religion, he will not have faith, since the hypostatic union entails, Aquinas holds, the immediate possession of the vision of God in Jesus’ human soul (see, e.g., ST III, q. 9, a. 2). This claim is lately much contested, but we will have to leave that aside for now. We may simply note that, since Jesus is a comprehensor even on the viator’s way that leads to the Cross, in him the virtue of religion is not caused by the virtue of faith, as it presently is in us. Rather the immediate vision of God causes and makes perfect the virtue of religion in him, as it does all the virtues compatible with the vision of God (that is, the moral virtues under the regime of charity). This is to be expected, since Thomas has already held that, in our case too, the virtue of religion will remain when we see God. Indeed, it will be the form in which the virtue of justice continues to exist in patria: “As to justice, it is clear what act it will have there, namely to be subject to God, because even in this life it pertains to justice to be subject to a superior” (ST I-II, q. 67, a. 1, resp.: “De iustitia vero manifestum est quem actum ibi habebit, scilicet esse subditum Deo, quia etiam in hac vita ad iustitiam pertinent esse subditum superiori”). Cf. ST II-II, q. 136, a. 1, ad 1. On the relationship between the holiness of Mary and the holiness of Jesus, see, e.g., ST III, q. 27, a. 5, resp.: “Christ is the source of grace . . . hence it is said in John 1:17: ‘Grace and truth came by Jesus Christ.’ But the blessed virgin Mary was nearest to Christ with respect to humanity, because he received human nature from her. Therefore it was due to her to receive from Christ a greater fullness of grace than others” (“Christus autem est principium gratiae. . . . unde et Ioan. 1[:17] dicitur, ‘gratia et veritas per Iesum Christum facta est.’ Beata autem virgo Maria propinquissima Christo fuit secundum humanitatem, quia ex ea accepit humanam naturam. Et ideo prae ceteris maiorem debuit a Christo plenitudinem gratiae obtinere”). Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 123 perfects the precepts of divine worship God gave to his elect people. In just this way, he perfects the virtue of religion. Judaism, as practiced by Jesus, is the perfect religion—so exceedingly perfect, indeed, as to constitute the salvation of the world. Herein lies a perplexity. The perplexity I have in mind is neither trivial nor recondite; but it is troubling, and it goes to the heart of the relationship between the Church and the Jewish people. This puzzlement is not Thomas’s invention, but he brings it clearly to light. Recent Christian theology tends to talk as though it had untied the knot of this perplexity. But this is to mistake ignoring a problem for solving it. Allow me to conclude by reflecting briefly on this difficulty and on why it is so hard to overcome. Christ has so fully enacted the divinely mandated worship of Israel that now every priestly act, every act that offers to God the worship he is due in justice, will be Christ’s own act. To the extent that this worship belongs to us, it will be our participation in his one supreme act of sacrifice, his high priestly offering of himself in the upper room and on the altar of the cross. And this is simply to say, it would seem, that the worship due to God is now possible only for those who are in Christ, that is, for Christians. Jesus—Israel’s God made flesh and the Jewish redeemer of all the world—has so fulfilled the law of Israel that no space appears to remain for the Jews themselves to practice it. Differently put: it would now seem to be impossible for any human being, Jew or gentile, to exercise the virtue of religion except in union with Christ. “In the Lord Jesus Christ,” Aquinas succinctly observes, “there was the perfection of all religion and sanctity.”151 In agreement with a long tradition, Aquinas holds that the worship (the “ceremonies”) God enjoined upon Israel is not only fulfilled in their totality by Christ, but “taken away when they are fulfilled.”152 The claim that, in all its particulars, Israel’s divinely mandated worship has become a thing of the past (tolluntur) is not an unnecessary and invidious addition to faith in its fulfillment (implentur), but part of what it means for the ritual laws of the elect people to have been fulfilled. In its totality, Israel’s cultus was a gift given for her sanctification and as an abundant figure of the redeemer yet to come. With the advent Contra impugnantes, ch. 8, §2, obj. 8: “In domino Iesu Christo omnis religionis et sanctitatis perfectio fuit” (Leonine ed., vol. 41A [1970], 126.136–137). Thomas is here stating an objection against the religious habits of the mendicant orders, but he obviously agrees with this assumption, which fuels the objection. 152 ST I-II, q. 107, a. 2, ad 1: “[C]aeremoniae legis tolluntur cum implentur.” 151 124 Bruce D. Marshall of Christ in the flesh and his saving passion, the twin purposes of this divine gift have been fully accomplished. To continue the old way of worship after the coming of Christ attests, whether or not intentionally, that the purposes for which God gave it have not in fact been accomplished, but still await their realization. “Worship according to the law ceased when it was fulfilled by the passion of Christ, since God established it as a figure of Christ.”153 From this follows Thomas’s well known insistence, also not unique to him, that to follow the law once enjoined upon Israel after the passion of Christ, after his high priestly offering on the Cross, is no longer to exercise the virtue of religion, but the vice of infidelity—that Jewish worship has become mortifera, death-dealing.154 To us, such claims seem impossibly harsh and unwarranted, and we instinctively assume they must have a non-theological, indeed non-religious, explanation. But Aquinas does not say such things out of an arbitrary disregard for Judaism, let alone out of an incipient anti-Semitism. He says them precisely as a result of his remarkably high estimate of Jewish election and Judaism. From the priesthood of God incarnate, of the God who has become Jewish flesh, “flows the entire worship of the Christian religion,” the whole sacramental life of the Church.155 The Church’s saving ritus does not flow from the priesthood of Christ by rejecting the worship God enjoined upon Israel, but by fulfilling it.The Church’s sacramental life simply is the worship enjoined upon Israel, enacted and thus fulfilled by Christ. To treat the divinely mandated worship of Israel as an alternative to the sacramental life of the Church is not to continue in the worship of the one true God, but to fall away 153 154 155 ST I-II, q. 103, a. 4, ad 1: “[R]itus autem legis cessabat tanquam impletus per Christi passionem, utpote a Deo in figuram Christi institutus” See, e.g., ST I-II, q. 104, a. 3, resp.: “The ceremonial rites have been made void to such an extent that they are not only ‘dead,’ but even ‘deadly,’ for those who observe them after Christ. . . . therefore, observing them is against the truth of the faith” (“Nam caeremonialia adeo sunt evacuata ut non solum sint ‘mortua,’ sed etiam ‘mortifera’ observantibus post Christum. . . . et ideo ipsa observatio eorum praeiudicat fidei veritati”). Cf. ST I-II, q. 103, a. 4, resp. and ad 1, and II-II, q. 93, a. 1, resp. Some complexities in Aquinas’s view of the Levitical ceremonies as “mortifera,” in contrast to “mortua,” I will not pursue here. These are sometimes taken to mitigate his apparent claim that Jewish worship is now “deadly” for those who practice it, though I think these efforts on Thomas’s behalf are unsuccessful in the end. For a brief discussion see my essay, “Christ and Israel” (note 91 above), 338–339, esp. n. 17. ST III, q. 63, a. 3, resp.: “Totus autem ritus Christianae religionis derivatur a sacerdotio Christi.” Aquinas on Natural Law, Judaism, and Salvation in Christ 125 from it by rejecting the priest and the priesthood in which alone this worship now can take place. Something has gone deeply wrong here. It cannot be the case that the Jewish people, precisely by the practice of Judaism, fail to worship, and indeed reject, the God who chose them and their descendants forever. The Catechism of the Catholic Church, among other important magisterial interventions, evidently supposes that this cannot be the case. The Jewish people and the Church aim at the same goal—not simply at the one true God, but at the advent of his Messiah.156 In any case, it seems hard to reconcile Thomas’s thought that the Jewish religion has become a mode of infidelity with his own commitment to the permanence of Israel’s election. Surely, the Jewish religion, now as before, must be the divinely given means to the right and just worship of God for his elect people, and so a genuine alternative to the sacramental life of the Church as a way to intimacy with God. So we must suppose, if we believe in the election of Israel. But if we believe in the Incarnation and the redemption, there can be no such alternative. I do not know how to solve this problem, or even whether it has a solution short of the last day.157 I do, however, think it is a perplexity to which we need to face up, even—indeed especially—if that means N&V acknowledging our own impotence to untie this knot. 156 157 “[W]hen one considers the future, God’s People of the Old Covenant and the new People of God tend towards similar (analogos) goals: expectation of the coming (or the return) of the Messiah” (Catechism of the Catholic Church, §840). For a more detailed articulation of the problem, and an indication as to why the usual solutions fail, see Marshall, “Christ and Israel.” Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 1 (2016): 127–149127 Sacrifice, Social and Sacramental: The Witness of Louis Billot, S.J. ROMANUS CESSARIO, O.P. Saint John’s Seminary Brighton, MA The Setting: Social Sacrifice On Monday, October 3, 1927, a national magazine’s headline blasted the breaking news: “Billot v. Pope.” This piece in the “Religion” section continued: “Turning against Rome a face that looks like a vise with two deep sockets for eyes, Louis Cardinal Billot, eightyone-year-old Frenchman, a foremost theologian, renounced his red hat and repaired last week to France to enter a monastery as plain Father Billot. The alleged cause of his resignation was the Pope’s placing Leon Daudet’s newspaper L’Action Française on the Index Expurgatorius (thus banning it at once from all Roman Catholic homes). His Holiness’ policy was based on the conviction that the wily, obstreperous editors of L’Action were using their paper (devoted to the royalist cause) as the organ of a school of thought whose doctrines are absolutely irreconcilable with Catholicism.”1 Thus, did the editors of Time magazine opine in the fall of 1927. Who is this Frenchman, Louis Billot (1846–1931)? One twentieth-century Jesuit author, Gerald McCool, flatteringly describes him as “the first really distinguished Neo-Scholastic theologian to be appointed to the Gregorian,” where Billot arrived in 1885, not long after the issuance in 1879 of Aeterni Patris.2 His Roman service “Billot v. Pope,” Time, October 3, 1927. Billot, in fact, had wanted to return to France, close to Action Française, but the Jesuit General thought it better to keep him in the Roman countryside. 2 Gerald A. McCool, S.J., From Unity to Pluralism: The Internal Evolution of 1 128 Romanus Cessario, O.P. to the Holy See, which included a stint as president of the Pontifical Academy of Saint Thomas Aquinas, persuaded Pope Pius X to create him a cardinal in the consistory of November 27, 1911. In a testimonial to Louis Billot, his contemporary, Sulpician Henri Le Floch, cites a letter of Cardinal Merry del Val, then Pope Pius X’s Secretary of State, to the Archbishop of Lyons that refers to “L’Eminentissime cardinal Billot honneur de l’Église et de la France.”3 Whom, then, do we encounter in this avant-garde example of démissionner? What personal qualities does Louis Billot possess? Three, I suggest, pertain to the present discussion: he is a Frenchman; he is a Jesuit; and he is a student of Saint Thomas. One may ask: why discuss Cardinal Billot in the context of a symposium devoted to the virtue of religion? In a word, the intellectual biography of this octogenarian Frenchman includes a snapshot of one of the twentieth-century’s best-known Catholic conflicts about the place that the virtue of religion and its acts, including sacrifice, ought to hold in the political life of a nation. Gallic in temperament and appearance, Louis Billot sacrificed ecclesiastical prestige, though not his priesthood, for political and theological convictions that had caused fissures in pre-World War II French society. Or perhaps, one may also say, Billot resigned for politico-theological views that still inspire large numbers of believers in France and, one must admit, beyond. Louis Billot understood hierarchy; he embodied reverence. Thanks to his reading of Saint Thomas, Billot had come to grasp profoundly, though perhaps also unbendingly, the relationships between certain virtues that Aquinas designates as potential parts of the cardinal virtue of justice. Specifically, Billot’s life and witness illustrate those virtues that the “commentatorial” tradition calls the virtues of veneration: religio, pietas, and observantia.4 Billot took seriously a premise that Aquinas employs when he begins his inquiry into whether the rites of infidels are to be tolerated: “Human government derives from 3 4 Thomism (New York: Fordham University Press: 1989), 33. R. P. Henri Le Floch, S.SP., Le cardinal Billot: Lumière de la Théologie (Paris: Beauchesne et Ses Fils, 1947), 5. The addressee of the letter was Hector Sévin (1852–1916), Archbishop of Lyon and later cardinal. See Summa theologiae (hereafter, ST) II-II, q. 80, a. unic. For a discussion of the virtues of veneration, see T. C. O’Brien, “Virtues of Justice in the Human Community,” in Summa Theologiae, vol. 41 (Cambridge: Blackfriars, 1972), xv–xxi. (Unless otherwise noted, all citations of and quotations from the ST are from the Blackfriars edition [1964–1981].) The Witness of Louis Billot, S.J. 129 divine government and should be modeled on it.”5 Accordingly, Billot lamented loudly those who wished to create a humanity without need of God.6 To function well, Billot was persuaded, nations required of their members a religious disposition toward God and participation in his true worship. Billot also followed Aquinas’s argument for the fittingness of the Sacrament of Holy Orders. In his Summa theologiae, Saint Thomas appeals to the similarities that spiritual life enjoys with corporeal existence, for example, that the upholding of the common good requires some persons to perform public actions that perfect all the members of a political common good. In the spiritual order, this perfection of Catholic life occurs, writes Aquinas, when “priests offer sacrifices not merely on their own behalf but for the people as well,” and thereby perfect the supernatural good of all God’s holy Church.7 Are the rites of infidels to be tolerated? While he makes special provision for the Jews, Aquinas clearly teaches that “although infidels may sin in their rites, they may be tolerated on account of some good that results or some evil that is avoided.”8 After all, “God permits some evils in the universe which he could prevent, lest without them greater goods might be lost or greater evils ensue.”9 Can a nation survive without the Catholic Mass and Catholic priests to celebrate it? Billot, one reasonably assumes, favored Aquinas’s view of tolerance, not that advanced by Roger Williams.10 So, we turn to consider what Louis Billot, both by his example and his instruction, taught us about religious sacrifice, both social and sacramental. To grasp fully the social dimensions of Cardinal Billot’s unique brand of Thomism requires some indication of how the Holy See regarded France during the latter half of the nineteenth century and 5 6 7 8 9 10 ST II-II, q. 10, a. 11. Louis Billot, S.J., Tractatus De Ecclesia Christi sive Continuatio Theologiae De Verbo Incarnato, vol. 2, De habitudine Ecclesiae ad civilem societatem (Prati: ex officina Libraria Giachetti, filii et soc., 1910), 42: “Volumus, inquiunt, organizare humanitatem quae possit carere Deo.” Billot thus translates a phrase that he ascribes to Jules Ferry, “Nous voulons organiser une humanité qui puisse se passer de ‘Dieu.’” ST III, q. 65, a. 1. ST II-II, q. 10, a. 11. ST II-II, q. 10, a. 11. Roger Williams (d. 1683), a founding settler in what is now Rhode Island, was a pioneer promoter of American-style religious liberty. This essay was originally delivered in Providence, Rhode Island at the 2013 Rev. Robert J. Randall Conference on Christian Culture, “The Virtue of Religion,” April 19–20, 2013, held at Providence College under the directorship of Professor Reinhard Hütter, the 2012–2113 Visiting Randall Professor. Romanus Cessario, O.P. 130 into the twentieth century. Pius X’s successor, Pope Benedict XV (r. 1914–1922), expressed succinctly an enduring Roman aspiration for France: “Regnum Galliae, regnum Mariae nunquam peribit.”11 Because France belongs to our Lady, France will never suffer extinction. Though Louis Billot spent more than half his life in Rome— forty-six years all told—he never lost his observantia, his respect, his reverence for the homeland, Catholic France, Our Lady’s France, the France that remains to this day the eldest daughter of the Church, la fille aînée de l’Église. Because of this virtuous characteristic, Billot developed strong views about how French Catholics should both shape and influence post-revolutionary, republican France. *** Louis Billot was born in 1846, two years before the Revolution of 1848 that ushered in the French Second Republic at Sierck-les-Bains, a city located in the Lorraine (north-eastern France), which borders on both Germany and Luxembourg. Young Louis—it may be useful to observe—grew up during the period of the Second French Empire (1852–1870) led by Napoleon III. In 1869, at the age of twenty-three, Billot was ordained a priest, and after having joined the Jesuits, he took up pastoral work in Paris and Laval. His intellectual acumen earned him a teaching post at the Catholic University of Angers, and afterwards, he taught exiled Jesuit scholastics on the Channel Island of Jersey, whence they had sought refuge after their banishment in 1880 by the Third French Republic. When Pope Leo XIII called Father Billot to Rome, the Pope placed him at the service of the intellectual renewal of Catholic life that we know as Leonine Thomism. There on the Italian peninsula, Billot remained until his death at the Jesuit novitiate located at Ariccia, just outside Rome in the Alban Hills. (Today the structure serves as a retreat house attached to the seventeenth-century “Santuario di Santa Maria di Galloro.”) He died on December 18, 1931, about a month shy of his eighty-sixth birthday. By apostolic commitment, Billot was a teacher, a professor, and an intellectual. His published scholarly works include articles and theological manuals. He wrote on the topics that comprise still the theology curriculum of a Catholic seminary: Scripture and Tradition, God and the Trinity, Christ, the Church, the sacraments, the last things, original sin, grace, the infused virtues, and the Parousia. Billot, to be sure, was a Thomist of the Leonine revival, but he was not, I 11 Floch, Billot, 132. The Witness of Louis Billot, S.J. 131 underline, a Thomist of the commentatorial tradition. Those whom he considers authoritative guides for doing theology inhabit mainly the thirteenth century; his list of approved authors comes to an end with Giles of Rome, who died in 1316. The standard commentators, however, Billot for the most part disregarded.12 In order to illustrate Billot’s outlook on the commentatorial tradition, we are fortunate to possess the eye-witness testimony of a convert to Thomism, Jacques Maritain. In his Notebooks, Maritain recalls a visit in 1918 that the Pope, Benedict XV, had asked him to pay Cardinal Billot for the purpose of reviewing a manuscript about the Marian apparition at La Salette: “The Cardinal,” writes Maritain, “receives me very graciously, speaks to me of [Ernest] Psichari,13 of [Charles] 12 13 Jules Lebreton, “Son excellence le cardinal Billot,” Études 189 (1911): 514–525: “Dans les discussions philosophiques par lesquelles il prépare ses thèses théologiques, le P. Billot oppose fréquemment les docteurs modernes, les recentiores, comme il les appelle, aux anciens scolastiques, qu’il salue volontiers du nom de veteres Scholae principes. A ceux-ci vont toutes les préférences, tandis que ceux-là sont jugés sévèrement, parfois durement; ceux qui accusent les Jésuites de trop sacrifier à l’esprit de corps devront reconnaître que ce reproche ne saurait atteindre le P. Billot. Les recentiores, pour lui, ce sont tous les théologiens à partir de Cajétan ou même de Scot; les principes, ce sont, tout d’abord, saint Thomas, puis saint Bonaventure, Albert le Grand, Alexandre de Halès, Gilles de Rome. Son atmosphère intellectuelle est celle du treizième siècle; les conceptions du seizième siècle lui sont manifestement peu sympathiques” (519). Billot, however, did exhibit sympathy for certain views of the fifteenth-century Princeps Thomistarum, John Caprelous, as Jean Galot, S.J., points out in The Person of Christ: A Theological Insight, trans. A. Bouchard (Chicago: Franciscan Herald Press, 1984), 16. See also, Francis Courtney, “Billot, Louis,” in A Catholic Dictionary of Theology, ed. H. Francis Davis et al. (London: Nelson, 1962–1971), 1:268–270, at 270. “Ernest Psichari. Novelist and soldier whose writings combine militaristic sentiments with a semi-mystical religious devotion. Born on 27 September 1883 in Paris, France; died on 22 August 1914 in Rossignol, Belgium. Grandson of the historian Ernest Renan. Son of a Greek philologist, Jean Psichari. Psichari grew up in an atmosphere of liberal intellectualism. After a period of acute emotional and mental stress, he started on the long journey toward an acceptance of religious faith, encouraged by the French Catholic intellectuals Maurice Barrès, Charles Péguy, and Jacques Maritain. As an artillery officer in the French Colonial army in Africa from 1906 to 1912 he first found the satisfaction of a rigid moral commitment. Having converted to Roman Catholicism in 1913, he resolved in 1914 to join the Dominicans, but was killed in the opening days of World War I. His novels The Call to Arms, The Voyage of the Centurion and The Voice that Cries in the Desert are spiritual autobiographies.” New Catholic Dictionary (slightly altered, http://www.britannica. com/biography/Ernest-Psichari). 132 Romanus Cessario, O.P. Péguy, blasts the adversaries of St. Thomas, says much evil about the Jesuits, attacks Suarez and Cajetan, and displays much bitterness.”14 Fortunately, Jacques Maritain had been alerted to Billot’s views about the early modern commentators on Aquinas. In the same Notebooks entry, Maritain recalls the bleak reception that Cardinal Billot earlier had given another French Thomist: “A few days previously,” continues Maritain, “[Billot] had received Father Garrigou-Lagrange, and, discussing theology with him, had declared that Cajetan was ‘a bastard’ and John of Saint Thomas a ‘double bastard.’ Upon which Father Garrigou, not being able to tolerate this offense to the great Commentators, had taken his hat—and the door.”15 It would afford a pleasant thought to suppose that Pope Pius XI took away Billot’s red galero on account of the latter’s views on the Thomist commentatorial tradition. That is not what happened, however. What did precipitate the dramatic turn of events that Time magazine reports in 1927? The cause was not Billot’s idiosyncratic outlook on Thomism, but his well-known views on French politics and the Catholic Church. Like most Frenchmen of his period, Billot held strong convictions about what would make for the proper governance of la belle France. On the other hand, the Holy See throughout the first four decades of the twentieth century exhibited divided views on how the Catholic Church should best survive in the Regnum Galliae. French Catholics, too, were not of one opinion about how to keep France under the Regnum Mariae. For his part, Louis Billot unwaveringly favored Action Française. Achille Ratti, Pius XI, Pope from 1922 until 1939—and, one assumes, his Curia—did not. Today, one should not conclude from the unpleasantness that befell Louis Billot that this eminent churchman was a rebel! On the contrary, he himself held to the rule of submission to the sovereign pontiff’s will that characterizes Jesuit obedience. He likewise counseled others who shared his politico-theological views to avoid anything that would smack of resistance to or revolt against the Holy Father: “J’ai toujours répondu, soit de vive voix, soit par écrit, à tous ceux qui me consultaient sur la ligne de conduite à tenir, qu’il leur fallait non seulement éviter avec soin tout ce qui aurait un semblant d’insoumission ou de révolte mais encore faire le sacrifice de leurs idées particulières pour se conformer aux ordres du Souverain Pontife. Pour ma part personnelle, 14 15 Jacques Maritain, Notebooks (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1984), 94. Ibid. The Witness of Louis Billot, S.J. 133 je me suis, tout le premier, tenu à cette règle.”16 In this admittedly touching personal testimony, we discover the true mind of the Jesuit, Louis Billot: sacrifice one’s particular ideas to conform to the orders of the Pope. What fueled these “particular ideas” that Billot cherished? One may infer from his disapproving reaction to the condemnation of Action Française that, at the very least, Billot was not a partisan of nineteenth-century political liberalism. In fact, he wrote critically about those revolutionary and secular views on Church-State relations that had developed throughout the nineteenth century. As early as 1909, Billot published in Latin a treatise that would later appear in English as Liberalism: A Critique of its Basic Principles and Divers Forms.17 He held no better view of the less structured nineteenth-century movement that goes by the name of “Modernism.” In fact, it was Father Billot who denounced Alfred Loisy’s L’Évangile et l’Église, published at Paris in 1902, and Billot too who played a leading role in its condemnation.18 One, then, best approaches Louis Billot’s apparent intransigency within the historical context of late nineteenth-century political liberalism and theological heterodoxy. His style of Thomism better helped him to rebut the latter than it did to combat the former. Action Française first places us in the political and ecclesiastical environment of pre-World War I France. 1899 marks its formal beginning as a nationalist group formed in response—the nationalist response, moreover—to l‘affaire Dreyfus. The late French historian and politologue, René Rémond (1918–2007), authoritatively reports that the majority of the members of Action Française came from Catholic families for whom the values of order, authority, and tradition formed part of their religious and intellectual upbringing. Action Française, in a word, “stood for the restoration of Catholicism as an integral part of the French State.”19 As Rémond also confirms, the adherents to Action Française found inspiration in the study of Saint Thomas Aqui- 16 17 18 19 Henri du Passage, “Réponse à une calomnie,” Études 210 (1932): 491–492. See Louis Billot, Liberalism: A Criticism of Its Basic Principles and Divers Forms (Beatty, PA: Archabbey Press, 1922), title page: “The present treatise [is] . . . an excerpt from the Tractatus de Ecclesia Christi rather than an independent monograph. It comprises, in fact, all the subject-matter treated under Question XVII of that work.” See the review by Harvey Hill of La Censure d’Alfred Loisy (1903): Les Documents des Congrégations de l’Index et du Saint Office in The Catholic Historical Review 96.4 (2010): 850–851. Michael Walsh, The Cardinals: Thirteen Centuries of the Men Behind the Papal Throne (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2010), 221. 134 Romanus Cessario, O.P. nas.20 It is noteworthy that a scant twenty years after its launching, the Leonine revival of Thomism had already begun to influence Catholic life outside of both seminary walls and university classrooms. In 1905, France of the Third Republic enacted the law on the Separation of the Churches and State—an arrangement which came to be known as laïcité. In matters religious, the French Republic is expected to remain neutral, that is, lay. Not all Catholics in France, however, were intégristes. Certain French Catholics followed a progressivist program that sought to promote harmonious coexistence between the Church and the French Republic. Take, for example, Le Sillon (“The Furrow” or “The Path”), which was founded by a loyal though modernist-tinged Catholic layman, Marc Sangnier (1873–1950).21 As a French political movement, Sillon attracted many Catholic political progressives. The members supported one another from within a communitarian setting—they were, for instance, among the early practitioners of the “circle” as a means for disseminating their notions.22 The Sillonists, as the followers of Sangnier’s movement were called, professed to provide a viable alternative to Marxism and other anticlerical labor movements. In short, they sought—using grassroots community organization (the “study circles”)—to bring Catholicism into a greater conformity with French republican and socialist ideals.23 20 21 22 23 In his “Préface” to Véronique Auzépy-Chavagnac, Jean De Fabregues et la Jeune Droite Catholique: Aux Sources de la Revolution Nationale (Villeneuve d’Ascq: Presses universitaires du Septentrion, 2002), René Rémond wrote that the members of Action Française “retrouvent les valeurs d’ordre, d’autorité, de tradition qui définissaient le catholicisme intransigeant du xixe siècle, héritage du combat contre la Révolution et ses principes jugés pernicieux, réactivé par Maurras et légitimé par une lecture fondamentale de Saint-Thomas d’Aquin.” For one account of this movement, see Denis Lefèvre, Marc Sangnier, l’aventure du Catholicisme social (Paris: Mame, 2008). See ibid., 71–85. Priests became involved in the circles, but with uneven results (see 112–113). “Leurs convictions républicaines leur valurent d’être les cibles de l’Action française dès 1906. C’était au temps du “plus grand Sillon” ouvert à des non-catholiques de bonne volonté partageant les mêmes préoccupations sociales et politiques. Dans le contexte de la crise moderniste et de la Séparation des Églises et de l’État, cette évolution d’un mouvement catholique fut largement blâmée par les évêques français déjà réticents à l’autonomie des laïcs et refusant l’indépendance d’esprit du jeune clergé sillonniste. Tous ces éléments et des maladresses de langage—l’emploi d’un vocabulaire néo-kantien—suscitèrent la lettre pontificale “Notre charge apostolique” du 25 août 1910: les chefs du Sillon furent invités à s’en retirer et celui-ci, épuré de ses erreurs doctrinales, à se placer sous la direction des évêques pour l’action catholique. Marc Sangnier et ses amis se soumirent sans discussion, abandon- The Witness of Louis Billot, S.J. 135 At its start, Sillon resembled what, later in 1933, Peter Maurin (1877– 1949) and Dorothy Day (1897–1980) began in the United States: The Catholic Worker Movement, with its “Friday night meetings” and sassafras tea. In fact, Peter Maurin’s philosophy and practice bears the imprint of the Sillon to which he belonged roughly from 1902 to 1908.24 In any event, the Sillon movement in France flourished officially from 1894 to 1910.25 In his encyclical letter of August 25, 1910, Notre Charge Apostolique, that put an end to Sillon, Pope Pius X stated that “it is an error and a danger to bind down Catholicism by principle to a particular form of government.”26 He meant the democratic form of government. It is difficult to imagine that Father Billot did not in some way affect Sillon’s condemnation.27 The year before, 1909, Pope Pius X appointed him a consultor for the Holy Office (the predecessor of today’s Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith). By that time, Billot’s political views, as his 1909 essay on Liberalism demonstrates, were well formulated. When the Holy See condemned the Sillon movement for its cosmopolitan social action and religiously undifferentiated political activism, Action Française acquired a new allure.28 Indeed, the Holy See’s rejection of the Sillon approach to French politics and economics seemed, in 1910, to have left the Action Française as the only standing Catholic alternative to laïcité. Louis Billot and many 24 25 26 27 28 nant l’action religieuse pour l’action politique” (Olivier Prat, “Biographie,” Marc Sangier, http://www.marc-sangnier.com/biographie.html). Le.Sillon.net, http://www.sillon.net/heritage/peter-maurin. In the French Catholic newspaper, La Croix, Marc Sangnier (1873–1950) wrote in 1905: “Le Sillon a pour but de réaliser en France la république démocratique. Ce n’est donc pas un mouvement catholique, en ce sens que ce n’est pas une œuvre dont le but particulier est de se mettre à la disposition des évêques et des curés pour les aider dans leur ministère propre. Le Sillon est donc un mouvement laïque, ce qui n’empêche pas qu’il soit aussi un mouvement profondément religieux” (see http://www.europeana.eu/portal/ record/9200408/BibliographicResource_3000118410728.html). Pope Pius X, Notre Charge Apostolique (1910) (CatholicCulture.Org, http://www.catholicculture.org/culture/library/view.cfm?id=5456&CFID=48271314&CFTOKEN=79825374) Ibid.: “The breath of the Revolution has passed this way, and we can conclude that, whilst the social doctrines of the Sillon are erroneous, its spirit is dangerous and its education disastrous.” For further information, see Jacques Prévotat’s 1994 PhD dissertation,“Catholiques français et Action française: Étude des deux condamnations romaines” (Lille: Atelier National de Réproduction des Thèses, 1994), 422 (dissertation done under the direction of René Rémond, a founding member of the Pontifical Academy of Social Sciences in 1994). 136 Romanus Cessario, O.P. others, of course, took encouragement from the Church’s high-profile censure of Catholic liberalism. The attraction of mainly young French and Belgian Catholics to the Action grew, despite the strongly secular bent of the man whose name remains identified principally with Action Française, Charles Maurras (1868–1952). Though the Congregation of the Index passed an unfavorable judgment on several of Maurras’s theses and his journal, the Revue de l’Action Française, on 16 January 1914, Pope Pius X “reserved the right to decide when the decree should be made public. . . . And the Pope, though well aware of Maurras’s paganism,” as one author opines, “seems to have remained sympathetic toward him and the rowdy activists of the Action Française.”29 It is generally supposed that it was Louis Billot who effectively persuaded Pope Pius X (and Merry del Val) not to condemn Action Française for the questionable theses of Maurras. “Les livres de Maurras n’ont rien à voir avec l’Action française,” argued Billot.30 His stratagem, however, failed to take account of the fact that the condemnation of Sillon had left intégriste movements liable to similar reactions. Eugen Weber has observed, “little change in the wording [of Notre Charge Apostolique] was needed to show that what was sauce for Sangnier was equally savory sauce for Maurras.”31 As the Catechism of the Catholic Church reminds us, “The Church, because of her commission and competence, is not to be confused in any way with the political community.”32 What may one conclude from these events? The Holy See banned a progressive socialist movement that enjoyed the support of more than a few Catholics. The Sillon leaders loyally obeyed the Pope’s instruction. Action Française, for a certain time at least, prospered. The “guns of August” were being prepared to sound. The pontificate of Pope Benedict XV was too short and too preoccupied with the troubles attending the First World War to allow the Pope’s meddling in French political life. The next pontificate, however, brought a change of ultramontane Roman views about how Catholics should involve themselves in Gallican politics. On December 20,1926, Pope Pius XI condemned the Action Française. Then on December 29, 1926, as Time reported, several of Maurras’s writings, including the movement’s newspaper, were placed on the Index Librorum Prohibitorum. In fact, 29 30 31 32 Eugen Weber, Action Français:. Royalism and Reaction in Twentieth-century France (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1962), 222. See Prévotat, Catholiques français et Action française, 422. Weber, Action Française, 252. Catechism of the Catholic Church (hereafter CCC), §2245. The Witness of Louis Billot, S.J. 137 L’Action Française was the first newspaper ever placed on the Church’s list of banned books. This papal action dealt a devastating blow to the high-spirited movement. On March 8, 1927, the Action members were prohibited from receiving the sacraments. Many of its members quit, including the award-winning authors François Mauriac and Georges Bernanos.33Action Française and its residual membership entered into a decade of doldrums. Louis Billot, Thomist theologian, even though a highly eclectic one, sacrificed his cardinalatial dignity in order to defend what he thought best served French society. In retrospect, some may find little to sympathize with this Jesuit cardinal. At the same time, it is difficult to gainsay a simple though puzzling generalization about the French. To this day, there remains in France a group of people who do not accept the French Revolution, and who, as a result, consider themselves dispossessed of their authentic nationality by reason of their citizenship in the French Republic. “Regnum Galliae, regnum Mariae.” The old Action Française still provides for this group of alienated French people a memory and a sense of identity. In 1939, Pope Pius XII lifted the condemnation of the Action Française.34 Maurras died fortified by the sacraments of the Church the same year, 1953, that he published his last book, Le Bienheureux Pie X, sauveur de la France.35 A political party, Centre royaliste d’Action française (CRAF), operates today in France. On November 18, 2012, this party joined a demonstration in Paris against gay marriage and adoption of children by same-sex couples. Billot, man of veneration, surely would have approved. Not all French clerics agreed with Billot’s buoyant optimism for Action Française. In fact, some notable French Dominicans, for example, had grown fond of cosmopolitan social action and lay initiatives in political organization.36 During the period between the two World Wars, several theological and social movements found seedbeds in various religious settings of France and Belgium. These men and movements would reappear at mid-century: “The Dominicans of the Saulchoir,” so one trustworthy report runs, “were very deeply involved in both the life of the Church and the world of that period 33 34 35 36 See “Action Française,” Wikipedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Action_ Fran%C3%A7aise. See Ralph McInerney, The Defamation of Pius XII (South Bend, IN: St Augustine’s Press, 2001), 41. Charles Maurras, Le bienheureux Pix X, sauveur de la France (Paris: Plon, 1953). For further information, see André Laudouze, Dominicains français et Action française: 1899–1940: Maurras au couvent (Paris: Editions de l’Atelier, 1989). 138 Romanus Cessario, O.P. [1925–1939]. Among the masters [Yves] Congar would meet at Le Saulchoir was the philosopher A. D. Sertillanges, a Thomist philosopher who had been close to the Sillon, the pioneering lay movement created by Marc Sangnier that would become the prototype for the Y[oung] C[hristian] W[orkers] and other specialized Catholic Action movements.”37 The aforementioned references to Dominicans such as Antonin Sertillanges (1863–1948) and, especially, Yves Congar (1904–1995), whose views on the laity and their roles in the Church are said to have influenced the documents of the Second Vatican Council, open up a pathway for further research. Some have even suggested that certain documents of the Second Vatican Council were intended to rehabilitate Marc Sangnier and his Sillonist political and ecclesiological positions.38 One observation from our present period, the pontificate of Pope Francis, may prove instructive. While nowadays one can recognize in France (and elsewhere) successors of the young voices that swelled the ranks of the Action Française, it is more difficult to find among Catholic churchgoers individuals who claim Le Sillon or, for that matter, the Young Christian Workers as their forebears. “Catholicisme d’action,” to borrow a phrase from the Breton author, Yvon Tranvouez, has ceded in fact to a religious crisis of enormous proportions.39 This estimate remains sadly true. It is no wonder that traditionalist Catholic authors puzzle over what Angelo Giuseppe Roncalli, when he served as Papal Nuncio to France (1944–1953), wrote to the widow of Marc Sangnier on the occasion of his funeral: “The powerful fascination of his words, of his soul, had thrilled me, and the liveliest memories of my entire priestly youth are for his person and his political and social activity. . . . the example of Marc Sangnier will remain as an instruction and an encouragement.”40 37 38 39 40 See Stefan Gigacz, “Congar and Cardijn at Vatican II,” blog entry, http:// www.stefangigacz.com/congar-and-cardijn-at-vatican-ii: “In 1916, Sertillanges had already published his major work La philosophie morale de Saint Thomas d’Aquin (Paris: Felix Alcan, 1916) which would contribute greatly to providing a philosophical foundation to Cardijn’s see-judge-act method.” Joseph Leo Cardijn (1882–1967) was a Belgian priest and, later, cardinal who was the founder of the Young Christian Workers. Guy-Th. Bedouelle, O.P., (d. 2012) in a personal communication with the author. For further information, see Yvon Tranvouez, Catholicisme et société dans la France du XXe siècle. Apostolat, progressisme et tradition (Paris: Éditions Karthala, 2011). Solange Hertz, Beyond Politics (Arcadia, CA: Tumblar House, 2002), 116. The Witness of Louis Billot, S.J. 139 Louis Billot exemplifies the strong characteristic of individualism of the French people. When in 1879 Leo XIII issued Aeterni Patris, Billot figured, albeit eclectically, in the launching of this renewal of Catholic theology. After all, it was Leo XIII who put Cardinal Cajetan’s commentary in the edition of the Summa that bears the Pope’s name. When the same Pope issued, in 1892, the encyclical promoting Ralliement, Au milieu des sollicitudes, Billot also received this expression of the Pope’s will, but somehow found a way—an eclectic way—to read between the lines in order to discover in this papal pronouncement a preferential endorsement for constitutional monarchy.41 So, we turn from this brief survey of the historical fluctuations that surrounded the life of Louis Billot—sacrifice in private and social life—to what he taught about sacramental sacrifice. *** The Doctrine: Sacramental Sacrifice Billot’s work illustrates the status of Catholic theology during the early period of the Leonine revival of Thomism, roughly 1879–1939. We know that Aeterni Patris launched this successful renewal of Catholic theology ninety years after the French Revolution had erupted (1789–1799).42 Thomism, however, had entered into something of an eclipse well before July 14, 1789. In fact, the doctrine of Saint Thomas stood under a cloud from early in the reign of Louis XV (1710–1774). The seventeenth- and early eighteenth-century battles between the Holy See (often strongly influenced by Molinist theologians) and the Jansenist party left European Dominicans and other Thomists somewhat confused about the standing of Aquinas’s theology. The misun41 42 See Thomas Storck’s review of Roger Aubert, Catholic Social Teaching: An Historical Perspective, ed. David A. Boileau (Milwaukee, WI: Marquette University Press, 2003): “Leo XIII had stated that the Church was indifferent as to a nation’s type of political regime, provided that it sought the common good; but in specific instances, as in the case of France, he counseled Catholics to accept the republic instead of engaging in what he saw as a hopeless quest to restore a monarchy” (New Oxford Review 73, no. 2 [February 2006]; https://www.newoxfordreview.org/reviews.jsp?did=0206-storck). For further discussion on the relationship between modernism, politics, and Leonine Thomism, see Russell Hittinger, “Pascendi Dominici Gregis at 100: Two Modernisms, Two Thomisms: Reflections on the Centenary of Pius X’s Letter Against the Modernists,” Nova et Vetera (English) 5, no. 4 (2007): 843–880. 140 Romanus Cessario, O.P. derstanding reached such a point that Pietro Francesco Orsini, Pope Benedict XIII (1649–1730), was persuaded to proclaim that the teaching of Saint Thomas and the Thomist school had nothing in common with the errors of Cornelius Jansen and Pasquier Quesnel.43 Despite the best efforts of this Dominican Pope, fluctuations in papal policies and outlooks that began with Benedict XIII’s successor, Clement XII, left (especially) Dominicans wondering about the approved status of the teaching of Thomas Aquinas. This period of disquieting trial and confusion runs from the 1730s until Aeterni Patris—that is, for about 150 years. In a remarkable study, La Puissance et la Gloire, Sylvio Hermann De Franceschi describes in detail the various maneuvers that put orthodox Thomism at risk of being tarred with the same brush as Jansenism. The author claims that, in order to dispel the view that Thomism had been outlawed by the papacy, Joachim-Joseph Berthier (1848–1924) included in his first volume of Sanctus Thomas Aquinas Doctor communis Ecclesiae, published in 1914, a complete list of the approvals that the Roman Pontiffs had given to Aquinas and his school.44 This golden chain of continuous papal endorsements was meant to counter something like a Thomist “Black Legend.”45 As the widespread flourishing of Leonine Thomism reveals, the fortunes of the Thomist commentatorial tradition changed dramatically in the last quarter of the nineteenth century. Billot himself published six volumes before the end of the century. As already mentioned, Louis Billot, exemplifying the Jesuit spirit of practicality 43 44 45 J. N. D. Kelly, Oxford Dictionary of Popes (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986), 295. Also see Charles-René Billuart, O.P., Le Thomisme triomphant par le bref ‘demissas preces’ de Benoit XIII, ou Justification de l’Examen critique des Réflexions sur ce bref contre une lettre anonime adressée á l’auteur de l’examen, par un théologien de l’ordre de Saint-Dominique; (Lettres en forme de bref de N.T.S.P. le Pape Benoist XIII á tous les religieux de l’ordre de FF. Prêcheurs contre les calomnies dont on a voulu flétrir la doctrine de S. Augustin et de S. Thomas, traduites du latin. [avec le texte latin]. [6 novembre 1724]) (S.l.: s.n., s. d. [circa 1730]). For a similar exercise later in the century, see Santiago Ramirez, O.P., “The Authority of St. Thomas Aquinas,” The Thomist 15 (1952): 1–109. Sylvio Hermann de Franceschi, La Puissance et la Gloire. L’orthodoxie thomiste au péril du jansénisme (1663–1724): le zénith français de la querelle de la grâce (Paris: Nolin, 2011), 471–472. The phrase “Black Legend” arises in the early twentieth century to describe what are considered distortions about Spanish autocracy as propagated by those who were political enemies of Spain. For further information, see Julián Juderías, La Leyenda Negra (Valladolid: Junta de Castilla y León, 2003 [Madrid: Tip. de la “Rev. de Arch., Bibl. y Museos, 1914]). The Witness of Louis Billot, S.J. 141 for which the Society of Jesus is well known, produced a complete set of dogmatic treatises.46 Billot proceeded in a fashion altogether comprehensible for a man who had absorbed the principles of French Romanticism. He favored strongly a return to the sources, which for Billot, as Maritain discovered, meant returning to the texts of Aquinas to re-source, as it were, theological instruction. It is useful to recall that Billot arguably stands in continuity with French Romantics like François-René de Chateaubriand (1768–1848), Eugène Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc (1814–1879), and even Henri-Dominique Lacordaire (1802–1861), although Billot would not have shared the latter’s impenitent liberalism. As Father Garrigou-Lagrange learned from his fateful visit to Billot, this Jesuit Cardinal had no use for the commentaries that were written after the start of the sixteenth century. So much did Louis Billot eschew the anterior tradition that he even skirted the celebrated controversy between Dominicans and Jesuits on divine grace and human freedom. Billot gave no quarter to the penetrating insights of Dominic Bañez (1528–1604), and instead chose to remain agnostic, according to one favorable account, about the divine movements that bring free men to beatific vision.47 Though he 46 47 On the relationship of study to Jesuit life, see Rivka Feldhay, “Knowledge and Salvation in Jesuit Culture,” Science and Context 1 (1987): 195–213. Lebreton, “le cardinal Billot,” 517: “II écarte donc résolument et les décrets prédéterminants de Bannez et la vérité objective des futuribles telle que l’imaginent lés disciples de [Leonard] Lessius, et à ceux qui demandent où Dieu voit nos déterminations libres, même hypothétiques, il répond simplement en lui-même, dans son essence, cause exemplaire de tous les êtres. Mais, insiste-t-on, quelle connexion peut-il y avoir entre l’essence divine et cette détermination hypothétique? Ce lien existe, répond le P. Billot ([De Deo,] p. 210), mais nous ne pouvons le distinguer.” Dominic Bañez, O.P. (d. 1604) and Leonard Lessius, S.J. (d. 1623) represent opposite poles of the debate about predestination. For a slightly different, though compatible, interpretation of Billot, see Reginald Garrigou-Lagrange, Predestination (St. Louis, MO: B. Herder Book, Co., 1939), 358: “I am happy in coming to a better understanding from the texts just quoted that Cardinal Billot, ‘though retaining the mental attitude imposed upon him by his Jesuit training,’ was more like a Dominican Thomist in his doctrine [on the divine motion] than at first sight he appeared to be. My conversations with him induced me to see considerable differences of meaning in the terms he employed and not sufficiently to perceive certain profound similarities in doctrine, which I am very happy to note. I noticed especially that he defends the theory of the scientia media, but it must be admitted that in this explanation of it, he seeks to approach as near as possible the teaching of Dominican theologians.” 142 Romanus Cessario, O.P. proceeded eclectically, Billot nevertheless showed how the “common doctor’s” basic teaching explicates divine and Catholic faith on grace and freedom. One’s mind wanders to the old adage that even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while. At the same time, an author like Billot who ignored the commentatorial tradition is destined to miss the fine points that its carriers articulate. So we turn to Billot’s views on religion. His De Ecclesiae Sacramentis. Commentarius in Tertiam Partem S. Thomae includes his presentation of what Aquinas teaches about the nature of the eucharistic Sacrifice.48 Book 1 (tomus prior) covers questions on the sacraments in general (in communi), Baptism, Confirmation, and the Holy Eucharist. In other words, the first volume discusses those sacraments whose treatment Saint Thomas had completed before he stopped composing his Summa theologiae. In the Summa, sacrifice finds its initial discussion among the moral virtues. Following the Catholic tradition, Aquinas places sacrifice among the acts of religion: “The acts by which men give things to God are sacrifice, oblations, first fruits of the harvest, and tithes.”49 The Church of Christ considers the holy sacrifice of the Mass as the supreme expression of the worship due to God.50 In the pages that Billot devotes to “De Sacrificio Missae,” he provided a summary of what Aquinas treats in questions 82 and 83 of the Tertia Pars of the Summa theologiae, which consider, respectively, the minister of the Eucharist and the rite by which this sacrament is celebrated. The initial section of Billot’s treatise discusses the natural law requirement to sacrifice inasmuch as sacrifice constitutes the principal exterior act of religion.51 Religion, of course, falls among the human virtues: natural law dictates the exercise of some public cult. The exercise of this cult is not abandoned to each one’s choosing, since cultic actions must befit the God who abides as giver of all good gifts. Sacrifice signifies an internal disposition of soul that gains its excellence from the destruction of what is offered, most perfectly by killing it. This essential feature of sacrifice remains in the sacramental dispensation through the enactment of what Billot will describe as a mystical slaying or “mactation” (“destructio mystica” or “mystica illa Louis Billot, S.J., De Ecclesiae Sacramentis. Commentarius in Tertiam Partem S. Thomae, 5th ed. (Rome: Ex Typographia Pontificia in Istituto Pii IX, 1914). 49 ST II-II, q. 85, prologue. 50 For further information, see Romanus Cessario, “‘Circa res . . . aliquid fit’ (Summa theologiae II-II, q. 85, a. 3, ad 3): Aquinas on New Law Sacrifice,” Nova et Vetera (English) 4 (2006): 295–312. 51 Billot, Commentarius, 580–592. 48 The Witness of Louis Billot, S.J. 143 mactatio”). This requirement is satisfied sacramentally, ex vi sacramenti, in the double consecration of the bread and wine. Only a person duly constituted to accomplish this public cult can do so effectively. In short, Billot gave us an imaginative way to understand basic Catholic teaching on the eucharistic sacrifice and on the priest who does the sacrificing. The priesthood is instituted for sacrifice, not sacrifice for the priesthood. Billot responds to objections made against a sacrificing priesthood by appeal to the Council of Trent: “Sacrificium et sacerdotium ita Dei ordinatione coniuncta sunt, ut utrumque in omni lege existeret.”52 When sacrifice is joined to sacrament, Billot further tells us, something new arises from the fact that a sacrament is a sign of the cause of our sanctification, whereas sacrifice is a sign of our interior worship. Thus sacraments do not arise from the natural law, nor can they depend on human institution, nor must they always be confected by a priest—for example, baptism and matrimony—nor do they receive their efficacy from man’s earnestness. No, sacraments work by the mode of efficient cause—“per modum efficientiae”—that is, they accomplish what they do by the “very fact of the action’s being performed.”53 Billot concludes this introductory section with a definition. Sacrifice, he says, is an “oblation made to God of a corporeal thing by means of its real or mystical destruction enacted by a priest, as a legitimately instituted sign of the honor and the reverence that man owes to his Creator.”54 The second section provides Billot’s account of Thomist teaching on the various kinds of sacrifices that exist within the Old and the New Covenants. Sacrifices are specified by their objectives: they exist for the purposes of praise, forgiveness of sins, thanksgiving, and petition God. The Passion of Christ, however, introduces a new line of causality into sacrifices. In the sacrifice of the Cross, the worth of the sacrifice depends exclusively on the “infinite ex opere operantis of Christ,” whereas “the sacrifice of the Mass finds its value ex opere operato inasmuch as no human unworthiness can make it unacceptable to God.”55 52 53 54 55 Billot, Commentarius, 589 (citing session 23, ch. 1 of the Council). CCC, §1128. Billot, Commentarius, 592. Ibid., 595. For further discussion about the unique views of Billot on the immediate relationship between the infinite dignity of the Word and the value of the works of Christ’s human nature, see Alberto Cozzi, La Centralità di Cristo nella Teologia di L. Billot (1846–1931), Dissertatio, Series Romana 24 (Milan: Edizione Glossa, 1999), 342–344. 144 Romanus Cessario, O.P. This summary of Tridentine teaching on what makes the Mass efficacious introduces the third section, “De proprio sacrificio Novae Legis.”56 Billot stresses the relationship between the sacramental Body of Christ and the Mystical Body of Christ. He sees in the sacramental signs, the bread and the wine, representations of many elements coming together to form one body. Wheat and grapes give symbolic expression to the Mystical Body that the shedding of Christ’s blood animates. Catholics recognize this doctrine. They find it beautifully expressed in the Preface that the Church prescribes for the Feast of the Sacred Heart—a Jesuit-inspired feast: “For raised up high on the Cross, he gave himself up for us with a wonderful love and poured out blood and water from his pierced side, the wellspring of the Church’s Sacraments.”57 Following the pedagogical practices of his day, Billot constructed finely developed theses to present the principal points of Catholic doctrine under discussion. If the student of Catholic theology does not follow the argumentation, the Neo-Scholastic theologian provides the truth in bite-size form, namely, the conclusion. This practice of the Neo-Scholastics aims to achieve more than providing students with an aide-mémoire. The recapitulatory theses also safeguard the integrity of the Catholic faith. Recall that Modernism sought to adapt Catholic truth to cultural fashions. As his denunciation of Loisy suggests, Billot was alert to the dangers of undermining the sources of Catholic doctrine. This explains why the first of Billot’s theses on the eucharistic sacrifice, thesis 53, runs thus: “From those things which are handed over in the Scriptures about the priesthood of Jesus Christ, and from the well-known prophecy of Malachi, and also from the words of institution for the Eucharist, as well as by theological reasoning, the truth of the sacrifice of the New Law, for which Christ as Head of the body of the Church, is both victim and principal priest, is demonstrated (demonstratur).”58 Pope Saint John Paul II captured this thesis as follows: “The Eucharist is indelibly marked by the event of the Lord’s passion and death, of which it is not only a reminder but the sacramental re-presentation. It is the sacrifice of the Cross perpetuated down the ages.”59 56 57 58 59 Billot, Commentarius, Loc. cit. Roman Missal, Preface for the Solemnity of The Most Sacred Heart of Jesus. Billot, Commentarius, 601. John Paul II, Ecclesia De Eucharistia (2003), §11 (Vatican Website: http:// w2.vatican.va/content/john-paul-ii/en/encyclicals/documents/hf_jp-ii_ enc_20030417_eccl-de-euch.html). The Witness of Louis Billot, S.J. 145 Secondly, thesis 54 proceeds to explicate how this sacrifice of the new law comes about within the Mass celebrated within the Church of Christ. The language initially sounds foreign. The truths that Billot defended, however, find support in the most recent disciplinary and liturgical legislation of the Church. Billot recapitulated his teaching: “The Mass with respect to its essence consists solely in the consecration of both species. At the same time, this consecratory action—from the nature of the thing (“ex natura rei”)—ought to be joined to the communion of the celebrant, which for that reason is prescribed as indispensable by the law.”60 Today the Church instructs as follows: “The Communion of Priest concelebrants should proceed according to the norms prescribed in the liturgical books, always using hosts consecrated at the same Mass [cf. Missale Romanum, Institutio Generalis, 237–249, 85, and 157] and always with communion under both kinds being received by all of the concelebrants.”61 This provision that priests receive from the Eucharist that they have consecrated and under both species relates to their role as sacrificers. “The definition of a formal sacrifice,” Billot continues, “is said to be preserved purely and simply in the mystical slaying, that is, in the sacramental separation of the Body from the Blood under the distinct species of bread and wine.”62 Bishop Bossuet embellished the rhetorical quality of this expression by comparing the words of consecration spoken by priests to a “sword” that brings about the slaying or mactation.63 Billot then proceeds to examine two questions related to his thesis 54. First, he researches the opinions of others about the action that constitutes precisely the sacrifice of the new law. Secondly, he inquires about what characteristics may be assigned to this action in order to verify the sacrificial character of the Eucharist. The first question occupies seven pages of inquiry that include detailed replies to objections drawn from the liturgical practices of the Latin liturgy. Billot insists again: “tota immolationis ratio inveniatur in consecratione.”64 He repeats the same method of inquiry about what safeguards the formal 60 61 62 63 64 Billot, Commentarius, 617. Congregation for Divine Worship and the Discipline of the Sacraments, Redemptionis Sacramentum, §98 (Vatican website: http://www. vatican.va/roman_curia/congregations/ccdds/documents/rc_con_ccdds_ doc_20040423_redemptionis-sacramentum_en.html). Billot, Commentarius, 617. Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet (1627–1704), Méditations, la Cène, 57ème jour, as cited in Billot, Commentarius, 629n1. Billot, Commentarius, 622. 146 Romanus Cessario, O.P. definition of a sacrifice in the sacrifice of the Mass. Again, while he shows himself conversant with the opinions of early modern theologians, Billot returns always to the text of Aquinas: “the Eucharist is . . . a sacrifice inasmuch as it makes present Christ’s Passion.”65 Billot discovers only one formal constitutive of sacrifice in the eucharistic action. This constitutive action occurs in the “mactatio mystica,” the mystical mactation that the priest effects. Billot meets no fewer than five objections to his view that come mostly from theologians of the modern period. Today the Church puts it this way: “In the ‘memorial’ of Calvary all that Christ accomplished by his passion and his death is present.”66 Or again, “The sacrificial nature of the Eucharistic mystery cannot therefore be understood as something separate, independent of the Cross or only indirectly referring to the sacrifice of Calvary.”67 How else can this happen than by Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet’s “mystical separation” (la séparation mystique) of the Body and Blood of Christ?68 Thesis 55 treats the satisfactory character of the Eucharistic sacrifice. The Mass not only serves to praise and to thank God. The Mass also propitiates for the sins of both the living and the dead: “Sacrificium missae . . . est ex opere operato et propitiatorium.”69 Students of Catholic theology recognize how the satisfactory character of the Eucharist figures in the history of Christian heresies. The Catechism of the Catholic Church includes two paragraphs that affirm this foundational teaching about the eucharistic sacrifice. Paragraph 1366 teaches that Christ willed that the “salutary power [of his sacrifice] would be applied to the forgiveness of sins we daily commit.”70 Paragraph 1371 teaches that the “Eucharistic sacrifice is also offered for the faithful departed,” who linger in Purgatory.71 Thesis 56 treats the fruits of the sacrifice. How does the priest who offers the Mass apply extensively and intensively the fruits of the Mass? When Billot ponders the question of a Mass being offered for one or many intentions, he totters. Though he admits that the priest ST III, q. 79, a. 7. John Paul II, Ecclesia de Eucharistia, §57. 67 Ibid., §12. 68 See Billot, Commentarius, 629n1. 69 Ibid., 633. 70 The text comes from the Council of Trent (Compendium of Creeds, Definitions, and Declarations on Matters of Faith and Morals, ed. Peter Hünermann, Helmut Hoping, Robert L. Fastiggi, Anne Englund Nash, and Heinrich Denzinger [hereafter DS], 43rd ed. [San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2012], 1740). 71 The text comes, again, from the Council of Trent (DS, 1743). 65 66 The Witness of Louis Billot, S.J. 147 can assign a “special” fruit to a given Mass, Billot finds it difficult to analyze how this special intention of the priest would bring a different effect than that of the general intention for which each Mass is offered, for members of the Church living and dead. Billot envisages no limits to the efficacy of a Mass considered in itself. To illustrate this point, Billot turns to metaphor: the same sun warms the whole earth. Billot also allows the intensive effects that flow from the Mass to differ from one person to another: for the sun melts wax more efficaciously than it does stone and iron and so forth. Observe that the intensity of the efficaciousness of the Mass arises only from the dispositions of those who participate in its offering. Billot cedes nothing to the sacerdos who slays mystically. Another and earlier Roman cardinal, Thomas de Vio Cajetan (1469–1534) was of a different position. Cajetan developed an explanation that corresponds to the common view of the faithful and the received practice in the Church: “intention is proper to the priest. Devotion, however, is common to him and to others.”72 While expounding the delicate 72 Thomas de Vio, Cardinal Cajetan, Opuscula Omnia Thomae De Vio Caietani, vol. 2 (Lugduni: I. Iuntae, 1562), 147b, lines 20–75. A portion from Quaestio II (Utrum sacerdos celebrans pro pluribus, satisfaciat pro singulis) in Tractatus Tertius (de Missae celebratione, in duas quaestiones divisus) reads: “CONCLUSION [Thesis] If a priest who has accepted a stipend to celebrate Mass for someone accepts stipends [for the same Mass] from other people, he makes satisfaction for all in keeping with the degree of their fervor. The Mass includes two components, viz., prayer and the eucharistic sacrifice. Hence, in this discussion, we must speak first about the sacrifice (which is primary in the Mass) and then about prayer. Furthermore, because the effect of both is manifold, viz., merit, impetration, and satisfaction, the effects must be determined separately. In addition, because the effect arises from a twofold source, viz., from opus operatum and from opus operantis, in order to have a complete understanding of the matter, only after an examination of each aspect will it be decided what straightforward answer should be given on the issue. The sacrifice of the Mass is twofold. It is a sacrament and a sacrifice, and as a sacrament it is not relevant to our thesis, because its effect pertains only to its recipients. However, as a sacrifice it is relevant and is distinguished as opus operantis and as opus operatum. And taken as opus operatum, this sacrifice is looked at in two ways, viz., as taken in itself absolutely and as taken in itself and applied to someone. If this sacrifice is considered as opus operatum taken absolutely, then it is the immolation of Jesus Christ so that what is offered is Jesus Christ. And the value of this sacrifice is infinite, so that it is infinitely impetrative, meritorious, and satisfying. Hence, the effect is infinite as is that of the passion of Christ. . . However, the infinity of the satisfaction of Christ crucified is in its sufficiency and not in its efficacy, and in its nature as an 148 Romanus Cessario, O.P. question of how Mass intentions work, Billot would have done well to attend to the Thomist commentatorial tradition, even to the views of that “bastard,” Cajetan. The witness of Louis Billot on the sacraments, especially on the Holy Eucharist comes to completion with a short epilogue that draws (in a ressourcement mode) on the writings of both Gregory of Nyssa and Saint Augustine. In order to point out the great mystery that the sacrifice of the Mass enacts, Billot composes a plea for humility. This humility takes as its starting point the manger of the infant Christ. Billot makes his own the thought of Saint Augustine: “Are you not ready for the wedding banquet of the heavenly Father, then acknowledge in faith the lowly manger of Our Lord Jesus Christ.” Humility leads to sacrifice. Billot lived this sacrifice in his social engagement and indeterminate universal cause, i.e., not determined to any person. Thus, this sacrifice of its very nature is of infinite sufficiency and indeterminate efficacy. And as the efficacy of the passion of Christ is determined by the sacrament received, so the efficacy of this sacrifice is by one’s degree of fervor. And since fervor determines the application of the sacrifice, in speaking of the effect of this sacrifice as only opus operatum taken in itself, it is clear that it has no concrete effect in anybody, but only in relation to God does it have acceptability, thanksgiving, commemoration, and the like. Here we see the error of many who think that this sacrifice as only opus operatum has a determined merit or a determined satisfaction which is applied to someone; that this is not true is already clear. This is confirmed thus: since as opus operatum it is of infinite power, there is no major reason from the nature of making satisfaction why it should give only limited satisfaction and not much more. If, however, this sacrament is understood as applied to someone, then its effect is finite in proportion to the degree of fervor of those making the offering or of those for whom the offering is being made. Therefore, because in the application of this sacrifice there are two factors, viz., the application itself to someone and the concrete effect in that someone, two acts also contribute to the determination of this application, viz., intention and fervor. For intention applies this sacrifice to someone, but the effect corresponds to the fervor. Hence, intention is proper to the priest, while fervor is common to him and others. Thus, in the canon of the Mass the priest in exercising this increase of the applicative intention of this sacrifice says: Tibi offerimus pro ecclesia tua sancta papa nostro &c, &, Meme[n]to Domine famulorum famularumque, &c. &omnium circlllnstantium. Then he adds an act of fervor: Quorum tibi fides cognita est, ¬a devotio. This refers not only to those present but also to others. With these words he is making known that the application of this sacrifice is made not only by an intention but also by added fervor, so that the greater is the fervor of those [by and for whom the intention is made], so much greater is the satisfaction applied to them from that infinite satisfaction.” (The translation of Cajetan’s Latin was done from the 1562 edition by Rev. Msgr. Laurence McGrath of the Archdiocese of Boston). The Witness of Louis Billot, S.J. 149 instructed others about it in his, albeit eclectic, Thomism. What best distinguishes Louis Billot, however, remains his example. When it came to submitting to the will of the Pope, this Jesuit embraced the humility of the manger. No wonder he moved away from central Rome in order to end his days close by a sanctuary devoted to Our Lady. Even when allowance is made for his personal religious dispositions, Thomists should generally conclude that, all in all, Billot remains a tragic feature. Had he read the Spanish Thomists, Francisco de Vitoria, O.P. (c. 1483–1546), for example, Billot might have developed a more nuanced view about modern political forms of government. Had he followed Cajetan, Billot would have made a better contribution to understanding the intimate relationship of the priest to the sacrifice of the Mass. What perhaps offers the most instructive illustration, had he paid attention to Dominic Bañez (1528–1604), Billot may not have left the intensive efficaciousness of the Mass to be explained completely from the side of the communicant. Some who read Billot may conclude that he appears much saner than do many theologians today; indeed, some may even have found him helpful at points.73 Ultimately, however, Billot’s eclecticism does not fully ensure the integral vigor of the sacra doctrina. To examine, however, what guarantees this vigor, would require that we undertake a fuller examination of the Thomist commentatorial tradition than time now allows. So we best leave the witness of Cardinal Billot with N&V his meditation on humility. 73 See Giancarlo Vergano, La forza delle grazia. La teoria della causalità sacramentale di L. Billot (Assisi: Cittadella Editrice, 2008), as reported in Filippo Rizzi, “Louis Billot. Il Cardinale del Gran Rifuto,” Avvenire.it, http://www. avvenire.it/Cultura/Pagine/cardinale-rifiuto.aspx. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 1 (2016): 151–176151 Religion, Human Law, and the Virtue of Religion: The Case of Dignitatis Humanae F. RUSSELL HITTINGER University of Tulsa Tulsa, OK I. For the past three years , we have marked the fiftieth anniversary of the Second Vatican Council. Pope John XXIII convened the first session on October 11, 1962. In his opening allocution, he reminded the bishops that “history is the teacher of life.”1 There was more than a little history from which to learn lessons.The last ecumenical council that completed all of its work was the Council of Trent, which ended in 1563. The Church had passed through four centuries of modernity by making ad hoc adjustments along the way. The post-Tridentine era was persistently troubled by church-state relations, which, by the nineteenth century, had gone from bad to worse. In the waning decades of the second millennium, it was time for the college of bishops to reckon with the situation of the Church in more than an incremental and politically make-shift manner. Indeed, by the end of the first session of the Council, the Pope was ready to air a new position on religion and civil liberties. We tend to think backwards, and thus the “lessons of history.” But we live toward the future.Vatican II’s Declaration on Religious Liberty, Dignitatis Humanae (hereafter, DH), was the sixteenth and final document of the Council, signed by Pope Paul VI on December 7, 1965, only a few hours before the council adjourned. DH bore an especially heavy burden of thinking backward and living forward. It set out “to John XXIII, Gaudet Mater (1962). The texts of all papal documents can be found on the Vatican website. 1 152 F. Russell Hittinger develop the doctrine of recent popes on the inviolable rights of the human person and the constitutional order of society.”2 The word “develop” had at least two meanings for the council. First, it meant taking stock of an historical, legal, and social development from Catholic political Christendom to a new constitutional order of society. Second, it meant developing the teachings of recent popes on the moral-juridical right of human persons to religious liberty. This symposium in honor of Reinhard Hütter provides a suitable occasion to reflect upon DH in the light of the ancient rubric virtus religionis. The topic comes to us chiefly through the work of Thomas Aquinas, who channeled ancient wisdoms, testimonies of sacred scripture, patristic writings (especially Augustine), and the debates of the medieval schools in order to understand how acts of religion are situated under natural, divine, and human law. What are the conditions for the virtue of religious acts, what are the causes and remedies for its vices? Thomas puts acts of religion under the virtue of justice, having a ground in a natural obligation to give due to God according to certain interior and exterior acts.3 He places religion among the moral virtues rather than the theological virtues because acts of religion do not approach or “touch” God directly. Whereas the proper matter or object of religion is human acts of worship performed out of reverence for God, the formal object of the supernatural virtue of faith is God revealing, and for charity it is God himself.4 Therefore, the theological virtues also command acts of religion, but on a different plane and with a different formal object.5 Thomas’s questions on religion are quite extensive. In the Summa Theologiae alone he treats the duty of cultus divini in the context of the moral and ceremonial precepts of the Old Law (I-II, qq. 98–103). He later devotes some twenty questions to the virtues and vices of religious acts (II-II, qq. 80–100). In due course, I will show that he provides two rather different treatments of religion. In the one, he accounts for religion on the basis of its causes, objects, and ends in order to give proper definitions and to distinguish the various acts of religion; in the other, DH, §1 (available at http://www.vatican.va/archive/hist_councils/ii_vatican_council/documents/vat-ii_decl_19651207_dignitatis-humanae_en.html; all documents of the Council are available at the Vatican website). 3 Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae (hereafter, ST) II-II, q. 81. Unless otherwise noted, all citations of the ST are from the Blackfriars edition. 4 ST II-II, q. 81, a. 5. 5 Ibid., ad 1. 2 Religion, Human Law, and the Virtue of Religion 153 he accounts for religion in real historical time, according to both divine and mundane testimony. These two approaches need to be considered in tandem if we are to reflect on DH in the light afforded by the virtue of religion. For one thing, the Declaration takes up the question of religious acts in reference to the natural law and to the jurisdiction and coercive power of human law—human law is the main issue. The right of human persons to religious liberty is not framed against moral law or divine law, nor against the complex social network of institutions of religious formation. Thomas recognized as a matter of historical fact that human laws “have devised many institutions relating to Divine matters, according as it seemed expedient for the formation of human morals; as may be seen in the rites of the Gentiles.”6 Moreover, he understood that the normative and prudential grounds for the authority of human law over cultus divini was always a vexed issue, not just for Christendom but for the pagans. In this regard, Cajetan remarked that the issue of subordination of religion to the political common good has given birth to “many fables [multas fabulas].”7 Before we begin, it is important to understand that the template of “virtue of religion” cannot count for a strict interpretation of DH. In the first place, “virtue of religion” is used neither in this document nor in any other document of the Second Vatican Council.8 In the interlude between the first and second sessions of the council, John XXIII issued Pacem in Terris (hereafter, PT), listing several human rights formu ST I-II, q. 99, a. 3. See his commentary on the foregoing article (no. 4 on ST I-II, q. 99, a. 3) in the Leonine edition of the Summa with Cajetan’s commentary (Rome: Ex Typographia Polyglotta, S. C. De Propaganda Fide, 1892), 202. 8 DH cites Leo XIII’s encyclical Libertas (1888), which includes an explicit and rather forceful discussion of the “virtue of religion” (§§19–20). Rather than citing that section, however, DH cites (at §2 n.2) a different paragraph on why the Christian understanding of liberty of conscience can be defended on its own terms without confusing it with the doctrine of indifferentism, Libertas §30, English translation of which is in Leonis XIII: Pontificis Maximi Acta, vol. 8 (Rome: Ex Typographia Vaticana, 1889), 237–238: “every man in the State may follow the will of God and, from a consciousness of duty and free from every obstacle, obey His commands. This, indeed, is true liberty, a liberty worthy of the sons of God, which nobly maintains the dignity of man and is stronger than all violence or wrong.” For Leo’s discussion of the virtue of religion in Libertas §§19–20, see Pontificis Maximi Acta, 8:229–230 (also available at http://w2.vatican.va/content/leo-xiii/en/encyclicals/documents/ hf_l-xiii_enc_20061888_libertas.html). 6 7 154 F. Russell Hittinger lated in familiar terms of natural law: “Also among man’s rights is that of being able to worship God in accordance with the right dictates of his own conscience, and to profess his religion both in private and in public.”9 This document, in fact, was the proximate magisterial source for the duty and the right covered by DH. Although the Pope makes many references to Thomas’s doctrine of natural law and on human conscience participating the eternal law, we find no explicit mention of the virtue of religion. Nor is it to be found in the Compendium of the Social Doctrine of the Church. With the notable exception of the Catechism of the Catholic Church, the rubric “virtue of religion” has gone into a kind of desuetude in magisterial documents.10 This does not prevent us, however, from reflecting usefully on the virtues and vices of religion, along with a rich set of issues that were once examined in that vein. It only cautions us to distinguish such reflection from strict interpretation of DH. One additional caveat is in order. After fifty years, the teaching in DH is still controversial. Much literature is given to the question whether its doctrinal development is coherent and consistent. Some of this literature is tedious and merely argumentative, but much of it is quite interesting. I shall not directly engage these debates, for to enter into one is to enter into them all.11 What can be said is that interpreting the document is tricky business. The Declaration is the second shortest conciliar document: forty-six hundred words in Latin, which amounts to about eight single-spaced pages in the usual format. During the drafting process, some bishops worried about the strictly philosophical questions (drawing proper distinctions between subjective and objective meanings of “conscience”). Some bishops worried about practical items (the effect of the declaration on concordatory states), while others worried about ideologies (indifferentism and laicism), and still others about how to interrelate canonical, international, and natural rights. Many bishops wanted the document to clearly rehearse and to settle the broken history of church-state relationships going back more than seventeen hundred years. 9 10 11 John XIII, Pacem in Terris (1963; hereafter PT), §14. Catechism of the Catholic Church (hereafter, CCC), §§1807–1813; see also §§2084–2144, where acts of religion and irreligion are enumerated. For a useful study of the consistency and coherence of doctrinal development, along with an updated bibliography of disputants, see Barrett H. Turner, “Dignitatis humanae and the Development of Moral Doctrine: Assessing Change in Catholic Social Teaching on Religious Liberty” (PhD diss., Catholic University of America, 2015). Religion, Human Law, and the Virtue of Religion 155 Gradually, by trial and error, the commission charged with the task of formulating the position, as well as the bishops who debated various drafts on the floor of the council, realized that the declaration could not do all of these things. This editorial process had the good effect of producing an exceedingly tight and carefully reasoned statement. In Roman tradition, a declaratio differs from a constitutio and a decretum. Constitutions and decrees have binding force upon the whole church. A declaration, on the other hand, is reserved for matters and persons who are not under the public law of the church. Therefore, Dignitatis Humanae was supposed to be short and to the point. The downside of the council’s success in achieving such a succinct and focused document was that a strong line of historical narrative had to be left for another time.12 So, for example, DH cites no scholarly philosophical or theological authority for its position between Gregory the Great and late-nineteenth century papal encyclicals. Thomas Aquinas is not cited. The document sidesteps not only authorities crucial to medieval Christendom, but also the Catholic political Christendom that was reconstituted after the Council of Trent. It is completely silent about both the medieval schools and the significant work of later scholastic philosophers, theologians, and jurists. Interestingly, if we mean by “religion” the acts of cultus divini, DH is mostly silent about religion. Respecting these silences, and without pretending to offer a strict interpretation of the document, we can turn to Thomas’s treatment of religion. This article is divided into two parts. First, we will consider his twofold approach to the subject, one systematic and the other historical. We want to come rather quickly to perplexities surrounding the place of religion under human law, which come into focus especially in his historical approach. Second, we will return to DH, attempting to size it up in light of what we found in Thomas. II. We shall limit ourselves to two lines of questions about religion in the Summa Theologiae. In questions 98–103 of the Prima Secundae, acts of religion are treated under the topic of law. Although these questions are organized around the first table of the Decalogue and the determinations of cult according to Mosaic Law, Thomas uses the occasion 12 The Relator of the Commission, Bishop de Smedt, remarked that the relation of DH to past popes is “a matter for future theological and historical studies to bring to light more fully”; see “Congregatio Generalis CLXIV, 19 Nov. 1965,” in Acta Synodalia Sacrosancti Concilii Oecumenici Vaticani Secundi, 6 vols. (Vatican City: Typis Polyglottis Vaticanis, 1970–1978), 4 (pt. 8):719. 156 F. Russell Hittinger to comment on the relationship between natural law and divine law, as well as the historical sequence whereby men are “instructed by law” in acts pertaining to religion. In questions 80–100 of the Secunda Secundae, Thomas treats religion chiefly under the topic of virtue, namely religion as a potential part of justice. This extensive set of questions on religion and justice represents a continuation of the earlier questions, for law directs human action principally to justice. In both lines of questions, Thomas locates the proximate cause of religion in the human reason’s inclination to know the truth about God and to form various considerations about the divine (e.g., creator and end of the natural good), which in turn give structure to volitional acts and incipient awareness of moral duties about rendering to God what is his due. For the purposes of this essay, I want to highlight two main themes that crisscross throughout the two lines of questions. I shall call the first the stem and its branches, by which I mean Thomas’s examination of the rational inclination to know the truth about God and the various practical considerations and acts of religion, principally acts of divine cult, consisting of both interior and exterior acts of worship. This theme counts as a rather conspicuous application of Thomas’s dictum that the common principles of law are the “seeds of the virtues.”13 I shall call the second theme the historical situation of formation (and deformation) of religious acts, by which I mean the record of how humans have been educated by laws, customs, and higher causes that include demons and God himself. In other words, all those things in real historical time that have shaped acts ensuing upon the root inclination to honor God as an end and to tender religious submission. Thomas holds that the root inclination is sturdy and vibrant because the seeds or principles of the inclination are causes “more excellent than the virtues acquired through them.”14 It turns out, however, that the vector of the inclination and its acts does not fare very well in the natural habitat of reason, at least not as we find it after sin. Among the first precepts of natural law are those arising most proximately from our rational nature: “there is in man an inclination to good, according to the nature of his reason, which nature is proper to him: thus man has a natural inclination to know the truth about God, and to live in society: and in this respect, whatever pertains to this Quaestiones disputatae de virtutibus q. 8, ad 10, in Thomas Aquinas, Disputed Questions on the Virtues, ed. E. M. Atkins and Thomas Williams, Cambridge Texts in the History of Philosophy (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 49. 14 ST I-II, q. 63, a. 2, ad 3. 13 Religion, Human Law, and the Virtue of Religion 157 inclination belongs to the natural law, for instance, to shun ignorance, to avoid offending those among whom one has to live, and other such things.”15 The entire ensemble of social virtues is implied in this first sketch of natural law. Furthermore, the two great commandments regarding love of God and neighbor are implied—for, the good to be pursued is nothing other than being rightly ordered to God and other men. This much, he insists, is self-evident, having no need of additional promulgation.16 This inclination—ordinem ad deum—is taken by Thomas to be not only an etymological option for the word religio, but the correct and proper one.17 The very compact article on inclinations and first precepts (ST I-II, q. 94, a. 2) also makes reference to a dignitarian principle. In answer to the question of whether man is naturally fit to love God above all things, Thomas answers that this precept of the natural law, after sin, cannot be integrally fulfilled without grace. On the other hand, if the question is put in a different way, as whether man is inclined to things superior to himself, he answers: “When it is said that nature cannot rise above itself, we must not understand this as if it could not be drawn to any object above itself, for it is clear that our intellect by its natural knowledge can know things above itself, as is shown in our natural knowledge of God. But we are to understand that nature cannot rise to an act exceeding the proportion of its strength. Now to love God above all things is not such an act; for it is natural to every creature, as was said above.”18 To think upon what is above oneself [cognoscere quae sunt supra seipsum] is an evidence of human dignity, indeed it is mentioned in his definition of natural law: Now among all others, the rational creature is subject to Divine providence in the most excellent way, in so far as it partakes of a share of providence, by being provident both for itself and for others. Wherefore it has a share of the Eternal Reason, whereby it has a natural inclination to its proper act and end: and this participation of the eternal law in the rational creature is called the natural law. Hence the Psalmist after saying Ps 4:6: “Offer up the sacrifice of justice,” as though someone asked what the works of justice are, adds: “Many say, Who showeth us good things?,” ST I-II, 94, a. 2. “Fines praeceptorum: dilectionem Dei et Proximi” (see ST I-II, q. 99, aa. 1–2; q. 100, a. 5, ad 1 and 11; II-II, q. 44, a. 1, ad 3, and a. 6, ad 3). 17 ST II-II, q. 81, a. 1. 18 ST I-II, q. 109, a. 3, ad 2. 15 16 F. Russell Hittinger 158 in answer to which question he says: “The light of Thy countenance, O Lord, is signed upon us,” thus implying that the light of natural reason, whereby we discern what is good and what is evil, which is the function of the natural law, is nothing else than an imprint on us of the Divine light.19 Thomas mentions several ways that the human intellect can think of a superior being: 1) in a general and confused way inasmuch as God is man’s beatitude (I, q. 2, a. 1, ad 1); and 2) with additional conceptual clarity and inference—as the beginning and the end of natural goods (I-II, q. 109, a. 3, ad1), as the first principle of the creation and government of things (II-II, q. 81, a. 3), and as implicitly Trinitarian, insofar as God creates and governs by wisdom and love of the good (II-II, q. 81, a. 3, ad 1). These attributes are summarized according to the idea of excellentia (II-II, q. 81, a. 3, ad 2). Thus ensue the first stirrings of obligation, which, in the case of religion, are a due response to divine excellence. The act that proceeds from such considerations is one of the will by which man surrenders himself to the service of God: latria, having devotion as its internal act and sensible cult of sacrifice as its exterior object.20 At least this much, he insists, is a dictate of natural reason. There is one other consideration that should not be overlooked because it pertains not only to the main acts of religion, but also to prayer in general—namely, our indigence, which is also indicated in Thomas’s use of Ps 4: “Natural reason tells man that he is subject to a higher being, on account of the defects which he perceives in himself, and in which he needs help and direction from someone above him”;21 “Now man shows reverence to God by means of prayer, in so far as he subjects himself to Him, and by praying confesses that he needs Him as the Author of his goods. Hence it is evident that prayer is properly an act of religion.”22 Our indigence gives us reason to turn to divine excellence from afar, but also as the divine goodness is close at hand as a cause of our moral illumination and instruction. What the texts above underscore is a recognition that dependence on God stands very close to the stem of rational inclination. First, even after sin, it remains vigorous. For example, the person who gives little ST I-II, q. 91, a. 2. ST II-II, q. 82, a. 3. 21 ST II-II, q. 85, a. 1. 22 ST II-II, q. 83, a. 3. 19 20 Religion, Human Law, and the Virtue of Religion 159 attention to religion will in extremis offer prayers and make vows for divine assistance. Second, its vigor also sets the stage for acts of irreligion. Religion is a potential part of justice, since, in giving due to God, no creature can achieve equality in the relation, as one who would repay a debt.23 The religious debitum always exceeds the res iustum. The strict justice of the cardinal virtue is not possible in religion, at least not rightly understood. In one important sense, religion is the greatest of the moral virtues precisely because of its asymmetry. For, by acts of honor and devotion to an excellence “above us,” we implicitly recognize that the relationship transcends strict commutation.24 Religion is a freely tendered act of submission to God as an end, and the nobility of the virtue consists precisely in this.25 To a fellow creature we owe love as we love ourselves. To give due to God under that same ratio is to fall short of the natural obligation of religion, which is to love God as a superior and most excellent being. Therefore, the quest for a quid pro quo is likely to destabilize the order of religious acts. On that scenario, the object of religion, the divine cult, is not ordered to God as an end, but rather to God as an instrument for the city or some other temporal political or a private end (rather than to God as the common good of creation). Putting to one side all the things that complicate or frustrate acts of religion, T. C. O’Brien states the ideal rather well: “The highest conceivable will-relationship to God would necessarily be a relationship of the creature to its fontal cause; and acknowledgement of a debt, an act of justice proper to the virtue of religion.”26 This is what Thomas attributes to the state of innocence: “And hence we must say that in the state of perfect nature man did not need the gift of grace added to his natural endowments, in order to love God above all things naturally, although he needed God’s help to move him to it; but in the state of corrupt nature man needs, even for this, the help of grace to heal his nature.”27 In view of the last comment, it is useful to understand that, for Thomas, there is no natural religion.28 We can recall that the object of ST II-II, q. 80, a. 1. ST II-II, q. 81, a. 6. 25 On “freely tendered,” see ST II-II, q. 81, a. 2, ad 3, and a. 6, ad 3. 26 Blackfriars edition, vol. 31, 189. 27 ST I, q. 109, a. 3. 28 Thomas’s understanding of natural law grounds of religious duties cannot be confused with the Enlightenment’s quest to discover, or even to construct, a natural religion. 23 24 160 F. Russell Hittinger religion is the cult, which is referred to God as an end. The interior act of cult is devotion, the free act of the will in submission to God under one or another consideration of reason. Although we might imagine the natural inclination culminating satisfactorily in that interior act alone, this is not a sufficient condition for the virtue. For, it is also a dictate of reason that there be exterior acts making use of sensible signs.29 Such are required not only in worship (sacrifices) but also by other acts of religion, like the making of vows.30 The virtue, therefore, depends on getting both the interior and exterior acts right. Thomas frequently points out that the dictates of natural reason regarding religious acts need to be determined by human or divine law: “It belongs to the dictate of natural reason that man should do something through reverence for God. But that he should do this or that determinate thing does not belong to the dictate of natural reason, but is established by Divine or human law”;31 “In like manner the offering of sacrifice belongs generically to the natural law, and consequently all are agreed on this point, but the determination of sacrifices is established by God or by man.”32 Whether on account of the obscurity of God to the human mind, or owing to the fact that that what is due to God outstrips the strict justice covered by the cardinal virtue of justice—or even to ordinary, non-culpable doubts about the suitability of the external signs in worship—the natural inclination to offer latria is immediately in need of determinationes after loss of innocence. By determinations, we need to think of more than laws coordinating actions of a multitude, as would be necessary for any community of worship.We need to think more deeply of determinations of the object itself, of the cultus divini. The pressing need for determinations of cult mark off the “stem” of the virtue of religion as being situated rather differently than action guided by the other first, or most common, precepts of natural law. One example suffices to make the point. Thomas cites the dictum of Ulpian regarding what “nature has taught all animals”—indeed, it is a telic arc including sexual intercourse, procreation, and the nurturing and education of offspring. To be sure, the object and end(s) of the conjugal act have been the subject of many moral and social perplexities, and have been enveloped in myriad laws and customs determining 29 30 31 32 ST II-II, q. 81, a. 7; q. 82, a. 3, ad 2; and q. 85, a. 1. ST II-II, q. 89, a. 8. ST II-II, q. 81, a. 2, ad 3. Ibid., q. 85, a. 1, ad 1. See, also, I-II, q. 99, a. 3. Religion, Human Law, and the Virtue of Religion 161 issues of property, consanguinity, frequency of the matrimonial debt, adultery, and divorce.33 Even so, whatever the condition and circumstances of human conjugal acts, and however they are formed by laws and customs, people rather quickly get the point of this vector of rational inclination in respect not only of its proximate object, but also of its end(s). However rough and ready, it survives the loss of innocence, and confusions and perversions notwithstanding, people were not at a loss to know what to do either in general or in particular.34 In the case of religion, Thomas thinks historically, by which I mean that he considers not only the natural inclination and its natural law requirements, but also how religion plays out over time in institutions. Again, for Thomas there is no natural religion. He does allow, however, for a “time” between the loss of innocence and determinations of religion by law. Some men, gifted with a “spirit of prophesy” and a divinely given “spiritual instinct,” enjoyed a so-called “private law” prompting them to worship God in a definite way and in keeping with rightly ordered interior worship.35 And he allows the scenario that “others followed them.” Afterwards, men were instructed by outward precepts about these things.36 There was no idolatry in the first age, he explains, “owing to the recent remembrance of the creation of the world, so that man still retained in his mind the knowledge of one God.”37 But in the time before the Law—and in an historical time of the gentiles38 outside of the Law—human laws and customs determined the outward acts of religion. By and large, these efforts were unsuccessful. “Thus Augustine (De civitate Dei 6.10) quotes Seneca as saying: ‘We shall adore,’ says he, ‘in such a way as to remember that our worship is in accordance with custom rather than with the reality.’”39 Hence, there is a twofold disruption of religion: 1) disordered in relation of truth about God; 2) disordered by confusing, or worse, perversely reversing the relation between object and end by giving latria to a creature (and many other 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 See, for example, the twenty-seven disputed questions Thomas himself covers on marriage (ST Suppl. 41–68). We could also think of the rational inclination to enter into society under relations of justice. It is not difficult to imagine Aristotle’s scenario (in Politics II) of matrimonial and domestic orders opening up to tribal relations, and to villages, and to the necessity of political life. ST I-II, q. 103, a.1. ST II-II, q. 93, a. 1, ad 2. See also II-II, q. 87, a. 1, ad 3; and q. 92, a. 1, ad 2. ST II-II, q. 94, a. 2, ad 2. ST I-II, q. 98, aa. 2–6. ST II-II, q. 94, a. 2, corp. 162 F. Russell Hittinger acts of irreligion that ensue upon these disorders). Thomas’s discussion of the ceremonial precepts of the Law is pivotal to his account of the intersection of divine, natural, and human law in matters religious. These questions too often are given short shrift on account of their length and somewhat tedious detail.40 Yet, it is here that Thomas gives the bridge connecting the natural inclination and first-order dictates of reason with the determinations of outward worship in the ceremonialia. What is most interesting is that these determinations, at least those regarding religion, are more than a positive law determination of things left indeterminate by natural law. They are also rectifications of reason as to the moral precepts regarding religion.41 This is only to say that the first table of the Decalogue is the center of the crisis of the human appropriation of natural law: “[I]t is clear, since the order of reason begins with the end, that, for a man to be inordinately disposed towards his end, is supremely contrary to reason. Now the end of human life and society is God. Consequently it was necessary for the precepts of the Decalogue, first of all, to direct man to God; since the contrary to this is most grievous.”42 As we already noted, Thomas admits that, in principle, religious cult can be determined by human laws; “Hence human laws have not concerned themselves with the institution of anything relating to Divine worship except as affecting the common good of mankind: and for this reason they have devised many institutions relating to Divine matters.”43 But in the concrete, determination of cult is vulnerable to perversion. Although a political community could restrict its interest in religious acts solely and honestly to the temporal common good, 40 41 42 43 ST I-II, qq. 101–103. ST I-II, q. 101, a. 3: “For in that people there were many prone to idolatry; wherefore it was necessary to recall them by means of ceremonial precepts from the worship of idols to the worship of God. And since men served idols in many ways, it was necessary on the other hand to devise many means of repressing every single one: and again, to lay many obligations on such like men, in order that being burdened, as it were, by their duties to the Divine worship, they might have no time for the service of idols. As to those who were inclined to good, it was again necessary that there should be many ceremonial precepts; both because thus their mind turned to God in many ways, and more continually; and because the mystery of Christ, which was foreshadowed by these ceremonial precepts, brought many boons to the world, and afforded men many considerations, which needed to be signified by various ceremonies.” ST. I-II, q. 100, a. 6. ST I-II, q. 99, a. 3. Religion, Human Law, and the Virtue of Religion 163 valuing its good consequences for the formation of morals, it is more likely that God will be worshipped for the community, if not for a merely private good. Hence, some consideration of divinity remains in the object of the act (the cult, the vow, etc.), but not in its end.44 We recall Augustine’s reference to Seneca’s dictum: We worship according to custom rather than truth. To underscore the same point, Thomas cites Livy’s report that “one who vowed to his idols to suffer death for the safety of his army” was “devout.”45 The twenty questions on the virtue of religion in the Secunda Secundae evince a scholastic and Aristotelian division of virtues and vices. The details, however, are taken mostly from Augustine, especially De civitate Dei, De doctrina christiana, and De vera religione. No section of the Summa is more thickly carpeted with quotations of and references to Augustine.46 The obvious reason is that, by the thirteenth century, paganism stood at the geographical and cultural periphery of western Christendom. Like everyone of his training and station, Thomas encountered the pagans mainly through book learning: sacred Scripture, Graeco-Roman authors of antiquity, and above all, the works of Augustine. It will be evident to anyone who reads the questions on the virtue of religion that he does not match Augustine’s rhetorical ST I-II, q. 99, a. 6: “Those who are yet imperfect desire temporal goods, albeit in subordination to God: whereas the perverse place their end in temporalities.” But note that, in this article, Thomas maintains that desire for temporal goods is licit specifically in the context of the Jewish cult determined by divine law, which, like a tutor, restrains any reversal of object and end. For this reason, the gentiles were more assuredly ordered in cult by being admitted into Mosaic worship (ST I-II, q. 98, a. 5, ad 3). Interestingly, in De regno, Thomas admonishes the king to avoid the pagan determinations of cult, to respect but not to follow the Mosaic determinations, and to be subjected to priests under the New Law. De regno 16.111: “Because the priesthood of the gentiles and the whole worship of their gods existed merely for the acquisition of temporal goods (which were all ordained to the common good of the multitude, whose care devolved upon the king), the priests of the gentiles were very properly subject to the kings. Similarly, since in the old law earthly goods were promised to the religious people (not indeed by demons but by the true God), the priests of the old law, we read, were also subject to the kings. But in the new law there is a higher priesthood by which men are guided to heavenly goods. Consequently, in the law of Christ, kings must be subject to priests” (Latin text available in vol. 42 of the Leonine edition, available at www.corpusthomisticum.org/repedleo.html). 45 On the etymology of “devout,” see ST II-II, q. 82, a. 1. The religious object was not only given wrongly (to an idol), but also given for the wrong end. 46 I count some 116 references, including 29 to the City of God. 44 164 F. Russell Hittinger prowess, nor does Thomas cover the issues with anything approaching the pastoral urgency that marked Augustine’s polemic in De doctrina christiana, written for the instruction of Christians who misinterpreted the event of Alaric’s sack of Rome in 410. Nonetheless, he follows Augustine assiduously on the nature and implications of religious acts adapted to the ancient city: “All the gods of the gentiles are demons.”47 The human determination of cultus divini was a disaster, and not even philosophers were able to produce a religion that prevented the subordination of cult to the temporal ends of the city. It seems that the Apostle touches on the three theologies of the Gentiles. First, the civil, which was observed by their priests adoring idols in the temple; in regard to this he says: they exchanged the glory of the immortal God. Secondly, the theology of fables, which their poets presented in the theatre. In regard to this he says, they exchanged the truth about God for a lie. Thirdly, their natural theology, which the philosophers observed in the world, when they worshipped the parts of the world. In regard to this he says, they worshipped and served the creature rather than the creator.48 Taken altogether, with all of the complications and details, Thomas does not provide strong support for the practice of cultus divini determined by human law.49 He especially adheres to Paul and Augustine, and to the failure of philosophy to produce a religion any better than those rites directed by civil and poetical theologies.50 Putting to one side the somewhat extraordinary case of holy men inspired by a kind ST II-II, q. 94, a. 2. See also q. 92, a. 2; q. 95, a. 2; q. 96, a. 3; and q. 122, a. 2, ad 3. 48 Super Rom. lec. 7, no. 145, in Commentary on the letter of Saint Paul to the Romans, trans. Fabian Larcher, ed. Jeremy Holmes (Lander, WY: Aquinas Institute for the Study of Sacred Doctrine, 2012). See also Summa contra gentiles (hereafter, SCG) III, ch. 38. 49 Here, he also reminds the King that the Christian religion orders temporal persons and things to a supernatural end. De regno 16.113: “And because it was to come to pass that the religion of the Christian priesthood should especially thrive in France, God provided that among the Gauls too their tribal priests, called Druids, should lay down the law of all Gaul, as Julius Caesar relates in the book which he wrote about the Gallic war.” His point is not that the pagan religion was free of idolatry and superstition, only that these rites were ruled by priests. 50 ST II-II, q. 94, a. 1. 47 Religion, Human Law, and the Virtue of Religion 165 of “private law” of the Spirit, and then the submission of the Jewish cult to the first table of the Decalogue and the ceremonial determinations of Mosaic law, the record of antiquity is marked by confusion and reversal of the object and the end of religion.51 In the abstract, however, he does not rule out a role, even a duty, of human law to assist religion by determinatio under the ratio of good morals. In the first place, all things are ordered to God, including the temporal common good of the city. While religion has a different ratio than the honor given to parents and civil authorities or the ordinary reciprocities of justice and love between human persons, it is interwoven with the ensemble of social virtues in the fashion of a “general virtue”—that is, a virtue that directs the other acts of virtues.52 Therefore, we may not attribute to Thomas the American dicta that “the state has no interest in” or “the state may not take cognizance of ” religion. On the other side of the coin, human law must restrict itself to the temporal common good, to religious acts insofar as they are true and profitable to good morals, and inasmuch as nothing deflect the order of latria. This is a tough standard, and hence Augustine’s judgment is that the “celestial city, on the other hand, knew that one God only was to be worshipped, and that to Him alone was due that service which the Greeks call λατρεία, and which can be given only to a god, it has come to pass that the two cities could not have common laws of religion.”53 The second reason why Thomas does not absolutely rule out some role for human determination in religion is that he writes at the zenith of political Christendom, at which time existed deep and complex comity of jurisdictions. This comity included some limits to human law—for example, limits to temporal authorities directly determining and administering the divine cult and sacraments of the New Covenant. As he said to the King of Cyprus, religion must be subordinate to the authority of priests. Nor can the children of Jews be compelled 51 52 53 In reply to an objection that the Jews said they have no king but Caesar, and thus would seem to give devotion to men, Thomas rather laconically answers, “devotion of subjects to their temporal masters is of another ratio” (ST II-II, q. 82, a. 2, ad 3). ST II-II, q. 81, a. 8, ad 2. De civitate Dei 19.17. He adds that there can be common laws, manners, and institutions whereby terrestrial peace is maintained, so long as “no hindrance to the worship of the one supreme and true God is thus introduced.” The English translation is taken from Augustine: The City of God against the Pagans, ed. and trans. Robert Dyson, Cambridge Texts in the History of Political Thought (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2003). 166 F. Russell Hittinger to baptism, but the latter is premised on the natural law obligation and right of parents to direct the religious formation of their children.54 But throughout the different phases and configurations of political Christendom, there existed a penumbra in which human and ecclesiastical law intersected in service of religion—from liturgical and civic calendars, property, and punishment of heretics, to treaties regarding joint cooperation in missions. In this penumbra also stood the disputed issue of Jewish rites, which needs to be mentioned, but which we shall pass over because the complexities of the record would take us too far afield.55 The practices and opinions about the penumbral issues developed over many centuries—from the early medieval centuries to the post-Westphalian division of western Christendom into the geographical jurisdictions of temporal sovereignty under the formula cuius regio eius religio. It will suffice to note that the underlying problem of human law directing religious acts was never neatly settled. Let us return to where we began, with Thomas’s general consideration of the issue: “Divine law is instituted chiefly in order to direct men to God; while human law is instituted chiefly in order to direct men in relation to one another. Hence human laws have not concerned themselves with the institution of anything relating to Divine worship except as affecting the common good of mankind: and for this reason they have devised many institutions relating to Divine matters, according as it seemed expedient for the formation of human morals; as may be seen in the rites of the Gentiles.”56 Cajetan comments: If human law should propose to subordinate divine worship to the interests of the peace of Society, and if, for example, it saw ST II-II, q. 10, a. 12, ad 4: “Hence a child, before coming to the use of reason, in the natural order of things, is directed to God by its parents’ reason, under whose care it lies by nature, and it is for them to dispose of the child in all matters relating to God.” 55 ST II-II, q. 10, a.11: “though unbelievers sin in their rites, they may be tolerated, either on account of some good that ensues there from, or because of some evil avoided. Thus from the fact that the Jews observe their rites, which, of old, foreshadowed the truth of the faith which we hold, there follows this good—that our very enemies bear witness to our faith, and that our faith is represented in a figure, so to speak. For this reason they are tolerated in the observance of their rites.” For the nuances of Thomas’s position on Jewish rites, see Matthew A. Tapie, Aquinas on Israel and the Church (Eugene, OR: Pickwick Publications, 2014). 56 ST I-II, q. 99, a. 3. 54 Religion, Human Law, and the Virtue of Religion 167 in that the chief reason for honoring God, it would be perverse. Human law does not do that: although doubtless many impious legislators have attempted it, inventing all kinds of myths [multas fabulas] to serve this end, as Aristotle suggests in the second book of the Metaphysics. But whereas there are many ways of justifying divine worship, human law, taking account only of those things that concern its own domain, will make them serve the common good, and it abstracts from reasons that do not concern it. Now to abstract is neither to lie nor to sin. And if grace perfects nature instead of destroying it, human law can take the common good of human society for its principal end without thereby being prevented from subordinating it to a higher end in virtue of a higher principle.57 Cajetan gives an accurate summary of the article and its implications for the virtue of religion. When the temporal authority uses the instrumentalities of law to subvert the relation between the object and end of religion, it must be counted as irreligious (perverse). This much holds whether we are speaking of religious acts under natural or supernatural specifications. When, on the other hand, the human law abstracts from the end to consider only the advantages of religion for the temporal good, Cajetan and a more recent theologian like Charles Journet hold it does not necessarily sin, provided that the divine end remains intact. Both theologians recognize that the ideal boundary was defeated, at least by the gentiles of antiquity. Exactly when in the Christian order it was honest, fudged, or defeated was the pressing question as Christendom itself began its decadent period after Westphalia, and even more urgently after the French Revolution.58 57 58 See note 7 above. Cardinal Charles Journet cites Cajetan’s comment on article 3 of question 99, but he digs into the historical complications. One must admit that, although Cajetan witnessed the opening round of the Reformation, he did not see the end of medieval Christendom at Westphalia or the final demise of Christendom in the events that ensued upon 1789. Journet distinguishes two ways in the older regime of Christendom that the temporal power might act for its own benefit in relation to the Church’s superior power to direct religious acts. In one mode, the temporal arm allows itself to be used as an instrument for the Church’s pursuit of a spiritual end, but in doing so it acts for its own advantage and uses no power except that which properly belongs to the political. In a second way, the secular arm acts on its own initiative “for an intervention whose end is an immediately temporal good considered as conditioning a spiritual good.” For example, the human lawgiver acts to suppress schism or heresy. Journet admits that, in the older Christendom, the legal and 168 F. Russell Hittinger In lieu of that historical judgment, we have no direct way to move from Thomas’s questions on religion to Dignitatis Humanae. Except a brief note—“through the vicissitudes of human history, there has at times appeared a way of acting that was hardly in accord with the spirit of the Gospel or even opposed to it”—DH is entirely silent about any part of the historical record that might count as controversial.59 Even so, we can offer some general remarks about the relevance of Thomas’s understanding of the virtue of religion. III. In our quick traversal of the questions on religion, we saw that, for Thomas, the virtue of religion is rooted in what most pertains to human dignity, which is the rational inclination to know the truth about God. By means of various considerations about God—excellence, the first and final cause of the good, and human indigence and need of divine assistance—the practical intellect understands obligation to give to God his “due.” The object of the free act of religion is the “due,” or the cultus divini, consisting of the interior act of devotion and the external act of sacrifice. The end of religious acts is God. However, on account of the obscurity of the divine and the weakness of the human intellect, and on account of the fact that that debt can never repay God in full and according to equality, and because the sensible signs of the external cult are variable, acts of religion need “determinations.” This is especially true after the loss of innocence. For Thomas, there is no such thing as a natural religion, at least not if we consider all of the dimensions and facets of religion. Rather, there is a rather sturdy natural inclination and natural dictate of reason about the obligation in general terms. Finally, we emphasized that Thomas adheres to the judgments of Paul and Augustine regarding the unsteady and often perverse character of human determinations of religion. moral proprieties of these two modes were extraordinarily complex. With the benefit of hindsight, he asks whether either justification was “truly useful” to the Church. My reading of Journet is that he leaves this question open-ended, but with the burden of proof falling on those who defend it on grounds that are more than abstract principle. Journet, of course, also had the benefit of knowing about the demise of political Christendom and the decrees of the First Vatican Council that solemnly ruled out virtually all of the older arrangements by which temporal sovereigns were deputized with apostolic authority. Journet argues that, with the demise of the last phase of political Christendom, it is St. Augustine’s position “to which we shall have finally to return”; see Charles Journet, Theology of the Word Incarnate, trans. Alfred Howard Campbell (London: Sheed and Ward, 1955), 221–222. 59 DH, §12. Religion, Human Law, and the Virtue of Religion 169 Now, in the final part of this essay, I will sketch in a somewhat general way the compatibility between Thomas and the teaching of DH. My three main points, made briefly and without adequate elaboration, are as follows: 1) The basis of a human right to religious liberty is a rational inclination to search out the truth about God; 2) The obligation to adhere to the truth includes both internal and external acts of religion; and 3) The human law is forbidden to enjoin or forbid religious acts by means of external coercion. This last point is, firstly, in respect of human dignity and what we have called the stem-set, namely those intellective and volitional acts that must be freely engaged as a minimal condition for the virtue of religion, and secondly, in respect of the end of religious acts, which transcends the terrestrial common good. But human law may facilitate religious acts and, in some cases, restrict religious acts injurious to the temporal common good. Importantly, DH does not mention a right or duty of the state to determine religious acts per se. In the second part of the Declaration, dealing with the religion of the Catholic Church in the light of divine revelation, such human determinations are absolutely forbidden with respect to the ordinary and apostolic powers of teaching, sanctifying, and ruling.60 Under the heading of religious liberty “in general” (ratio generalis), DH §§2–8 treat of human dignity according to the natural law, but also as it has become “more fully known to human reason through centuries of experience.” The lights and the shadows of those centuries of experience are not reported in any detail. The Declaration moves straight away to the anthropological ground of the right and the duty: It is in accordance with their dignity as persons—that is, beings endowed with reason and free will and therefore privileged to bear personal responsibility—that all men should be at once impelled by nature and also bound by a moral obligation to seek the truth, especially religious truth. They are also bound to adhere to the truth, once it is known, and to order their whole lives in accord with the demands of truth. However, men cannot discharge these obligations in a manner in keeping with their 60 The principium fundamentale of church liberty (DH, §13). This is repeated in a document on the episcopal authority of the bishops, the Second Vatican Council’s Christus Dominus (1965), §19: “In discharging their apostolic office, which concerns the salvation of souls, bishops per se enjoy full and perfect freedom and independence from any civil authority. Hence, the exercise of their ecclesiastical office may not be hindered, directly or indirectly, nor may they be forbidden to communicate freely with the Apostolic See, or ecclesiastical authorities, or their subjects.” 170 F. Russell Hittinger own nature unless they enjoy immunity from external coercion as well as psychological freedom. Therefore the right to religious freedom has its foundation not in the subjective disposition of the person, but in his very nature.61 Although it is not elaborated in philosophical detail, the ground of the right is a fair replication of Thomas’s inclinational stem-set, which as we saw, has three components: 1) a participation of the human intellect in the eternal law, 2) a search, consideration, and affirmation of the truth about God, and 3) a recognition of duty. The Declaration reads: “[T]he highest norm of human life is the divine law—eternal, objective and universal—whereby God orders, directs and governs the entire universe and all the ways of the human community by a plan conceived in wisdom and love. Man has been made by God to participate in this law, with the result that, under the gentle disposition of divine Providence, he can come to perceive ever more fully the truth that is unchanging.”62 Gaudium et Spes puts it this way: “The root reason for human dignity lies in man’s call to communion with God. From the very circumstance of his origin man is already invited to converse with God [ad colloquium cum Deo].”63 These are familiar Thomistic themes, especially the dictum that divine providence disposes things gently, according to their nature.That the Eternal Law sweetly (suaviter) disposes people to fulfill their duty to know and to assent to the truth, which is taken from Wisdom 8:1, has a long history in Catholic theology. It was one of Saint Thomas’s favorite biblical texts for describing divine governance.64 Thomas is not directly cited by the Declaration, but there are more than enough indirect clues, including the frequent references to Pacem in Terris where John XXIII cites and quotes Thomas’s doctrine of natural law.65 61 62 63 64 65 DH, §2. Ibid., §3. Second Vatican Council, Gaudium et Spes (1965; hereafter, GS), §19. On the many uses of Wis 8:1 by Thomas, see SCG III, ch. 97 and ST I, q. 22, a. 2; q. 103, a. 8; I–II, q. 110, a. 2; II–II, q. 23, a. 2; and q. 161, a. 1. On participation, truth, God, and the moral order, see PT §§37–38, in Acta Apostolicae Sedis 55 (1963): 270–271, referenced in DH §3n3. Recall that PT was the proximate authority for the right of religious liberty. For an analysis and evaluation of PT’s use of Thomas’s doctrine of participation, see my essay for the Pontifical Academy of Social Sciences, “Quinquagesimo Ante: Reflections on Pacem in Terris Fifty Years Later,” in The Global Quest for Tranquillitas Ordinis: Pacem in Terris, Fifty Years Later, ed. Mary Ann Glendon, Russell Hittinger, and Marcelo Sánchez-Sorondo, The Pontifical Academy of Social Religion, Human Law, and the Virtue of Religion 171 On Thomas’s rendition, the inclinational stem-set includes natural duty with regard to external and sensible acts of religion. Just so, in addition to divine worship, DH includes the human duty, and therefore the right, to give expression to and communications about religious truths, as well as to maintain institutions of religious formation:66 Provided the just demands of public order are observed, religious communities rightfully claim freedom in order that they may govern themselves according to their own norms, honor the Supreme Being in public worship, assist their members in the practice of the religious life, strengthen them by instruction, and promote institutions in which they may join together for the purpose of ordering their own lives in accordance with their religious principles.67 As Thomas himself argued, the domestic order has a natural duty in the matter of religious formation—one that stands very close to the stem-set.68 So, too, for DH: “The family, since it is a society in its own original right, has the right freely to live its own domestic religious life under the guidance of parents. Parents, moreover, have the right to determine, in accordance with their own religious beliefs, the kind of religious education that their children are to receive.”69 The picture presented by DH is that the inclination to know the truth about God and the dictates of reason regarding the obligation to give proper due to God are completed in concrete determinations and institutions of religion by agents other than those of Caesar. This, however, does not mean that temporal government has no legitimate interest in religion under the limited ratio of good morals and the common good: “Government is also to help create conditions favorable to the fostering of religious life, in order that the people may be truly enabled to exercise their religious rights and to fulfill their religious duties, and also in order that society itself may profit by the moral qualities of justice and peace which have their origin in men’s faithfulness to God and to His holy will.”70 The very recognition of 66 67 68 69 70 Sciences Acta 18 (Vatican City: Pontifical Academy of Social Sciences, 2013), 38–60. DH, §3. Ibid., §4. ST II-II, q. 10, a.12, ad 4. DH, §5. Ibid. 172 F. Russell Hittinger the duty and right of religion is already to regard religion under the category of good morals and the common good. Under that same ratio, government may externally curb religious acts that are injurious to the common good, including acts that are dishonest, abusive to others, or disruptive to the public order. It may also “show favor” to a particular religion, provided that the rights of other citizens and religious communities are recognized.71 Of the many things government might do or not do with regard to religious acts under the ratio of the common good, it may not “presume to command or inhibit acts that are religious.”72 I interpret this to mean that the state may not command or inhibit religious acts from scratch, so to speak, for this much already falls under the natural law—most pointedly in the case of parents and children. Surely, the prohibition also includes temporal government, as Thomas noted about the gentiles, devising many institutions on divine matters—that is to say, determinations of religion. Admittedly, we enter a penumbra once again. For it is one thing to say that it is not the proper role of Caesar to command the details of the divine cult, but it is another to say that government may never, under the ratio of good morals and the tranquility of the common good, use its authority to facilitate the religious acts freely undertaken by citizens in light of their own determinations of religion. The big picture is clear enough. DH gives a moral-juridical teaching on the natural law source of religious acts. It does not treat the different modes of knowledge and assent, running from intuition and inference to belief and faith.73 It does not intend to be an exercise in comparative 71 72 73 Ibid. One thinks, in this respect, of concordats or the synchronization of civil and ecclesiastical calendars. For the variety of legal and constitutional regimes that might be accommodated by DH, see my essay, “Political Pluralism and Religious Liberty: The Teaching of Dignitatis Humanae” in The Proceedings of the 17th Plenary Session on Universal Rights in a World of Diversity: The case of religious freedom, Pontifical Academy of Social Sciences Acta 17 (Vatican City: The Pontifical Academy of Social Sciences, 2012), 39–55, 677–80. DH, §3. In the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith’s Dominus Iesus (2000), then-Cardinal Ratzinger notes that: “For this reason, the distinction between theological faith and belief 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,’ then belief 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” (§7), quoting John Paul II, Fides et Ratio (1998), §13. In Fides et Ratio Religion, Human Law, and the Virtue of Religion 173 religion, much less to survey, as Thomas does, all of the vices afflicting religious acts. Importantly, the Declaration mentions only one specific religion: “We believe that this one true religion subsists in the Catholic and Apostolic Church, to which the Lord Jesus committed the duty of spreading it abroad among all men.”74 It does not speak in any detail about the ways that the rational inclination is formed and determined by any other religion. The Declaration can say, with Thomas, that the inclinational stem is sturdy because it is imprinted on our nature and is at the center of our dignity. To draw out the full force of the two stories, consider the fact that, in defense of the natural right of freedom in religious acts, both John XXIII and the council cite Lactantius, an advisor to the Emperor Constantine who died at about the time of the Council of Nicea. In the section of the Divine Institutes cited by the Pope, Lactantius comments in a general way on ancient wisdom shared by Gentiles, Jews, and Christians—namely, that it belongs to the supreme good of humankind to know and serve God: “Truly religion is the cultivation of the truth.” For its part, DH chapter II, on religion in the light of revelation, cites a different section from the same work, where Lactantius explains that the specifically Christian understanding of the Cross of Christ is the ultimate completion of acts of religion.75 These two 74 75 §30, John Paul observes that “All men and women, as I have noted, are in some sense philosophers and have their own philosophical conceptions with which they direct their lives. In one way or other, they shape a comprehensive vision and an answer to the question of life’s meaning; and in the light of this they interpret their own life’s course and regulate their behavior.” And what is relevant to DH chapter I (“General Principals of Religious Freedom,” §§2–8) is that they do so both by a personal quest and within communal traditions: “On the one hand, the knowledge acquired through belief can seem an imperfect form of knowledge, to be perfected gradually through personal accumulation of evidence; on the other hand, belief is often humanly richer than mere evidence, because it involves an interpersonal relationship and brings into play not only a person’s capacity to know but also the deeper capacity to entrust oneself to others, to enter into a relationship with them which is intimate and enduring” (Fides et Ratio, §32). See Gerard V. Bradley “Pope John Paul II and Religious Liberty,” Ave Maria Law Review 6, no. 1 (2007): 33–59. Not only is this is a very lucid article on Dignitatis Humanae, but it alerted me to the importance of Ratzinger’s work in Dominus Iesus. DH, §1. The internal point of view of this religion and its congruence with the natural right are covered in the chapter II of the Declaration, “Religious Freedom in the Light of Revelation” [libertas religiosa sub luce revelationis], §§9–15. Lactantius, Divine Institutes 4.28 and 5.19. English translation by William 174 F. Russell Hittinger references to Lactantius represent just what we have distinguished as the stem-set and its natural apprehension of duties, and what the entire vector will look like when we are taught by divine revelation. IV. Let us conclude with Thomas’s enumeration of the properties of human law. He helps us to understand how religion, under different aspects, can be situated vis-à-vis human law: [I]t should be said that, whenever a thing is for an end, its form must be determined proportionately to that end, as the form of a saw is such as to be suitable for cutting. . . . Again, everything that is ruled and measured must have a form proportionate to its rule and measure. Now both these conditions are met in human law, since it is both something ordained to an end, and is a rule or measure ruled or measured by a higher measure. And this higher measure is twofold, viz., the divine law and the natural law. . . . Now the end of human law is to be useful to man, as the jurist states. Hence Isidore, determining the nature of law, lays down, at first, three conditions: that it be consistent [congruat] with religion, inasmuch as it is proportionate [proportionata] to the divine law; that it be helpful [conveniat] to discipline, inasmuch as it is proportionate [proportionata] to the natural law; and that it further the common good, inasmuch as it is proportionate [proportionata] to the utility of mankind.76 Fletcher in Ante-Nicene Fathers, vol. 7, eds. Alexander Roberts, James Donaldson, and A. Cleveland Coxe (Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing Co., 1886). 76 ST I-II, q. 95, a. 3. The corpus of the article continues: “All the other conditions mentioned by him are reduced to these three. For it is called virtuous [honesta] because it fosters religion. And when he goes on to say that it should be ‘just, possible to nature, according to the customs of the country, adapted to place and time,’ he implies that it should be helpful to discipline. For human discipline depends first on the order of reason, to which he refers by saying just [iusta]; second, it depends on the ability of the agent, because discipline should be adapted to each one according to his ability, taking also into account the ability of nature (for the same burdens should be not laid on children as on adults); and should be according to human customs, since man cannot live alone in society, paying no heed to others; third, it depends on certain circumstances, in respect of which he says, ‘adapted to place and time’ [loco temporique conveniens]. The remaining words, ‘necessary, useful,’ etc., mean that law should expedite well-being. Hence, necessity refers to the removal of evils; Religion, Human Law, and the Virtue of Religion 175 Human law is not a first rule and measure, for it is ruled and measured by the natural and the divine law. So far, this is standard Thomism. In matters pertaining to human law, both higher laws must be observed. In the first place, human law should be consistent with religion insofar as it is proportioned to divine law. We should construe religion here in the way Thomas presents it in the two series of questions on the subject in the Summa—not just the inclinational stem that can be counted as the “seeds of the virtues,” but the entire package: inclination, first and secondary precepts, and determinations of cultus divini by divine instruction. To use the broad terms of DH, we are dealing with religion sub luce revelationis. The human law is proportioned to divine law inasmuch as no citizen who is also a believer be commanded to offer latria contrary to the law of the Gospel and determinations of apostolic authority. This is what Augustine meant in saying that while Christians have many laws and customs in common with non-believers they cannot be brought under a law alien to their religion. By the same token, it is what Thomas meant in saying to the King of Cyprus that the ruler should respect the law of priests. In the second place, human law should be consistent with (moral) discipline proportionate to the natural law. But it is of the natural law—indeed, in its most fundamental and noble ordering of human action—that rational creatures freely search out the truth about God and render devotion by sensible signs. Prescinding from all other complications, this anthropological core must be respected. In this regard, the saying of Epictetus makes the point: “Were I a swan, I should do after the manner of a swan. But now, since I am a reasonable being, I must sing to God: that is my work: I do it, nor will I desert this my post, as long as it is granted me to hold it; and upon you too I call to join in this self-same hymn.”77 This is a matter not of divine right alone, but also of human right.78 In the third place, human law must be useful to the common good. The fontal goods comprised under the first precept most proximate to usefulness to the attainment of good; and clearness of expression, to the need of preventing any harm ensuing from the law itself. And since, as stated above [q. 90, a. 2], law is ordained to the common good, this is expressed in the last part of the description.” 77 Epictetus, The Golden Sayings of Epictetus, ed. Charles Eliot, trans. Hastings Crossley, The Harvard Classics, vol. 2 (New York: Collier & Sons, 1909), part 2, no. 1. 78 Repression of this basal and fundamental response to the truth is a violation of both the human person and God (DH, §6). F. Russell Hittinger 176 our rational nature is “a natural inclination to know the truth about God, and to live in society; to shun ignorance, to avoid offending those among whom one has to live, and other such things”—in nucleo, all of the natural social virtues. Human law subverts itself if it should thwart the tranquility of social order under law. Coercion of religious acts deepens civil strife, and therefore frustrates not only the rational inclination to give due to God, but our inclination and obligation to love our neighbor in a specifically political order. It is the responsibility of government and citizens to remove impediments to political order and to correct injuries to others. The details of time and place of course put a somewhat different complexion on the institutions in which we achieve an honorable and stable peace. DH repeatedly uses the word “constitutional.” Comprehended on its own terms, the Declaration means the constitutional polities of our time and place, having as their constituency a diversity of people, under a rule of law that makes explicit provision for the honest civil rights of minorities, that sets limits to political powers, that makes government responsible to the people, and that provides remedies for those whose rights are abused or neglected in the ordinary processes of politics.79 At the outset, I promised to respect the silences of DH and to stop short of claiming that Thomas’s understanding of the virtue and vices of religion can be used for the purpose of a strict interpretation of the Declaration. The Declaration on Religious Liberty should be read in the very rich historical context of its time and according to the very narrow moral-juridical purposes of the document itself. The position is always in danger of being misunderstood in one direction or the other. Even so, Thomas’s treatment of religion offers a useful angle of interpretation for the larger issues at stake. In the first place, there is his account of the source and the intellectual and volitional pulse of the human inclination to know the truth about God and to render service. It frames rather nicely DH’s declaration of a duty and right based upon human dignity. In the second place, informed by scripture and Augustine, Thomas’s historical consideration of the weakness and dangers attending determination of cultus divini by human law are truly appropriate to the work of DH. In the third place, his insistence that the stem-set needs to be instructed by divine law and healed by grace N&V takes us close to the deep rationale of the chapter II of DH. 79 DH, §15. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 1 (2016): 177–198177 The Universal Mediation of Christ and Non-Christian Religions1 THOMAS JOSEPH WHITE, O.P. Dominican House of Studies Washington, DC The modern magisterium of the Catholic Church, partic- ularly at the Second Vatican Council, articulated in tandem two fundamentally interdependent principles, both of Biblical origin. First, Christ is the unique universal mediator of salvation for the entire human race (and with this: all salvation occurs through membership in the Catholic Church, or by being ordered toward it.)2 Second, because Christ died for all human beings and does offer the possibility of salvation to all members of the human race, the practices and beliefs of non-Christian religions may contain elements of truth that the Holy Spirit may make use of for the purposes of the saving work of God in history.3 Note the twofold conditional character of this second statement. There may be elements of truth, and God may employ them. In documents such as Redemptoris Missio and Dominus Jesus the reflection on Nostra Aetate has been refined.4 The sacred writings of other religious traditions are not to be considered inspired in the profound theological sense of the An earlier version of this essay was presented at the plenary session of the Pontifical Academy of St. Thomas Aquinas, Rome, June 19–21, 2015. 2 Second Vatican Council, Lumen Gentium (1964; hereafter, LG), §14–16. (All documents of the Magisterium can be found in English on the website of the Holy See: http://w2.vatican.va/content/vatican/en.html) 3 Second Vatican Council, Gaudium et Spes (1965; hereafter, GS), §22 and 45; Second Vatican Council, Nostra Aetate (1965; hereafter, NA), §2. 4 John Paul II, Redemptoris Missio (1990; hereafter, RM), §§28–30, 55–57; Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith (hereafter, CDF), Dominus Jesus (2000; hereafter, DJ), §4. 1 178 Thomas Joseph White, O.P. term.5 Their rites are not sacramental (instrumental ex opere operato causes of grace).6 Nor are their beliefs to be confused with the grace of supernatural faith.7 Such beliefs and practices may contain important elements of error or superstition, and may harm or delude the human person.8 At the same time, some human religious traditions do contain profound elements of the truth and reflect, in many cases, the depths of the human search for God.9 The Holy Spirit may work through elements of these traditions—including in their collective and historical nature—so as to communicate hidden forms of invitation to, or even habitual participation in, the grace of Christ.10 Here we find something akin to highly qualified version of sacramental occasionalism: God may, when he wishes, according to his wisdom and providence, make use of elements of the non-Christian religious traditions either to initiate, or even progressively to effectuate, the salvation of human beings who are not baptized and are not visible members of the Catholic Church.11 The teaching of Thomas Aquinas regarding the headship or capital grace of Christ offers resources for thinking about this contemporary theological problem. I would like here briefly to reflect on three elements: (I) the capital grace of Christ as it pertains to our human salvation, (II) the various ways, according to Aquinas, that all human beings are potentially receptive to the work of grace by virtue of their intrinsically religious nature, and (III) the qualifications that are in order when considering the effective work of grace present outside the visible economy of the Catholic Church and her sacramental life. 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 RM, §36; DJ, §8. DJ, §21. Ibid., Dominus Jesus, §7. RM, §55; DJ, §§8 and 21: “it cannot be overlooked that other rituals, insofar as they depend on superstitions or other errors (cf. 1 Cor 10:20–21), constitute an obstacle to salvation.” RM, §28–29; DJ, §§2 and 14. RM, §28; DJ, §12. See Benoit-Dominique de la Soujeole, “Etre ordonné à l’unique Eglise du Christ: l’ecclésialité des communautés non chrétiennes à partir des données oecuméniques,” Revue Thomiste (2002): 5–41, in which he argues (at 33–37) that authentic truths and ethical practices embodied in the cultural forms of other religions may indeed be used in an “occasionalist” fashion by God’s providence. God may employ them when He wills as stable natural dispositions to the operation of and cooperation with grace. Consequently, they may be sign-expressions of persons who are motivated by grace, without in any way being ex opere operato instruments of the supernatural order. The latter order is “mediated” instrumentally uniquely through Christ’s sacred humanity, the sacraments, and through the mystery of the Church. The Universal Mediation of Christ and Non-Christian Religions 179 The Capital Grace of Christ Aquinas famously considers the grace of Christ according to a tripartite distinction.12 First, it is a “grace” for the individual human nature of Jesus that it should be the human nature of the Word Incarnate. This grace of the hypostatic union (or grace of union) is proper to Christ alone because he alone is God made man, the eternal Word subsisting in a human nature. Second, the habitual grace in Christ is that created grace that is present in his human soul, particularly manifest in his spiritual faculties of intellect and will, resulting in the plenary illumination of his human mind with supernatural wisdom and the influx of a plenitude of charity in his human heart.13 By extension, Christ possesses as man the plenitude of the infused virtues and the gifts of the Holy Spirit.14 Third, there is the capital grace of Christ, that of his headship, by which he communicates his grace to the entire Church, to all those who partake of his grace visibly or invisibly. Aquinas underscores that this grace is not ontologically or essentially distinct from the habitual grace of Christ, but is distinguished only logically or notionally.15 This point is significant. The capital grace of Christ is his sanctifying grace just insofar as it is shared with other members of the human race. All who are given any participation in the life of God whatsoever participate in some way in the habitual grace of the Lord, who possesses this grace as the source or principle from which all human beings derive their salvation. Here we should make four subjacent points that are of essential importance. First, according to Aquinas, Jesus possesses a unique plenitude of habitual grace and is the head of the Church fundamentally due to the ontological reality of the hypostatic union.16 As Jean-Pierre Torrell has observed, St. Thomas purposefully opposed himself to a common opinion held at his time (by Alexander of Hales among 12 13 14 15 16 Thomas Aquinas, Super Ioan. 2, lec. 6: “There is in Christ a three-fold grace: the grace of union (gratia unionis), the grace that is proper to him as distinct person, which is a habitual grace (gratia habitualis), and last of all, his grace as Head [of the Church] (gratia capitis), which is that of his graces of influence [upon others]. Each of these graces, Christ receives without measure.” This is my own translation from no. 544 in S. Thomae Aquinatis Super Evangelium S. Ioannis Lectura, ed. R. Cai, 5th ed. (Turin/Rome: Marietti, 1952). Summa Theologiae (hereafter, ST) III, q. 7, a. 1. Unless otherwise noted, all English translations of the ST are from Summa Theologica, trans. English Dominican Province (New York: Benziger, 1947). ST III, q. 7, aa. 11–12. ST III, q. 8, aa. 1 and 5. ST III, q. 7, aa. 1 and 13. 180 Thomas Joseph White, O.P. others) according to which the habitual grace of Christ given to his individual human nature should serve as an ontological disposition to the hypostatic union.17 It would be as if his humanity needed first to be proportioned by a grace of the kind other human beings receive so as to be capable of being united to the Word. Aquinas perceives there to be a relation between this idea and the homo assumptus Christologies that he labels quite strikingly as “Nestorian” in kind. These are theories of the hypostatic union derivative from the first theory of hypostatic union found in the Lombard. According to this theory, the human being Jesus is a man united to the Word by virtue of a habitual relation.18 In fact, Alexander goes so far as to speak of two hypostases or concrete substances, the man assumed and the Word assuming. They are united in one person (persona), but this union occurs by the disposition of the habitual grace that exists in the human nature of Christ.19 The “person” in question is one who is constituted by a habitual relation between the Word acting upon the suppositum of the humanity and the humanity being illumined and inspired by the grace of the Word. Aquinas is concerned rightly that this form of union (based on a relation, and therefore accidental rather than substantial) cannot be understood as specifically distinct in kind from that which we might find in the saints, created human persons who receive habitual grace like Christ himself, but to a lesser degree. His reflection is of a striking pertinence since one finds positions analogous to the one he criticizes in contemporary theorists of religious pluralism. Often such thinkers perceive in Jesus of Nazareth a figure of moral perfection, like other religious founders, differentiated from them more according to a degree of enlightenment (or “grace” equivocally speaking), than due to a distinc17 18 19 Alexander of Hales, Glossa Alex 3.7.27 (L), in Magistri Alexandri de Hales Glossa in Quatuor Libros Sententiarum Petri Lombardi, ed. PP. Collegii S. Bonaventurae, 4 vols. (Florence: Quaracchi, 1960). See Walter H. Principe, Alexander of Hales’ Theology of the Hypostatic Union (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 1967), 163–165 and 171–173. Philip the Chancellor holds this view even more overtly in De Incarn. 2.19; See Walter H. Principe, Philip the Chancellor’s Theology of the Hypostatic Union (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 1975), 116–117. ST III, q. 2, a. 6. The teaching of Aquinas on this matter has also recently been reexamined quite helpfully by Jean-Pierre Torrell in Le Verbe Incarné I (Paris: Cerf, 2002), Appendix II, 297–339. Principe, Alexander of Hales’ Theology of the Hypostatic Union, 123. Principe shows how Alexander can consider the human nature of Christ to be a distinct hypostasis while not having a unique personhood, since the latter is a characteristic that the assumed humanity acquires from the divine hypostasis. The Universal Mediation of Christ and Non-Christian Religions 181 tion of personal identity insofar as Jesus alone is the God-man.20 Aquinas posits, by contrast, then, that the human nature we possess does not require any grace to proportion it to personal union with the Word, but is naturally open to the possibility of the Incarnation by virtue of our spiritual nature.21 In principle, God could become incarnate in any individual human nature. The humanity of Christ therefore needs no dispositive habitual grace in order to make the hypostatic union possible. Indeed, no such grace would suffice for this purpose! No habitual grace, however intensive, could adequately dispose the created human nature in such a way that it could effectively receive the infinite, uncreated gift of the hypostatic union. Instead, the order must be inverted in order to be properly understood. Because Christ is the Word made flesh—God who subsists in a human nature composed of body and soul—therefore, he possesses the plenitude of habitual grace as a proportionate effect.22 God incarnate fittingly possesses the perfection of grace in himself as man, due precisely to the fact that his humanity is the humanity of God. In turn, it is this grace that he can share with us as the head of the Church. Here we rejoin the soteriological principle of Athanasius that Aquinas was quite familiar with. Christ alone, among all men, is the mediator of salvation because Christ alone is truly God. Since God has united himself to our human nature in Christ, we are assured the possibility of being united to God by grace.23 A second point concerns the relation of the habitual grace of Christ to atonement, which is accomplished especially by virtue of Christ’s obedient suffering even unto death by way of crucifixion. When Aquinas considers the principles of the atonement (satisfactio) in article 2 of question 48 of the tertia pars of the Summa, it is interesting to note that he interprets Anselm’s teaching in the Cur Deus homo in light of the mystery of Christ’s capital grace. Aquinas gives three reasons that Christ’s passion is meritorious of our salvation: first, due to the plenitude of charity by which he obeys the Father in our stead; second, due 20 21 22 23 For prominent examples, see Friedrich Schleiermacher, Der christliche Glaube (Berlin: G. Reimer, 1821–1822); The Christian Faith, 2 vols., eds. H. R. Mackintosh and J. S. Stewart (New York: Harper and Row, 1963), 2:385–424 (§94–99); and Jacques Dupuis, Toward a Christian Theology of Religious Pluralism (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1997), 270–71, where the influence of Schleiermacher is apparent. Summa contra gentiles (hereafter, SCG) IV, ch. 41, no. 13; from Summa contra gentiles IV, trans. C. O’Neil (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1956). ST III, q. 2, a. 10; q. 6, a. 6; q. 7, a. 13. SCG IV, ch. 54, no. 2; trans. O’Neil. 182 Thomas Joseph White, O.P. to the infinite dignity of the person who suffers; and third, due to the intensity of his suffering. Some commentators emphasize the second of these reasons as the essential reason for our salvation. Christ’s merits of love and obedience are infinite in kind due to the fact that he is God.24 Other commentators emphasize the first reason—Christ’s habitual grace of charity is the formal principle of our salvation. 25 A balanced interpretation should insist on both principles, but in a given order.26 The Son of God crucified acts “formally,” or essentially, as mediator of our salvation as man by virtue of his human obedience and love, which he “substitutes” for our actions of gracelessness and disobedience. Just because this is the case, we must say that the habitual grace of Christ (and particularly his actions of charity or love) is the formal principle by which he as man atones universally for all sins of the human race. However, this human action is rooted in the person who acts and whose dignity is infinite, since the person is God the Word. This principle is not formal, but foundational, or hypostatic. Fundamentally, the subject who acts humanly to save us is God, and so his actions and sufferings are of a mysterious, infinite worth or dignity.27 Aquinas sometimes casts this mystery in terms of the virtus divinitatis of Christ. Because Christ is the Lord, his human self-offering is unique as an offering of reparation for human sin. Christ has the power as the Lord incarnate to communicate the fruits of his passion to all human beings.28 Here we see what Aquinas calls the effective dimension 24 25 26 27 28 See, for example, Reginald Garrigou-Lagrange, Jesus the Savior, trans. B. Rose (London: Herder, 1957), 577–588; Jean-Hervé Nicholas, Synthèse Dogmatique; de la Trinité à la Trinité (Fribourg and Paris : Éditions universitaires Fribourg and Éditions Beauchesne, 1991), 363–366, 511–12, and 547–548. However, both Garrigou-Lagrange and Nicholas maintain the traditional Thomist view that habitual sanctifying grace in the human soul of Christ stems necessarily from the mystery of the hypostatic union. See, for example, Jean-Pierre Torrell, Le Verbe Incarné II (Paris: Cerf, 2002), Appendix II, 396–409. See in this respect the balanced analysis of Domingo Bañez, Tertia partis divi Thomae Aquinatis commentaria, q. 1, a. 2, nos. 16–27, in Comentarios ineditos a la tercera parte de Santo Tomas, vol. I, De Verbo Incarnato (qq. 1–42), ed.V. Beltran de Heredia (Salamanca: Biblioteca de Teologos Españoles, 1951). ST I, q. 48, a. 2, obj. 3, ad 3: “Christ did not suffer in His Godhead, but in His flesh….[However,] the dignity of Christ’s flesh is not to be estimated solely from the nature of flesh, but also from the Person assuming it—namely, inasmuch as it was God’s flesh, the result of which was that it was of infinite worth.” ST III, q. 49, a. 1, ad 2: “Passio Christi, licet sit corporalis, sortitur tamen quondam spiritualem virtutem ex divinitate, cuius caro ei unita est instrumentum. The Universal Mediation of Christ and Non-Christian Religions 183 of Christ’s saving mediation.29 Christ as man is able to communicate effectively to all the members of the mystical body, the Church, the grace by which they might be conformed progressively from within to his Paschal mystery. He does this principally as God, of course, insofar as he is the author of grace, with the Father and the Holy Spirit. However, he also does so instrumentally as man, since the sacred humanity of the Word is the conjoined instrument of his divinity. The Lord wishes, in his human reason and will, to give grace to the world in accord with his sacred will as God, which he shares in with the Father and the Holy Spirit. We may note two conclusions of contemporary significance that each derive from this last point. First, any work of grace that occurs within salvation history and that derives from the Holy Trinity is also a work of the man Jesus. When the Holy Spirit gives grace previous to the time of the Incarnation, this grace is given in view of the merits of Christ crucified.30 When the Holy Spirit gives grace subsequent to the age of the Incarnation, this is always mediated instrumentally (according to Aquinas) through the human mind and heart of the incarnate Lord.31 Second, the theory of the virtus divinitatis offers at least one profoundly reasonable way to respond to the famous objection of Gotthold Lessing: how can the contingent singular life of one figure in history (to whom we have no empirical access) be the basis for a universal science of explanatory knowledge and moral behavior that affects the whole human race?32 Well, this is possible because that 29 30 31 32 Secundum quam quidem virtutem passio Christi est causa remissionis peccatorum.” This Latin text is from Summa Theologiae (Torino: Edizioni San Paulo, 1988). See also ST III, q. 48, a. 6, ad 2; and q. 56, a. 1, ad 3. ST III, q. 48, a. 6. ST II-II, q. 2, a. 7; ST III, q. 26, a. 1, ad 2; q. 61, a. 3. ST III, q. 22, a. 5; q. 26, aa. 1–2. Gotthold Lessing, “On the Proof of the Spirit and of Power,” in Lessing’s Theological Writings, trans. and ed. H. Chadwick (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1957), 53–54: “If no historical truth can be demonstrated, then nothing can be demonstrated by means of historical truths. That is: accidental [i.e., contingent] truths of history can never become the proof of necessary truths of reason. . . . It is said: ‘The Christ of whom on historical grounds you must allow that he raised the dead, that he himself rose from the dead, said himself that God has a Son of the same essence as himself and that he is this Son.’ This would be excellent! If only it were not the case that it is not more than historically certain that Christ said this. If you press me still further and say: ‘Oh yes! this is more than historically certain. For it is asserted by inspired historians who cannot make a mistake.’ But, unfortunately, that also is only historically certain, that these historians were inspired and could not err. That, then, is 184 Thomas Joseph White, O.P. person alone is God who is the transcendent universal cause of all reality and who, by virtue of the divine power that resides within him, is able not only to merit salvation for the whole human race, but also to communicate this grace of salvation to all effectively, not only by virtue of his divinity, but also by virtue of his conjoined humanity.33 The Religious Dispositions of the Human Person How does the capital grace of Christ come to non-Christian persons? In the second part of this essay let me simply note some principles offered by Aquinas. A. Implicit Faith. Aquinas is well aware of the problem of salvation for non-baptized persons. His theology of the non-baptized Jews of the Old Testament serves as a primary evidence of his belief that non-Christians can be saved and that their salvation orders them in various ways toward the mystery of Christ.34 Here the concept of implicit faith plays a central role. Those in the ancient covenant of Israel prior to the time of Christ who believed explicitly in the God of Israel by supernatural faith were oriented implicitly toward the mystery of the Lord incarnate as the culminating work of the God of Israel in history.35 Aquinas extends this same line of thinking to those “holy pagans” mentioned in Heb. 11, who are given as exemplars of faith from former times: Abel, Enoch, Noah, and Rahab.36 Interestingly, Heb. 11:6 states that “without faith it is impossible to please [God]. For whoever would draw near to God must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who seek him” (RSV). Salvation comes by way of supernatural faith alone, but that supernatural faith, Aquinas notes, may be present in those who believe that God exists and who expect good to come from his universal providence.37 There is clearly an overlap here with Aquinas’ treatment of the praeambula fidei: there are basic truths of faith that may also be grasped in another way by natural reason.38 The knowledge that there exists some kind of unitary transcendent cause of reality and that 33 34 35 36 37 38 the ugly, broad ditch which I cannot get across, however often and however earnestly I have tried to make the leap.” See the argument to this effect in ST III, q. 48, a. 6, and q. 56, a.1, ad 3. ST I-II, q. 100, a. 12; q. 102, a. 2. ST II-II, q. 2, aa. 7–8. Super Heb. 11, lec. 2; from Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews, trans. by C. Baer (South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press, 2006), esp. nos. 575–579. Ibid., esp. no. 576. Super Boetium De Trinitate, q. 2, a. 1; from Commentary on Boethius’ De Trinitate, trans. A. Maurer (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 1987). The Universal Mediation of Christ and Non-Christian Religions 185 there exists some kind of universal providence is not something wholly inaccessible to human beings.39 Aquinas thinks that natural knowledge of God is available to all ordinary people in an imperfect way.40 Indeed, he even thinks this knowledge is available to children who attain the age of reason and that grace is offered to children who are aware of God even outside of the realm of sacramental baptism, grace that they can resist or refuse, as well as accept.41 Inchoate stirrings of supernatural faith, then, can be at work in and through the imperfect religious perceptions of human beings. We find implicit faith in at least some non-Christians. Aquinas gives several examples of this idea in his writings. One pertains to his treatment of the Magi discussed in Matthew 2:1–12. In his commentary on the Gospel of Matthew, Aquinas claims that these pagan sages did in fact possess the “zeal of faith” and that, when they found Christ, they adored him with proper worship, thus prefiguring the Gentile nations that eventually would be adopted by God into the new covenant of grace.42 A second example pertains to the Sybil, the supposed Roman prophecies of the birth of Christ, which were commonly taken to be authentic in the high middle-ages. What is striking about Aquinas’ treatment of the question is that, although he does seem to prefer the theory of a prophetic inspiration to account for the Sybil, he clearly does not distinguish it very radically from pre-Christian religious traditions in which there was no authentic revelation. In fact, Aquinas suggests that, insofar as Gentile peoples predicted that God would intervene in some way for their future benefit through an appointed mediator, there might exist within this vague and perhaps opaque human religious hope a deeper instinct of grace at work in ways hidden from the ordinary sight of men. 39 40 41 42 SCG III, ch. 94; from Summa contra gentiles III, vols. 1 and 2, trans. V. J. Burke (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1956). SCG III, ch. 38; trans. Burke. ST I-II, q. 89, a. 6: the terminology employed strongly suggests that Aquinas is referring to people who are born in original sin and not baptized, who have the possibility of receiving the grace of justification once they reach the age of reason. See In Matt., II, lec. 2 and 3. These are nos. 176–204 in S. ThomaeAquinatis SuperEvagelium S. Matthaei Lectura, ed. R. Cai, 5th rev. ed. (Turin/Rome: Marietti, 1951). Paragraph numbers in all references to Thomas’s Lecturae on Matthew are from this edition. Thomas Joseph White, O.P. 186 Many of the gentiles received revelations of Christ, as is clear from their predictions. Thus we read (Job 19:25): “I know that my Redeemer lives.” The Sibyl too foretold certain things about Christ, as Augustine states (Contra Faust. 3.15). Moreover, we read in the history of the Romans that at the time of Constantine Augustus and his mother, Irene, a tomb was discovered wherein lay a man on whose breast was a golden plate with the inscription: “Christ shall be born of a virgin, and in Him, I believe. O sun, during the lifetime of Irene and Constantine, thou shall see me again.” If, however, some were saved without receiving any revelation, they were not saved without faith in a Mediator, for, though they did not believe in Him explicitly, they did, nevertheless, have implicit faith through believing in Divine providence, since they believed that God would deliver mankind in whatever way was pleasing to him, and according to the revelation of the Spirit to those who knew the truth, as stated in Job 35:11: “Who teaches us more than the beasts of the earth.”43 A third example pertains to Cornelius the Roman centurion, found in Acts 10:1–2, who clearly professed faith in Christ prior to his baptism by the apostles. In article 4 of question 69 of the tertia pars of the Summa, Aquinas considers the question of whether baptism is necessary for salvation and gives, as an objection, the observation that grace and infused virtues were communicated by God to Cornelius prior to his baptism. His response is that “man receives the forgiveness of sins before Baptism insofar as he has Baptism of desire, explicitly or implicitly; and yet when he actually receives Baptism, he receives a fuller remission, as to the remission of the entire punishment. So also, before Baptism, Cornelius and others like him receive grace and virtues through their faith in Christ and their desire for Baptism, implicit or explicit: but afterwards when baptized, they receive a yet greater fullness of grace and virtues.” We should note that the reflection is not qualified by a temporal consideration. Aquinas seemingly believes this kind of dynamic to be at work in the actual dispensation of the divine economy after the coming of Christ. There are non-baptized persons drawn to Christ imperfectly but truly who are implicitly animated by the supernatural grace of faith, hope, and charity, as well as infused virtues. 43 ST II, q. 2, a. 7, ad 3. The Universal Mediation of Christ and Non-Christian Religions 187 B. Natural Religious Inclinations. This is not to say that human religiosity is something supernatural as such for Aquinas. Rather, he treats the virtue of religion as a potential part of the virtue of justice, and therefore as something pertaining to human nature.44 Furthermore, our human nature is fallen and subject to vices as well as virtue. Consequently, any theological consideration of non-Christian religion has to be qualified carefully. On the one hand, it is clear that there are fundamental natural inclinations of the human intellect and will toward God as the first truth and cause of reality and as the sovereign good.45 The human intellect is structured so that it may naturally desire to know the primary cause of all that is, and the human will is likewise made for love of the universal good that is God.46 The inclinations toward natural knowledge and love of the Creator, then, are latent capacities of the human person.47 These are not eradicated by the consequences of original sin in the human person. They are, however, seemingly weakened greatly.48 Aquinas says as much. It is difficult for fallen human beings to come to know God rightly by the use of unassisted natural reason in any sophisticated fashion, and if persons do come to do so, it is after a long time, they are few in number, and their doing so is admixed with error.49 More poignantly, Aquinas states baldly that the fallen human being cannot love God above all things naturally by his own powers, though this would have been possible prior to original sin. To assure genuine love of God (and therefore authentic worship of God) in the fallen world, the healing activity of grace is required.50 It is clear that St. Thomas thinks that to affirm otherwise is overtly Pelagian, as it would suggest that the fallen human being can keep the Decalogue by his own powers, without the healing work of grace.51 Human nature is wounded, then, by ignorance and malice (selfishness) in regard to God, and unsurprisingly we see the admission of this present in Aquinas’ treatment of the vices that afflict human religion: superstition, idolatry, and religious indifference.52 The human being 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 ST II-II, q. 81, a. 5. ST I-II, q. 94, a. 2. ST I, q. 12, a. 1. SCG III, ch. 37; ST I-II, q. 109, a. 3. ST I-II, q. 85, aa. 1–3. ST I, q. 1, a. 1. ST I-II, q. 109, a. 3. ST I-II, q. 109, aa. 4–5. ST II-II, q. 92–95. 188 Thomas Joseph White, O.P. finds itself in a liminal state: a fundamentally religious being by nature, it is unable to heal itself of the plights that maim or fragment its best religious inclinations and leanings. So, if there is a true religious foundation in man from which or in which grace may act, it does do so in a humanity torn in many ways by error and moral compromise, and this enters into the very composition of the non-Christian religions themselves. Aquinas gives concrete examples. He speaks of sacrifice as a practice that pertains to the natural law as a dimension of justice and atonement for human sin.53 However, when speaking of examples of religious actions as “natural” in the treatise on religion, he gives the example of human sacrifice practiced among the ancient Romans!54 The example is not intended ironically. It is meant to illustrate poignantly that, while religion is natural to man, all religious acts need not spring from the work of charity in the human person and can be vitiated by superstition or error. Analogously, Aquinas can identify good aspirations present in the midst of erroneous religious doctrines of other religions. He spends a great deal of space in chapter 2 of the Summa contra gentiles arguing that the theory of reincarnation is metaphysically incoherent and unreasonable.55 However, he also notes that the theory, which he knows to be common in pre-Christian religion, hints opaquely at a deep truth: the need for reunion of soul and body. Reincarnation is not a feasible theory of human eschatology, but by its insistence on the fitting reconciliation of the separated soul with a physical body, it points negatively and obliquely toward the truth of the resurrection.56 53 54 55 56 ST II-II, q. 85, a. 1. ST II-II, q. 82, a. 1. See also q. 81, a. 1. SCG II, ch. 83; from Summa contra gentiles II, trans. J. Anderson (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1956). See also ST I, q. 90, a. 4. Super I Cor. 15, lec. 2: “If the resurrection of the body is denied, it is not easy, yea it is difficult, to sustain the immortality of the soul. For it is clear that the soul is naturally united to the body and is departed from it, contrary to its nature and per accidens. Hence the soul devoid of its body is imperfect, as long as it is without the body. But it is impossible that what is natural and per se be finite and, as it were, nothing; and that which is against nature and per accidens be infinite, if the soul endures without the body. And so, the Platonists positing immortality, posited re-incorporation, although this is heretical. Therefore, if the dead do not rise, we will be confident only in this life. In another way, because it is clear that man naturally desires his own salvation; but the soul, since it is part of man’s body, is not an entire man, and my soul is not I; hence, although the soul obtains salvation in another life, nevertheless, not I or any man. Furthermore, since man naturally desires salvation even of the body, a natural desire would be frustrated” (trans. D. Keating, unpublished manuscript; The Universal Mediation of Christ and Non-Christian Religions 189 Only when the latter mystery is revealed can the truth and error of the pre-Christian theory be adequately discerned. C. Sacraments of the Natural Law. Finally, we should say a word about the sacraments of the natural law. Aquinas distinguishes the sacraments of the Old Law from those of the New. The rites of the Torah are instituted by divine inspiration, but they do not communicate grace ex opere operato.57 Rather, they are signs or expressions of supernatural faith present in their ancient Hebrew practitioners, and they signify a reality that is to come: the unique atoning sacrifice of Christ.58 The sacraments of the New Law, by contrast, signify the mystery of Christ, but also effectuate what they signify as instrumental causes of grace.59 They communicate effectively the capital grace of Christ (or he communicates his grace through them) to all who partake of them with a genuine good will. Aquinas needs to posit a third category, however: sacraments of the natural law.60 Why so? In fact, this category is necessary in particular to talk about the religion of the patriarchs as well as that of the “holy pagans” mentioned above: Abel, Noah, and so on, who clearly perform non-covenantal religious actions and do so in ways pleasing to God. Aquinas thinks these are something both unlike and like the ancient rites of the Old Law. They are unlike them because they are not instituted by God and bear within them no guarantee of a relationship to God. Rather, they are the products of natural human culture. After all, it is natural to be religious, and so human beings generate external rites of various kinds. Even in cases where grace may be at work, then, the rites in question are conventional and man-made. However, while such sacraments are not causes of grace in any way, they may be the outward expressions of the inward work of grace in the human person.61 57 58 59 60 61 from In Omnes St. Pauli Apostoli Epistolas Commentaria, vols. 1 and 2 (Turin: Marietti, 1929), no. 924). ST III, q. 62, a. 6. ST I-II, q. 101, a. 2. ST III, q. 62, aa. 1–5. In IV Sent. d. 1, q. 2, a. 6, qc. 3, corp.; ST I-II, q. 103, a. 1. In IV Sent. d. 1, q. 2, a. 6, qc. 3, corp.: “…illa sacramenta legis naturae non erant ex praecepto divino obligantia, sed ex voto celebrabantur, secundum quod unicuique dictabat sua mens, ut fidem suam aliis exteriori signo profiteretur ad honorem Dei, secundum quod habitus caritas inclinabat ad exteriores actus; et sic dicimus de caritate, quod sufficit motus interior; quando autem tempus habet operandi, requiruntur etiam exteriores actus. Ita etiam quantum ad adultos in lege naturae sufficiebat sola fides, cum etiam modo sufficiat ei qui non ex 190 Thomas Joseph White, O.P. They can be signs or indications of the grace of God present in the world acting in and through the human inclinations of human beings, purifying them and elevating them. St. Thomas mentions overtly the possibility of charity at work in the religious actions of persons outside the visible covenant who have offered their lives to God in authentic worship.62 He is probably thinking of people like Abel, mentioned in the Roman canon. Aquinas clearly thinks that all grace is ecclesiologically oriented. This is evident in his consideration of the effects of the grace of the Eucharist. He says that the Eucharistic sacrifice ultimately effectuates the mystical body of Christ, the Church, as its res tantum, or most inward purpose.63 Thus, anyone who receives any grace whatsoever is oriented implicitly toward the Eucharist as the one saving sacrifice of Christ present at the heart of the Church and her communion. All salvation takes place in the Church or as ordered toward visible membership in her, including in her sacramental communion.64 Grace and Justification Outside the Visible Catholic Church The reflections we have made up to this point have sought to maintain in harmony two core teachings of the Catholic Church. First, Christ is the unique universal mediator of salvation, the One who died for all human beings. Second, then, in some mysterious way, all human beings are offered the real possibility of participation in the redemptive economy of salvation. The grace of Christ may address humanity in its natural religion dimension. However, the work of grace is only ever implicitly ecclesiological in kind, and causes its participants to tend, in however indirect or hidden a fashion, toward inclusion in the one mystical body of Christ, the Catholic Church. Here, then, we should also specify that this participation in Christ by those who are non-Catholics or non-Christians takes place only under certain conditions. It therefore has to be understood by reference to various theological qualifications that are significant. 62 63 64 contemptu sacramenta dimittit; sed ipsa fides, quando tempus habebatur, instigabat ut se aliquibus signis exterioribus demonstraret” (emphasis added; 1856 Parma edition found at http://corpusthomisticum.org). ST I-II, q. 103, obj. 1, corp. and ad 1. ST III, q. 73, a. 3. See on this subject, Gilles Emery, “The Ecclesial Fruit of the Eucharist,” Nova et Vetera (English) 2, no. 1 (2004): 43–60. Consider the treatment of this subject by Charles Journet in L’Église du Verbe Incarné, vol. 6: Essai de théologie de l’histoire du salut (Paris: Saint Augustin, 2004). The Universal Mediation of Christ and Non-Christian Religions 191 A. Operative Actual Grace and Cooperative Justifying Grace. The explicit distinction between operative and cooperative grace has its origins in the mature work of St. Augustine, who fashioned the distinction in order to respond to the Pelagian controversy.65 Augustine sought to underscore the unequivocally Pauline New Testament teaching that grace is at work in the human person prior to conversion and as a precondition for the possibility of conversion. Furthermore, this initial work of “operative” grace that precedes all human efforts or merits is oriented toward the justification of the human being, a subsequent effect of grace that in turn permits the active cooperation of the human being with God. Such cooperation is itself a gift, and so one must posit a subsequent effect of grace that follows from justification, one that is “cooperative” in kind. Operative grace that is prevenient (prior to justification) leads the recipient toward justification and to cooperative grace, a process of sanctification that is subsequent to justification. This distinction between operative and cooperative effects of grace was a theological common-place in medieval and early modern Catholic theology. Aquinas employs the distinction meaningfully in order to suggest the universality of operative grace, since all human beings may be offered a participation in the mystery of redemption.66 However, one need not infer from this that the operative help of grace must lead necessarily into the justification, sanctification, and salvation of all. On the contrary, as Aquinas makes clear, operative grace can be refused, and indeed may be much of the time.67 Such resistance to grace compounds the guilt of the recipient. Consequently, while it may be the case that many are called, it does not follow that many or all are justified or glorified (Mt 22:14; Rom 8:30). This perspective on grace emphasizes both the reality of the universal offer of salvation and the real threat (and seeming reality) of eternal loss. Such was the commonly transmitted teaching in modern Roman Catholic theology prior to the Second Vatican Council.68 Nevertheless, influential theories regarding the theology of grace that arose in the mid-twentieth century sought to re-envisage the 65 66 67 68 See, for example, Augustine, On Grace and Free Will, ch. 33, trans. P. Holmes and R. Wallis, in Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, vol. 5, ed. by Philip Schaff (Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing Co., 1887). ST I-II, q. 111, aa. 2–3. On the resistance to grace, see especially SCG III, chs. 161–162 (trans. Burke); Super Ioan. 15, lec. 5 (Marietti ed., no. 2055). See the articulation of this view offered by Charles Journet, for example, in The Meaning of Grace, trans. A. V. Littledale (Princeton, NJ: Scepter, 1996). 192 Thomas Joseph White, O.P. subject without overt reference to the Augustinian paradigm that had been dominant in traditional western theology: prevenient operative grace, justification, and the subsequent cooperative grace of sanctification. Without disregarding the important questions raised by Henri de Lubac concerning the natural desire for God and the subsequent re-envisaging of his hypothesis by Karl Rahner in his theology of the “supernatural-existential,” it must be stated that both of these theologies and that of their analysts and critics turned the subject of the study of grace away from any overt consideration of the topic of operative and cooperative grace.69 As a result, that classical Augustinian way of analyzing the work of God in history, which is of clear biblical origin, has been largely eclipsed. This has the following result: where one affirms that grace is at work universally in all of humanity, it is frequently presumed (following what are in fact contestable interpretations of Rahner) that the grace in question must result in the justification and salvation of the person or community in question. The effects of grace are conceived of in rather univocal, virtually ahistorical terms. Accordingly, the affirmation of the universal offer of grace has frequently become confused with a vague, implicit presumption of soteriological universalism. Or the inverse of the equation is believed: if it is stated that there may be persons who are not saved, or that particular non-Catholic or non-Christian religious communities are at an objective disadvantage with regard to those who know Christ explicitly and receive the sacraments, then God does not offer those outside the Catholic Church any authentic possibility of salvation. Once there is no longer any sufficient distinction of the analogically diverse effects of grace and the economic ordering among them, a dialectic tends to emerge between Jansenism and universal salvation. This follows almost necessarily from the absence in recent Catholic theology of any effective employment of the distinction between operative and cooperative grace, or of the distinction between grace that is offered prior to justification and that offered posterior to it. B. Justification by Hope, Charity, and Repentance of Grave Sin. Consideration of the issue of the distinct effects of grace has direct bearing on a second one: the nature of justification and the need for effective repentance of grave sin as a condition for the possibility of salvation. 69 Henri de Lubac, Surnaturel: Études historiques (Paris: Aubier, 1946); Karl Rahner, “Nature and Grace,” in Theological Investigations IV, trans. Kevin Smyth (London: Darton, Longman & Todd, 1966), 165–188. The Universal Mediation of Christ and Non-Christian Religions 193 As each one knows, the traditional Catholic theology of justification insists on the ontological requirement not only of supernatural faith (which affects the human mind), but also of supernatural hope and charity, infused virtues that transform the human will or heart.70 This Catholic dogma has clear precedents in the teaching of Aquinas, who treats justification itself as an operative habitual grace, something God does in us through a unilateral gift on his part (though not without our consent). This particular gift of justifying grace moves the will to detach from grave sin effectively and to turn toward God, under the influence of the infused habit of charity.71 This is why justification is the proximate preparation for works of cooperative grace: it disposes the heart supernaturally to live habitually in friendship with God and to keep the commandments of Christ by the grace of charity (Jn 14:15).72 Of course, Aquinas recognizes that many baptized Christians sin gravely after Baptism, and that they consequently forfeit the state of justification by destroying in themselves the habit of supernatural charity (and possibly that of hope or faith as well). The restoration of the state of grace normally can take place for any baptized Christian, then, only by recourse to the valid celebration of the sacrament of reconciliation (confession).73 This is the normative teaching not only of the medieval theologians, but also of the Council of Trent and the modern magisterium of the Catholic Church.74 Aquinas does consider the real possibility of repentance for sins that is merely intentional or internal and certainly affirms the possibility of making (by consent to the work of grace) a “perfect act of contrition” outside of the sacrament of confession, especially when the latter is not available.75 However, the Catholic Church traditionally underscores that the person who understands the faith of the Church rightly must have recourse to the sacrament of confession at such time as he or she is able, even in the 70 71 72 73 74 75 Catechism of the Catholic Church (hereafter, CCC), §§1987–1995; Council of Trent, Degree on Justification (1547): “Justification . . . is not only the remission of sins but the sanctification and renewal of the interior man through the voluntary reception of grace and of the gifts,” no. 1528 in Compendium of creeds, definitions, and declarations on matters of faith and morals (hereafter, Denzinger), 43rd ed., ed. H. Denzinger P. Hünermann, trans. R. Fastiggi and A. Nash (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2012). ST I-II, q. 113, prologue and aa. 1–6. ST I-II, q. 114, prologue. ST III, q. 84, aa. 5–6. CCC, §§1425–70; Council of Trent, Decree on the Sacrament of Penance (1551), (Denzinger, nos. 1667–1693). ST III, q. 86, aa. 1, 2 and 6. 194 Thomas Joseph White, O.P. wake of the attempt to make a perfect act of contrition outside of or apart from the sacrament. The reason all of this is significant for our discussion is that it suggests that the movements of grace that take place in Christians who are not Catholic, in monotheists who are not Christian, or in religionists who are not monotheists must all be oriented in some way toward participation in the habit of infused charity, if they are to be justifying and saving works of grace. And yet, these same individuals or communities of persons do not possess the objective mean of reconciliation that is the sacrament of reconciliation.76 Consequently, according to the inexorable logic of a Catholic and truly biblical doctrine of justification and of salvation, such persons (to be justified and eventually saved) must be transformed inwardly in their human hearts by grace to the point of renouncing grave sin and of repenting effectively of their attachment to it. The relationship between the theoretical beliefs and moral decisions of non-Catholics and non-Christians and their possible inward state of grace remains somewhat opaque, due to the limitations of our human observational knowledge. In addition, there are difficult theoretical questions that remain. Can a person be in a state of grace and yet at the same time (due to the consequences of invincible ignorance) remain in an objective state of gravely morally deformed conduct? It would seem not. Might they have some partial awareness, however, of their need for mercy from God, over and above their own limitations of understanding? Most certainly they might. Is it possible for a person who decidedly believes that Christ is not the Word incarnate to pray truly (if imperfectly) to the living God and to love God truly above all things by virtue of a supernatural infused virtue of faith? Perhaps this is so. However, even if we find a way to answer some or all of these questions positively by appeal to the possibility of inspired adherence to truths about God imperfectly grasped, there still remains the fact that the intellectual and moral errors of the person who is not Catholic mitigate (sometimes severely) against the plenary reception of the salvation and grace of Christ. One may rightfully hope that God’s grace might progressively triumph in the lives of non-Christian persons, in 76 I am leaving to one side here the consideration of the Eastern Rite nonCatholic Churches. Their practice raises a separate set of theological questions, since they do practice sacramental confession and have a validly ordained episcopate. On this topic, see the helpful reflections of Charles Journet, L’Église du Verbe Incarné. Vol I: La hiérarchie apostolique (Paris: Saint Augustin, 1998), 1025–1030. The Universal Mediation of Christ and Non-Christian Religions 195 and through their lives of moral and religious seeking and in their confrontation with God in death. However, this hope should not be confused with the presumption of universalism. History offers sobering illustrations of what seem to be clear counter-alternatives to the free acceptance of the Gospel. C. The Real Possibility of Eternal Loss and the Ordinary Means of Salvation. This leads us to a third and final consideration. The Catholic tradition rightly insists theologically that the “ordinary means of salvation” are to be found in the Catholic Church alone. As John Paul II wrote in 1990 in the encyclical Redemptoris Missio, although the Church gladly acknowledges whatever is true and holy in the religious traditions of Buddhism, Hinduism and Islam as a reflection of that truth which enlightens all people, this does not lessen her duty and resolve to proclaim without fail Jesus Christ who is “the way, and the truth and the life.”. . . The fact that the followers of other religions can receive God’s grace and be saved by Christ apart from the ordinary means which he has established does not thereby cancel the call to faith and baptism which God wills for all people. Indeed Christ himself “while expressly insisting on the need for faith and baptism, at the same time confirmed the need for the Church, into which people enter through Baptism as through a door” (Lumen Gentium, §14). Dialogue should be conducted and implemented with the conviction that the Church is the ordinary means of salvation and that she alone possesses the fullness of the means of salvation (c.f. The Second Vatican Council’s Unitatis Redintegratio, §3).77 This viewpoint is not based on any form of triumphalism, but on a realistic acceptance of the plenary truth of the Gospel as proclaimed within the context of the Catholic tradition. Fidelity to divine revelation requires that one assert that the objective truth of divine revelation in its most explicit mode and the rightly oriented practice of the sacramental life operate together as the best and most preeminent guarantors of salvation, those established by God himself. It is the revealed truth and sacramental life of Christ in the Catholic Church that serve as the most effective vehicles for the transmission of the grace of eternal salvation. 77 John Paul II, Redemptoris Missio (1990), §55. 196 Thomas Joseph White, O.P. What follows from this is not a despair regarding the possibility of salvation for non-Catholic persons, but a sober realization of the imperative of evangelization as the correlate to the affirmation of the universal work of God’s operative grace. Such grace, due to the fact that it is present in all the world and does orient human beings toward Christ and the Church, is answered or completed by the proclamation of the Gospel. Understood in this context, theologies of apokatastasis do little to assist the Church as she is immersed in the trials of a distinctively secular age. The claim or expectation that all might be saved can function in practice as a form of denial of the sociological condition of the Church in the current epoch. Theologians may understandably wish to assert the inevitable acceptance of Christ that is going to occur in each person’s life, either in hidden ways in this world (by way of the secret workings of the supernatural-existential dynamic of grace) or in an eschatological epiphany that is reserved to the next (in a theology of Christ’s descent into hell that serves by a kind of seeming inevitability to eventually conform all to Christ). Such universalism is attractive, and even triumphalistic. However, it also poses great risks. Yes, the error of Jansenism—with its latent despair of the salvation of non-Catholics—is seemingly avoided, but that does not mean that despair as such has been evaded. Despair can also manifest itself under its contrary—that is to say, in a presumption that is spiritually complacent and that refuses (out of latent resignation) to confront with clarity the objective configurations of reality. On the one hand, theologies of apokatastasis seemingly refuse to acknowledge the real possibility of enduring human tragedy and the fact that there are perennial consequences to human acts of personal evil. That is to say, that there is eternal loss. Instead, acts of personal evil are explained against the backdrop of a more determinate “fundamental option” for the good, or in light of the eventual determination of God eschatologically to overcome each human reaction against the good. Accordingly, if salvation is lacking, this is seen to be primarily due to the absence of an initiative on the part of God (whose innocence now deserves to be questioned!), and not due fundamentally to the responsibility of the spiritual creature. On the other hand, such theologies also function as a numbing salve on the conscience of the Church, one that lulls ecclesial members into resignation or complacency in the face of a non-Christian world. Our defeat in the face of the progress of secularization can be accepted with equanimity, given what we know about the reality of the eschaton. Behind the mask of soteriological The Universal Mediation of Christ and Non-Christian Religions 197 universalism, we find the hidden face of our own spiritual acedia. Hope is the virtue that guides the soul to persevere with true confidence in God, even in the midst of adversities, and to count on the promised assistance of the grace of God in all circumstances. To understand and to cultivate this virtue, however, requires an adequate sense of real risk and of real responsibility. Our own age, marked by the progress of religious ignorance, is one laden with real risks and with real possibilities. Hope requires that we live the Gospel in this age in such a way that we are willing to accept the full demands of the Catholic faith ourselves and to find ways to communicate clearly to others its plenary truth. Hope in the capacity of God’s grace to save one’s self requires a habitual recourse to the “ordinary means” of salvation instituted by Christ in the Church, including the sacraments of baptism, reconciliation, and communion. Hope in the capacity of God’s grace to save others requires that one seeks not only to respond to, but also to incite the hidden work of operative grace in them through evangelization, by way of the outward proclamation of the Catholic faith in its plenary ecclesial form. For, God “desires all men to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth” (1 Tim 2:4). “But how are men to call upon him in whom they have not believed? And how are they to believe in him of whom they have never heard? And how are they to hear without a preacher?” (Rom. 10:14) Conclusion How may we conclude? What is the contribution of Aquinas’ theology to the modern problematic regarding Christ and non-Christian religions? We may summarize by thinking about the relationship of grace and nature from a twofold viewpoint. First, natural religious instincts do not suffice. Christ alone is the savior of our human religiosity, for he alone is God made man and possesses, accordingly, the fontal principle of sanctifying grace for the human race. This grace is the source of redemption of the religious dimension of the human person, and it is within the sphere of the Catholic Church that we find religion healed and elevated into its most noble and true form. Against all contemporary temptations to a neo-Pelagianism that would see in every religious instinct of man an intrinsic avenue toward salvation, we should say that natural religious activity outside of the sphere of the grace of Christ not only is not intrinsically salvific, but can enter readily into the world of superstition and irrational fanaticism.The biblical and Christological critique of human religion should be deeper than that of secular liberalism! 198 Thomas Joseph White, O.P. On the other hand, the grace of Christ is universal in horizon. Against the modern error of Jansenism, classical Thomism and the modern magisterium affirm that the grace of God may be at work in the natural, social, and historical experiences of non-Christian humanity. God can indeed work graciously in more or less discrete ways, in and through the natural religious structures of human persons and societies. We see this most unambiguously when non-Christians seeking God find avenues from within their own religious traditions by which they arrive at the doorstep of the Church. What results from this brief portrait is a complex vision. All salvation takes place from and through the mediation of Christ in his capital grace and from the unique atoning sacrifice of the Cross. Salvation has an ecclesiological character or horizon. Natural religious inclinations in human beings are not inimical to the work of salvation, but integral to it. Other religious traditions can embody elements of profound truth in this regard, as well as serious falsehood.78 We need to practice a careful discernment in the face of other religious traditions: one that is simultaneously philosophical, theological and spiritual.79 “By their fruits you will know them” (Mt 7:16). “We take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ” (2 Cor 10:5). If we wish to follow these Dominical and Apostolic adages in the twenty-first century, we will profit greatly from recourse to the perennial wisdom of Thomas Aquinas. N&V 78 79 DJ, §14: “The Second Vatican Council, in fact, has stated that: ‘the unique mediation of the Redeemer does not exclude, but rather gives rise to a manifold cooperation which is but a participation in this one source’ (Lumen Gentium, §62). The content of this participated mediation should be explored more deeply, but must remain always consistent with the principle of Christ’s unique mediation: ‘Although participated forms of mediation of different kinds and degrees are not excluded, they acquire meaning and value only from Christ’s own mediation, and they cannot be understood as parallel or complementary to his’ (Redemptoris Missio, §5). Hence, those solutions that propose a salvific action of God beyond the unique mediation of Christ would be contrary to Christian and Catholic faith.” See the helpful principles enunciated by the document of the International Theological Commission, Christianity and the World Religions (Vatican City: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 1997). Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 1 (2016): 199–226199 Is There Divine Providence According To Aristotle? CARLOS A. CASANOVA Centro de Estudios Tomistas, Universidad Santo Tomás Santiago, Chile At the end of the nineteenth century , Franz Brentano made use of passages such as Nicomachean Ethics (EN) 10.8. 1179a22–321 and Politics (Pol.) 7.4.1326a31–32 in order to strengthen his interpretation of passages from more centrally theological works, according to which Aristotle held that God has effective providence over the world and things human.2 However, the success of alternative readings of the theological and semi–theological works of Aristotle by scholars such as Eduard Zeller apparently settled the matter for a century: the scientific theology of Aristotle, as understood by most interpreters, had no place for God’s providence and care for human affairs. Any passage in which Aristotle appears to endorse the doctrine of divine providence should rather be interpreted as a concession to popular religion.3 1 2 3 Passages of the Nicomachean Ethics (hereafter, EN) are all taken from the Greek text of Ingram Bywater, Aristotle’s Ethica Nicomachea (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1959). In principle, unless otherwise indicated, I will follow the Revised Oxford Translation published in The Complete Works of Aristotle, ed. Jonathan Barnes, 2 vols. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991), in translations of De interpretatione (1:25–38), De anima (1:641–692), Metaphysics (2:1552–1727), Nicomachean Ethics (2:1729–1867), and Eudemian Ethics (2:1922–1981). See Franz Brentano, Aristotle and His World View (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), 89n52. Concerning at least the passage contained in EN, Kurt Pritzl has made the powerful observation: “It is barely possible . . . that a regard for popular sentiment is restraining him in a work not intended, so far as we know, for popular 200 Carlos A. Casanova In her essay “Aristotelian Piety,” Sarah Broadie has proposed to interpret EN 10.8.1179a22–32 as a passage that truly reflects Aristotle’s view on piety and the divine retribution of the wise, thereby distinguishing her reading from what had become the traditional interpretation of this and similar passages. I think her fresh look at this problem allows us to reconsider the question of whether God cares in general about human affairs, and in particular about the wise, or not. I will demonstrate in this essay that Aristotle thought that divine providence is real and effective. I will also address the kind of problems that have moved many to deny that Aristotle held the existence of divine care for human affairs, which cannot be done simply by re–interpreting the passages in which Aristotle clearly states that there is divine providence. This re–interpretation is necessary, but my task requires a broader scope. Thus, I will address these three groups of issues: (a) showing the consistency of divine providence with the formal theological studies contained mostly in Metaphysics (Met.); (b) showing how such providence could act and be effective, on the one hand; and (c) showing how to meet possible objections, such as the apparent incompatibility between divine providence and the possibility of the wise and virtuous man not being happy because of bad fortune, on the other. Book XII of the Metaphysics and Divine Providence Interestingly, Broadie holds that Metaphysics Λ does not exclude a personal relationship of human beings in general, and of Aristotle in particular, with God. However, she also argues that book Λ does not support, in any way, the view that God, according to Aristotle, takes care of the world and of things human.4 I am going to demonstrate that there are solid grounds in this book to hold to God’s care of the cosmos. This will be the exclusive purpose of this section. I will limit myself to a fresh reading of book Λ’s final chapters based on my previous investigations of Aristotelian divine causality. Usually I will leave to the notes the explicit mention of the convergences or divergences in interpretation with contemporary scholars.5 4 5 consumption,” in his “Aristotle and Happiness after Death: Nicomachean Ethics 1.10–11,” Classical Philology 78, no. 2 (Apr. 1983): 101–111, at 102. Eduard Zeller interprets the passage as a way to acquiesce to popular opinion in Aristotle and the Earlier Peripatetics (New York: Russell and Russell, 1962), 1:422n1. Sarah Broadie, “Aristotelian Piety,” Phronesis 48.1 (2003): 54–70, 64. I must clarify here that I am familiar with the interpretations of the Metaphysics (hereafter, Met.) Λ that Broadie, Lindsay Judson, David Bradshaw, Enrico Berti, Giovanni Reale,Tomás Calvo, Alberto Ross Hernández, and many others have Is There Divine Providence According to Aristotle? 201 Some interpreters have claimed that chapters 6–7 and 9 of book Λ of the Metaphysics teach that God is the cause only of the movement of the cosmos (not of its being) and only as final cause (not as efficient cause).6 In order to defend the plausibility of my thesis, I must show, therefore, that God can be efficient cause because a merely final cause cannot be provident. In this task, it would be helpful to demonstrate that God is cause not just of movement, but also of being, for if this is so, he has to be an efficient cause. He cannot be simply a final cause because a final cause by itself cannot originate substantial being. The purpose of book Λ is to investigate substances’ causes, which are the causes of everything, since all other beings depend on substances in order to even exist. However, chapter 6 is taken by many to deal only with the cause of everlasting movement and time.7 This situation forces us to examine the context and content of this chapter. Chapters 4 and 5 have established that the causes of all things are the same in two senses: analogically, since form, privation, subject, and efficient cause are principles in all categories; and absolutely, since the causes of substances, univocal or equivocal (man generates man, but the sun intervenes in the generation of man, for example), are the causes of everything. The purpose of chapter 6 is not to switch the subject matter of book Λ in order to discuss the cause of everlasting movement and time. Rather, it discusses movement and time because to do so is useful in the study of the causes of being, especially of substances. And it is, for several reasons. The first reason is that, (1) if movement and time are kinds of reality that presuppose substances, and if one can prove that movement is 6 7 made, and that I have dealt with them in an article dedicated to the issue of God’s causality over the world and in my book El ser, Dios y la ciencia, según Aristóteles (Santiago: Ediciones UC, 2007). I am going to paraphrase some passages from my previous essay, “Dios como causa eficiente del cosmos, según Aristóteles (y desde Aristóteles),” Acta Philosophica 22.2 (2013): 279–301. Alberto Ross Hernández brands this interpretation as the “traditional interpretation” of Met. Λ and defends it himself in his “La causalidad del Primer Motor en Metafísica XII,” Diánoia 52.59 (2007): 3–26, at 4 and 13–25. Joseph G. Defilippo simply takes it for granted in “Aristotle’s Identification of the Prime Mover as God,” The Classical Quarterly, 44.2 (1994): 396–397 and 399–404. Myrna Gabbe also holds that, according to Met., God is only final cause, not efficient, in her “Aristotle on the Starting–Point of Motion in the Soul,” Phronesis 57 (2012): 358–379, at 375–379. See, for example, Defilippo, “Prime Mover,” 393–409, at 395–396. There Defilippo argues that eternal movement requires the existence of substances that are eternal and without matter, but he sees no connection between what is stated in Met. 12.6 and the origin of substances, eternal or passing. 202 Carlos A. Casanova everlasting, then one can prove that not all substances are perishable and that, among all the substances, the supreme one is an agent (and therefore not a Platonic Idea or Form) and Pure Act (and therefore not a Platonic divine soul). The latter proof, moreover, entails that the perennial substances, and especially the supreme one, are causes for the others. Indeed, chapter 6 starts with an argument that intends to prove that there is an everlasting substance which is pure act. Broadie perceives this well.8 The argument goes from the beginning of the chapter up until 12.6.1071b23. Aristotle states that “substances are the first among beings, and if all are perishable, then everything is perishable” (1071b5–7). But not everything is perishable, he argues, since movement and time can neither be generated nor corrupted. Aristotle gives an argument to prove that they are necessary beings (1071b7–11). Now, this kind of necessary being is caused by an agent (κινητικὸν ἢ ποιητικόν) so that its necessity is received from another being. But the ultimate source of movement cannot be an agent that can act or not act. It cannot be an agent that is not pure act because “movement would not be everlasting, since that which is in potency may be not” (1071b19–20). That is to say, what has the possibility of not moving, in an infinite time would have ceased to move. Thus, the substance of this agent must be pure act and everlasting.Therefore, it must be immaterial (and not a soul, because souls are just first act, not pure act).9 This argument is followed by another through which Aristotle answers a possible objection and clearly extends the causality of the 8 9 My disagreement with her regarding the interpretation of book Λ consists in that she restricts the scope of the whole book to the scope of chapter 6. This is why she claims that the concern of Met. Λ “is not primarily to demonstrate god or the gods, but to prove the existence and nature of immutable substance by showing that, and why, the celestial motion is eternal.” However, this proof is given in such a way that the immutable substance is conceived as “infinitely desirable, perfectly actual, intelligence,” so that Met. Λ leaves the Aristotelian free to predicate “god” of something not cosmological (Broadie, “Aristotelian Piety,” 64). Enrico Berti argues in a similar way, along with Leo Elders. Berti points out some textual problems, and also that lines 21–22 speak of a plurality of immaterial substances, in his “Unmoved Mover(s) As Efficient Cause(s) in Metaphysics Λ 6,” in Aristotle’s Metaphysics XII, eds. Michael Frede and David Charles (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2000), 181–206, at 192. The efficient causality of God was dealt with again in Nova et Vetera (English) 10.3 (2012) by Berti himself (“The Finality of Aristotle’s Unmoved Mover in the Metaphysics Book Λ, Chs. 7 and 10” on 863–876), Kevin Flannery (“On Professor Berti’s Interpretation of the Causality of the First Unmoved Mover,” at 833–862), and Stephen Brock (“The Causality of the Unmoved Mover in Thomas Aquinas’s Commentary on Metaphysics XII,” at 805–832). Is There Divine Providence According to Aristotle? 203 first agent not only to movement, but also to being (1071b23–30). The objection would be that, since potency is previous to act, the first existing reality cannot be Aristotle’s pure act. To this he replies: “if things were so [if potency were previous to act] no one of the beings will be, since it has the possibility to be and yet not be” (1071b24–26). That is to say, since being cannot come from nothing, mortal and potential beings must have the origin of their being in perennial and actual beings, which means that these should be previous to the others. And the reason is this, I take it: if at a certain time there were only potential and perishable beings, since time is infinite, at that time those potential and perishable beings would have been for an infinite time. But in an infinite time, all potential and perishable beings would have been destroyed. Aristotle uses the future tense “no one of the beings will be” because he places himself hypothetically at a time where there was no necessary being and “predicts” the disappearance of all existing beings before his real time, which would be in the future of that hypothetical time.10 After giving this second argument, Aristotle applies his conclusions to criticize the “theologians,” Plato, and Leucippo. After that, he confirms those conclusions by quoting Anaxagoras and Empedocles. Finally, he offers his explanation of the eternal cyclical being11 and of generation and corruption. Thus, chapter 6 deals with the problem of the precedence of act over potency, which is a precedence of being and not just of movement, as is shown in 9.8.1050b6–19, in which context movement is clearly and explicitly considered as just a sub–case of the general precedence of act over potency (1050b20–30). But when chapter 6 considers this matter, it uses infinite time and movement in two ways, in my opinion: firstly as an example of beings that cannot not be, and secondly as a presupposition useful to show that perishable beings cannot be first, since in that case nothing would be now.12 10 11 12 See an interesting analysis of a similar argument in Christopher Martin, Thomas Aquinas: God and Explanations (Edinburgh: Edinburg University Press, 1997), 158–168. Of course, this expression (1072a10) does not imply that Aristotle held a view of history as an ever recurring story, but I cannot consider this problem here. In this paragraph I do not follow the Revised Oxford Translation of the Metaphysics. I translate from Metaphysica (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1980; first published 1957). Berti interprets the passage in 12.6 as referring only to movement. He mentions 9.8, but he does not draw the proper consequences from that passage (“Unmoved Mover[s],” 193–194). The cause of his interpretation, I think, is that he equates “to be caused” with “to have beginning in time.” 204 Carlos A. Casanova The second and third reasons why Aristotle investigates the origin of movement in chapter 6 are: (2) because the Academicians had established that precedence in causation of movement implies precedence in being (see Laws 10.896 b–d and 896e–897b). So that when Aristotle, himself an Academician, proves that God is the beginning of movement, he is proving, in his academic context, that God is also the beginning of being; and (3) because this way it is easy to prove that Plato’s two hypotheses concerning the first principle of the cosmos and of movement (Ideas and soul) fail to explain the origin of movement (see 12.6.1071b12–20 and 1072a1–3.17–18). One strong objection could be opposed to the thesis of the previous paragraphs: according to Metaphysics 12.7.1072a26–27, God’s causality over the world is only final and not efficient. To such objection, I can answer that, if one examines the text closely, one discovers that it does not state that God originates movement as final cause. What it does state is that God originates movement in a way in which he is not moved.Thus, he moves in the way in which the objects of desire and of understanding move.13 God moves as Agent, End, and Intelligible all at once.14 To interpret this passage as stating that God moves only as final 13 14 Berti (persuaded by Broadie’s argumentation) reads this passage as I do. See his Estructura y significado de la Metafísica de Aristóteles (Buenos Aires: Oinos–Unipe, 2011), which is a Spanish translation of Struttura e significato della Metaphysica di Aristotele (Rome: Edusc, 2008), 150 and 152. See also “Unmoved Mover(s),” 203. Something similar can be said of the intelligible and desirable in its connection to human intelligence and will: that the intelligible, like an agent, causes our intelligence to go from potency to act, at least in a sense, as is said in De anima 3.7.431a1–8 and in De interpretatione 1.16a–8; that the species of the intelligible in act is the species of the act of understanding, which means that the intelligible is a sort of formal cause for the intellect; and, finally, that intelligible reality might be a good that, once understood, is, without a doubt, an end of the appetite, according to De anima 3.7.431a8–431b9. Lindsay Judson uses considerations of this kind to solve the apparent conflict between chapters 6 and 7 of Met. Λ; see his “Heavenly Motion and the Unmoved Mover,” 166–67, in Self Motion from Aristotle to Newton, ed. M. Gill and J. Lenox (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), 155–171. It must be pointed out, however, that the way in which Judson understands God’s efficient causality (as non-energetic and really identical in its essence to final causality—that is to say, as merely a principle of the movement of the appetite) is different from my view of God’s efficient causality. I hold that God does transmit an act to the entities moved (moreover, he is the ultimate origin of their being), but in a way that is different from the transmission of an act by corporeal agents. Judson himself finds that Aristotle’s statements concerning (a) the presence of God at the outermost circumference (Met. 12.7.1072b13-14) and (b) the Is There Divine Providence According to Aristotle? 205 cause is to contradict something explicitly stated in 1071b12–13: God is ποιητικός (Agent).15 Moreover, there cannot be a final cause of entities if there is not an agent that directs such entities to that final cause. Thus, if God were only the final cause of the universe, there would have to be another, efficient cause directing the universe towards God.16 And finally, if Aristotle had held that God is cause only as intelligible and as desirable, then his god would be no different from Plato’s Ideas, and all of Aristotle’s efforts to supersede Plato in chapters 6 and 7 and in many other passages would be rendered vain, even nonsensical. Having shown that book Λ deals with God as both the final and efficient origin of substances and of all beings,17 we can go further to establish that it gives grounds, along with the whole of the Metaphysics, to argue that Aristotle thought that God takes care of the cosmos and of things human, especially if one reads it in the light shed by both Ethics, as we will do in due course. In 12.10, Aristotle states that 15 16 17 need for the infinity of God’s power because of the infinity of the movement of the outermost circumference (Met. 12.7.1073a5–11) are incompatible with his interpretation of God’s efficient causality (“Heavenly Motion and the Unmoved Mover,” 167–171). My interpretation does not encounter these obstacles. Both statements are perfectly compatible with my reading: (a) the incorporeal agent can touch without being touched and, for this reason, can in a sense be placed where its main effect is located; and (b) the incorporeal agent acts through its intellect. Thus, if such agent has infinite power, it can cause a movement infinite in duration but finite in speed, unlike corporeal agents that would cause a speed proportionate to their power (this is one reason to hold that a corporeal agent cannot have infinite power). In De generatione et corruptione 324b13–15, Aristotle states that the agent moves as poietikós and that the end does not move as poietikós; see On Coming to Be and Passing Away (De generatione et corruption), ed. Harold H. Joachim (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1922). Berti corroborates this interpretation and, beyond that, shows that, when Aristotle states that the act of the mover is located in the subject of movement (De anima 3.2.426a4–5), he means that movement is in the subject of movement, not in the mover. With this he lays the cornerstone to be able to conceive God as unmoved mover (“Unmoved Mover(s),” 187–188). I have dealt with the problem of the origin of the directedness of nature according to Aristotle in another essay. I cannot properly consider it here, because it would constitute an independent research by itself. David Bradshaw would agree on this point. He, indeed, claims that God is the cause of all changes, even those that are not, properly speaking, “movements,” since he contains the forms of all things (“A New Look at the Prime Mover,” Journal of the History of Philosophy, 39.1 (2001): 1–22). For this reason he holds that there is an evolution in Aristotle’s conception of the formal cause, from less to more Platonic. I can add that Met. XII, ch. 6 even asserts that God is the cause of the spheres (1072a9–17), but I cannot discuss this point here. 206 Carlos A. Casanova This [the general, God] is not because of the order, but this [the order] is because of that [God, the general].18 All things, fishes and birds and plants, are somehow ordered together, but not in the same way nor in a manner in which none has anything to do with the other. On the contrary, they have to do with each other because all things are ordered towards one. However, in the same way as in a household, the free ones are allowed to act very little at random because all their business, or most of it, is subject to order, but very little of the slaves’ and the animals’ business is directed towards what is common, and the greater part is left to chance; because such principle for each is their nature (1075a15–23).19 Clearly the νοητική ψυχή 20 and those beings whose nature includes νοῦς are more subject to God’s order, since they are more similar to him than those deprived of νοῦς. Thus, animals do not have ethics. But those beings that are immortal are more subject to God’s order and could be above some of the ethical virtues (celestial souls and secondary separate substances).21 This means that everything is under 18 19 20 21 Many authors today take this passage to imply that God is efficient cause, and not only final—for example, Berti (Estructura y significado, 160; “Unmoved Mover[s],” 200 and 205) and Bradshaw (“A New Look,” 8). Ross Hernández points out that Broadie also invokes this passage in favor of God’s efficient causality, even if he opposes this interpretation (“La causalidad del Primer Motor,” 6n21). More recently Ross Hernández has cast some doubts on the negation of God’s efficient causality based on the fact that Alexander of Aphrodisias seems to have been the origin of such interpretation, but Alexander himself held a very different view about God in his De fato (Ross Hernández, “La recepción de la teoría aristotélica del azar en el De Fato de Alejandro de Afrodisia,” Estudios de filosofía 40 (2009): 183–198, at 194–195). Ross Hernández also cites several authors who have recently held God’s efficient causality, such as Aryeh Kosman (“Aristotle’s Prime Mover,” in Self Motion from Aristotle to Newton, eds. M. Gill and J. Lenox [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994], 135–153) and Lindsay Judson (“Heavenly Motion and the Unmoved Mover”). I strive to achieve a literal translation. The expression is used in Aristotle’s De generatione animalium 2.3. Of course, these claims would need a thorough discussion of universal teleology in the light of other works, a discussion that lies outside the scope of the present essay. Alejandro Vigo seems to agree that this passage implies universal teleology with diverse kinds of mutual relations between the parts of the whole, in his Aristóteles: Una introducción (Santiago de Chile: Instituto de Estudios para la Sociedad, 2007), 182–183, and Gabbe seems to agree (“Aristotle on the Starting–Point,” 375 and 378). Is There Divine Providence According to Aristotle? 207 God’s care, and human beings more than animals, celestial souls more than human beings, and secondary separate substances more than celestial souls. Now, God’s care could be provided directly or indirectly. In chapter 6 it is stated that the celestial movement that causes the eternity of corporeal beings and the celestial movement that causes the cycles of birth and death act in God’s virtue (see 1072a9–17). Thus, God’s care is real and does not entail a denial of the natural order but, on the contrary, the efficiency of natural order comes from such care. That according to Aristotle God cares about everything is not very surprising if one recalls Aristotle’s praise of and disappointment with Anaxagoras contained in Metaphysics A: For surely it is not likely either that fire or earth or any such element should be the reason why things manifest goodness and beauty both in their being and in their coming to be, or that those thinkers should have supposed it was; nor again could it be right to ascribe so great a matter to spontaneity and luck. When one man said, then, that intellect was present—as in animals, so throughout nature—as the cause of the world and of all its order, he seemed like a sober man in contrast with the random talk of his predecessors (1.3.984b8–22). For, Anaxagoras uses intellect as a deus ex machina for the making of the world, and when he is at a loss to tell for what cause something necessarily is, then he drags intellect in, but in all other cases ascribes events to anything rather than to intellect (1.4.985a18–22).22 Both Aristotle’s praise and criticism of Anaxagoras are quite similar to Socrates’s as they are portrayed in the Phaedo (97–99).23 The problem with Anaxagoras’ brilliant insight is that he does not use it systematically to explain the cosmos. He sticks to the mechanistic explanations of pre–Socratic philosophers. Aristotle, instead, as we have shown already and shall revisit below in this article, understands that God is at the same time final and efficient cause of the cosmos and that one cannot corner him and use him just to explain only what cannot be 22 23 I follow the Revised Oxford translation of Aristotle with one slight change: I translate νοῦς as “intellect,” rather than “reason.” The Phaedo’s texts I take from Platonis Opera (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1973), 1:57–118. 208 Carlos A. Casanova explained mechanically, which would amount to using him as a deus ex machina. One serious objection could still be used to oppose the idea of God’s providence in Aristotle’s works, the one proposed by Zeller and summarized by Broadie: since Aristotle holds, in 12.9.1074b15–35, that God does not intellectually grasp (νοεῖ) anything other than himself, he cannot be understood to care for anything else.24 In order to respond to this objection, one could argue thus: It is true that God does not intellectually grasp (νοεῖ) things other than himself because, if he did, (a) he would depend on them, and (b) he would not be the highest being because the intelligible (τὸ νοούμενον) is nobler than the intellect (νοῦς), unless they are the same. Despite this, since he is the ultimate cause of being of everything, he knows everything, while intellectually grasping nothing other than himself. In fact, in Metaphysics 1.2.983a6–10, Aristotle holds that God’s science is perfect and comprehends everything, precisely because he is some kind of principle of the causes (“since God seems to be for all things certain principle of the causes” [ὅ τε γὰρ θεὸς δοκεῖ τῶν αἰτίων πᾶσιν εἶναι . . . ἀρχή τις]). Thus, one can know something without intellectually grasping it, without taking it from outside, just as one can know the conclusions of science without grasping or perceiving anything else than the principles and their connections (without grasping, for example, a particular instance of the conclusion). In order to strengthen the textual foundation of this aspect of Aristotle’s theology, I will here briefly explain first his criticism of Empedocles in Metaphysics 1.4 and De anima 1.5, and then a pair of passages from the Eudemian Ethics (EE) quoted by Verdenius. Hence it also follows on his theory that God most blessed is less wise than all others; for he does not know all elements; for he has in him no strife, and knowledge is of the like by the like (Met. 3.4.1000b3–6]).25 [According to Empedocles’ view,] each of the principles will have far more ignorance than knowledge; for though each of them will know one thing, there will be many of which it will 24 25 Jonathan Barnes perhaps has in mind this very reason when he claims that Aristotle denies the gods’ providence over the world in his Conversaciones con Aristóteles [Coffee with Aristotle] (Barcelona: Ediciones Oniro, 2008), 142–145. I include this passage thanks to an observation by an anonymous referee and the reference in Leo Elders, Aristotle´s Theology: A Commentary on Book Λ of the Metaphysics (Assen: Royal VanGorcum Ltd., 1972), 257. Is There Divine Providence According to Aristotle? 209 be ignorant—viz. all the others. Empedocles at any rate must conclude that his god is the least intelligent of all beings; for of him alone is it true that there is one element, Strife, which he does not know, while there is nothing which mortal beings do not know; for there is nothing which does not enter into their composition. (De anima 1.5.410b3–8) Aristotle’s criticism of Empedocles clearly commits him to hold a view of God that is very different from Zeller’s. A god who does not know anything but himself would be ignorant. God not only is not ignorant, but his science comprehends everything, as Aristotle has pointed out in Metaphysics 1.2.983a6–10. Let us now turn to the two EE texts quoted by Verdenius: (a) But another variety of these kinds [of friendship] is friendship on a basis of superiority, as the excellence of a god is superior to that of a man (for that is another kind of friendship)—and in general that of ruler to subject; . . . In these varieties there is not at all, or at least not in a similar way, the return of love for love. For it would be ridiculous to accuse God because He does not return love in the same way as He is loved, or for a subject to make the same complaint against the ruler. For the part of a ruler is to receive not to give love, or else to give love in a different way. (EE 7.3.1238b18–30)26 Here God has a kind of friendship with men and loves them and returns love, but in a way different than that in which men love him. (b) . . . That God is not such as to need a friend makes us assume that a man who is similar to Him also does not need one. Yet according to this argument the virtuous man [σπουδαῖος] will neither grasp intellectually anything; for God is not well in this way, because He is in a better state than needing to intellectually grasp something different from Himself. The cause is that for us to be well depends on another, but for Him He Himself is His being well. (EE 7.12.1245b14–19)27 26 27 Ethica Eudemia, ed. F. Susemihl (Leipzig: Teubner, 1884). Here I follow the Revised Oxford Translation, with slight changes that strive for rendering a more literal translation. I have departed from the Revised Oxford Translation, which in my opinion does not render well the original meaning, and I have attempted a literal translation from the Oxford Metaphysica Greek text. I have connected these two 210 Carlos A. Casanova Verdenius interprets the latter two passages from the Eudemian Ethics as contradicting each other.28 In Verdenius’ opinion, the second passage would be in accordance with the Stagirite’s philosophic view of God (he does not grasp anything other than himself and does not care about anything other than himself because he needs nothing beyond himself), while the first one would be in accordance with the popular view adopted by Aristotle as his without realizing the incompatibility with the philosophic one. The root of the problem with Verdenius’ interpretation is that he suppresses an essential trace of Aristotle’s metaphysics when he states that the Stagirite excluded any hierarchy of being and of imitation of God.29 In many passages, Aristotle clearly speaks of a hierarchy of being and of a growing proximity to God. One of them is Metaphysics 12.10.1075a15–23, already quoted. This hierarchy is central to his metaphysics, as Michael Frede has taught.30 It would be enough to remember such passages as Metaphysics 2.1.993b19–3131 and 12.7.1072a27–1072b2,32 or De generatione et corruptione 2.10.336b31–35. Thus, Verdenius interprets in a univocal manner non–univocal Aristotelian terms, such as “to intellectually grasp” (νοεῖν), which clearly means something different, even though not equivocally different, when applied to an intellect that needs to grasp an intelligible reality different from itself (the human intellect, for example), rather than to another that does not (God’s intellect). We should keep in mind Franz Brentano’s principle of interpretation, according to which the reader must try to conciliate Aristotle’s apparently conflicting statements and take occasion from them in order to gain a deeper understanding of the Stagirite’s mind and philosophy. In this task, Brentano advises, one should strive to dissolve any appearance of contradiction, instead of adopting one of the statements and 28 29 30 31 32 passages thanks to Willen J. Verdenius’s “Traditional and Personal Elements in Aristotle’s Religion,” Phronesis 5.1 (1960): 56–70, at 67. Ibid., 60–61 and 67. Ibid., 63–64 and 70n62. Michael Frede, “The Unity of General and Special Metaphysics: Aristotle’s Conception of Metaphysics,” in Essays in Ancient Philosophy (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987), 81–95, at 90–91. Please note lines 26–27: “In such way, what is truer also is the cause of their being true for those which are posterior” (my translation, as literal as possible). Tomás Calvo, in the introduction to his Spanish edition of the Metaphysics, rightly interprets this passage when he states, “the priority of the supreme entity [or substance] seems to be the priority that corresponds to the first term of a series with respect to the remaining members which constitute such series”; see Aristóteles Metafísica, trans. and intro. Tomás Calvo (Madrid: Biblioteca Clásica Gredos, 1994), 46 (my translation and emphasis). Is There Divine Providence According to Aristotle? 211 rejecting others in the name of the strangest hypotheses.33 Thus, in the case at hand, since Aristotle has said in De Anima 1.5 and in Metaphysics 1.2 that God knows everything, we have to conclude that in EE 7.12.1245b14–19 what is meant is precisely that God’s intellect knows things in a manner different from our intellect’s manner: he does not depend on them because, in that case, his intellect would be inferior to the Intelligible, as is said in Metaphysics 12.9. So interpreted, this passage does not contradict the other (EE 7.3.1238b18–30).34 How Can an Unmoved Mover Intervene in the Course of Contingent Affairs? The Ways in Which Divine Providence Actually Intervenes in Things Human Aristotle was aware of a deep metaphysical problem and attempted to cope with it: God must be pure Act, simple and immutable, but at the same time must be the source of order of the whole world at all (successive) times. This problem is so difficult that, apart from Aristotle, it was a source of controversy in the time of Francisco Suárez, who branded the problem of conciliating divine immutability and simplic33 34 See Brentano, Aristotle and His World View, 10. Thomas de Koninck has a similar opinion in “La Pensée de la Pensée chez Aristote,” in La question de Dieu selon Aristote et Hegel (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1991), 69–151, at 79). I do not deny that there were changes of position in Aristotle’s whole lifetime. But I must observe that the extant systematic works by Aristotle were written after he reached a mature understanding of the main metaphysical problems. First of all, we lost the dialogues, of which Cicero said that they were a river of flowing gold—see Plutarch, “Life of Cicero,” in Plutarch’s Lives, ed. John Dryden and Arthur Hugh Clough, Modern Library Classics (New York: Modern Library, 2001), 1041–1107, at 1054. We know that Aristotle held Plato’s theory of ideas for some years. We know, as well, that, when he abandoned the theory, this probably produced an intellectual crisis in Aristotle’s life. We find fragments of this crisis in several passages of Aristotle’s extant works, as when he speaks in the Posterior Analytics about the hypothesis of a science of the common principles (see, e.g., 1.11.77a25 and ff.), or in Met. of the “sought for science” (1.2.982a4–5, e.g.), But I hold that, since the time he found a way out of that crisis, his metaphysical conception of the world did not change much. The two Ethics belong to this period of his life, and the Metaphysics does as well. I do not deny that, in some issues, Aristotle changed his mind. It is clear, for example, that in some passages of the extant works he considers himself a member of Plato’s school, while in others he does not. Moreover, it seems clear to me that his way of regarding the fortunate man changes and that it is more precise in the EN than in the EE, for example. However, I do not see changes that affect the main thesis of this essay. We should add, incidentally, that God’s not needing friends does not imply that he has no friends. It only means that his love for those whom he loves is not love of concupiscence or desire, but exclusively love of friendship. 212 Carlos A. Casanova ity with free decisions of his will regarding creatures as “one of the most obscure difficulties which theologians consider.”35 Because he was aware of the difficulty of this problem, Aristotle used a tentative language when he spoke of divine providence in EN 10.8.1179a24–29. Thus, he states the following: “for if the gods have any sort of care for things human, as it seems [ὥσπερ δοκεῖ], it would be reasonable to suppose that they delight in what both is best and has the greatest affinity to themselves.”36 On the other hand, because Aristotle denied neither of the problem’s terms, despite its difficulty, he conceived at least two ways in which divine providence can intervene in human affairs without denying God’s immutability: (a) through the natural order of the cosmos; and (b) through divine intervention in human deliberation. 35 36 Francisco Suárez, Disputationes Metaphysicae, ed. Salvador Castellote, Jean–Paul Coujou, John P. Doyle, and Michael Renemann, Disputatio 30, Sectio 9, 4 (http://salvadorcastellote.com/investigacion.htm). The whole of section 9 is dedicated to this problem.There one can see the names of some of the authors who took part in this controversy: Aquinas, Caietanus, Sylvester Ferrariense, Capreolus, Scotus, Ockham, Lychetus, Gregorius, etc. Even today, it is the source of much controversy, for example, between Eleonore Stump, on the one hand, and David Ray Griffin and Reginald Garrigou-Lagrange, on the other. Stump has dealt with the problem of demonstrating the compatibility between God’s immutability and simplicity in chapter 3 of her book Aquinas (New York: Routledge, 2003), 100–101 and 108–127. There she explicitly debates with David Griffin’s God, Power and Evil: A Process Theodicy (Philadelphia, PA: Westminster Press, 1976) and Réginald Garrigou-Lagrange’s God: His Existence and Nature (Saint Louis, MO: Herder, 1995). She debates a very similar issue with Alvin Plantinga in her “Divine Simplicity and Aquinas’ Quantum Metaphysics” (paper presented at the First International Conference on Thomistic Philosophy, Universidad Santo Tomás, Santiago de Chile, July 4–6, 2012), which she has generously provided to me. Using Thomistic language, she formulates the difficulty of the issue thus: “That these apparently contradictory claims all have to be affirmed shows that there is a deficiency in our mode of speaking, because, of course, strictly speaking these claims cannot all be true. The problem is that we do not know how to formulate them in an accurate mode of speaking. If we could do so, then we would know the true nature of God. We would know the quid est of God. But this is precisely what we do not know.” Of course, her thesis has been, in turn, the subject of much controversy among Thomists. The full passage reads literally: “For if the gods have any sort of care for things human, as it seems [ὥσπερ δοκεῖ], it would be reasonable to suppose that they delight in what both is best and has the greatest affinity to themselves (and this would be intelligence [νοῦς]) and that those who cherish this most, and honor it, are the ones they benefit in return [ἀντευποιεῖν] for taking care of what they themselves love, and acting correctly and finely.” Is There Divine Providence According to Aristotle? 213 (a) The first way is referred to in the above commented passage from Metaphysics 12.10. One reason that makes many contemporaries think that Aristotle’s philosophical understanding of God is incompatible with care for the world and for human beings is that providence, according to the Stagirite, does not exclude the natural order. God takes care of the world through secondary causes (as they became later known), which in turn act by his virtue in a way similar to that in which the movements of the celestial spheres cause the permanence of sub-lunar being and its cycles: such movements act in God’s virtue.37 In ethical matters, divine action through the natural order means, as well, that the activity of contemplating God is in itself the happiest and the greatest gift that God can bestow on a human being. The ultimate source of such activity in both series of efficient and final causes is God. He acts through secondary causes, but acting through secondary causes does not equate to not acting. God really acts, even though within a framework that safeguards his immutability and his reasonableness. This intelligible structure that accepts a real divine providence over the world and things human and connects it to a natural order is found already in Plato’s Laws and is presupposed in many of his other dialogues. I am copying here the entire relevant section because it is the best illustration of the way in which divine providence acts through secondary causes. Note well the phrases I have highlighted in italics, which show the concern of God acting through the order which he has established: Since our King saw that all actions involve soul, and contain much good and much evil, . . . and since He perceived that all soul that is good naturally tends always to benefit, but the bad to injure,— observing all this, He designed a location for each of the parts, wherein it might secure the victory of goodness in the Whole and the defeat of evil most completely, easily, and well. For this purpose He has designed the rule which prescribes what kind of character should be set to dwell in what kind of position and in what regions; but the causes of the generation of any special kind he left to the wills of each one of us men. For according to the trend of our desires and the nature of our souls, each one of 37 See Met. 12.6.1072a9–17. This same way of divine action is found in EN 10.9.1179b21–22, connected to EE 7.14.1247a27–1248b6. Ross Hernández has recently shown that Alexander of Aphrodisias held a similar view in order to explain God’s providence over the sublunar realities (“La recepción de la teoría aristotélica,” 193–194). 214 Carlos A. Casanova us generally becomes of a corresponding character. . . . All things that share in soul change, since they possess within themselves the cause of change, and in changing they move according to the law and order of destiny; the smaller the change of character, the less is the movement over surface in space, but when the change is great and towards great iniquity, then they move towards the deep and the so–called lower regions, regarding which—under the names of Hades and the like—men are haunted by most fearful imaginings, both when alive and when departed from their bodies. And whenever the soul gets a specially large share of either virtue or vice, owing to the force of its own will and the influence of its intercourse growing strong, then, if it is in union with divine virtue, it becomes thereby eminently virtuous, and moves to an eminent region, being transported by a holy road to another and a better region; whereas, if the opposite is the case, it changes to the opposite the location of its life’s abode. . . . O thou child and stripling who thinkest thou art neglected by the gods,—the decree that as thou becomest worse, thou goest to the company of the worse souls, and as thou becomest better, to the better souls; and that, alike in life and in every shape of death, thou both doest and sufferest what it is befitting that like should do towards like. From this decree of Heaven neither wilt thou nor any other luckless wight ever boast that he has escaped; for this decree is one which the gods who have enjoined it have enjoined above all others, and meet it is that it should be most strictly observed. For by it thou wilt not ever be neglected, neither if thou shouldest dive, in thy very littleness, into the depths of the earth below, nor if thou shouldest soar up to the height of Heaven above; but thou shalt pay to the gods thy due penalty, whether thou remainest here on earth, or hast passed away to Hades, or art transported to a region yet more fearsome. And the same rule, let me tell thee, will apply also to those whom thou sawest growing to great estate from small after doing acts of impiety or other such evil,—concerning whom thou didst deem that they had risen from misery to happiness, and didst imagine, therefore, that in their actions, as in mirrors, thou didst behold the entire neglect of the gods, not knowing of their joint contribution and how it contributes to the All. (10.904a–905c)38 38 I use the English translation contained in Plato in Twelve Volumes, trans. R. G. Bury, vol. 10, [Laws] Books 1–6 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, Is There Divine Providence According to Aristotle? 215 How a similar structure appears in Aristotle can be hinted at here. God introduced order into the universe, as Politics 7.4.1326a31–32 states clearly.39 An important aspect of the order of the universe due to God’s influence is that the man who shares most in the excellent (virtuous) activity of the intellect shares most as well in God’s order and least in chance’s lack of order (Met. 12.10.1075a15–23). These metaphysical statements match the ethical one according to which the man who shares most in the excellent (virtuous) activity of the intellect shares most as well in happiness, as we will have occasion to see in the third section of this essay. (b) But, fortunately, Aristotle explicitly establishes that God can act directly over the mind of the fortunate man in a more direct way by initiating his deliberation. This initiation, I think, would be a kind of illumination, analogous to that which the teacher exerts over the mind of the disciple. Aristotle explicitly states that, in God’s causality, Intelligence [efficient cause] and the Good [final cause] are one, as medicine is in some sense health.40 This is realized much more clearly in teaching and learning, so that there you can have an unmoved mover. Let us see the relevant passage of EE 7.14.1247a27–1248b6.41 This passage is concerned exactly with the problem of who among human beings is the most god–beloved, and the imperfect answer it gives is corrected and completed in EN 10.8.1179a22–32. The older work,42 indeed, holds that the best (βέλτιστον) and most judicious 39 40 41 42 1967), and vol. 11, [Laws] Books 7–12 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1968). I contrasted it with the following Greek edition: Les Lois, in Oeuvres Complètes, vol. 12 (Paris: Les Belles Letres, 1956). This doctrine (or another with similar consequences) is presupposed, for example, in Apology 30c-d, 40a–42a and Republic 10.617d–621d. Stephen Salkever holds that, in chapters 4–12 of Politics 7, Aristotle is not talking in his own name but is simply presenting what a contemporary Greek male [ἀνήρ] “fully committed to the political life” would wish as the best political regime; see his “Whose Prayer? The Best Regime of Book 7 and the Lessons of Aristotle’s Politics,” Political Theory 35, no. 1 (2007): 29–46, at 32. If this were so, the lines I am quoting (7.4.1326a31–32) would have low value in elucidating Aristotle’s philosophical conception of God. I disagree with this interpretation, however, and argue that the reasons that bring Salkever to believe that Aristotle is not talking in his own name can be strongly responded against. But it would take me far from the line of this essay. See Met. 12.10.1075b8–10 and 12.4.1070b28–34. I follow the division of the text by the Revised Oxford Translation, vol. 2 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991). Of course, Anthony Kenny (among other scholars) holds that EE is posterior to EN in his Aristotle on the Perfect Life (New York: Oxford University Press, 216 Carlos A. Casanova (φρονιμώτατον) is the most god–beloved, without deciding the issue between who is such, whether the prudent or the wise. Moreover, that same older passage adds that there is a “fortunate man” (εὐτυχής) who has a “divine good fortune,” since he acts inspired by a divinity in a way that is better than any that can be determined through deliberation. (Aristotle probably had in mind politicians and/or warriors such as Timoleon.)43 This divinely fortunate man is also god–beloved, and again Aristotle does not distinguish whether he is less or more so than the other two. It seems to me that, if one does not take into account this precedent, then one has little possibility of finding the real meaning of EN 10.8.1179a22–32, where Aristotle is solving the old problem about who is the most god–beloved. Regarding the central point of the present essay, moreover, the earlier text allows us to assess the meaning that Aristotle intends when he holds that God takes care of human affairs and benefits the wise in 1179a24–29. For, in EE, Aristotle first considers whether it is chance that brings about the right deliberation and understanding. Rejecting this, he describes it as “manifest” that the principle of deliberation and intellect, or understanding (and therefore, of desiring rightly)44 in general, is divine. Anyone who changes from not deliberating to deliberating and/ or from not understanding to understanding is moved so by a divine principle: Fortune [or chance] is the cause of this, of desiring what is proper and when it is proper. Or will it [fortune] be in this way the cause of all things? Because it would be the cause of understanding [νοῆσαι] and of deliberating: because one did not 43 44 1992), 479–480. I am inclined to think otherwise because the analysis of particular discussions that are different in both Ethics seems to show that EN is more recent. A good example is given by Daniel T. Devereux in his review of Kenny’s book in The Philosophical Review 106.3 (July 1997): 475–482: the treatment of habituation in the acquisition of virtue seems to be more perfect in EN than in EE. Another example could be, perhaps, the treatment of the fortunate man, as I suggest in this essay. It is true that EN is very brief on the matter, but it seems to be answering to the old problem as it was posed at EE. About Timoleon, see Nicholas G. L. Hammond, A History of Greece (to 322 BC) (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1986), 577–581, and Plutarch, “Life of Timoleon,” in Plutarch’s Lives, 293–320. The right desires are the fruit of grasping the proper desirable things and of deliberating well, since election is a “deliberative desire” and the principle of practical reasoning is intellection or understanding of the good in the concrete surroundings (see EN 3.3.1113a10–12 and 6.11.1143a33–b14). Is There Divine Providence According to Aristotle? 217 deliberate having already deliberated, and having [previously] already deliberated this. But there is some beginning [ἀρχή]. And one did not understand [ἐνόησε] having understood previously to understanding and so indefinitely. Therefore, understanding is not the beginning [ἀρχή] of having understood, nor deliberation of having deliberated. What else, then, except fortune? In this way everything will come from fortune [or chance]. Or is there some beginning out of which there is no other and which is such in being that in some way it could do this [or bring this about]? What is sought is this: what the principle of movement in the soul is. It is manifest that in the same way God is in the whole, so equally it is in that case. Because somehow what is divine in us moves everything. But the principle [ἀρχή] of reason is not reason, but something better. What then would be better than both science and intellect except God? (EE 7.14.1248a16–29)45 The conclusion of this section, considered in conjunction with another section of the same passage (EE 7.14.1247a27–1248b6) a little afterwards, where it is stated that the divinely fortunate man’s judgment is divinely corrected (“because it seems as well that the fortunate one succeeds because of a god”;46 1248b4: διὸ καὶ δοκεῖ ὁ εὐτυχὴς διὰ θεὸν κατορθοῦν), leads one to the conclusion that there is clear intervention by God and the gods in things human.This was not denied by Aristotle in EN 10.8.1179a22–32, even if the passage of this latter work is much more sober. It is even indirectly confirmed by the work On Divination in Sleep (I.462b21–26) because there Aristotle not only does not prima facie exclude that God could be the cause of divinations in sleep, but he states that God’s causality is the only plausible explanation, in case there is real divination in sleep. My interpretation of the Eudemian Ethics is approximately in line with Anthony Kenny’s interpretation, which holds that there are three kinds of fortunate men: the man who occasionally has good fortune, the man who consistently has good fortune due to nature (which Kenny divides in two and considers as non–genuine cases of good fortune), and the man who has good fortune because he acts inspired by God.47 Julie Ponesse, instead, assumes that there is only one kind of fortunate 45 46 47 Here I offer a literal translation, the meaning of which is the same as the Revised Oxford Translation. Again, here I offer a literal translation, with the same meaning as the Revised Oxford. Kenny, Perfect Life, 73–75. 218 Carlos A. Casanova man, the one due to nature, and holds therefore that always the immediate cause of good fortune is nature and the ultimate cause chance.48 Against her, Myrna Gabbe argues that there are two kinds of fortunate man, the occasionally and the naturally fortunate. But Gabbe holds that God, as a transcendent cause, originates the latter. Inasmuch as it accepts an intervention of God as a transcendent cause, her interpretation is similar to mine. However, she denies the difference between the divinely fortunate man and the naturally fortunate man for reasons similar to Julie Ponesse’s.49 Let us examine briefly this aspect of Ponesse’s interpretation. Ponesse excludes the possibility of the existence of the kind of good fortune due to God based on two arguments.50 Both arguments are rather weak. The first one claims that the gods cannot favor the foolish with inspiration as they do not favor those who are asleep with divination, according to Aristotle. The second one claims that the grammatical constructions of the sentences used in EE 7.14.1248a38 and b4 exclude divine agency because it seems that the agent is simply a man who acts through God.51 Regarding the first argument, I agree that the gods do not favor the foolish. However, I shall reply that the 48 49 50 51 Ponesse’s interpretation of EE 7.14 holds that, in it, Aristotle strives to distinguish the prudent or wise man’s way of acting from the fortunate man’s way of acting; see her “Enthousiasmós and Moral Monsters in Eudemian Ethics VIII 2,” Journal of the History of Philosophy 50.3 (2007): 315–337, at 329–330. She assumes that there is only one kind of fortunate man, the one due to nature, and holds, therefore, that always the immediate cause of good fortune is nature and the ultimate cause chance. It seems clear to me that Aristotle holds, in EE 7.14.1246b37–1248b7, that there are three kinds of good fortune: (1) that which is occasional and due to mere chance (1247b32–33: the agent chooses to do X and by chance does Y, which turns out to be good. Here I follow the Revised Oxford translation’s text); (2) that which is consistent and due to nature (see 1247b20–28, 1247b 33–37, and 1248b4–5—EN speaks of them also, in a passage not considered by Ponesse: 10.9.1179b20–23); and, finally, (3) good fortune that is consistent and due to experience, habituation, and the intervention of God (see 1248a37–40 and 1248b3–4). In the main text, I place consistent good fortune due to experience, sharp eye, and/or habituation within natural good fortune. (See EN 6.11.1143a33–b14.) See Gabbe “Aristotle on the Starting–Point,” 362, 364 and 375. She asserts, in fact, that to accept the existence of three kinds of fortunate men would amount to making God the steersman of those who do not use reason and quotes, in her support, EE 7.14.1247a29. But this passage refers to the naturally fortunate. Unfortunately, Gabbe does not sufficiently consider 1248b4–5, which explicitly distinguishes the naturally from the divinely fortunate man. There is a third one, but it simply intends to rule out that the word enthousiasmós used in 1248a34 must be interpreted as “divinely inspired.” See Ponesse, “Enthousiasmós and Moral Monsters,” 324 and 328–329. Is There Divine Providence According to Aristotle? 219 divinely fortunate man is not foolish at all. I suspect that Aristotle has in mind men such as Timoleon (unlike Ponesse, who expresses puzzlement about who could be the referent for the word “εὐτυχής” in these texts52). This remarkable politician was certainly a fortunate man, but he was with equal certainty a prudent and wise man. His crossing the strait from Italy to Sicily and his strategic campaign for the defense of Syracuse against the Carthaginese forces were deeds in which, after doing all that prudence required, he also leapt into the unknown, with surprising success. It is no accident that Aristotle mentions navigation and strategy as examples of the presence of chance in human affairs (1247a5–6).53 Regarding the second argument, I shall reply that Ponesse’s rendering of 1248b4 as “the fortunate man acts through God”54 is not the best reading. My reading is more accurate: “the fortunate man succeeds because of God” (ὁ εὐτυχὴς διὰ θεὸν κατορθοῦν).55 The correction of the reading already dissolves the difficulty supposedly posed to God’s causality by the grammatical construction. I think we can safely add that there are two kinds of fortunate man owing to nature: the one who has good desires that lead him to a good outcome (EE 7.14.1247b33–39) and the one who cannot deliberate correctly or explain or teach why he acted as he did but nevertheless acted well, not only because he had a good desire but also because he had a sharp eye that allowed him to judge well the situation with reasoning (EE 7.14.1247b22 and 1248a36–38; EN 6.11.1143b7–14).56 52 53 54 55 56 Ibid., 317. Moreover, I think it necessary to connect EE 7.14.1248a34–b5 to EN 6.11.1143a33–b14. These passages connected refer one, I think, to an important experience: human action takes place in concrete circumstances where the possible paths are infinite, so that to discern the right path is very hard and sometimes impossible. When it is impossible, then only the divinely fortunate ones can hit the right path. This kind of divine fortune does not contradict 1247a29 in the EE passage. The mention of the art of divination is connected to a common practice among the Greeks, down to Aristotle’s times: they did not venture an important battle without the good omens of the seers and/ or the encouragement of god-sent dreams. See, for example, Plutarch, “Life of Pelopidas” (347–367, at 358–359) and “Life of Aristides” (391–411, at 399–401 and 403–404) in Plutarch’s Lives. See Ponesse, “Enthousiasmós and Moral Monsters,” 329. The Revised Oxford Translation reads “owing to god,” which is closer to my reading, I think, than to Ponesse’s. Kenny conflates this kind of naturally fortunate man with the divinely fortunate man, perhaps because he did not consider the relevant passage of EN 6 (Perfect Life, 73). 220 Carlos A. Casanova Both naturally fortunate men are different from the divinely fortunate because this one acts thanks to inspiration (ἐνθουσιασμός). Both the naturally and the divinely fortunate ones act in accordance with their impulse, and in this they are different from the occasionally fortunate (EE 7.14.1248b6 and 1247b30–33). In this context, it seems expedient to clarify one further point: the naturally and the divinely fortunate ones are not foolish and do not act irrationally or against reason or knowledge. Instead, they are unreflective (ἄφρονες) and act without reasoning (ἄνευ λόγου, ἄλογοι), at the margin of right reasonings (παρὰ τοὺς λογισμοὺς τοὺς ὀρθοὺς) and at the margin of all sciences (παρὰ πάσας τὰς ἐπιστήμας). Indeed, they see the right action or are propelled towards it without deliberation and therefore without being able to explain or to teach why it is good to act as they are acting.57 Besides the kinds of fortunate men, another point in dispute is what is meant by the need of an initiating cause of deliberation and understanding in EE 7.14.1248a23–29. Gabbe brings two possibilities. I agree with the second one she considers, when quoting and criticizing C. Shield:58 “individual instances of thought are not intentionally caused. We do not know what thought we are going to think next, until we actually think it. So from our perspective, they simply occur to us.”59 In my opinion, what Aristotle has in mind is the flow of our consciousness and its being pointed towards a certain direction, towards deliberating, for example.What leads our consciousness from not deliberating to deliberating? Whence arises the desire to deliberate? Is it the mere happening of a physical stimulus and/or the contingent presence of a sensible reality as for desires in general it is said in De motu animalium chapter 6, lines 700b25–701a6, for example? Would not chance, in this case, rule our life? Aristotle establishes in 1248a18–29 of the EE passage that God is the initiator of all good deliberations that are not due to chance.60 This allows him to state at 1248a29–b3 that God is 57 58 59 60 In these points, I think, the Revised Oxford Translation is not accurate (see 1247b25–26, 1248a2–4, and 1248b5–7). The first one is that God as cause is needed to explain the rightly disposed nature of the naturally fortunate man (see Gabbe, “Aristotle on the Starting– Point,” 372). I think this possibility can be ruled out by one of Gabbe’s own statements. Indeed, according to her, 1248a23–29, which is the answer to the question posed in 1248a18–22, refers to “something [an arché] possessed by all” (ibid., 367). Thus, 1248a18–22 cannot refer only to the naturally fortunate ones, but to all. Ibid., 373. Anthony Kenny seems at first to hold that God, in this passage, is the cause of the right desire, not of the impulse to deliberate (Perfect Life, 72–73). But later Is There Divine Providence According to Aristotle? 221 the initiator of the divinely fortunate man’s decision without upsetting his conception of the general order of the cosmos: God’s special intervention in the case of the divinely fortunate ones does not run against the natural order. I cannot enter here into the discussion in which I think Gabbe settles another problematic aspect of the text: whether the initiator of deliberation is God metaphorically understood or literally God, an entity outside of our soul. She concludes that it is an entity outside of the soul and especially rules out that the initiator could be our will or a noetic principle acting beneath the conscious noetic activity.61 The last disputed point is that Gabbe asserts that God’s causality in initiating good deliberations or the good decisions of the divinely fortunate ones is only final, whereas I, along with Kenny, hold that it is also efficient62—initiating the activity of deliberation. But the only reasons Gabbe gives are (a) that if God were efficient cause here, then he would benefit the unreasoning and (b) that to have God as a proximate cause of deliberation would abolish the distinction between the deliberation of adults and children. Now, reason (a) we already considered in answering Ponesse. Regarding (b), we must argue that to have God as first cause does not imply the abolishment of secondary causes. If he starts the deliberation of a grown general, the general then will deliberate by using all of his knowledge of strategy and all of his experience, unlike a child. Since the passage just elucidated from EE is very much connected to EN 10.8.1179a22–32, it seems that now we are in a good position to briefly examine Broadie’s interpretation of the second one. She, unlike Zeller or Verdenius, does not describe Aristotle as incoherent or as “talking popular.” She establishes well, arguing from the position of the text and the contents of the immediately precedent passages, that Aristotle means seriously what he states there.63 She adds, however, that the passage is a serious philosophical reply to probable popular puzzlement caused by Aristotle’s statement according to which the wise would be the happiest even if only “moderately equipped with external things” 61 62 63 (ibid., 80–81) he clearly states that God is the starting point of the desire to deliberate and to understand (he speaks of thinking instead of understanding) at the right time. Gabbe “Aristotle on the Starting–Point,” 373–374. Ibid., 364 and 375. Actually, Kenny holds that God’s causality in this context is efficient (Perfect Life, 79–82), but he does this in a timid way through a rhetorical question. Broadie, “Aristotelian Piety,” 65–67. 222 Carlos A. Casanova and deprived from political power. In this context, she claims that Aristotle does not think that God or the gods can affect the course of human life64 because, according to her, “traditional belief that the gods reward those who love them” is indeed popular65 and childish. She adds that one needs not interpret Aristotle’s use of this ἔνδοξον “in terms of flocks and herds multiplying and ships coming home.”66 Instead, “what Aristotle has in mind as vindicating the éndoxon is a familiar fact of intellectual experience: devoted thinking results, often enough, in bursts of understanding. This is the reward to the human thinker for intellection engaged in just for its own sake, . . . which Aristotle equates with service to the god that is nous or ‘something beyond nous.’”67 Broadie’s interpretation has various problems, some of which I will leave aside for the present. However, it partially corresponds with what has been argued above: God’s care for the wise manifests itself in the order of the cosmos, where human life in accordance to what is highest in our nature (in accordance to intelligence) would produce in human beings the highest kind of happiness. However, there is another aspect of Broadie’s interpretation that is ambiguous and that I must clarify now. She is correct when she asserts that God’s care of the wise must not be understood “in terms of flocks and herds multiplying and ships coming home.” To think that God’s reward of virtue (ethical or theoretical) could consist in wealth or in other external goods would be quite inadequate and even vulgar, as Plato establishes in the Republic, beginning in 2.358–367. But from what has been stated follows that God can affect human lives in a different way: by initiating people’s deliberations. Moreover, it is clear that both Plato and Aristotle held: (a) that there is a connection between being “loved by the gods” and being “favored by them;”68 (b) that the essence 64 65 66 67 68 Ibid., 63. Verdenius claims that this passage is serious, that the belief in providence is popular, and that Aristotle, nevertheless, seriously shares in it (“Traditional and Personal Elements,” 60–61). Broadie notes that Richard Bodéüs holds that there is providence according to Aristotle, but that such would be the care that the gods that are honored in the city have for human affairs (“Aristotelian Piety,” 62n24). It is clear to me that Aristotle’s conception of God is far purer than the popular one, although he interprets the latter allegorically and saves it. But it is also clear, as I will contend in the text, that the purest and truest conception of God includes His care for things human. Broadie, “Aristotelian Piety,” 64. Ibid., 64–65. This is explicitly held, for example, in EN 10.8.1179a22–32 and in EE 7.14.1247a27–1248b6. Is There Divine Providence According to Aristotle? 223 of happiness or beatitude is not accidentally connected to virtue;69 (c) that the highest beatitude is found in the practice of the highest of virtues, wisdom, which does not need many external goods, an opinion on which the wise agree (EN 10.8.1179a17: συμφωνεῖν δὴ τοῖς λόγοις ἐοίκασιν αἱ τῶν σοφῶν δόξαι);70 and (d) that the god-beloved is happy and vice versa (see Apology 30d–31a, 40a–42a;71 Republic 10.621c–d;72 Laws 10.904a–905c; and EE 7.14, for example 1247a26–28: “so, the fortunate man has a good pilot, namely, the divinity. But it is absurd that a god or divinity should love such a man and not the best and most prudent one”;73 ἀλλ᾽οὗτος εὐτυχὴς τὸν δαίμον᾽ ἔχει κυβερνήτην ἀγαθόν. ἀλλ᾽ ἄτοπον θεὸν ἢ δαίμονα φιλεῖν τὸν τοιοῦτον, ἀλλὰ μὴ τὸν βέλτιστον καὶ τὸν φρονιμώτατον). Thus, both philosophers held that there is divine retribution, even if certainly not in the way criticized by Adeimantus in Republic 2.362–367. True happiness, by divine disposition, belongs to the best man. Moreover, the gods truly take care of him precisely because that man acknowledges that every choice is good if and only if it brings one to the contemplation and the service of God, as Aristotle taught in EE 7.15.1249b19–21. There is, then, according to both Plato and Aristotle, a conception of divine providence over the good and the wise that is very different from their contemporary popular belief.74 In this line, Dominique Scott points out that Aristotle truly means what he states in EN 10.8.1179a27–28, that contemplation brings honor from the gods.75 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 See, for example, EN 1.7.1198a16–18 and Republic 9.580b. Points b and c will be briefly shown in the third section of this essay. The Apology’s texts I take from R. G. Bury in Plato, vol. 1 (1971), 61–145. The Republic’s texts I take from R. G. Bury in Plato, vol. 4 (1972), 327–621. I follow the Revised Oxford Translation, except that I replace “the most wise of men” with “the most prudent one.” The best and most prudent one, or the wisest according to EN, is the most God–beloved. And they are the happiest, as argued in chapter 10, for example. Many have denied divine providence because they identify it with popular belief, including Berti (in Estructura y significado, 159). He attempts to ground his opinion in the final passage of EN 10.8.1074b4–8, a passage that clearly gives no ground to Berti’s claim: “The rest of the tradition has been added later in mythical form with a view to the persuasion of the multitude and to its legal and utilitarian expediency; they say these gods are in the form of men or like some of the other animals, and they say other things consequent on and similar to these which we have mentioned.” It is one thing to denounce anthropomorphism in Greek popular religion (which truly was anthropomorphic), but a very different thing to deny divine providence. Dominic Scott, “Aristotle on Well–Being and Intellectual Contemplation,” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, Supplementary Volumes 73 (London: Williams and Norgate, 1999), 225–242, at 239. 224 Carlos A. Casanova Does the Bad Fortune of the Virtuous and Wise Exclude Divine Providence? The previous section must face a hard problem. According to Aristotle, chance or fortune has or may have a heavy influence on the happiness of life. How could we assert that God cares for things human, then, if the wise and virtuous could be unhappy? We must turn our sight briefly to the Aristotelian conception of happiness, its relationship to fortune, and the implications of this relationship on the theological conception of divine providence. The first and most obvious answer to this question is that, according to Aristotle, not everything lies under God’s providence. Aristotle does not consider God as the Creator of the world. For this reason, when he enumerates the most universal efficient causes, nature, intelligence and chance,76 he, unlike Aquinas, does not feel any necessity to explain how chance also comes under the rule of intelligence, of divine Providence.77 This is the reason why the existence of the wise and virtuous man’s bad fortune cannot be laid at the feet of God. The cosmos is a bipolar reality (between God and matter—or matters: celestial and terrestrial). Matter as a co-principle of the cosmos is the ultimate cause of chance and fortune (see Met. 6.2.1027a8–14). However, the wise and virtuous man is not at the mercy of fortune. The essence of happiness is activity in accordance to virtue and to highest virtue, as has been articulated by many competent scholars.78 This virtue is, above all, virtue of the highest part of human nature, intelligence. Some have shown as well that a minimum of good fortune plays a role, not as an integral part of happiness but as “merely necessary 76 77 78 Physics 2.6.198a1ff. Aquinas, in his commentary to Physics 2.6.198a1ff, after showing its meaning, adds an observation that goes beyond the text introduced with the typical clause (considerandum est autem), according to which chance is under a higher cause (divine providence) in comparison with which it is not chance (but it is real chance in comparison to its effects). See Thomas Aquinas, Commentaria in Octos Libros Physicorum at www.corpusthomisticum.org/cpy012.html. I will mention just three: Pritzl, “Aristotle and Happiness”; David Charles, “Aristotle on Well–Being and Intellectual Contemplation,” in Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, Supplementary Volumes 73 (London: Williams and Norgate, 1999), 205–223, at 212 and 220–222 (but Charles tends to use “virtue” only for moral virtue, and not for dianoetic virtues); and Scott, “Aristotle on Well–Being and Intellectual Contemplation,” 231 and 237–240 (who shows well that eudaimonía is not a combination of many goods but is virtuous activity, which entails pleasure and honor, etc.). Is There Divine Providence According to Aristotle? 225 conditions of happiness.”79 This is how Aristotle answers to the challenge posed by Priam’s example and Solon’s warning, “look at the end” of life before you judge whether a man has been happy or not: “virtuous activity of the soul is decisive (kýriai; EN 1.10.1100b9–11 and b33–34) for establishing the happiness of the individual. Although not decisive, good and bad fortune do play a role in a person’s happiness. Good fortune enhances the happiness achieved by virtuous activity (1100b25–28), and bad fortune tests the mettle of the virtuous individual (1100b28–33), but neither can reverse the condition made stable by virtue.”80 In truth, the virtuous man cannot be made unhappy by bad fortune, because “no blessed man could ever become miserable; for he will never do the acts that are hateful and mean. For the man who is truly good and wise, we think, bears all the chances of life becomingly and always makes the best of circumstances, as a good general makes the best military use of the army at his command. . . . And if this is the case, the happy man can never become miserable—though he will not reach blessedness, if he meets with fortunes like those of Priam” 79 80 Pritzl, “Aristotle and Happiness,” 102. In line with this interpretation, I think, is Devereux, when he asserts that happiness as the good cannot be made more choice-worthy by the addition of any other goods (Review of A. Kenny’s Aristotle on the Perfect Life, 481–482). Pritzl, “Aristotle and Happiness,” 101–111, at 108.Terence Irwin is in complete agreement with the general lines of Pritzl’s interpretation in Aristotle Nicomachean Ethics, trans. and intro. Terence Irwin, with notes and glossary (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 1999), 188–190 (notes to chs. 10–11 of NE 1). Kenny is also in agreement (Aristotle on the Perfect Life, 79). Robert C. Bartlett disagrees with this interpretation in his “Aristotle’s Introduction to the Problem of Happiness: On Book I of the Nicomachean Ethics,” American Journal of Political Science 52.3 (July 2008): 677–687, at 684. I, of course, agree with Pritzl, Irwin, and Kenny, on the one hand, and disagree with Bartlett, on the other, but I cannot here enter into a detailed analysis of Bartlett’s sophisticated reading. His interpretation conceives of Aristotle as something like an ancient Straussian who has several audiences in mind when he writes, and therefore several levels of writing. I have dealt with this kind of readings of Plato and Aristotle in general on other occasions, and it has taken the form of a separate investigation. I can point out, however, that Bartlett’s interpretation clearly rings as anachronistic, at least in some passages. It rings so, for example, when it states that “the teaching of Book I of the Ethics that is at once most fundamental and least obvious is that ‘the human good’ is not indeed happiness” (684), or that “insincere as they may be, Aristotle’s remarks about the divine in Book I nonetheless serve altogether serious purposes. And if prudential calculation no longer demands that we today pay careful attention to ‘the divine,’ self– knowledge does demand it” (686). 226 Carlos A. Casanova (1100b33–1101a8).81 If this is so, then the ways in which divine providence acts over the world and cares for things human are effective also when a virtuous man suffers bad fortune. Conclusions According to Aristotle, God cares about the world and especially about virtuous and wise persons. This care is exercised in ways that are compatible with God’s immutability. The problem that divine immutability poses to God’s care for the world is one of the hardest in philosophy. Probably for this reason, Aristotle expressed himself about this in a tentative way. Thus, in EN 10.8.1179a22–32, he writes that God cares about the wise “as it seems.” But explicitly, Aristotle states that God cares about the world and about persons who make the right deliberations and elections in two ways: (a) through the order of the cosmos and (b) as the starting point of their deliberation and understanding. Since Aristotle does not hold the creation of the world, however, according to him, divine providence is not responsible for the unreasonable effects of chance (e.g., large misfortunes of the wise and virtuous), but rather, allows the victim of chance, if virtuous and N&V prudent, to endure those effects without unhappiness. 81 Werner Jaeger points out that, according to Aristotle, there is an exception: Plato. To Plato Aristotle dedicated the altar of friendship, through this inscription: “to the only man or the first man who clearly revealed, with his own life and with the methods of his words, how a man comes to be good and happy at the same time. Now it is impossible that anybody else could reach both things again,” as quoted in Jaeger, Aristóteles, bases para la historia de su desarrollo intelectual (Mexico: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1984): 125–131. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 1 (2016): 227–243227 “Being Bishoped by” God: The Theology of the Episcopacy According to St. Ignatius of Antioch KEVIN M. CLARKE John Paul the Great Catholic University Escondido, CA Introduction The epistles of Ignatius of Antioch rightfully maintain a central place in the theology of the nascent Church. His letters are counted among the works of the apostolic fathers and are unique in many respects. This article will focus primarily upon one of those in particular. Throughout the course of his exhortations and admonitions to the various churches to which he writes, Ignatius elucidates a remarkably advanced theology of the episcopacy for his era.1 This article, therefore, will synthesize these teachings contained in the letters in order to approach the core of Ignatius’s thought: that the human bishops of the particular churches are “being bishoped by” (ἐπισκοπημένῳ) God the Father himself; that obedience to the bishop is true imitation of Christ, who obeyed the Father; and that the obedience of the faithful is a call from the Spirit and brings incarnational union (ἕνωσις). The foregoing theological points naturally led Ignatius to suggest what may be considered “canonical norms” for sacramental celebrations and moral implications for Christian living in harmony with the bishop. Finally, this article will consider what relevance the letters of Ignatius have for ecclesial life today. 1 While modern scholars have too often accused him of inconsistency and carelessness, Ignatius was truly a deep thinker, a skillful rhetorician, and a careful theologian, as Gregory Vall has shown in his welcome contribution to Ignatian studies, Learning Christ: Ignatius of Antioch & the Mystery of Redemption, (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2013), at 52–87. 228 Kevin M. Clarke St. Ignatius of Antioch His life and the Antiochene Church St. Ignatius was a bishop in the early Christian community of Antioch, where believers were first called Christians (Acts 11:27). Though not much is known about the life of Ignatius, the church he led was formed from the work of the apostles themselves, particularly St. Paul, who began several missions departing from and returning to Antioch. On the road to martyrdom, Ignatius wrote letters to the churches in Ephesus (Eph.), Magnesia (Magn.),Tralles (Trall.), Rome (Rom.), Philadelphia (Philad.), and Smyrna (Smyrn.), and to Polycarp (Polyc.), the bishop of Smyrna.2 Other works are attributed to him, but these seven letters, known as the middle recension, which are also mentioned by Eusebius,3 are those generally accepted by scholars as authentic. He wrote the first four letters from Smyrna and the last three from Troas before setting sail for Neapolis on his journey to Rome. He had planned to write a second letter to the Ephesians on the οἰκονομία of Jesus Christ (cf. Eph. 20.1), but unfortunately no such letter is known to exist. Ignatius was likely martyred within the first couple decades of the second century, during Emperor Trajan’s reign,4 and his writing stems from his imprisonment and expectation of martyrdom. St. Ignatius is famously known for his eucharistic imagery in his exhortation to the Romans on the way to his martyrdom, asking influential Roman Christians that they not intervene to try to save him, but that they allow him to “be food for the wild beasts . . . I am God’s wheat, and I am being ground by the teeth of the wild beasts, so that I may prove to be the pure bread” (Rom., 4.1). St. Irenaeus referenced this quote directly from “a certain man of ours,” giving further weight to the authenticity of at least this particular letter.5 Ignatius also was the first to use the word “Catholic” in describing the universal Church (cf. Smyrn. 8.2). St. Ignatius’s own imprisonment and subsequent martyrdom add a weighty stamp of ethical appeal (ethos) to his written words.6 St. John 2 3 4 5 6 Unless otherwise noted, I follow the translation in Michael W. Holmes, ed. and trans., The Apostolic Fathers: Greek Texts and English Translations, 3rd ed. (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2007). Eusebius of Caesarea, Historia ecclesiastica 3.36. John Lawson, A Theological and Historical Introduction to the Apostolic Fathers (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1961), 103. St. Irenaeus, Adversus haereses (hereafter, haer.) 5.28.4. Mikael Isacson, “Follow Your Bishop! Rhetorical Strategies in the Letters of The Theology of the Episcopacy According to St. Ignatius of Antioch 229 Chrysostom said Ignatius demonstrated the greatest standard and rule of the episcopal office, that of laying down one’s life for the sheep.7 Thus, the Ignatian writings are not simply epistles of early Christianity, but true hagiography composed by one whose life radically conformed to his master’s. The hierarchical order at the time of the epistles’ composition At the time of Ignatius, there is already an established hierarchical order, with a bishop (ἐπίσκοπος) in union with a supporting group of presbyters (πρεσβύτεροι, or—referred to as a whole—πρεσβυτέριον) who refresh him (cf. Trall., 12.2) and deacons (διάκονοι) who are subject both to him and to the presbytery (τῷ πρεσβυτερίῳ) (cf. Magn. 2.1). Ignatius noted that the Church of Rome presides, or “is seated first” (προκαθημένη), in love (Rom. Sal.).8 It seems that he even asked Polycarp to call a council, perhaps to select his replacement for the Church of Antioch.9 Ignatius did not elucidate a doctrine of apostolic succession, of which St. Clement had already written briefly10 and which would be further developed by St. Irenaeus.11 Ignatius did, however, show that “the hierarchy is the earthly copy of the government which exists in heaven.”12 John Lawson explains that, to Ignatius, “the guarantee of orthodoxy and the token of Christian love is the sense of disciplined corporate solidarity uniting all the local congregations in every place, of which solidarity the bishop is the symbol and instrument.”13 Might Ignatius have been attempting to shape the churches according to his conception of what ecclesial life should be? Mikael Isacson argues effectively that Ignatius is not introducing a new order in the churches, as the exhortation to follow the bishop is not the primary theme of these letters. Furthermore, if Ignatius were praising the 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 Ignatius of Antioch,” in The Formation of the Early Church, ed. Jostein Ǻdna (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 321. St. John Chrysostom, Panegyricum in Ignatium martyrem (hereafter, pan. Ign.) 1 (Migne, Patrologia Graeca, 50:588). Ignatius also uses this term to refer to the bishop’s preeminent place within his particular church (cf. Magn. 6.1–2). Cf. also Gregory Vall, “An Ignatian Bishop of Rome,” Homiletic & Pastoral Review, May 22, 2013, available at http://www. hprweb.com/2013/05/an-ignatian-bishop-of-rome. Virginia Corwin, St. Ignatius and Christianity in Antioch (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1960), 82–83. Cf. 1 Clement, nos. 42 and 44. Cf. haer. 3.3.1–2 and 4.33.8. Lawson, Apostolic Fathers, 121. Ibid., 141. 230 Kevin M. Clarke behavior of those who do follow the bishop and that praise did not meet with reality, such “false praise” would have greatly diminished the letters’ rhetorical impact. Isacson argues for giving the benefit of the doubt: “Until otherwise proven, it is most reasonable to believe that these letters reflect the sender’s conception of the churches he is addressing.”14 Similarly, Henry Chadwick states that “the seven letters make it obvious that Ignatius never imagined himself to be creating a new ordering of ministry in the churches he was writing to.”15 Ἐπισκοπημένῳ: The Ignatian Theo-logy of the Episcopacy What special relation do the ecclesiastical authorities have with God? On the one hand, it seems a rather complex theological question for the nascent Church trying to survive and spread by the power of the Gospel. As a result, some scholars have rejected the authenticity of the letters.16 On the other hand, careful consideration reveals how it is precisely for that reason that this issue came to the theological fore. The question of authority became a question of the survival of particular churches: those that were united under their bishop were spiritually thriving (e.g., Ephesus), while those that were divided from their bishop risked falling apart (e.g., Magnesia). If the churches were to withstand the threat of persecution and the challenges of the Docetists and the Judaizers, the faithful needed to find themselves in the fold of their bishop. Thus, Ignatius treated the theology of the episcopacy in some manner in most of his letters. Ignatius’s writings are significant in the history of ecclesiology as “the first example in Christian theology of institutional deification.”17 The churches Ignatius addressed must have understood that obedience to the bishop was not only an activity that made for optimal order and group unity, but one that both glorified God and marked an encounter with him in the person of the bishop. Thus, one can really speak of a 14 15 16 17 Isacson, “Follow Your Bishop!,” 336–337. Henry Chadwick, The Church in Ancient Society: From Galilee to Gregory the Great (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 77. William R. Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch: A Commentary on the Letters of Ignatius of Antioch (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1985), 22–23. Vladimir Kharlamov, “Emergence of the Deification Theme in the Apostolic Fathers,” in Theōsis: Deification in Christian Theology, eds. Stephen Finlan and Vladimir Kharmalov (Eugene, OR: Pickwick Publications, 2006), 63. Kharmalov admits that the language of θεώσις is not yet present in the time of the apostolic fathers, but an implicit theology of deification nonetheless is. It is expressed, he writes, “more in terms of ‘economy’ than of ontology” (cf. 51–53). The Theology of the Episcopacy According to St. Ignatius of Antioch 231 theo-logy of the episcopacy. In his study of the persuasive methodology of St. Ignatius, Isacson shows how the saint convinced his audiences through an effective use of rhetorical devices. Ignatius did this primarily by associating the bishop with the Father and Christ, praising (laus) the bishop and the audience, giving examples for imitation, and demonstrating his own ethical appeal (ethos).18 The rhetorical topic of association will be apparent here. It should be understood, however, that this is no mere rhetorical ploy, but that he is describing theological realities. The bishop as type (τύπος) of the Father The common thread in Ignatius’s episcopal theology is that the bishop of each church is in the place of God himself and that obeying him is as obeying God himself, while acting apart from him is as separating from God himself. Sometimes Ignatius related the bishop to God the Father analogously: “Therefore, as the Lord did nothing without the Father, either by himself or through the apostles (for he was united with them), so you must not do anything without the bishop and the presbyters” (Magn. 7.1). The analogy is as follows: as the Lord did nothing without the Father . . . so you must not do anything without the bishop and the presbyters.19 Elsewhere, he wrote to the Smyrneans, whose “bishop, so worthy of God,” is Polycarp: “You must all follow the bishop as Jesus Christ followed the Father, and follow the council of presbyters as you would the apostles; respect the deacons as the commandment of God” (Smyrn. 8.1). Here again the analogous comparison of bishop and the Father is obvious: Isacson, “Follow Your Bishop!,” 321. The beautiful parallelism in the Greek can be seen easily: Ὥσπερ οὖν ὁ κύριος ἄνευ τοῦ πατρὸς οὐδὲν ἐποίησεν . . . οὕτως μηδὲ ὑμεῖς ἄνευ τοῦ ἐπισκόπου καὶ τῶν πρεσβυτέρων μηδὲν πράσσετε· 18 19 232 Kevin M. Clarke You all must follow the bishop as Jesus Christ followed the Father20 In other places, he more directly compared the bishop to the Father. For example, he wrote to the Trallians that respect is owed to the bishop because he is a type of the Father (τὸν ἐπίσκοπον ὄντα τύπον τοῦ πατρός) (Trall., 3.1).21 Elsewhere he wrote, “It is good to acknowledge God and the bishop. The one who honors the bishop has been honored by God; the one who does anything without the bishop’s knowledge (ὁ λάθρα) serves (λατρεύει) the devil” (Smyrn. 9.1). More precisely, he wrote that the Magnesian presbyters who yield to the bishop yield rather “to the Father of Jesus Christ, the bishop of all” (τῷ πατρὶ Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ, τῷ πάντων ἐπισκόπῳ) (Magn. 3.1). But perhaps the quote that speaks most to the special relationship between the bishop and the Father comes from the letter to Polycarp: “to Polycarp, Bishop of the Church of the Smyrneans, rather to him being bishoped by God the Father and the Lord Jesus Christ” (Πολυκάρπῳ ἐπισκόπῳ ἐκκλησίας Σμυρναίων, μᾶλλον ἐπισκοπημένῳ ὑπὸ θεοῦ πατρὸς καὶ κυρίου Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ) (Polyc. Sal., my translation). Ignatius’s calculated self-correction here puts the theological emphasis upon the activity of God as true spiritual Bishop shepherding his flock through Polycarp. For, if God the Father himself is the bishop of Polycarp, then, a fortiori, the flock must follow Polycarp in trust. This does not seem to be a special status given to Polycarp either, as comparisons of the bishop to the Father abound elsewhere, as has been demonstrated. Imitation of Christ Taking as our starting point Ignatius’s observation that Polycarp is “being bishoped by” Christ, what else may be discovered concerning Here again is the Greek: Πάντες τῷ ἐπισκόπῳ ἀκολουθεῖτε, ὡς Ἰησοῦς Χριστὸς τῷ πατρί, καὶ τῷ πρεσβυτερίῳ ὡς τοῖς ἀποστόλοις· 21 Cf. Catechism of the Catholic Church (heafter, CCC), §1549. 20 The Theology of the Episcopacy According to St. Ignatius of Antioch 233 Christ’s relation to the bishop? Being in harmony with the bishop, Ignatius explained, is at the heart of Christian identity itself. For example, “it is right, therefore, that we not just be called Christians, but that we actually be Christians, unlike some who call a man bishop but do everything without regard for him” (Magn. 4.1). In other words, being called “Christian” and acting apart from the bishop are antithetical ideas. Vladimir Kharmalov writes concerning Ignatius, “Believers cannot be in union with Christ if they are not in total harmony and unity with the bishop.”22 Why is this? Just as Christ shares the Father’s mind, or rather is the Father’s mind (τοῦ πατρὸς ἡ γνώμη), so the world’s bishops share the mind of Christ (οἱ ἐπίσκοποι οἱ κατὰ τὰ πέρατα ὁρισθέντες ἐν Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ γνώμῃ εἰσίν). Thus, the bishop is the path for believers to “run together in harmony with the mind of God” (συντρέχητε τῇ γνώμῃ τοῦ θεοῦ) (Eph. 3.2). It is this harmony that links the bishop with the Father through Jesus Christ that makes the whole arrangement possible. As Gregory Vall points out, “Ignatius is promoting neither blind obedience to the bishop’s whims nor submission to the arbitrary will of an inscrutable God.”23 Pope Benedict XVI, during his sequence of general audiences on the Church Fathers, comments on the convergence of two New Testament “currents” in Ignatius, “that of Paul, straining with all his might for union with Christ, and that of John, concentrated on life in him. In turn, these two currents translate into the imitation of Christ, whom Ignatius several times proclaimed as ‘my’ or ‘our God.’”24 Ignatius instructed the Magnesians to subject themselves to the bishop (ὑποτάγητε τῷ ἐπισκόπῳ) in order to imitate Christ, who was subject to the Father; this voluntary submission, Ignatius taught, leads to a union (ἕνωσις) of flesh and spirit (Magn. 13.2). This hearkens to his description of Christ in Ephesians as the one healer both of the flesh and of the spirit (εἷς ἰατρός ἐστιν, σαρκικός τε καὶ πνευματικός) (Eph. 7.2). Thus, obeying the bishop is an incarnational action, sort of an answer in praxis to one of the doctrinal challenges of Ignatius’s day, Docetism. Karmalov explains that this imitation “leads to intimate union with the object of imitation, an incorporation into Christ.”25 Furthermore, this union of 22 23 24 25 Kharlamov, “Emergence of Deification Theme,” 64. Vall, Learning Christ, 179. Pope Benedict XVI, General Audience “St. Ignatius of Antioch” (Rome: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 2007); also available at www.vatican.va. Cf. Eph., 19.2 and Rom., 3.3 and 6.2–3. Kharlamov, “Emergence of Deification Theme,” 52. 234 Kevin M. Clarke flesh and spirit has two effects: bringing human nature into the work of salvation and integrating doctrine and practice in Christianity.26 Spirit: bringing unity through the bishop For Ignatius, submitting to the bishop not only causes one to belong to God and to Christ, but it also fosters unity and prevents division in the Church. “To live ‘according to Jesus Christ’ is to live in obedience to the bishop, and to live ‘according to God,’ is to have no strife in us.”27 The Christian virtue of obedience hinges upon this: there is one authority who is ἐπισκοπημένῳ ὑπὸ θεοῦ; therefore, the many are ὑποτασσόμενοι. This word, ὑποτάσσω, occurs multiple times in Ignatius’s writings, and it means, just as in the New Testament,28 submission or ordering oneself under another. Interestingly, as a middle-passive participle, it speaks to both the people and to the bishop. The people both subordinate themselves and are themselves subordinated, and the bishop must see to it. Ignatius wrote to Polycarp, “If you love good disciples, it is no credit to you; rather, with gentleness bring the more troublesome ones into submission” (τοὺς λοιμοτέρους ἐν πραΰτητι ὑπότασσε) (Polyc. 2.1). Here, the same verb is active: Polycarp should subject the troublesome ones in gentleness. But since the bishop is “being bishoped by” God, ὑποτάσσω must also be God’s activity.While Ignatius did not say as much about the role of the Holy Spirit in this activity, he did reveal what he believed to be the Spirit’s role: For even though certain people wanted to deceive me, humanly speaking (κατὰ σάρκα), nevertheless the Spirit is not deceived . . . I called out when I was with you; I was speaking 26 27 28 Ibid., 62. In a way, Ignatius himself by his own name, Theophorus, or “God-bearer,” demonstrates this union of flesh and spirit. Cyril Richardson, The Christianity of Ignatius of Antioch (New York: Columbia University Press, 1935), 38. Cf. Eph., 8.1; Trall., 2.1; and Philad., 3.2. Typically in the New Testament, ὑποτάσσω is used in a positive context, whereas οὐχ ὑποτάσσω or ἀνυπότακτος finds a negative context. Cf. positive uses in Lk 2:53; Rom 8:20; 13:1–5; 1 Cor 14:32, 15:21ff., 16:16; 2 Cor 9:13; Eph 1:22; 5:21ff.; Phil 3:21; Col 3:18; Heb 2:5ff.; 12:9; Jas 4:7; 1 Pet 2:13; 3:22; and 5:5; and negative ones in Rom 8:7; 10:3; Gal 2:5 (no obedience to false brethren); 1 Tim 1:9; and Tit 1:6, 10. Even verses that tend to offend Western cultural sensibilities—e.g., 1 Cor 14:34; Tit 2:5, 9; 3:1; 1 Pet 2:18, and 3:1ff.— shed light upon the understanding of the term in its relation to virtue and goodness if interpreted carefully according to New Testament understandings of order (τάξις), particularly with regard to early Church life, worship, and liturgy. The Theology of the Episcopacy According to St. Ignatius of Antioch 235 with a loud voice, God’s voice: “Pay attention to the bishop, the council of presbyters, and the deacons.” To be sure, there were those who suspected that I said these things because I knew in advance about the division caused by certain people. But the one for whose sake I am in chains is my witness that I did not learn this from any human being. No, the Spirit itself was preaching, saying these words: “Do nothing without the bishop. Guard your bodies as the temple of God. Love unity. Flee from divisions. Become imitators of Jesus Christ, just as he is of his Father.” I was doing my part, therefore, as a man set on unity. (Philad. 7.1–8.1) From this, one sees that, for Ignatius, the exhortation to unity under the bishop is the Spirit’s work, and part of his proof is that he himself knew not of the divisions when he spoke to them. Therefore, he was not speaking with his own voice, but with God’s (θεοῦ φωνῇ), and his preaching was the Spirit’s (τὸ δὲ πνεῦμα ἐκήρυσσεν), and his reason was because he was seeking unity (ἕνωσιν), implicitly the work of the Holy Spirit in the lives of the faithful.29 Ignatius’s Moral Exhortations and Canonical Norms Moral life with the bishop Because of his explicit theology of the episcopacy, Ignatius inferred the moral implications for the bishop’s coworkers and flock. In other words, he did not leave his beloved audiences to answer for themselves what it meant to live under the authority of one who is “being bishoped by” God. And though he urged his audiences to do or not do, he wrote in a collegial tone, self-deprecatory at times, emphasizing his unworthiness. Through his humility, it is quite clear that he was speaking authoritatively,30 even, Chadwick says, with fortissimo. The predominant theme to which his admonitions concerning the episcopacy can be adjoined is: “do nothing without the bishop” (ἄνευ τοῦ ἐπισκόπου μηδὲν πράσσειν ὑμᾶς) (Trall., 2.2).31 This “nothing” 29 30 31 Cf. Hermut Löhr, “The Epistles of Ignatius of Antioch,” in The Apostolic Fathers: An Introduction, ed. Wilhelm Pratscher (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2010), 109–110. Matthew W. Mitchell, “In the Footsteps of Paul: Scriptural and Apostolic Authority in Ignatius of Antioch,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 14, no. 1 (Spring 2006): 42–43. Cf. also Magn. 4.1 and 7.1, Trall., 7.2, and Philad. 7.2. Frequently, Ignatius also stresses similar obedience to the presbytery. 236 Kevin M. Clarke (μηδὲν) would seem to refer to the typical actions of an early church community—evangelization, catechesis, and sacramental ministry (see below). Ignatius wrote that opposing the bishop and excluding oneself from the congregation is arrogant and finds God’s opposition; such a one passes judgment on himself (Eph. 5.3). Ignatius considered that the age of a bishop has no bearing upon his legitimacy, as illustrated by his support for the Bishop Damas (Magn. 3.1–2). One who opposes the bishop does not act in good conscience (Magn. 4.1 and Trall., 7.2). Ignatius also encouraged his audience to be of the same mind as the bishop: “it is proper for you to run together in harmony with the mind of the bishop” (πρέπει ὑμῖν συντρέχειν τῇ τοῦ ἐπισκόπου γνώμῃ). He praised the Ephesian presbytery for its harmony with the bishop as strings on a harp (Eph. 4.1–2). In the hierarchical order, the presbyters deferred to the bishop (Magn. 3.1). Furthermore, Ignatius consistently exhorted his audiences to strive for unity, pointing out that unity with the bishop prevents division (Magn. 6.2) and helps one avoid corrupt men (Trall., 7.2). This reference to corrupt men in his letter to the Trallians is specifically related to the Docetists. Thus, the figure of the bishop may be understood as the safeguard against heresy (cf. Trall., 7–10). The dignity of the office also has ramifications for the bishop’s own conduct, as Ignatius illustrated by his collegial words to his fellow bishop, Polycarp. Ignatius devoted most of his letter to exhortations (Polyc. 1–5). Here is a brief excerpt: Do justice to your office with constant care for both physical and spiritual concerns. Focus on unity, for there is nothing better. Bear with all people, even as the Lord bears with you; endure all in love, just as you now do. Devote yourself to unceasing prayers; ask for greater understanding than you have. Keep alert with an unresting spirit. Speak to the people individually, in accordance with God’s example. Bear the diseases of all, as a perfect athlete. Where there is more work, there is much gain. (Polyc., 1.2–3) In the letter, Ignatius gave several images for the episcopacy. He likened Polycarp to an athlete, to an anvil that is struck, and to one who is sought by the season (ὁ καιρός) as sailors seek wind in good conditions and harbor from stormy seas. All of this served his purpose in an exhortation of his fellow bishop to steadfastness through difficult times and for the sake of the flock. The Theology of the Episcopacy According to St. Ignatius of Antioch 237 A step toward canon law: sacraments and the bishop In several places in Ignatius’s writings, he seems to have laid down what could be considered “canonical norms” for the sacramental celebrations. For example, he wrote that a valid Eucharist is celebrated by a bishop or one whom he appoints (Smyrn. 8.1). The congregation is to be wherever the bishop is.32 There is to be no baptism or “love feast” apart from him (Smyrn., 8.2). William Schoedel points out that the “love feast” referenced here likely includes the Eucharist because of its juxtaposition with baptism. He also adds that parallels between this letter and Matthew 18 indicate a common body of church regulations.33 In Ignatius’s view, the unity of sacramental celebrations and ecclesiastical unity coinhere in the figure of the bishop.34 For Ignatius, the bishop is in the Eucharistic mystery itself (one Eucharist, one flesh, one chalice, oneness of blood, one altar, one bishop). He wrote: Take care, therefore, to participate in one Eucharist (for there is one flesh of our Lord Jesus Christ, and one cup that leads to unity through his blood; there is one altar, just as there is one bishop, together with the council of presbyters and the deacons, my fellow servants), in order that whatever you do, you do in accordance with God. (Philad. 4.1)35 In addition to the participation in the eucharistic mystery, there is even a sacramental quality of the bishop himself, who, in his office, seems to point to a divine reality. Ignatius, for example, described Onesimus as “your bishop in the flesh” (ὑμῶν δὲ ἐν σαρκὶ ἐπισκόπῳ) (Eph. 1.3). Since Ignatius consistently pairs flesh (σάρξ) and spirit (πνεῦμα), the association with σάρξ here implies another Bishop who is not in the flesh. Elsewhere, in an exhortation to obedience, he said, “for it is not so much a matter of deceiving this bishop who is seen 32 33 34 35 This is the oft-cited first reference to the phrase “Catholic Church” (ὅπου ἂν φανῇ ὁ ἐπίσκοπος, ἐκεῖ τὸ πλῆθος ἔστω, ὥσπερ ὅπου ἂν ᾖ Χριστός Ἰησοῦς, ἐκεῖ ἡ καθολικὴ ἐκκλησία). Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch, 244. Kharlamov, “Emergence of Deification Theme,” 64. Σπουδάσατε οὖν μιᾷ εὐχαριστίᾳ χρῆσθαι· μία γὰρ σὰρξ τοῦ κυρίου ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ, καὶ ἓν ποτήριον εἰς ἕνωσιν τοῦ αἵματος αὐτοῦ· ἓν θυσιαστήριον, ὡς εἷς ἐπίσκοπος, ἅμα τῷ πρεσβυτερίῳ καὶ διακόνοις, τοῖς συνδούλοις μου· ἵνα ὃν ἐὰν πράσσητε, κατὰ θεὸν πράσσητε. Cf. Eph. 20.2 and Magn. 7.1–2. 238 Kevin M. Clarke (τὸν ἐπίσκοπον τοῦτον τὸν βλεπόμενον) but of cheating the one who is unseen (τὸν ἀόρατον). In such a case he must reckon not with the flesh, but with God, who knows our secrets” (Magn. 3.2). Here the action is transferred from the seen bishop to the unseen God. Excursus: Apostolic Succession Before concluding thoughts, the topic merits a few words on apostolic succession. The theology of the episcopacy of St. Ignatius extended what St. Paul had developed in New Testament epistles. By Ignatius’s time, the “monepiscopacy”—that is, the organization of individual churches under one bishop—had been well-established within the Church.36 Carl Smith writes that “Ignatius goes far beyond what is advocated in the canonical writings with their conceptions of leadership by a plurality of elders under the supervision of apostles or their designees.”37 It must be said, however, that the Ignatian writings on the episcopacy do not constitute a breach of continuity away from St. Paul’s writings, rather the development of the episcopacy in the subsequent era, an era that faced new difficulties, as well as old difficulties intensified. While St. Paul, an apostle, had oversight of the bishops Timothy and Titus, the bishop Ignatius showed collegiality with regard to his fellow bishops. He wrote to them and exhorted them, but recognized their own authority under heaven.38 Also, he does not seem to command authority over any of the churches he addresses. This is to be expected, as the time of the apostles had drawn to a close. Thus, the monepiscopacy reflected that the apostolic structure of the Church had transitioned into a bishop-led structure. As mentioned above, the letters of Ignatius did not elucidate a theology of apostolic succession. One can say, however, that the letters presuppose the doctrine’s incubation and growth in the life of the Church prior to his writing. It is difficult to conceive how Ignatius’s theologically rich expositions above could be accepted by the particular churches without an understanding of apostolic succession. Catechetically, Ignatius would have needed to establish first the succession of the bishops from the apostles in order to develop his theology—that is, unless the teaching were already known in some manner by both 36 37 38 On the discussion of the terms “monepiscopacy” and “monarchical episcopacy,” see Isacson, “Follow Your Bishop!,” 318n4. Carl B. Smith, “Ministry, Martyrdom, and Other Mysteries: Pauline Influence on Ignatius of Antioch,” in Paul and the Second Century, ed. Michael F. Bird and Joseph R. Dodson (London: T&T Clark, 2011), 49. Ibid., 50. Cf. Polyc. Sal. The Theology of the Episcopacy According to St. Ignatius of Antioch 239 bishop and faithful. It could be suggested that Ignatius himself did not yet know of this doctrine. However, is quite possible that he did, as St. Clement had already given it form in writing about a decade earlier: Our apostles likewise knew, through our Lord Jesus Christ, that there would be strife over the bishop’s office. For this reason, therefore, having received complete foreknowledge, they appointed the leaders mentioned earlier and afterwards they gave the offices a permanent character; that is, if they should die, other approved men should succeed to their ministry (διαδέξωνται ἕτεροι δεδοκιμασμένοι ἄνδρες τὴν λειτουργίαν αὐτῶν) (I Clement 44.1–2).39 It is likely that, by Ignatius’s, time this at least was already understood in the early Church. What would be unexpected would be that, by the early second century, the Church authorities had not thought this over yet! And indeed, Ignatius’s writings seem to presuppose Clement’s thought here. For example, the Magnesian church had not been honoring Bishop Damas because of his youth. But there is no talk of removing him, as had previously been addressed by Clement.40 Rather, those who are content to do things apart from Damas “do not appear to me to act in good conscience” (Magn. 4.1). Ignatius did not conciliate or offer alternative solutions; he urged them back to Damas. Also, Smith observes that, while Ignatius did not address apostolic succession, he did say that the bishop, presbyters, and deacons “have been appointed by the mind of Jesus Christ” (ἀποδεδειγμένοις ἐν γνώμῃ Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ) (Philad. Sal.).41 James McCue writes that “Ignatius quite clearly considers the bishop to be appointed by God.”42 This shows an element of divine election, which is congruous with the thought of Clement. Thus, one can say that, while Ignatius did not develop the doctrine of apostolic succession, he nonetheless wrote within the lived context of the burgeoning mystery that is apostolic succession. The doctrine would be further elucidated by Irenaeus within the century. 39 40 41 42 Holmes proposes the date of the composition of 1 Clement to be “during the last two decades of the first century” (The Apostolic Fathers, 35–36). Cf. I Clem., 44.4: “For it will be no small sin for us if we depose from the bishop’s office those who have offered the gifts blamelessly and in holiness.” Smith, “Pauline Influence on Ignatius,” 50. See also Löhr, “Epistles of Ignatius,” 106. James F. McCue, “Bishops, Presbyters, and Priests in Ignatius of Antioch,” in Readings in the Theology of the Church, ed. Edward J. Dirkswager, Jr. (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1970), 137. 240 Kevin M. Clarke Relevance for Today Are the writings of Ignatius trapped in their own time, so to speak, relevant to the life of the early Church only, or are they filled with a sort of enduring relevance for the Church of every age? At this point, the answer should be clear that, because of Ignatius’s profound teachings on the episcopate in the life of the Church, his writings have profound relevance for all Christians whose churches are organized under one bishop.43 Eucharistic ecclesiology The letters of Ignatius have much to offer the field of ecclesiology and, inasmuch as they describe a primitive Church model, provide a meeting point for ecumenical dialogue. At the same time, ἕνωσις was the goal of Christian life for Ignatius, who painted an image in the early Church of ecclesia in ecclesiis, its “most important characteristic,” according to then-Cardinal Ratzinger—who makes clear that this does not refer to some sort of Christian pluralism, but rather to particular churches existing together as Church. Out of this Church-in-churches structure came the idea of “office,” which has the Ignatian description as its classical model.44 Believers are a community only by being so in reference to the bishop, who himself is bishop inasmuch as he is in communion with the other bishops, who, as a “collegium,” are in communion with the bishop of Rome.45 Ratzinger says that the “oldest ecclesiology” is the Eucharistic gathering: “If the Church is Eucharist, then the ecclesial office of overseer (episkopos) is essentially responsible for the coming together that is identical with the Church—but this process of coming together encompasses all of life.”46 Ratzinger further relates the eucharistic oneness to Ignatius’s ecclesiology, at the same time conveying the enduring significance for the Church: The “monarchial episcopate” taught by Ignatius of Antioch irrevocably remains an essential structure of the Church, being as it is a precise exegesis of a crucially important reality: the Eucharist 43 44 45 46 The CCC, for example, references his writings far more than any other Apostolic Father, citing him eighteen times. Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, Principles of Catholic Theology: Building Stones for a Fundamental Theology, trans. Sr. Mary Frances McCarthy, S.N.D. (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1987), 252–253. Cf. Chadwick, Church in Ancient Society, 78. Ibid., 253–254. Ibid., 254. The Theology of the Episcopacy According to St. Ignatius of Antioch 241 is public; it is the Eucharist of the whole Church, of the one Christ. Therefore no one may rightfully pick out “his own” Eucharist. . . . A Church understood eucharistically is a Church constituted episcopally.47 The enduring consequence is that those who wish to be a Eucharistic people must also foster a greater love for office as a sign and symbol of the very oneness of Christianity. Pastoral implications in the life of the faithful Thus, an Ignatian understanding of the particular church “order” has great pastoral potential for restoring unity. It is difficult at times to read the epistles of Ignatius outside of Western culture’s anti-authoritarian suspicion that is its inheritance from Kant. That is the task, however, in grasping the true meaning and understanding the relevance of Ignatius for our time. Returning to the ἕνωσις that Ignatius desires will require a reunification and an overcoming of division—both pastorally and doctrinally.48 In order to be cooperators in the ἕνωσις of the Church, the members of the lay faithful face an enormous challenge over the coming years: heroically entering into the spiritual work of mercy by forgiving past wrongs by members of the episcopacy. It is, however, utterly necessary as an ecclesial movement in order to once again find the harmony and single-mindedness that the apostolic fathers proclaim. It is contrary to the Ignatian ecclesial model—whose raison d’être is ἕνωσις, a fruit enjoyed by the work of obedience—that its members should be satisfied to subsist in division. And again, this need for union and obedience, which are “synonyms for Ignatius,”49 is not so much because of who bishops are, but because of by whom they are “being bishoped.”The bishop presides in the place (τόπον) of God (Magn. 6.1). 47 48 49 Ratzinger, Called to Communion: Understanding the Church Today, trans. Adrian Walker (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1996), 78–79. How that would come about is beyond the scope of this article. There are two principal areas of division within the Church itself: between priests and the bishop and between the laity and their bishop. Based on an Ignatian perspective on the modern crisis, catecheses on ὑποταγή (subordination) and ὑπακοή (obedience) are greatly needed. Such catecheses, of course, are not without their challenges. A catechesis on faith in ecclesiastical authorities would have to be both preliminary and effective. Only exemplary bishops, priests, and religious, through their life within this “order” and their conforming to Christ-crucified, can provide the preliminary catechesis. Richardson, Christianity of Ignatius, 34. 242 Kevin M. Clarke For this reason, bishops should resist the temptation to abscond from liturgical ministry and catechetical activities or to delegate unnecessarily these responsibilities to others. After all, obedience and reverence toward the bishop are acts of worship for the faithful, an act that relates them to God. Since the Second Vatican Council, Catholics have devoted much reflection toward the role of the laity in the life of the Church. The letters of Ignatius have much to add to this reflection, particularly as relates to the bishop and his particular church. Theologically, in the life of the laity, the bishop is the example of the love (ἐξεμπλάριον τῆς ἀγάπης ὑμῶν) of his people (Trall., 3.2). To other particular churches, the bishop embodies the ecclesial charism of his own people and conducts their love to his fellow bishops.50 All throughout the world, Christians observe traditions that honor their bishops—blessing the lambs’ wool on the feast of St. Agnes, giving the bishops elaborate vestments and rightly treating them as royalty, increasing the churches’ missionary efforts through their appeals, and not only that, but joining in the sacramental celebrations themselves. In St. Ignatius’s theological system, these are not inconsequential activities, but true Christian works that reveal the laity’s love to the rest of the particular churches and to the world. Conclusion In his imprisonment and en route to his martyrdom, Ignatius indirectly invited his audience to be among those for whom he is offering his martyrdom. He said, “Pay attention to the bishop (Τῷ ἐπισκόπῳ προσέχετε), in order that God may pay attention to you. I am a ransom on behalf of those who are obedient to the bishop, presbyters, and deacons (ἀντίψυχον ἐγὼ τῶν ὑποτασσομένων τῷ ἐπισκόπῳ, πρεσβυτέροις, διακόνοις) (Polyc. 6.1). Ignatius has made himself a propitiation for the Christian community who subordinate themselves to the bishop. In his martyrdom, according to Chrysostom, he won five crowns.51 For the early Church, in which martyrdom was union with Christ and the pinnacle of Christian witness, entering into Ignatius’s self-offering would have been a very compelling reason to submit to the bishop. It is, therefore, likely that his exhortations would have achieved on many levels the end toward which he directed them: ἕνωσις. Pope Benedict XVI synthesizes Ignatius’s influential theology and points to his continued significance: 50 51 Cf. Eph. 1.3 and Trall., 1.1–2. St. John Chrysostom, pan. Ign. 4. The Theology of the Episcopacy According to St. Ignatius of Antioch 243 Overall, it is possible to grasp in the letters of Ignatius a sort of constant and fruitful dialectic between two characteristic aspects of Christian life: on the one hand, the hierarchical structure of the ecclesial community, and on the other, the fundamental unity that binds all the faithful in Christ. Consequently, their roles cannot be opposed to one another. On the contrary, the insistence on communion among believers and of believers with their pastors was constantly reformulated in eloquent images and analogies: the harp, strings, intonation, the concert, the symphony. The special responsibility of bishops, priests and deacons in building the community is clear. . . . Ultimately, Ignatius’s realism invites the faithful of yesterday and today, invites us all, to make a gradual synthesis between configuration to Christ (union with him, life in him) and dedication to his Church (unity with the Bishop, generous service to the community and to the world).52 Ignatius’s epistles leave a true example of collegiality among bishops, as well as a lucid theo-logy of the episcopacy and a vivid description of hierarchical order in the Church. Their power to effect ἕνωσις endures nearly two millennia after their composition. One could say that Ignatius himself, despite his penchant for self-deprecatory remarks, was “being bishoped by” God the Father and the Lord Jesus Christ on his final journey and, in his person, achieved the union of episcopal office and eucharistic sacrifice. While the Church has certainly outgrown the organizational model of the second century, she has not outgrown the ecclesiology. On the contrary, she needs an ecclesiological ressourcement if the harp is to be well-tuned. The bishop is not a political figurehead or some chairman and CEO of a geographically united group of believers.Theologically, a bishop’s relation to God the Father and to the Lord Jesus Christ is the same in the third millennium as in the second century. He is not the adversary of anyone under him. Thus, Ignatius’s understanding that the bishop is “being bishoped,” being led by God, has continuing ramifications today for a theological ecclesiology that recognizes God at the N&V heart of Church liturgy and guidance. 52 Pope Benedict XVI, General Audience “St. Ignatius of Antioch.” Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 1 (2016): 245–270245 St. Thomas Aquinas “Rightly Dividing the Word of Truth”: The Historical and Theological Contours of Thomas’s Principia Joseph K. Gordon Johnson University Kissimmee, FL Leo XIII’s commendation of the philosophy of St.Thomas Aquinas in Aeterni Patris (1879) created the exigency for the extensive scholarly engagement with Thomas’s philosophy that took place in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The modern efforts at retrieving and explaining his work that resulted from this engagement, for all of their value, risked obscuring the actual thirteenth-century Thomas to the extent that they neglected the scriptural dimensions of his thought. Before being a philosopher, Thomas was a religious and a theologian. It is unlikely that he would have recognized a sharp disciplinary distinction between philosophy as such and theology as such. He was certainly not a speculative philosophical theologian in the modern sense; if anything, he should be classified as a scriptural theologian.1 Thomas’s religious vocation as a Dominican, literally “the order of preachers” (ordinis praedicatorum), and his academic profession, “master of the Sacred Page” (magister in sacra pagina), both attest to this fact.Thomas lived in an atmosphere saturated by Sacred Scripture.2 Any 1 2 See Henri de Lubac, “On an Old Distich:The Doctrine of the ‘Fourfold Sense’ in Scripture,” in Theological Fragments, trans. Rebecca Howell Balinski (San Francisco, CA: Ignatius, 1989), 126. Thomas chanted the entire Psalter during the offices every week, and the Dominican temporale included lessons from almost all of Scripture; see William R. Bonniwell, A History of the Dominican Liturgy 1215–1945, 2nd ed. (New York: Joseph F. Wagner Inc., 1945), 134–140. 246 Joseph K. Gordon attempt to understand his theology or his philosophy apart from their scriptural moorings cannot help but be incomplete. Fr. Chenu notes: It is true that in the history of Thomism the Summa theologiae has monopolized everyone’s attention and commentaries; but therein precisely lies a grave problem, and to understand and solve it, the first condition is to avoid obliterating the fact that the Summa is embedded in an evangelical soil. . . . In the XIIIth century, the university institution produced disputed questions and summas only within the framework of scriptural teaching. In this pedagogical framework, theology found an apt expression of the law that rules over it since theology can become a science only inasmuch as it remains in communion with the word of God that has first to be heard for itself. A tree cut from its roots dies, even if it remains standing.3 The years that have elapsed since Chenu wrote have happily witnessed the beginnings of a large-scale investigation of the scriptural dimensions of Thomas’s work and life.4 Studies devoted to Thomas’s use of Scripture in his more “speculative” works have clearly demonstrated the scriptural character of even his most synthetic and abstract theological reflections.5 Scholars have also begun to give concentrated attention 3 4 5 Marie-Dominique Chenu, Toward Understanding Saint Thomas, trans. A. M. Landy and D. Hughes (Chicago: Henry Regnery Company, 1964), 233–234 (italics mine for emphasis). For helpful introductions to Thomas on Scripture, see Christopher Baglow, “Sacred Scripture and Sacred Doctrine in Saint Thomas Aquinas,” in Aquinas on Doctrine: A Critical Introduction, eds. Thomas Weinandy, Daniel Keating, and John Yocum (New York: T & T Clark, 2004), 1–26; John Boyle, “St. Thomas and Sacred Scripture,” Pro Ecclesia 4, no.1 (1995): 92–104; Karlfried Froehlich, “Thomas Aquinas (1224/25–1274),” in Dictionary of Major Biblical Interpreters, ed. Donald McKim (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 2006), 979–985; Nicholas Healy, “Introduction,” in Aquinas on Scripture: An Introduction to his Biblical Commentaries, eds. Thomas Weinandy, Daniel Keating, and John Yocum (London: T & T Clark, 2005), 1–20; and Thomas Prügl, “Thomas Aquinas as Interpreter of Scripture,” in The Theology of Thomas Aquinas, ed. Rik Van Nieuwenhove and Joseph Wawrykow (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2005), 386–415. Amazingly, the Oxford Handbook of Aquinas, ed. Brian Davies and Elenore Stump (New York: Oxford, 2012), which examines almost all of the topics upon which Thomas wrote, does not include a single article on how Scripture influenced Thomas or on any of his biblical commentaries! See especially Marc Aillet, Lire la Bible avec S. Thomas: Le passage de la littera à la res dans la Somme théologique (Freiburg: Éditions Universitaires Fribourg The Historical and Theological Contours of Thomas’s Principia 247 to the theoretical and spiritual dimensions of Thomas’s hermeneutics and to the place of the study of Scripture in his theological method.6 A number of studies have recently appeared that examine Thomas’s commentaries on Sacred Scripture.7 Finally, several recent works investigate the contemporary relevance of Thomas’s understanding of the 6 7 Suisse, 1993); Matthew Levering, “A Note on Scripture in the Summa Theologiae,” New Blackfriars 90, no. 1030 (2009): 652–658; Eleanor Stump, “Biblical Commentary and Philosophy,” in The Cambridge Companion to Aquinas, eds. Norman Kretzmann and Eleanor Stump (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 252–268; and Wilhelmus Valkenberg, Words of the Living God: Place and Function of Holy Scripture in the Theology of St. Thomas Aquinas (Leuven: Peeters, 2000). On his hermeneutics, see especially Gilbert Dahan, “Saint Thomas d’Aquin et la métaphore: Rhétorique et herméneutique,” in Lire le Bible au Moyen Âge: Essais d’hermeneutique medieval (Geneva: Librairie Droz, 2009), 249–282; Mark Johnson, “Another Look at the Plurality of the Literal Sense,” Medieval Philosophy and Theology 2 (1992): 117–141; and R. G. Kennedy, “Thomas Aquinas and the Literal Sense of Sacred Scripture”(PhD diss., University of Notre Dame, 1985); Eugene F. Rogers, “How the Virtues of the Interpreter Presuppose and Perfect Hermeneutics: The Case of Thomas Aquinas,” Journal of Religion 76, no. 1 (1996): 64–81; and Rogers, “Selections from Thomas Aquinas’s Commentary on Romans,” in The Theological Interpretation of Scripture: Classical and Contemporary Readings, ed. Stephen Fowl (Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 1997), 320–338. On the place of Scripture in his theological method, see Leo J. Elders, “Aquinas on Holy Scripture as the Medium of Divine Revelation,” in La doctrine de la revelation divine de saint Thomas d’Aquin, ed. Leo J. Elders, Studi Tomistici 37 (Vatican City: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 1990), 132–152; and Per Erik Persson, Sacra Doctrina: Reason and Revelation in Aquinas, trans. Ross Mackenzie (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1970). See Christopher T. Baglow, “Modus et Forma”: A New Approach to the Exegesis of Saint Thomas Aquinas with an Application to the Lectura super Epistolam ad Ephesios, Analecta Biblica 149 (Rome: Editrice Pontificio Istituto Biblico, 2002); C. Clifton Black, “St. Thomas’s Commentary on the Johannine Prologue: Some Reflections on its Character and Implications,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 48 (1986): 681–698; Michael Dauphinais and Matthew Levering, Reading John with St. Thomas Aquinas (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2005); Franklin Harkins, “Docuit excellentissimae divinitatis mysteria: St. Paul in Thomas Aquinas,” in A Companion to St. Paul in the Middle Ages, ed. Steven Cartwright (Boston: Brill, 2013), 235–263; Dauphinais and Levering, Reading Romans with St. Thomas Aquinas (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2012); Thomas Ryan, Thomas Aquinas as Reader of the Psalms (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2000); and Weinandy, Keating, and Yocum, Aquinas on Scripture. For a helpful recent summary of Thomas’s commentaries and a proposed chronology, see Prügl, “Thomas Aquinas,” 387–391. 248 Joseph K. Gordon nature and purpose of Scripture and of his scriptural hermeneutics.8 Notwithstanding the burgeoning body of literature on the scriptural dimensions of Thomas’s thought, more work remains. The sermon was the “natural habitat”of Scripture during Thomas’s time.9 Despite this fact, relatively little research, especially in English, has appeared that examines the content and style of Thomas’s extant sermons.10 His 8 9 10 See Peter Candler, Theology, Rhetoric and Manuduction: Or Reading Scripture Together on the Path to God (London: SCM Press, 2006); Stephen E. Fowl, “The Importance of a Multivoiced Literal Sense of Scripture: The Example of Thomas Aquinas,” in A. K. M. Adam, Stephen E. Fowl, Kevin J. Vanhoozer, and Francis Watson, Reading Scripture with the Church: Toward a Hermeneutic for Theological Interpretation (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2006), 25–50; Levering, Participatory Biblical Exegesis: A Theology of Biblical Interpretation (South Bend, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2008); Levering, Scripture and Metaphysics: Aquinas and the Renewal of Trinitarian Theology (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2004); Levering, “St. Thomas Aquinas and the Pontifical Biblical Commission,” Pro Ecclesia 13 (2004): 25–38; Matthew Ramage, Dark Passages of the Bible: Engaging Scripture with Benedict XVI and St. Thomas Aquinas (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2013); Matthew A. Tapie, Aquinas on Israel and the Church: The Question of Supercessionism in the Theology of Thomas Aquinas (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2014); and David Williams, Receiving the Bible in Faith (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2004), 24–34. I am indebted to Mark Johnson for the turn of phrase, “natural habitat.” For an exposition of this judgment, see Louis-Jacques Bataillon, “Early Scholastic and Mendicant Preaching as Exegesis of Scripture,” in Ad Litteram: Authoritative Texts and Their Medieval Readers, eds. Mark Jordan and Kent Emery, Jr. (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1992), 165–198. Louis-Jacques Bataillon, who was editing the first volume of the Leonine edition of Thomas’s sermons until his death in 2009, has done more than anyone else to draw attention to Thomas’s preaching. After a number of delays, this volume has finally appeared. See Thomas d’Aquinas, Sermones, ed. Louis J. Bataillon et al., Sancti Thomae de Aquino Opera Omnia 44/1 (Rome-Paris: Leonine Commission du Cerf, 2014). As Adriano Oliva, current president of the Leonine commission, notes, “the richness of this volume is twofold. The first, in the most general sense, corresponds to the study of preaching, mainly in university contexts, in the Middle Ages: the general introduction of the volume studies all the collections of manuscripts that have transmitted the sermons of Thomas, authentic or only attributed, and thus represents a small introduction to this sort of preaching and the method with which it should be studied. The second contribution of the introduction, and also of the edition of the sermons itself, is to reveal an unedited Thomas: the reportationes of his homilies introduce us to his presence. It seems as though he were speaking directly to those who read the sermons today. On the other hand, the topics treated by Aquinas lead us to an encounter, sometimes with the teacher, at other times with the friar, and at other times with the uir euangelicus”; see Anuario Filosófico 39, no. 2 (2006): 497–520, at 509. Bataillon gives The Historical and Theological Contours of Thomas’s Principia 249 two inception sermons at the University of Paris (1256) show the fundamental importance of Scripture in Thomas’s thinking. As was customary, Thomas gave these inaugural sermons, or principia, at his commencement ceremony as magister in sacra pagina after receiving his license to teach theology.11 Little concentrated and direct attention has been given to the place of these two principia in his hermeneutics and theology of Scripture in the secondary literature.12 Part of the 11 12 a brief introduction to Thomas’s preaching in Sermones, 11–13. For a recent article summarizing the history of studies on Thomas’s sermons and medieval preaching, particularly with reference to Bataillon’s contributions, see Nicole Bériou, “Le Père Bataillon et les ‘maîtres de la parole’: des sermons de Thomas d’Aquin à l’histoire de la prédication médiévale,”Medieval Sermon Studies 54 (2010): 9–26. For two useful studies in English of the scriptural dimensions of Thomas’s preaching, see Mark-Alan Hoogland, O.P., “Introduction,” in Thomas Aquinas: The Academic Sermons (Washington, DC: Catholic University Press, 2010), 3–20; and Randall B. Smith, “How to Read a Sermon by St. Thomas,” Nova et Vetera (English) 10, no. 3 (2012): 775–803. See also JeanPierre Torrell, “La pratique pastorale d’un théologien du XIIIe siècle: Thomas d’Aquin prédicateur,” Revue thomiste 82 (1982): 213–245; this essay has been reprinted in Torrell’s Recherches Thomasiennes (Paris: J. Vrin, 2000), 282–312. For bibliographic information for older studies of Thomas’s preaching, see ibid., 283n1. We will discuss their historical context in depth below. For a helpful recent discussion of the genre of principia, see Joshua Benson, “Identifying the Literary Genre of the De reductione artium ad theologiam: Bonaventure’s Inaugural Lecture at Paris,” Franciscan Studies 67 (2009): 149–178. Of the general introductions to the scriptural dimensions of Thomas’s thought mentioned above (see note 4), Baglow quotes a couple of lines from Thomas’s first principium without extensive comment, Froelich makes a brief passing mention of the principia, and Healy does not mention them at all. Boyle gives a more detailed treatment of Thomas’s first lecture/sermon, but he does not mention the second. Only Prügl gives them more sustained attention.Valkenberg’s excellent monograph does not give any attention to the principia. Inos Biffi has shown that the principia exhibit the same sapiential, Christocentric, and mystical understanding of sacra doctrina as Thomas’s other works; see his I misteri di Cristo in Tommaso d’Aquino, vol. 1 (Milan: Jaca Books, 1994), 33–59. To my knowledge, the only essay or article in English devoted specifically to the inaugural lectures is Matthew Levering’s “‘Ordering Wisdom’: Aquinas, the Old Testament, and Sacra Doctrina,” in Ressourcement Thomism: Sacred Doctrine, the Sacraments and the Moral Life, ed. Reinhard Hütter and Matthew Levering (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2010), 80–91. Levering offers a brief historical introduction to the lectures and then proceeds to summarize them, examining Thomas’s division of the Old Testament and evaluating its relevance for contemporary theological reflection. Levering examines Thomas’s second principium, or resumption principium first, and then examines his first principium, or principium in aula second, following 250 Joseph K. Gordon reason the principia have received so little attention is the late date (1912) of their discovery.13 No critical edition of the principia has been completed either, and like most of Thomas’s scriptural works, the work of translating the principia has been late in coming.14 Perhaps scholars of Thomas have judged the principia to be merely academic exercises, with little relevance for helping us to understand Thomas’s more substantive contributions. The doyen of medieval exegesis, Gilbert Dahan, has suggested that the inaugural sermons “contain almost nothing concerning [Thomas’s] theory of exegesis.”15 The general lack of attention given to these principia is lamentable, for these works, brief though they are, represent vitally important sources for understanding Thomas’s thought on the nature and function of Scripture and its proper interpretation. This essay seeks to further the above-mentioned work of understanding Thomas’s positions on the nature and value of Sacred Scripture through giving a thorough account of the historical context and theological character of Thomas’s principia. Following an examination of the historical context of Thomas’s principia in the thirteenth-century Parisian university system, this essay devotes special attention to the theological conceptuality 13 14 15 the order in which the sermons appear in Ralph McInerny’s translation; see “The Inaugural Lectures,” in Thomas Aquinas: Selected Writings, trans. Ralph McInerny (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1998), 5–17. McInerny’s translation follows the order of the sermons in the Marietti edition of Thomas’s works; see Opuscula Theologica, vol. 1 (Taurini: Marietti, 1954), 433–443. In his introduction to the principia in the Marietti edition, Raymundi Verardo suggests that Thomas gave the pricipium labeled Sermo II as a bachelor of the Bible, or cursor biblicus, in 1252 (see ibid., 433). Verardo bases his assumption on the work of Pierre Mandonnet in “Chronologie des écrits scripturaires de S. Thomas d’Aquin: 3 Enseignment de la Bible ‘selon l’usage de Paris,” Revue Thomiste 34 (1929): 489–519. See also Thomas Aquinas, S. Thomae Aquinatis opuscula omnia, ed. Pierre Mandonnet (Paris: Lethielleux, 1927), 4:481. As we will see below, Mandonnet’s judgment that the sermon on the divisions of Sacred Scripture is a bachelor principium and his consequent reversal of the order of the sermons is likely a mistake. On the extant manuscripts of the principia, see note 44 below. Neither of the principia appears in Leonine 44/1; they will appear alongside Thomas’s De decem praeceptis, Super Credo, Super Pater, and Super Ave Maria in Leonine 44/2. Mark Johnson and I are beginning work on an edition and new translation for publication.The only published English translation of both inaugural sermons is McInerny’s (“The Inaugural Lectures,” 5–17). Simon Tugwell has offered a translation of Thomas’s Principium in aula in Albert and Thomas: Selected Writings, trans. and ed. Simon Tugwell, The Classics of Western Spirituality (New York; Paulist Press, 1988), 353–361. Dahan, “Saint Thomas d’Aquin et la métaphore,” 250–251n4 (my translation). The Historical and Theological Contours of Thomas’s Principia 251 of Thomas’s commendation and division of Scripture in his principia. These examinations of the historical context of these lectures and of their theological purpose will demonstrate the significance of Thomas’s principia in his broader bibliology and their foundational relevance for his subsequent commentaries on Sacred Scripture. The Historical Context and Content of Thomas’s Principia When Thomas arrived at Dominican studium generale in Cologne in 1248 at the age of twenty-three, he already had likely been studying theology formally for over eight years at Naples and Paris.16 He quickly distinguished himself as a gifted student at Cologne and caught the attention of the Dominican master Albert the Great.17 In Cologne, he likely lectured as a cursor biblicus/baccalaureus biblicus under Albert. The role of the cursor biblicus was to expound the literal sense of the text of Scripture expeditiously and without delving into disputed matters or deeper or more complex theological questions.18 Thomas’s commentaries on Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Lamentations bear the characteristics of such cursory commentary and almost certainly date from the years preceding his magisterial inception.19 In 1251 or 1252, Thomas was summoned to the University of Paris, likely on the recommendation of Albert, for the next stage of his academic development.20 As a baccalaureus sententiarum in Paris, Thomas would have aided his new master, 16 17 18 19 20 For biographical information, see Jean-Pierre Torrell, Saint Thomas Aquinas, vol. 1: The Person and His Work, rev., ed., and trans. Robert Royal (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1996; 2005), 27ff; and James A. Weisheipl, Friar Thomas D’Aquino: His Life, Thought, and Work (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1974), 45ff. See Weisheipl, Friar Thomas, 41–46. For more on cursores, see Nancy Spatz, “Principia: A Study and Edition of Inception Speeches Delivered before the Faculty of Theology at the University of Paris, ca. 1180–1286” (PhD diss., Cornell University, 1992), 29–34. See Chenu, Toward Understanding, 242–243; and Weisheipl, Friar Thomas, 45 and 369–370. Weisheipl argues that the commentaries were written in Cologne (1248–1252) and notes that the authenticity of these three commentaries has been questioned because of their “doctrinae sterilitas.” Such “doctrinal sterility” likely reflects their cursory nature. Torrell argues that Thomas wrote them in Paris; see Saint Thomas, 27 and 411. Prügl observes that Thomas’s comments on the first eleven chapters of Isaiah delve into matters typical of magisterial commentary of the time (“Thomas Aquinas,” 388). Joseph Wawrykow corroborates Prügl’s judgment and offers a helpful brief overview of the debate about the historical context of the Expositio super Isaiam ad litteram in “Aquinas on Isaiah,” in Weinandy, Keating, and Yocum, Aquinas on Scripture, 43–72, here 44–45. So Torrell (Saint Thomas, 36), who makes reference to William of Tocco. 252 Joseph K. Gordon Elias Brunet, in disputations and would have written the required scriptum on the work of the Lombard.21 In February of 1256, prior to finishing his commentary on the Sentences, Thomas received the licentia docendi from the chancellor of the University Aimeric Veire and was commanded to prepare for his new magisterial responsibilities. In March, Pope Alexander IV wrote Aimeric to commend the chancellor for granting Thomas the licentia.22 At the age of only thirty-one,Thomas was four years younger than the required age for a new master.23 He was quite apprehensive about the responsibilities of this new position, and the ongoing difficulties between the mendicant orders and the secular masters at Paris probably exacerbated his anxiety.24 Though he protested on account of his age and inexperience, he had no choice but to obey and to prepare for the formal elements of his magisterial inception ceremony.25 Unfortunately, much of our information concerning the precise contours of the inception ceremonies of new masters in theology at the University of Paris comes from the mid-fourteenth century, a hundred years after Thomas incepted. The statutes from the fourteenth-century regulations in the Chartularium universitatis Parisiensis indicate that theology students gave principia three times during their scholastic career: first upon assuming the role of baccalaureus biblicus, then when beginning the responsibilities of the baccalaureus senten21 22 23 24 25 Elias was the regent master in theology in the Dominican chair for “foreigners” (ibid., 39; and Weisheipl, Friar Thomas, 67). For more on the roles of the baccalaureus sententiarum, see Spatz, “Principia,” 34–39. As Weisheipl puts it, he “was ordered to prepare for his inception, and for the grave responsibilities of a regent master in theology at the University of Paris. The initiative had come from the chancellor of the university, Aimeric de Veire, who granted the licentia in theologiae facultate docendi. In a special letter from the Lateran on March 3, 1256, Alexander IV commended Aimeric for having granted this license before his own letter on the subject had reached him” (Weisheipl, Friar Thomas, 95). See ibid., 101. For the details of the mendicant controversy, see ibid., 93–96. During the conflict between the secular masters and the mendicants, Pope Alexander IV solemnly commanded that the mendicants continue participating in the university, and specifically “intervened to allow Thomas Aquinas to incept. In his letter of March 3, 1256, to Americ of Veire, Chancellor of the University, the pope thanks Aimeric for having granted Thomas the license in theology (‘licentiam in theologia facultate docendi’) and urges that he have Thomas hold his principium as soon as possible (‘cito facias regiminis habere principium’)” (Spatz, “Principia,” 56). See Torrell, Saint Thomas, 50–51, and Weisheipl, Friar Thomas, 95. The Historical and Theological Contours of Thomas’s Principia 253 tiarum, and finally upon their inception as a master.26 These principia, Nancy Spatz explains, “mark[ed] the student’s entrance into new teaching positions.”27 Despite the temporal distance between Thomas’s inception and the Chartularium, Spatz’s thorough investigation of the principia of other thirteenth-century masters demonstrates the high probability that Thomas’s inception ceremony would have included all of the major elements indicated in the later Chartularium in a simplified form.28 Thomas’s inception ceremony as magister in sacra pagina would have likely spanned at least parts of three separate days.29 The respective 26 27 28 29 H. Denifle and E. Chatelain, Chartularium universitatis Parisiensis (Paris: Ex typis fratrum Delalain, 1889–1897). On the contents of the Chartularium on magisterial inception ceremonies, Spatz writes: “The two collections of statutes concerning the faculty are edited in the Chartularium universitatis Parisiensis, vol. 2; namely, document no. 1188 dating from a period after 1334 and before 1366, and document no. 1189 containing statutes from 1366 and from around 1383–89. Both documents are very succinct and assume a great deal of knowledge of traditional practices” (“Principia,” 26). I rely on Spatz’s interpretation of the statutes in what follows. Spatz, “Principia,” 3. Spatz and Athanasius Sulavik have undertaken invaluable investigations of published and unpublished principia from the period in question in order to shed light on the various components of magisterial inception ceremonies in theology in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.The following summary relies heavily on their research. See Spatz, “Principia,” as well as her “Evidence of Inception Ceremonies in the Twelfth Century Schools of Paris,” in History of Universities, vol. 13, ed. Peter Denley (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994), 6; Spatz, “Imagery in University Inception Sermons,” in Medieval Sermons and Society: Cloister, City, University, ed. J. Hamesse, B. M. Kienzle, D. L. Soudt, and A.T.Thayer (Louvain: Louvain-La-Neuve, 1998), 329–342; Athanasius Sulavik, “Principia and Introitus in Thirteenth Century Christian Biblical Exegesis with Related Texts,” in La Bibbla del XIII Secolo: Storia del Testo, Storia dell’Esegesi, ed. Giuseppi Cremascoli and Francesco Santi (Firenza: Sismel, 2004), 269–321; and Sulavik, “An Unedited Principium Biblicum Attributed to Petrus de Scala, O. P.,” Angelicum 79 (2002): 87–126. For concise summaries of what inception ceremonies would likely have included in the thirteenth century, see Spatz, “Evidence of Inception Ceremonies,” 6–7, and “Imagery in University Inception Sermons,” 331. As Spatz clarifies in her dissertation, it is important to note that “actual ceremonies [in the thirteenth century] sometimes deviated from the prescribed guidelines for inception ceremonies described in the fourteenth century statutes. In the early thirteenth century the ceremony was simpler, omitting the three-day sequence of formalities. Moreover, the precise terminology given in the statutes was not always adhered to: in texts of thirteenth century inception speeches often the discourses delivered by the new master were simply referred to by the generic term of principium, sermo, lectio, or introitus, rather than reptitio or resumptio. In 254 Joseph K. Gordon elements of thirteenth-century Parisian magisterial inception ceremonies could take place on any dies legibilis, which eliminated the long summer break (June 28–September 15), holy days, and days that had already been scheduled for other inceptions.30 We can infer from the Papal correspondence mentioned above that all of the components of Thomas’s own inception ceremony took place sometime between March 3 and June 17 of 1256.31 The inception ceremony would begin with vesperies, an evening service that included two disputations on questions of the incepting student’s own choosing. The first was a general disputation between a senior master and the bachelors present in the audience. The second disputation took place between the incepting student and his master and was left unresolved. Following the disputations, the vesperies concluded with the master of the incepting student commending his pupil in a speech.32 On the following morning at half tierce (just before 9:00 AM), classes were excused for a formal ceremony in which the incepting student received the teaching biretta from the presiding master and offered a lecture or sermon commending Sacred Scripture or the discipline of Sacra doctrina.33 This speech was known as the principium in aula or simply aula, so named because it took place in the great hall (aula) of the university.34 Thirteenth-century principia in aula typically began “with a brief passage from Scripture, a protheme, to which they refer repeatedly in what follows. . . . The scriptural quotation provides a structural basis from the principium.”35 The aula was to be brief, to the 30 31 32 33 34 35 addition, the term principium is often used ambiguously in the sources, referring to the ceremony and/or to the candidates discourse” (“Principia,” 6). For more on the terminology in inception ceremonies in the thirteenth century, see Sulavik, “Principia and Introitus,” 270, and “An Unedited Principium,” 90–91. Spatz, “Principia,” 40. Torrell, Saint Thomas, 51; Weisheipl, Friar Thomas, 96–97. My summary of the elements of the vesperies is dependent upon Spatz, “Principia,”40–42. Ibid., 43. Ibid., 43–44. For a discussion of the prothema in medieval sermons, see LouisJacques Bataillon, “Approaches to the Study of Medieval Sermons,” in La prédication au XIIIe siècle en France et Italie (Brookfield, VT: Ashgate, 1993), I. 28–29. Spatz, “Principia,” 130. Sulavik prefers the term “thema” and offers a nice concise summary of the purpose of this Scripture verse: “the scripture scholar, like the preacher, had to select a suitable thema—meaning not a topic, but a verse of Scripture—as an interpretive key for establishing the sequence of the books of Scripture. Authors differed in their elaboration of the thema: some used it extensively, others hardly at all. The selection of a proper biblical The Historical and Theological Contours of Thomas’s Principia 255 point, and partially open-ended.36 We will discuss the general characteristics of the principium in aula and the uniqueness of Thomas’s own aula speech below.37 At the conclusion of the ceremonial components of the vesperies and the aula, the incepting student technically became a “fullyfledged” master. As James Weisheipl notes, however, “he was obligated to complement his inception by certain functions proper to his state as master.”38 On the first dies legibilis following his aula, the new master was expected to conclude his principium in aula speech and resolve the second and third disputations of his inception ceremony.39 This final phase was appropriately called the resumptio or reassumptio. At this resumption, the new master gave a sermon that completed his aula and often contained a further commendation of Sacred Scripture. As Athanasius Sulavik notes, the new master’s first sermon, “had to offer a simple, coherent structure and rationale for the ordering of the books of the Bible, one which students could easily commit to memory.”40 Following Spatz, we will refer to this discourse as a resumption principium.41 Though it is certain that Thomas would have gone through the normal procedures for inception as a master—and thus would have given a principium in aula and a resumption principium—modern scholarship had no evidence of these sermons until the beginning of 36 37 38 39 40 41 thema upon which to order the books of the Bible was more often than not a personal choice” (Sulavik, “Principia and Introitus,” 277). See also Aquinas (ed. Bataillon), Sermones, 137. Spatz, “Principia,” 44–45. Following the principium in aula, the master would participate in two more “elaborate” disputations on questions of his choosing. These final disputations involved the new master, his master, the chancellor of the university, and other junior and senior faculty members.The incepting master was expected to offer a magisterial resolution to the third question, but the fourth question would be left open-ended. Finally, the official inception ceremony would end with the new master genuflecting before the high altar and then being led home by the masters of his own order (ibid., 45). Weisheipl, Friar Thomas, 100. As Spatz notes, “According to the Bolognese statutes the new master was not to leave town before he gave his first lecture” (“Principia,” 46). Sulavik, “An Unedited Principium,” 93. “The central characteristic all these resumption principia share,” Spatz explains, “is a meticulous division of the Old and New Testaments into their component books. This forms the core of all the resumption lectures, and so apparently was required or at least expected of all incoming masters” (“Principia,” 152). Spatz, “Principia,” 145. 256 Joseph K. Gordon the twentieth century. In 1912, Francesco Salvatore published two of Thomas’s sermons found in a sermon collection belonging to one of Thomas’s students, Remigio de’Girolami.42 Girolami was doctor at the Dominican studium generale in Florence from his licensure by the Pope in 1305 until his death in 1319. The manuscript collection, labeled by Remigio as Prologi super bibliam, contains sixteen introductory lectures on the entire Bible and twenty introductions to individual books of Scripture. M. Michèle Mulchahey describes the contents of this collection as “a cycle of principium lectures from a Dominican studium generale.”43 Among the contents of the collection are two documents entitled Sermo I. fratris Thome and Sermo II. fratris Thome, respectively.44 When the two Sermones fratris Thome were discovered, scholars immediately recognized Sermo I as Thomas’s principium in aula. This first sermon is an extended metaphorical interpretation of Ps 104:13: “You water the hills from your upper rooms, the earth is sated with the fruit of your works” (Rigans montes de superioribus suis de fructu operum tuorum satiabitur terra).45 Celebrated renaissance painter Fra Angelico (1395–1455) depicts Thomas holding the first inaugural lecture in two separate works, the San Domenico Altarpiece (1420) and the San Pietro Martire Altarpiece (1427/28).46 The former portrays 42 43 44 45 46 Francesco Salvatore, Due sermoni inediti: di S. Tommaso D’Aquino (Rome: Tipografia Editrice Nazionale, 1912). Marian Michèle Mulchahey, “First the Bow Is Bent in Study . . .”: Dominican Education Before 1350 (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1998), 390–396, at 392. Florence, Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale, MS Conv. soppr. G.4.936. The first sermon, “Rigans montes superioribus,” is found in fols. 268va–269va, and the second, “Hic est liber,” in fols.269va–270vb. As Sulavik notes, “Rigans montes has been identified in one other manuscript: München, Statbibl., Clm. 13501, ff. 10vb–11rb; cf. H. V. Schooner, Codices manuscripti . . . , t. II, p. 387 [1807]. Hic est liber has been identified in two manuscripts: London, British Museum, Harley 2808, ff. 429ra–430vb; cf. H.V. Schooner, idem, p. 239[1505]; and Venezia Biblioteca dei PP. Redentoristi 4 ff. 46va–47va” (“Principia and Introitus,” 273n16). This was actually Ps 103 in the numbering of the Psalms in Thomas’s day. The English translations of Thomas’s principia are from McInerny, “The Inaugural Lectures,” 13. The Latin text is from the Marietti edition of Thomas’s works. All other references to English and Latin of Thomas’s principia refer to these works, respectively. For the San Domenico Altarpiece, see http://www.wga.hu/art/a/angelico/00/10fieso2.jpg or John T. Spike, Fra Angelico (New York: Abbeville Press, 1997), 84–85 and 200–202. For the San Pietro Martire Altarpiece, see http:// www.wga.hu/art/a/angelico/12/00_peter.jpg or Spike, Fra Angelico, 86–91, 230. The Historical and Theological Contours of Thomas’s Principia 257 Thomas and Barnabas to the left of the Madonna with child, with Dominic and Peter Martyr on the right; the latter depicts the Madonna and child flanked by Dominic and John the Baptist on the left and Peter Martyr and Thomas the on the right. In both Thomas is holding a document with the words Rigans montes de superioribus suis clearly visible. The story of Thomas’s choice of Ps 104:13 as the protheme of his principium in aula is well known and famous. Given the upheaval of the mendicant controversy and the weighty responsibilities of the magister in sacra pagina, Thomas was distraught upon hearing that he was to incept. Shortly after learning of his new vocational assignment, he prayed fervently, beseeching God to grant him insight into the Scripture he should choose for the protheme of his inaugural lecture. When he fell asleep, he had a dream in which a distinguished Dominican—some have suggested that it was Dominic himself—visited him and told him to choose Ps 104:13.47 Thomas’s principium in aula is the only extant thirteenth-century principium that contains this passage as its protheme. As Spatz has shown, while the fourteenth-century Chartularium required the principium in aula to be a commendation of Scripture, many thirteenth-century examples of these inaugural speeches only commend Scripture in passing. Many of the examples of the prinipia Spatz examines focus more on the subject matter of theology/Sacra doctrina and its distinction from other sciences, and many suggest the qualities necessary in good teachers and students of theology.48 In his aula, Thomas focuses on both the subject matter of theology and the virtues needed for teaching and studying it. More importantly, however, Thomas sets both of these considerations in relation to the purpose of theological study, and thus the purpose of Sacred Scripture itself. We will discuss the theological import of Thomas’s aula presently, but we must say something more about Sermo II first. For a long time many scholars of Thomas’s work have held that Sermo II was Thomas’s inception speech when he became a cursor biblicus.49 In 1974,Weisheipl pointed out that there was no evidence for this 47 48 49 Weisheipl, Friar Thomas, 96. See also Torrell, Saint Thomas, 50–51, and Spatz, “Principia,” 67–68. See Spatz, “Principia,” 144–145 and 170–209. Dahan identifies Hic est liber as Thomas’s bachelor principium even as late as 1999; see Dahan, l’Exégèse chrétienne de la Bible en Occident médiévale (Paris: Cerf, 1999), 406. For an early and substantive defense of this perspective, see Mandonnet, “Chronologie des écrits scripturaires,” 489–519, and S. Thomae Aquinatis opuscula omnia, 4:481. 258 Joseph K. Gordon scholarly consensus.50 It is much more likely that Sermo II is Thomas’s resumption principium for a number of reasons.51 Weisheipl argues that the numbering and order of these two works in the Florence manuscript suggests that Sermo II was given after Sermo I.52 Because the resumption principium was supposed to complete the principium in aula, we would expect Thomas’s resumption principium to fulfill this exigency. As Torrell argues, Sermo II clearly complements and extends Sermo I.53 Spatz and Sulavik have shown that the key characteristics of thirteenth-century resumption principia are the commendation and division of Sacred Scripture, and Sermo II does precisely this.54 It begins with fuller commendation of Scripture than Thomas gives in his principium in aula and concludes with a detailed consideration of the different divisions of Scripture and their functions in Scripture’s overall purpose. One final clue provides support for the hypothesis that Sermo II is Thomas’s resumption principium: Sermo II has Bar 4:1 as its protheme: “This is the book of the commandments of God, and the law that is forever. All that keep it shall come to life: but they that have forsaken it, to death” (Hic liber mandatorum Dei et lex quae est in aeternum omnes qui tenenteam ad vitam qui autem dereliquer in team in mortem).55 While Thomas chose an original protheme for his principium in aula, Sermo II uses the protheme that John de La Rochelle used in his own resumption principium in 1238.56 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 See Weisheipl, Friar Thomas, 104. Weisheipl suggests that there is no evidence that, given their lowly status, bachelors of the Bible were required to give principia lectures. While Spatz has shown that the statutes of the Chartularium from the fourteenth century required incepting bachelors of the Bible to give inception speeches, there is still good reason to believe that Sermo II is Thomas’s resumption principium. On the duties of bachelors and cursores of the Bible, see Spatz, “Principia,” 29–34. For Spatz’s argument that Sermo II is Thomas’s resumption principium, see ibid., 68. See Torrell, Saint Thomas, 28. Weisheipl, Friar Thomas, 103. Torrell, Saint Thomas, 51; see also Weisheipl, Friar Thomas, 104. “The central characteristic all these resumption principia share is a meticulous division of the Old and New Testaments into their component books. This forms the core of all the resumption lectures, and so apparently was required or at least expected of all incoming masters” (Spatz, “Principia,” 152); see also Sulavik, “Principia and Introitus,” 276. McInerny, “The Inaugural Lectures,” 5. See Spatz, “Principia,” 68 and 146–147. On John of La Rochelle’s principia, see ibid., 63–65. Sulavik suggests the possibility that Thomas chose Baruch 4:1 because he had read Hugh of St. Cher’s postilla on Baruch (completed by 1236), wherein Hugh suggests this verse as an ideal introduction to the The Historical and Theological Contours of Thomas’s Principia 259 It is almost certain that Sermo I is Thomas’s principium in aula and extremely likely that Sermo II is his resumption principium. He would have delivered the first on the morning of his formal ceremonial inception as magister in sacra pagina, sometime in the Spring of 1256, and the second on the following dies legibilis, probably the very next day.57 The very fact that we have any copies of Thomas’s inaugural lectures attests to their importance and impact. As Mulchahey observes, “The primacy of place Remigio de’Girolami gives to these two inaugural lectures in his notebook, positioning them before his own introductions to the individual books of the Bible, reveals not only a respect for Thomas’ organization of material but Remigio’s conceptualization of his own work. These are his inaugural lectures, too.”58 The two works have an organic unity and together display Thomas’s fundamental pedagogical and theological commitments at the outset of his inception as magister in sacra pagina. With our analysis of the historical context of Thomas’s principia complete, we now proceed to an examination of their theological import and relevance for his understanding of the nature and purpose of Scripture and the principles of Christian scriptural hermeneutics. Theological Content and Implications of the Principia Thomas’s inaugural lectures are not solely ceremonial academic exercises. As Ralph McInerny suggests, Thomas was “at the very height of his powers” when he composed and delivered the principia.59 This judgment alone, if true, should compel us to give the principia sustained and careful attention. While Thomas does not offer a treatise on theoretical hermeneutics in the principia, his commendation of and division of Scripture in these brief works has profound importance for his broader 57 58 59 whole of Scripture; see “Hugh of St. Cher’s Postill on the book of Baruch: The Work of a Medieval Compiler or Biblical Exegete?” in Hugues de St. Cher (†1236): bibliste et théologien, eds. Louis-Jacques Bataillon, Gilbert Dahan, and Pierre-Marie Gy (Turnhout: Brepols, 2004), 155–171, at 162. Spatz, “Evidence of Inception Ceremonies,” 6–7; Weisheipl, Friar Thomas, 100. Levering, following Torrell, dates Thomas’s resumption principium sometime in September 1256, but this seems highly unlikely, given the research of Spatz (see Levering “Ordering Wisdom,” 80n2, and Torrell, Saint Thomas, 53). In his summaries of Thomas’s works, Torrell does note later that Thomas would have given the resumption principium on the first dies legibilis following his aula ceremony (ibid., 338). The confusion can perhaps be traced to the work of Mandonnet, see note 12 above. Mulchahey, “First the Bow is Bent,” 392. McInerny, “Introduction,” in Thomas Aquinas: Selected Writings, 4. 260 Joseph K. Gordon hermeneutical and theological reflection for at least two major reasons. First, as Spatz argues, the principia “reveal an individual’s attitudes and beliefs about his field of academic specialization.”60 Thomas’s principia give us an invaluable insight into what he thought his role as magister in sacra pagina entailed. His principia in aula lays out his understanding of the very nature and purpose of theology and his own role as a teacher of Sacred Scripture. Second, Thomas’s macroscopic division of Scripture in his resumption principium provides a heuristic context for all of his subsequent extant commentaries on individual books of Scripture and displays Thomas’s understanding of the unique role and purpose of scriptural interpretation in the life of faith. Thomas offers a clear and concise account of the nature of theological reflection in his principium in aula. We recall the protheme of this first magisterial lecture: “You water the hills from your upper rooms, the earth is sated with the fruit of your works” (Ps 104:13). He uses this text to offer an account of the outpouring of God’s truth from the heights down onto all of those below, and the role that teachers have in this Dionysian outpouring. Thomas treats the dissemination of the truth of God with reference to four considerations: “the height of spiritual doctrine; the dignity of those who teach it; the condition of the listeners; and the order of communicating.”61 He first notes that the height of sacra doctrina derives from its origin in God, the subtlety of its content, and the sublimity of its end—namely the participation of humans in eternal life. The loftiness of sacred doctrine, Thomas goes on to explain, demands that its teachers possess a certain dignity befitting its subject matter. The dignity of teaching entails that the teacher renounce selfish pursuits, remain open to and receptive of divine splendor, and be ready to defend the faith against heresies. These grave responsibilities are an occasion of rejoicing for the teacher because of the eminence of his life. Thomas utilizes his discussion of the dignity of teaching to highlight the three responsibilities of the Parisian theology faculty first promulgated by Peter Cantor and later made official in university statutes.62 Invoking Ti 1:9, Thomas argues that teachers must be prepared to teach, dispute, and preach (legere, disputare, et praedicare).63 He argues that the lowliness of the earth indicates the disposition required of those who hear the teaching of sacra doctrina. “[H]umility is 60 61 62 63 Spatz, “Principia,” 1. McInerny, “The Inaugural Lectures,” 13. Torrell, Saint Thomas, 54. McInerny, “The Inaugural Lectures,” 15. On these three roles and their scriptural character, see Torrell, Saint Thomas, 54–74. The Historical and Theological Contours of Thomas’s Principia 261 required of them with respect to the learning that comes from listening . . . Rectitude of the senses with respect to the judgment of what is heard . . . But fruitfulness in discovery, by which from a few things heard, the good listener pronounces many things.”64 Thomas concludes his treatment of the teaching responsibilities of a magister by explaining the process of communicating sacra doctrina. First, the indication of the “upper mountains” in Ps 104:13 shows that “not everything that is contained in divine wisdom can be grasped by the minds of the teachers.”65 The teacher must take stock of this fact, and restrict himself to teaching only what he knows of the divine mysteries. Second, Thomas argues that Ps 104:13 reveals the hierarchical dimensions of the overflow of wisdom from on high. God possesses wisdom intrinsically and naturally; teachers share in God’s wisdom abundantly; and students, finally, participate in wisdom sufficiently. Third and last, Thomas draws a distinction between God’s direct communication of wisdom and the secondary communication of wisdom achieved by teachers. He declares that “teachers do not communicate wisdom except as ministers. Hence the fruits of the mountains are not attributed to them, but to the divine works.”66 No one, Thomas suggests, is naturally sufficient for the task of the ministry of the wisdom of God. “Let us pray,” he concludes after invoking Jas 1:5, “that Christ will grant it to us, Amen.”67 Thomas invokes the authority of Scripture at least 40 times in this brief work of 1,645 words to demonstrate the purpose of theological study and teaching. As he indicates, the whole work of theological teaching has as its telos the dissemination of and participation in the wisdom of God. For Thomas, the study and teaching of Sacred Scripture cannot have any other goal. Scripture is divine pedagogy; God leads the one who studies it by the hand (manuductio) into the mysteries of God’s very being.68 The study of Scripture could not be an end in itself for Thomas; it was a means to the higher goal of participation in the divine life. As we will see, Thomas’s division of Sacred Scripture in his resumption principium offers further support for this conclusion. Nancy Spatz raises a key question concerning the function of the division of Scripture in resumption principium: What purpose(s) does this division serve? She offers two useful suggestions in response. The division of the text allowed the incepting master to demonstrate his 64 65 66 67 68 McInerny, “The Inaugural Lectures,” 16. Ibid. Ibid., 17. Ibid. See Candler, Theology, Rhetoric, Manuduction, passim. 262 Joseph K. Gordon mastery of Scripture; alternatively, the division could have functioned as an introduction to the incepting master’s first series of magisterial lectures on Scripture.69 Both of these are reasonable hypotheses, but consideration on the relationship between Thomas’s aula and resumption principia suggests that we should say more. As we noted above, Thomas’s aula treats the loftiness of sacra doctrina, the eminence and responsibilities of its teachers, the humility required of its students, and finally the order of its dissemination. The whole of sacra doctrina has the spiritual goal of facilitating creaturely participation in the wisdom of God. We noted that Thomas’s use of biblical passages in the aula shows that Sacred Scripture itself and the study of Sacred Scripture are ordered towards this telos. The division of Scripture undoubtedly served to demonstrate the facility of the incepting master and offered pedagogical guidance for his subsequent lectures; it simultaneously served a spiritual and theological purpose as well. A consideration of the theological character of the scholastic hermeneutical practice of divisio textus in medieval biblical commentaries will illustrate this point. In the past two decades, John Boyle has offered a number of helpful treatments of Thomas’s employment of the divisio textus in his biblical commentaries.70As Boyle explains, the divisio textus “is an interpretive technique whose idea is rather simple. Starting with the text as a whole, one articulates a principle theme, in the light of which one divides and subdivides the text into increasingly smaller units, often down to the individual words.”71 This hermeneutic tactic originated sometime in Spatz, “Principia,” 152. Sulavik offers a similar account: “The biblical lector had to offer a simple, coherent structure and rationale for the ordering of the books of the Bible, one that students could easily commit to memory. In addition to the didactic concerns, scriptural exegetes were concerned with defining the stylistic complexity of each sacred book” (“An Unedited Principium,” 93). 70 See John Boyle, “Authorial Intention and the Divisio Textus,” in Dauphinais and Levering, Reading John with St. Thomas Aquinas, 3–8; Boyle, “The Theological Character of the Scholastic ‘Division of the Text’ with Particular Reference to the Commentaries of St. Thomas Aquinas,” in With Reverence for the Word: Medieval Scriptural Exegesis in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, eds. Jane McAuliffe, Barry Walfish, and Joseph Goering (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 276–283; and Boyle, “On the Relation of St. Thomas’s Commentary on Romans to the Summa Theologiae,” in Dauphinais and Levering, Reading Romans with St. Thomas Aquinas, 75–82. See also Margherita Maria Rossi, “La ‘divisio textus’ nei commenti scritturistici di S. Tommaso d’Aquino: un procedimento solo esegetico?”Angelicum 71 (1994): 537–548. 71 Boyle, “The Theological Character,” 276. 69 The Historical and Theological Contours of Thomas’s Principia 263 the early thirteenth century, and Albert, Thomas, Hugh of St. Cher, and Bonaventure all made expert use of it.72 Boyle argues that the divisio textus has three essential characteristics: First, the interpreter articulates a theme that provides a conceptual unity to the text and the commentary as a whole. Second, the division penetrates at least to the level of verse; it does not simply articulate large blocks of the text. And third, because the division begins with the whole and then continues through progressive subdivisions, every verse stands in an articulated relation not only with the whole but ultimately with every other part, division and verse of the text.73 As Thomas’s commentaries on Aristotle and his own divisio of the Summa Theologiae demonstrate, its use was not restricted to sacred Scripture.74 The existence of countless works of late medieval exegesis that do not utilize the division textus—the Catena Aurea and biblical glosses, for instance—demonstrates that this hermeneutical technique was not the only means of engaging the text of Scripture.75 It nevertheless became a significant and useful tool in the medieval hermeneutical toolbox. As Boyle argues, the divisio has the principle function of displaying the unity of the text under consideration.76 Though the technique may appear arbitrary and forced to modern interpreters, the divisio textus allowed scholastic commentators to provide a comprehensive synthetic account of the conceptual unity of the works they interpreted. The scholastics employed the divisio to display the intrinsic interconnectedness of all of the parts of a work within the larger whole.77 From a theological perspective, the divisio textus enabled medieval commentators to emphasize the unity and overarching purpose of individual books of Scripture. Thomas, for instance, insists that the Gospel of John has as its goal the communication of the divinity of Christ. His divisio of the Gospel of John bears this out.78 Every verse builds on what has come before, and together, down to the last word, Ibid., 277. Ibid. 74 Ibid. 75 Ibid. 76 Ibid. 77 See ibid. and Rossi, “La ‘divisio textus,’” 540–541. 78 Boyle, “The Theological Character,” 281–282. 72 73 264 Joseph K. Gordon the details of John’s gospel serve the goal of manifesting Christ’s deity, As Boyle explains: The division of the text provides a sustained structural analysis by which the parts of the Gospel stand in relation both to the whole and to each other. No verse stands in isolation, but rather each stands in a rich and organic set of relations to the rest of the Gospel. The division maintains the integrity of the Gospel in the midst of careful, detailed, and often word for word interpretation.79 Thomas also employs the divisio technique in his commentary on Romans. For him, Paul’s epistle to the Romans treats the grace of Christ as it is manifest in the mystical body of the Church in a general way.80 His division of the text relates all of the component parts of the letter to this broader purpose.81 Thomas’s notion of authorial intention is operative in both of these examples. It is important to note that he does not think of authorial intention in modern terms. As Boyle notes, for Thomas, “intention, to intend, is an act of the will insofar as the will moves to some end or goal, embracing not only the willing of that end, but also the willing of those things that are ordered to that end [Summa Theologiae I-II, q. 12, a.1, ad 4.]. When Thomas speaks of the ‘intention of the author,’ it is precisely in this way.”82 Thomas utilizes the divisio textus to demonstrate how the manifold component parts of the various biblical books function reciprocally in their elaboration of the intention of the divine author. Ultimately, this offers further support for the thesis that Thomas allows for plurality within the literal sense of Scripture.83 All possible true and orthodox meanings are valid literal meanings of a given passage of Sacred Scripture provided that they serve the intentions of the Triune God, the divine author.84 Boyle suggests that a scholastic divisio textus of the entirety of Scrip79 80 81 82 83 84 Boyle, “Authorial Intention,” 7–8. See the prologue in Aquinas, Commentary on the Letter of Saint Paul to the Romans, trans. F. R. Larcher, eds. J. Mortensen and E. Alarcón, Latin/English Editions of the Works of St. Thomas Aquinas, Biblical Commentaries 37 (Lander, WY: Aquinas Institute for the Study of Sacred Doctrine, 2012), 4–5. Boyle, “On the Relation,” 81–82. Boyle, “Authorial Intention,” 7. See Johnson, “Another Look at the Literal Sense,” and Fowl, “The Importance.” So Boyle, “Authorial Intention,” 6. The Historical and Theological Contours of Thomas’s Principia 265 ture is possible, but he knows of no such example.85 He mentions Thomas’s resumption principium in a note, but seems not to have recognized the reach of Thomas’s division of Scripture in the second inaugural lecture.86 While Thomas mentions the purpose of the Pauline epistles (including Hebrews) in his resumption principium, he does not offer in this sermon an account of the purposes of the different books included in the Pauline corpus.The prologue to Thomas’s commentary on Romans, however, contains just such an account of the functional division of the letters of Paul. Franklin T. Harkins, following Thomas Prügl, suggests that the omission of the divisio of the Pauline epistles from Thomas’s resumption principium may be evidence that Thomas intended to lecture on Paul’s letters immediately following his formal inception.87 If we insert Thomas’s division of the Pauline epistles from the Romans commentary into Thomas’s resumption principium, the resulting divisio serves as a heuristic of the entirety of the canon of Scripture. When these two works are combined, Thomas articulates the division and relationships between the testaments, the divisions of their component parts, and the specific themes of each individual book.88 Thomas’s division of the whole of Scripture in his resumption principium does not exhibit the exact “essential characteristics” that Boyle ascribes to the divisio textus, but it nevertheless serves as the comprehensive framework that informed Thomas’s understanding of the nature and purpose of Sacred Scripture.89 85 86 87 88 89 “[I]t is notable that the effort to articulate the intrinsic conceptual unity of the text extended beyond individual biblical books. Saint Thomas subjects the corpus of the epistles of Saint Paul as a whole to a division of the text. . . . In theory at least, the whole of scripture could be subject to such a division. I know of no one who actually accomplished such a division; nonetheless, we have general divisions of the Old Testament and the New Testament, which suggest just such a way of thinking about the whole, in principle at least, if not in practice. In this case the unity is in no way based upon a unifying human author but solely upon the unifying divine author” (Boyle, “The Theological Character,” 278). According to Boyle, Thomas (as well as John of La Rochelle) gives us only “general divisions of the Old Testament and the New Testament” (“The Theological Character,” 278 and 282n7). Cf., however, the judgment of Jeremy Holmes, who explicitly states that “Thomas gave a divisio textus for all of Scripture” in his resumption principium; see his “Aquinas’Lectura in Matthaeum,” in Weinandy, Keating, and Yocum, Aquinas on Scripture, at 77. See Harkins, “Docuit excellentissimae divinitatis mysteria,” 240n22, and Prügl, “Thomas Aquinas,” 414n68. Aquinas, Commentary on the Letter of Saint Paul to the Romans, 4–5. For an excellent outline of Thomas’s division of the books in his resumption 266 Joseph K. Gordon A comparison between the theological dimensions of the divisio textus in Thomas’s commentaries and the partitions Thomas ascribes to Scripture in his resumption principium is thus instructive for multiple reasons. The first and most obvious reason is that Thomas does not appear to abandon the various “divine intentions” he assigns to the various books of Scripture in his resumption principium, but instead reiterates them in subsequent biblical commentaries. As noted above, Thomas organizes the divisio textus of his commentary on the Gospel of John around the presupposition that John teaches the divinity of Christ. The judgment that John teaches the divinity of Christ appears first in his resumption principium. During his second regency in Paris, from 1268 to 1272, Thomas began his Lectura in Matthaeum by noting that Matthew’s purpose is to demonstrate the humanity of Christ in his Incarnation; this judgment appears over a decade earlier in his resumption principium.90 Thomas’s literal commentary on Job may be the only counter-example to Thomas’s general practice. In his resumption principium, he argues that the purpose of Job is to identify and root out falsehood. In his commentary on Job, he argues that the sole purpose of Job is to demonstrate divine providence. On this discrepancy, it may be noteworthy that the commentary on Job is one of only two commentaries that Thomas produced after his inaugural lectures in which he does not offer a divisio textus (the other being the Catena aurea). The second reason the comparison is instructive is the shared emphasis on the unity of individual books of Scripture evident in the divisio textus and Thomas’s emphasis on the unity of Sacred Scripture in his resumption principium. Before Thomas offers his account of the divisions of Sacred Scripture in his resumption principium, he commends Sacred Scripture for three reasons: the authority with which it charges, the eternal truth with which it instructs, and finally the usefulness with which in entices. Scripture’s authority derives first from its origin in 90 principium that includes his discussion (in the prologue to Romans) of the different purposes of each of the Pauline letters, see Chrysostum Baer, “Translator’s Introduction,” in Aquinas, Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews, ed. and trans. Chrysostum Baer, pref. Ralph McInerny (South Bend, IN: Augustine’s Press, 2006), 3. The date of Thomas’s Lectura in Matthaeum is contested, but Holmes offers a persuasive argument for locating it during Thomas’s second regency in Paris. (“Aquinas’s Lectura in Matthaeum,” esp. 96–97). For Holmes’s helpful comments on the relationship between Thomas’s understanding of the purpose of Matthew expressed in the Lectura and in his resumption principia respectively, see ibid., 77–79. The Historical and Theological Contours of Thomas’s Principia 267 God, second from the necessity by which it is imposed, and finally from the uniformity of its sayings. Thomas’s insistence on the singularity of the message of Sacred Scripture is worth quoting in full. [Scripture] is shown to be efficacious by the uniformity of its sayings, because all who teach the sacred doctrine teach the same thing. 1 Cor 15:11: ‘Whether then it is I or they, so we preach, and so you have believed.’ And this is necessary because they all had one teacher. Mt 23:8: ‘Your teacher is one.’ And they had one spirit, ‘Have we not walked in the same spirit?’ and one love from above, ‘Now the multitude of believers were of one heart and one soul’ (Acts 4:32). Therefore, as a sign of the uniformity of doctrine, it says significantly, ‘This is the book.’91 After touching upon the eternality of the truth of Sacred Scripture, Thomas expounds its usefulness. Scripture is exceedingly profitable because all who keep to its truth will come to experience eternal life. Sacred Scripture disposes its readers to the life of grace, enables its readers to embody the life of justice through good works, and leads its readers to the life of glory in God. Thomas proceeds to offer a comprehensive account of the way the various parts of Sacred Scripture are directed towards the single purpose of leading its readers to participation in the life of grace, justice, and ultimately glory. Thomas first distinguishes and relates the Old and New Testaments. The former offers divine commandments for obedience, and the latter offers the aid necessary for such obedience (grace). Thomas argues that the different parts of the Old Testament command obedience in distinct ways: the Law commands by way of precept; the Prophets (classical, major, and minor) command by way of proclamation; and the Writings (which include the Apocrypha) command by way of fatherly instruction. Thomas then differentiates the ways the parts of the New Testament provide the grace necessary for the obedience required by the Law: the Gospels demonstrate and proclaim the origins of grace in Christ; Paul’s epistles aid by expounding the power of grace; and finally the Catholic Epistles, Acts, and Revelation aid by displaying the exercise of the virtues of grace.92 For Thomas, Scripture is everywhere and always unified in its purpose and meaning; it perpet91 92 McInerny, “The Inaugural Lectures,” 6 (emphasis mine). See Baer, “Translator’s Introduction,” 1–3; Levering, “Ordering Wisdom,” 81–87; and Weisheipl, Friar Thomas, 103–104. 268 Joseph K. Gordon ually directs its readers and hearers to participate in divine beatitude through admonition and through the aid of grace. In her landmark work The Bible in the Middle Ages, Beryl Smalley commended Thomas for his emphasis on the importance of literal exegesis and the sole sufficiency of the literal meaning of Scripture as the foundation of authentic doctrine (see ST I, q. 1, aa. 9–10).93 As Boyle notes, however, Smalley later tempered her enthusiasm for Thomas’s attentiveness to the letter after carefully examining Thomas’s Scriptural commentaries.94 Boyle’s examination of the divisio textus already helps to demonstrate the fundamentally theological character of Thomas’s exegesis of the literal sense. Our examination of Thomas’s principium confirms and offers further support for Boyle’s thesis. Ultimately, a careful examination of Thomas’s principium in aula and resumption principium demonstrates the evangelical character of even his theology of Scripture. All of Scripture is ordered towards the reader’s/hearer’s participation in the wisdom of God. Boyle’s judgment on the theological purpose of the divisio textus is apropos for our investigation of Thomas’s understanding of the nature of Scripture and the nature of Christian hermeneutics. “For Thomas,” says Boyle, “the purpose of Scripture is to make known those truths necessary for salvation. Scripture is ordered to an end.The divine intention is to bring the rational creature into union with Himself, but as always in ways that are accommodated to the reality of that creature.”95 Thomas’s fundamental hermeneutical principles all emerge from his conviction of the nature and purpose of Scripture in the salvific work of the Triune God. Our examination of Thomas’s principia demonstrates that these fundamental presuppositions about the nature and purpose of Scripture and the principles of Christian exegesis were in place at the very beginning of his career as magister in sacra pagina. Conclusion As I have noted above, the scholarly renewal of interest in the scriptural dimensions of Thomas’s work is a salutary and long-overdue development. In this essay, I have shown the relevance of Thomas’s principium in aula and resumption principium for these contemporary investigations of 93 94 95 See Beryl Smalley, The Bible in the Middle Ages, 3rd ed. (Oxford: Blackwell, 1983), xv–xvi. Boyle, “Authorial Intention,” 3. See also Beryl Smalley, The Gospels in the Schools, c. 1100-c. 1280 (London: Hambledon, 1985), 265–266. Boyle, “Authorial Intention,” 6. The Historical and Theological Contours of Thomas’s Principia 269 the scriptural character of Thomas’s work. The principia display Thomas’s broader understanding of the nature and purpose of Scripture and the contours of his theological hermeneutic. The principia exhibit the foundational convictions Thomas held at the outset of his magisterial academic career. Setting Thomas’s principia in their historical contexts helps to clear up some misconceptions in previous scholarship and demonstrates the foundational nature of these early works for Thomas’s later Scripture commentaries. Thomas’s principium in aula offers an account of the theological task of sacra doctrina, the roles of teachers and students, and the ordering of the overflow of divine wisdom. In doing so, it displays the fundamentally evangelical context of Thomas’s theological and scriptural study. All of Thomas’s work, even his philosophy, must be seen against the backdrop of the evangelical purpose of participating in and facilitating the participation of others in the wisdom of God. Thomas’s division of the parts of Scripture in his resumption principium demonstrates his commitment to the unity of Scripture in both its nature and purpose. Scripture itself facilitates the reader’s/hearer’s participation in the wisdom and life of the Triune God. For Thomas, the pastoral epistles demonstrate God’s instructions for “the prelates of the Church, both spiritual and temporal.”96 While Thomas was not a prelate himself, his principia show how he took Paul’s words in 2 Timothy to heart: “Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved by him, a worker who has no need to be ashamed, rightly explaining [“dividing,” KJV] the word of truth” (2 Tm 2:15, NRSV). Thomas’s principia thus display his convictions about the fundamental nature and purpose of Scripture: “All Scripture is inspired by God and is useful for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness, so that everyone who belongs to God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work” (2 Tm 3:16–17, NRSV).97 Thomas would thus certainly agree with Henri de Lubac’s claim that “the Bible was not given to Christians merely to satisfy historical curiosity.”98 For Thomas, engagement with Sacred Scripture serves as divine pedagogy through which God leads into participation in the life of grace, the life of justice, and the life of glory.99 All of Thomas’s theology is scriptural, and all of his scriptural theology is oriented to 96 97 98 99 Aquinas, Commentary on the Letter of Saint Paul to the Romans, 5. Thomas employs this passage in his very first sed contra in the Summa theologiae (ST I, q. 1, a. 1, sc). Henri de Lubac, Medieval Exegesis: The Fourfold Sense of Scripture, trans. Edward Macierowski (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2000), 2:271. See Candler, Theology, Rhetoric, Manuduction. 270 Joseph K. Gordon this evangelical goal. His principia represent a privileged and substantive N&V witness to his fundamental theological disposition.100 100 I owe special thanks to Mark Johnson for his extensive help and encouragement with this essay. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 1 (2016): 271–293271 Aquinas and the Sins of Ignorance Matthew R. McWhorter Holy Spirit College Atlanta, GA Contemporary Readings of Aquinas on the Moral Object The contemporary moral theologian Duarte Sousa-Lara maintains that there are three schools of interpretation regarding Thomas Aquinas’s account of the moral object. First, there is what he calls the “classical” interpretation, which understands the moral object to be a thing measured by reason.1 Second, there is a proportionalist interpretation, which contends that the moral object includes the agent’s intended remote end.2 As exemplified by Louis Janssens, the proportionalist interpretation correlates Aquinas’s moral doctrine with that of Peter Abelard.3 Third, there is a “contemporary” interpretation that SousaLara himself affirms. This interpretation construes the moral object as a “proposal” that the agent presents to himself and that can be morally evaluated in precision from his intended remote end.4 John Finnis, Germain Grisez, and Joseph Boyle also emphasize the agent’s “proposal” in their interpretation of Aquinas’s teaching on the moral object.5 In association with this understanding of the moral 1 2 3 4 5 Duarte Sousa-Lara, “Aquinas on the Object of the Human Act: A Reading in Light of the Texts and Commentators,” Josephinum Journal of Theology 15, no. 2 (2008): 243–276 and 272. Ibid., 273. Ibid. For Janssens’s interpretations of Aquinas, see his “Ontic Evil and Moral Evil,” in Readings in Moral Theology, vol. 1, Moral Norms and Catholic Tradition, ed. Charles E. Curran and Richard A. McCormick (New York: Paulist, 1979), 40, and his “Saint Thomas Aquinas and the Question of Proportionality,” in Louvain Studies 9, no. 1 (1982): 26–46, especially 27–28. Sousa-Lara, “Aquinas on the Object,” 273. John Finnis, Germain Grisez, and Joseph Boyle, “‘Direct’ and ‘Indirect’: A Reply to Critics of Our Action Theory,” The Thomist 65 (2001): 1–44, at 3. 272 Matthew R. McWhorter object, the authors claim that Aquinas rejects both Abelard’s emphasis upon the agent’s intended remote end and Peter Lombard’s emphasis upon the moral character of the exterior act itself, specified independently of the agent’s will.6 Finnis claims elsewhere that Aquinas finds Lombard’s account to be “excessive” in this respect.7 In order to support this account of the moral object, which they claim is also the doctrine of the Roman Magisterium,8 Finnis, Grisez, and Boyle appeal to John Paul II’s statement in Veritatis splendor §78 that “in order to be able to grasp the object of an act which specifies that act morally, it is therefore necessary to place oneself in the perspective of the acting person.”9 The Pontiff ’s statement here is interpreted in such a way that his emphasis upon the perspective of the acting person is taken to indicate that the moral object specifying that person’s act can be nothing other than the proposed end that that person intends to realize. In this way, Finnis argues in a previous study that a moral act is whatever the agent intends that act to be.10 Finnis claims that his emphasis upon the agent’s subjective proposal is not aimed to advance a methodology for rationalizing the performance of immoral acts.11 Grisez, however, does argue in an early essay that his methodological emphasis upon the agent’s proposal allows for a revision of the principle of double effect that thereafter enables it “to justify acts hitherto regarded as evil.”12 A similar interpretation of Aquinas is advanced by Martin Rhonheimer,13 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 Ibid., 16. John Finnis, “Object and Intention in Moral Judgments according to Aquinas,” The Thomist 55 (1991): 1–27, at 18. Finnis, Grisez, and Boyle, “‘Direct’ and ‘Indirect,’” 29. John Paul II, Veritatis splendor (1993), §78: “Proinde, ut actus obiectum deprehendi possit, quod ei moralem proprietatem tribuat, se collocare necesse est in prospectu personae agentis”; for the English, see John Paul II, The Splendor of Truth (Boston, MA: Pauline, 1993); for the Latin, see Acta Apostolicae Sedis (AAS) 85 (1993): 1133–1228, at 1196. See Finnis, “Object and Intention,” 14. See ibid., 18. Germain Grisez, “Toward a Consistent Natural Law Ethics of Killing,” American Journal of Jurisprudence 15 (1970): 64–96, at 91. See Martin Rhonheimer, Natur als Grundlage der Moral: Die personale Struktur des Naturgesetzes bei Thomas von Aquin (Innsbruck, Austria: Tyrolia Verlag, 1987); Rhonheimer, “Intrinsically Evil Acts and the Moral Viewpoint: Clarifying a Central Teaching of Veritatis splendor,” in Veritatis Splendor and the Renewal of Moral Theology, eds. J. A. DiNoia and Romanus Cessario (Chicago: Our Sunday Visitor, 1999), 161–193; and Rhonheimer, “The Perspective of the Acting Person and the Nature of Practical Reason: The ‘Object of the Human Act’ in Thomistic Anthropology of Action,” Nova et Vetera (English) 2, no. 2 (2004): Aquinas and the Sins of Ignorance 273 an author whose work Finnis cites.14 Rhonheimer (while disagreeing with Finnis, Grisez, and Boyle in some details15) also urges that the moral object be construed as a proposal of the acting person.16 His interpretation is endorsed or echoed by Sousa-Lara,17 Rodríguez Luño,18 and William Murphy.19 Rhonheimer’s emphasis upon the agent’s subjective proposal is a key component of his overall interpretation of Aquinas, which he describes as concerned with developing Aquinas’s moral doctrine,20 as seeking what Rhonheimer calls an “advanced Thomism” that can dialogue with “modern moral thinking.”21 A number of concerns have been raised with understanding the moral object as the agent’s proposal. Jean Porter, for example, questions how Grisez’s emphasis upon the agent’s subjective proposal (apart from causal considerations) can retain objective moral criteria for evaluating moral acts.22 Kevin Flannery rejects the methodology of Finnis, Grisez, and Boyle as involving an “artificial redescription” that veils the true 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 461–516. The last article also appears in Rhonheimer, The Perspective of the Acting Person: Essays in the Renewal of Thomistic Moral Philosophy, ed. William F. Murphy (Washington DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2008), 195–249. Rhonheimer defends his essay, “The Perspective of the Acting Person” in response to Dewan’s criticisms in his (Rhonheimer) “The Moral Object of Human Acts and the Role of Reason according to Aquinas: A Restatement and Defense of My View,” Josephinum Journal of Theology 18, no. 2 (2011): 454–506. See Finnis, “Object and Intention,” 17n43. See Rhonheimer, “The Perspective of the Acting Person,” 473n43. See ibid., 466, 469n30, 470, 473, and 484. See Sousa-Lara, “Aquinas on the Object,” 276. Sousa-Lara (ibid., 268) quotes A. Rodríguez Luño’s study of the moral object, Scelti in Cristo per essere santi. Elementi di Teologia Morale Fondamentale (Rome: Edizioni Università della Santa Croce, 2003). See William Murphy, “Veritatis Splendor and Thomistic Naturalism,” Studia Moralia 45, no. 2 (2007): 185–216; Murphy, “A Reading of Aquinas in Support of Veritatis Splendor on the Moral Object,” Logos 11, no. 1 (2008): 100–126; Murphy, “Aquinas on the Object and Evaluation of the Human Act: Rhonheimer’s Approach and Some Recent Interlocutors,” Josephinum Journal of Theology 15, no. 2 (2008): 205–242; Murphy, “Developments in Thomistic Action Theory: Progress toward a Greater Consensus,” The National Catholic Bioethics Quarterly 8, no. 3 (2008): 505–527; and Murphy, “Further Response to Long, To the Editor,” The National Catholic Bioethics Quarterly 10, no. 1 (2010): 16–18. See Rhonheimer, “The Perspective of the Acting Person,” 463. See Rhonheimer, “The Moral Object of Human Acts,” 506. See Jean Porter, “‘Direct’ and ‘Indirect’ in Grisez’s Moral Theory,” Theological Studies 57 (1996): 611–632, especially 620–623. 274 Matthew R. McWhorter moral object.23 Steven Long describes such contemporary readings of Aquinas as involving a kind of methodological “angelism”24 that (he states elsewhere) leads to “unfortunate implications.”25 Stephen Brock26 and Lawrence Dewan27 have also responded to this problematic. The Current Focus: Moral Objects and Sins of Ignorance When responding to Flannery’s concern that their approach to the moral object is artificial, Finnis, Grisez, and Boyle reiterate that it is the agent’s subjective proposal that should be given primacy in moral evaluation. They write: What counts for moral analysis is not what may or may not be included in various descriptions that might be given by observers, or even by acting persons reflecting on what they have done, but what is or is not included within a proposal developed in deliberation for possible adoption by choice.28 In response, it must be recognized that, while it is true that primacy should be given to the moral object when evaluating a human act, the moral object must not be identified ontologically with an agent’s subjective proposal. This is especially so if such a proposal is construed as an artificial design of productive reason. In order to establish these points, the current study approaches Aquinas’s account of the moral object with a particular focus upon his doctrine of sins of ignorance. In connection with this focus, consideration must also be given to Aquinas’s account of the imputation of sin. Aquinas and the Roman Magisterium both affirm that there can be sins of ignorance. While primary attention here is given to AquiKevin Flannery, “What Is Included in a Means to an End?” Gregorianum 74, no. 3 (1993): 499–513, at 512. See also Flannery, “The Multifarious Moral Object of Thomas Aquinas,” The Thomist 67 (2003): 95–118. 24 Steven A. Long, “A Brief Disquisition Regarding the Nature of the Object of the Moral Act According to St. Thomas Aquinas,” The Thomist 67 (2003): 45–71, at 49. 25 Steven A. Long, “Engaging Thomist Interlocutors,” Nova et Vetera (English) 9, no. 2 (2011): 267–295, at 268. 26 See Stephen L. Brock, “Veritatis Splendor §78, St. Thomas, and (Not Merely) Physical Objects of Moral Acts,” Nova et Vetera (English) 6, no. 1 (2008): 1–62; and Brock, Action and Conduct: Thomas Aquinas and the Theory of Action (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998). 27 Lawrence Dewan, “St. Thomas, Rhonheimer, and the Object of the Human Act,” Nova et Vetera (English) 6, no. 1 (2008): 63–112. 28 Finnis, Grisez, Boyle, “‘Direct’ and ‘Indirect,’” 29. 23 Aquinas and the Sins of Ignorance 275 nas, one should also take note of John Paul II’s references to sins of ignorance in Reconciliatio et paenitentia29 and to the imputation of sin in Veritatis splendor.30 This doctrine is evident as well in the contemporary Catechism of the Catholic Church §1793, which states: If . . . ignorance is invincible, or the moral subject is not responsible for his erroneous judgment, the evil committed by the person cannot be imputed to him. It remains no less an evil, a privation, a disorder. One must therefore work to correct the errors of moral conscience.31 These passages lead to a concise point: since there can be sins of ignorance, appeal cannot be made to the Magisterium to support the view that the moral object specifying an agent’s act is to be identified ontologically with the agent’s subjective proposal. This likewise holds when interpreting Aquinas: his texts that affirm that the per se specification of a moral act derives from what the agent intends must be read within the overall context of his doctrine of sins of ignorance. While there can be a specification of an exterior moral act by the (potentially corrupt) subjective reason of a particular agent, the ultimate formal measure of any exterior moral act is found in light of God and right reason. In order to establish these claims, the present study briefly considers the historical context of Aquinas’s moral theology.32 It then gives focused attention to three particular details in Aquinas’s texts. First, Aquinas distinguishes between the moral object in itself and the moral object as known. Second, since an agent may suffer from moral ignorance, one must consider the issue of imputation (that is, to what 29 30 31 32 See John Paul II, Apostolic Exhortation Reconcilitatio et Paenitentia (1984), §17 (1984); for the Latin, see AAS 77 (1985): 185–275, at 218. He cites Lv 4:2.; 5:1; and Nm 15:22–29. See Veritatis Splendor, §70: “Sine dubio condiciones esse possunt admodum implicatae et obscurae, quod ad rem psychologicam attinet, quae ad imputabilitatem subiectivam peccantis habent momentum.” Catechism of the Catholic Church (CCC), §1793: “Si . . . ignorantia est invincibilis, vel iudicium erroneum sine subiecti moralis responsabilitate, malum a persona commissum non potest ei imputari. Ipsum nihilominus manet malum, privatio, deordinatio. Est ergo necessarium operam dare ut conscientia moralis a suis erroribus corrigatur.” The Latin is from Catechismus Catholicae Ecclesiae (Città del Vaticano: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 1997). For similar studies, see Tobias Hoffman, “Moral Action as Human Action: End and Object in Aquinas in Comparison with Abelard, Lombard, Albert, and Duns Scotus,” The Thomist 67 (2003): 73–94, and Flannery, “The Multifarious Moral Object of Thomas Aquinas,” The Thomist 67 (2003): 95–118. 276 Matthew R. McWhorter extent a morally ignorant agent is responsible for his or her exterior moral act). Third, the topic of imputation leads to examining Aquinas’s distinction between formal and material sin on the part of the agent, where material sin involves a disordered exterior moral act as measured in light of God and right reason. After seeking to establish these points on a textual basis, a final observation is given here regarding a proper Thomistic interpretation of John Paul II’s statement in Veritatis splendor §78. Aquinas’s Texts The Historical Context of Aquinas’s Moral Theology In his mature work, Ethica (c. 1139),33 Abelard teaches that, when God evaluates the moral character of a person, God is concerned with the agent’s intention, not his or her action. He writes, “God doesn’t think about the things that are done but rather in what mind they are done. The merit or praiseworthiness of the doer doesn’t consist in the deed but in the intention.”34 Abelard maintains that the word “sin” thus has two meanings: either as applied to the deed or as applied to the agent’s intention, where the latter is given emphasis. In this respect, he considers whether Christ’s executioners sinned. “Those who persecuted Christ or his followers,” Abelard writes, “and believed they should be persecuted, we say sinned through action. Nevertheless, they would have sinned more seriously through fault if they had spared them contrary to conscience.”35 While an unintentional “sin through action” or a sin of ignorance involves a misdeed, it does not, for Abelard, involve guilt. As another example, Abelard mentions adultery through ignorance (an example to which the discussion will return when considering Aquinas’s texts below).36 Abelard was interpreted by his contemporaries to deny that there are genuine sins of ignorance. Bernard of Clairvaux likely had already encountered Abelard’s ethical teachings when Hugh of St.Victor, upon becoming the head of the abbey school at St.Victor, wrote to Bernard regarding an unnamed theologian whose work was popular at that 33 34 35 36 For the Latin and English, see D. E. Luscombe, trans., Peter Abelard’s Ethics (New York: Clarendon, 1971). See also Peter Abelard, Ethics, in Ethical Writings, trans. Paul Vincent Spade (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1995). Abelard, Ethics 1.3, no. 57 (Abelard’s Ethics, 28). Ibid., 1.14, no. 131; (Abelard’s Ethics, 66). Ibid., 1.3, no. 49 (Abelard’s Ethics, 24). Aquinas and the Sins of Ignorance 277 time.37 This theologian was probably Abelard or one of his students.38 Hugh evidently sent three theological propositions of this unnamed theologian to Bernard for evaluation, the third of which denies that there can be sins of ignorance. In response to this third proposition, Bernard states, “the proposition is manifestly untrue.”39 He explains: If . . . it is impossible to sin through ignorance, what case have we against the slayers of the apostles, who were not only unaware that it was wrong to kill these men, but believed that in so doing they were obeying God? Groundless, too, was the Savior’s prayer for his crucifiers, who, as he himself bore witness, had no idea what they were doing, and so were committing no sin. . . . Is it not plain from these examples how deeply those who fail to realize that ignorance can be a cause of sin are plunged into its own darkness?40 Events later culminated at the local council of Sens (c. 1141),41 which condemned the ethical judgment that “they have not sinned who being ignorant have crucified Christ, and that whatever is done through ignorance must not be considered as sin.”42 It is not surprising that, a decade later, Lombard emphasizes a different approach to moral assessment than that of Abelard. Lombard treats 37 38 39 40 41 42 For dating, see Emero Stiegman, “Three Theologians in Debate: Saint Bernard’s Tract on Baptism,” in Bernard of Clairvaux, On Baptism and the Office of Bishops, trans. Pauline Matarasso (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian, 2004), 93. Ibid., 90. Bernard of Clairvaux, On Baptism, in Matarasso, 170. For the Latin, see Bernardus Claraevallensis, Ad Hugonem de Sancto Victore epistola seu tractatus de baptismo, Cap. 4, no. 16, in J. P. Migne, ed., Patrologiae Cursus Completus, Series Latina (Paris, 1844–1864; hereafter PL), 182:1029–1046, at 1041c. Bernard of Clairvaux, On Baptism, 171–172; Ad Hugonem, Cap. IV, no. 17 (PL 182:1042b–1042c). For dating, see Constant J. Mews, “The Council of Sens (1141): Abelard, Bernard, and the Fear of Social Upheaval,” Speculum 77, no. 2 (2002): 342–382. Council of Sens, “The Errors of Peter Abelard,” Error 10, in Henry Denzinger, The Sources of Catholic Dogma (hereafter, Denzinger), no. 377, trans. Roy J. Deferrari, from Enchiridion symbolorum, 30th ed. (Fitzwilliam, NH: Loreto Publications, 2004). Luscombe treats this proposition as the ninth capitulum condemned at Sens in The School of Peter Abelard: The Influence of Abelard’s Thought in the Early Scholastic Period (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1970), 130–131. The error appears as the eleventh capitulum in Capitula haeresum Petri Abaelardi in Life and Works of Saint Bernard, Abbot of Clairvaux, vol. 2, trans. Samuel J. Eales (London: Burns and Oates, 1889–1896), 563. 278 Matthew R. McWhorter the generic moral goodness or moral evil of an act in distinction forty of book II of the Libri sententiarum. He states, “it is asked whether all the works of man are good or evil from affective disposition and end.”43 In response to this question, he considers three options regarding whether acts can be morally good or evil in themselves apart from cause and end. The first option, which seems to be the doctrine of Abelard, is that acts in themselves are neither morally good nor morally evil but rather morally indifferent.44 A second option is that acts are morally good or morally evil in themselves to such an extent that an act which is morally good remains good even when it has an evil cause or an evil end.45 Lombard rejects both of these alternatives. Rather, he approves of a third option, one he construes to be the teaching of Augustine in Contra mendacium.46 In this text, Augustine contends that certain acts can be morally good or evil in themselves and also that a morally good act can be vitiated by an evil cause or evil end.47 To relate this doctrine, Lombard quotes chapter 7 of Augustine’s Contra mendacium at great length.48 He then closes by summarizing Augustine’s account, stating: A will or action is not always judged to be evil from its end, as is the case with those things which are sins in themselves. For when one has done these things for some good cause, they appear to have a good end; and the will is not evil as a result of the end, nor is the action made evil as a result of the will, but the will is made depraved as a result of the action.49 The Moral Object in Itself and as Known Lombard mediated the twelfth-century moral problematic initiated by Abelard to Aquinas, who encountered the Libri sententiarum in association with its Parisian reception, heavily influenced by Aristotle. In order to examine Aquinas’s response to this problematic, consideration here will be given to Aquinas’s mature works, especially the Summa 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 Peter Lombard, Sentences II, d.40, ch. 1, no. 4. This English translation is found in The Sentences, Book 2: On Creation, trans. Giulio Silano (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 2008), 199. Ibid. II, d.40, ch. 1, no. 5 (Silano, 199). Ibid. II, d.40, ch. 1, no. 6 (Silano, 199). See Marcia Colish, Peter Lombard, Brill’s Studies in Intellectual History 41/2 (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1994), 483. Lombard, Sentences, II, d.40, Ch. 1, no. 7 (Silano, 200). Ibid. II, d.40, ch. 1, nos. 7–9 (Silano, 200–201). Ibid. II, d.40, ch. 1, nos. 10–11 (Silano, 201). Aquinas and the Sins of Ignorance 279 theologiae,50 the disputed questions De malo,51 and the Expositio in libros Ethicorum Aristotelis ad Nicomachum.52 In his doctrine, Aquinas observes that a moral act may be oriented toward multiple ends—for example, a proximate end and a remote end. The interior act of the agent’s will is indeed specified in accordance with the moral object chosen as a proximate end.53 But the moral object is also the matter of a human act that establishes the exterior act in its generic moral character, as described by Lombard, quoted above.54 The object qua matter is the materia circa quam, the “matter about which” the act is concerned, and not “matter from which” something is made, materia ex qua.55 Generic moral goodness or moral evil is found in an exterior human act bearing upon due or undue matter, respectively.56 Due or undue matter is distinct from the due or undue circumstances surrounding an agent’s individual act, and also distinct from the exterior act’s due or undue ordering to a further remote end.57 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 For the Latin see Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae (hereafter, ST), 5 vols. (Ottawa: Instituti Studiorum Medievalium Ottaviensis, 1941). For the English see Aquinas, Summa Theologica, 5 vols., trans. Fathers of the English Dominican Province (New York: Benziger Bros., 1948). For the Latin, see S. Thomae Aquinatis, De malo, ed. P. Bazzi, P. M. Pession, in Quaestiones disputatae, vol. 2 (Rome: Marietti, 1953). For the English, see Thomas Aquinas, On Evil, trans. Richard Regan (New York: Oxford University, 2003). For the Latin, see Thomas Aquinas, In decem libros ethicorum Aristotelis ad Nicomachum expositio, ed. Raymundi M. Spiazzi (Rome: Marietti, 1964). For the English, see Thomas Aquinas, Commentary on Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, trans. C. J. Litzinger (Notre Dame, IN: Dumb Ox, 1993). De malo, q. 2, a. 4, ad 9: “Duplex est finis: proximus et remotus. Finis proximus actus idem est quod obiectum, et ab hoc recipit speciem. Ex fine autem remoto non habet speciem; sed ordo ad talem finem est circumstantia actus.” See also De malo q. 2, a. 6, ad 9, and q. 2, a. 7, ad 8. De malo, q. 10, a. 2: “genus sive species actus moralis attenditur secundum materiam vel obiectum; unde etiam actus moralis dicitur bonus vel malus secundum suum genus.” ST I-II, q. 18, a. 2, ad 2: “obiectum non est materia ex qua, sed materia circa quam: et habet quodammodo rationem formae, inquantum dat speciem.” See also ST I-II, q. 73, a. 3, ad 1: “obiectum, etsi sit materia circa quam terminatur actus, habet tamen rationem finis secundum quod intentio agentis fertur in ipsum.” De malo, q. 2, a. 4, ad 5: “dicitur communiter, quod actus quidam sunt boni vel mali ex genere; et quod actus bonus ex genere, est actus cadens supra debitam materiam, sicut pascere esurientem; actus autem malus ex genere est qui cadit supra indebitam materiam, sicut subtrahere aliena; materia enim actus, dicitur obiectum ipsius.” ST I-II, q. 20, a. 2: “in exteriori actu potest considerari duplex bonitas vel 280 Matthew R. McWhorter The agent’s exterior moral act and the interior act of the agent’s will both relate to the same object, which terminates the exterior and interior movements. Yet, the object terminates the exterior moral act as the materia circa quam, whereas it terminates the interior act of the will as a chosen proximate end.58 The former can be the proper object of a power that is moved by the will when seeking a further remote end.59 And while in some cases it may be that the exterior moral act itself is its own term,60 in general the exterior moral act is specified by the materia circa quam (ab obiecto circa quod est).61 As such, and in contrast with Finnis’ reading, Aquinas in fact affirms Lombard’s teaching that certain kinds of exterior moral acts can be specified independently of an agent’s will.62 An exterior moral act so specified may then serve as a proximate end that is proposed to the will for choice.63 As distinct from its character as materia circa quam, the moral object takes on its character as a proximate end in accordance with a formal ratio, understood here as an intellectual measure.64 The formal ratio in 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 malitia: una secundum debitam materiam et circumstantias; alia secundum ordinem ad finem.” ST I-II, q. 72, a. 3, ad 2: “obiecta, secundum quod comparantur ad actus exteriores, habent rationem materiae circa quam; sed secundum quod comparantur ad actum interiorem voluntatis, habent rationem finium, et ex hoc habent quod dent speciem actui. Quamvis etiam secundum quod sunt materia circa quam, habeant rationem terminorum, a quidbus motus specificantur, ut dicitur V Physic. et in X Ethic.” ST II-II, q. 110, a. 1: “actus moralis ex duobus speciem sortitur: scilicet ex obiecto et ex fine. Nam finis est obiectum voluntatis, quae est primum movens in moralibus actibus. Potentia autem a voluntate mota habet suum obiectum, quod est proximum obiectum voluntarii actus, et se habet in actu voluntatis ad finem sicut materiale ad formale.” ST I-II, q. 13, a. 4: “Finis autem vel est actio, vel res aliqua . . . necesse est ut id quod est ad finem, vel sit actio; vel res aliqua, interveniente aliqua actione, per quam facit id quod est ad finem, vel utitur eo.” See also De malo, q.1, a. 2, ad 9: “in quibusdam etiam ipsa operatio vel usus est finis, ut dicitur in I Ethic. [comment. 1].” ST I-II, q. 18, a. 6: “id autem circa quod est actio exterior, est obiectum eius. . . . actus exterior accipit speciem ab obiecto circa quod est.” ST I-II, q. 20, a. 1: “Bonitas autem vel malitia quam habet actus exterior secundum se propter debitam materiam et debitas circumstantias, non derivatur a voluntate, sed magis a ratione.” ST I-II, q. 20, a. 1, ad 1: “actus exterior est obiectum voluntatis, inquantum proponitur voluntati a ratione ut quoddam bonum apprehensum et ordinatum per rationem, et sic est prius quam bonum actus voluntatis.” ST II-II, q. 47, a. 11: “species habituum diversificantur secundum diversitatem obiecti quae attenditur penes rationem formalem ipsius. Ratio autem formalis omnium quae sunt ad finem attenditur ex parte finis.” Aquinas and the Sins of Ignorance 281 accordance with which the agent grasps the moral object is of key importance regarding the moral specification of his or her interior act of the will. In De malo, Aquinas states, “in moral matters, the object constitutes the species by reason of the formal ratio of the object, not by its material element.”65 Aquinas echoes this teaching with examples in his third quodlibetal question dated around the same time.66 In the quodlibet, Aquinas states, “Although an act receives its species from the object, it nevertheless does not receive the species according to the object’s matter, but according to the ratio of the object.”67 When an agent grasps an object in accordance with a formal ratio, the object is then proposed to the will as an end, specifying the interior act of the agent’s will and constituting that agent’s intention.68 In this way, Aquinas states that one and the same human act can be considered materially with respect to its materia circa quam (the object in relation to the exterior moral act) and formally with respect to its end (the same object in relation to the interior act of the will).69 In order to explain the relationship between an object and a formal ratio, Aquinas frequently employs the analogy of color and light.70 A moral act, he states, tends to both the object and to the formal ratio of the object simultaneously, just as sight tends to both color and light simultaneously.71 The formal ratio of an object is attained by an exercise of reason. An agent’s reason may exemplify rectitude or, alternatively, be De malo, q. 9, a. 2, ad 10: “in moralibus obiectum constituit speciem, non secundum id quod est materiale in ipso, sed secundum formalem rationem obiecti.” 66 As found in Quodlibet III q.12, a.2, which Jean-Pierre Torrell dates at 1270 (following Mandonnet and Gauthier) in Saint Thomas Aquinas, vol. 1, The Person and His Work, trans. Robert Royal (Washington DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1996), 211. For the Latin of the Quodlibet, see Quaestiones Quodlibetales, ed. Raymundi Spiazzi (Turin: Marietti, 1956), 65–66. 67 This English translation (slightly modified) is from Sousa-Lara, in “The Ordo Rationis and the Moral Species,” Josephinum Journal of Theology 17, no. 1 (2010): 80–125, at 82. The Latin reads: “cum actus recipiat speciem ab obiecto, non recipit speciem ab eo secundum materiam obiecti, sed secundum rationem obiecti” (Mareitti ed., 65–66). 68 ST I-II, q. 73, a. 3, ad 1: “obiectum, etsi sit materia circa quam terminatur actus, habet tamen rationem finis secundum quod intentio agentis fertur in ipsum.” 69 ST I-II, q. 18, a. 6: “actus humani species formaliter consideratur secundum finem, materialiter autem secundum obiectum exterioris actus.” 70 See, for example, ST II-II, q. 25, a. 1. 71 ST I-II, q. 12, a. 4: “Idem autem actus cadit super obiectum, et super rationem obiecti, sicut eadem visio est coloris et luminis.” 65 282 Matthew R. McWhorter corrupt.72 Right reason as cultivated by the moral virtue of prudence will guide the agent to conform his or her will to the Divine Will.73 As the foundation of right reason, it is God, the eternal moral law, who is the primary measure of the rectitude of the interior act of the will.74 At the same time, Aquinas argues that an agent’s will is obliged to follow the judgments of corrupt reason. In article 5 of question 19 of the prima secundae in the Summa theologiae, Aquinas considers the question of whether the will is evil when it differs from the guidance of corrupt reason.75 In the course of answering this question affirmatively, Aquinas makes an important distinction between the moral object in itself and the moral object as known by reason. The passage is worth quoting at length. He writes: In matters of indifference, the will that is at variance with erring reason or conscience, is evil in some way on account of the object, on which the goodness or malice of the will depends; not indeed on account of the object according as it is in its own nature; but according as it is accidentally apprehended by reason as something evil to do or to avoid. . . . And this is the case not only in indifferent matters, but also in those that are good or evil in themselves. . . .To believe in Christ is good in itself, and necessary for salvation: but the will does not tend thereto, except inasmuch as it is proposed by the reason. Consequently if it be proposed by the reason as something evil, the will tends to it as to something evil: not as if it were evil in itself, but because it is evil accidentally, through the apprehension of the reason.76 72 73 74 75 76 ST II-II, q. 155, a. 1, ad 2: “solus vere continens dicitur qui tenet se in eo quod est secundum rationem rectam; non autem in eo quod est secendum rationem perversam.” ST II-II, q. 154, a. 2, ad 2: “Ratio autem hominis recta est secundum quod regulatur voluntate divina, quae est prima et summa regula. Et ideo quod homo facit ex voluntate Dei, eius praecepto obediens, non est contra rationem rectam.” ST I-II, q. 19, a. 4: “Quod autem ratio humana sit regula voluntatis humanae, ex qua eius bonitas mensuretur, habet ex lege aeterna, quae est ratio divina.” ST I-II, q. 19, a. 5: “Utrum voluntas discordans a ratione errante sit mala.” ST I-II, q. 19, a. 5: “In indifferentibus enim voluntas discordans a ratione vel conscientia errante est mala aliquo modo propter obiectum, a quo bonitas vel malitia voluntatis dependet; non autem propter obiectum secundum sui naturam; sed secundum quod per accidens a ratione apprehenditur ut malum ad faciendum vel ad vitandum…. Hoc autem contingit non solum in indifferentibus, sed etiam in per se bonis vel malis…. Credere in Christum est per se bonum et necessarium ad salutem, sed voluntas non fertur in hoc, nisi Aquinas and the Sins of Ignorance 283 Because Aquinas here differentiates the moral object in its own nature from the moral object as apprehended by the intellect and as proposed to the will as an end, the moral object cannot be identified ontologically with a proposal of subjective reason. Although an agent’s reason mediates the moral object to his will, his reason does not originate that object as such. Aquinas makes a similar point in De malo, where he observes that there can be an evil object mistakenly loved as good, while a good object can be mistakenly avoided as evil.77 These passages manifest that, for Aquinas, the moral object is not merely a design of productive reason. Rather, human reason can make a mistake when it measures the materia circa quam. Aquinas’s distinction between the moral object in itself and the moral object as known is an instantiation of his broader cognitional judgment that “the thing known is in the knower according to the mode of the knower.”78 A reading of Aquinas that identifies the moral object in itself with the moral object as known risks misrepresenting his account by ontologically reducing the materia circa quam to a subjective proposal that reason presents to the will as an end.79 This confuses the moral object in itself with the moral object as known and opens the door to replacing sound prudential judgment with a design of productive reason. Hence, Flannery’s concern with an “artificial” method of specification is well founded. Imputation According to Aquinas, a rational agent who performs an exterior act involving a moral privation performs an “undue operation.”80 The question at hand is whether a deformed exterior moral act is ascribable to the agent. Is he or she morally responsible for the performed 77 78 79 80 secundum quod a ratione proponitur. Unde si a ratione proponatur ut malum, voluntas feretur in hoc ut malum; non quia illud sit malum secundum se, sed quia est malum per accidens ex apprehensione rationis.” De malo, q. 10, a. 1, ad 8: “sicut in amore boni non potest esse peccatum, nisi in quantum id quod amatur, etso apprehendatur in ratione boni, non tamen est vere bonum, sed malum: ita etiam tristitia quae est in bono, quod apprehenditur ut malum, quod non est vere malum sed apparens.” ST II-II, q.1, a. 2: “cognita sunt in cognoscente secundum modum cognoscentis.” See Rhonheimer, “The Perspective of the Acting Person,” 469n30. See, for example, ST I, q. 48, a. 5: “Malum autem quod consistit in subtractione debitae operationis in rebus voluntariis, habet rationem culpae. Hoc enim imputatur alicui in culpam, cum deficit a perfecta actione, cuius dominus est secundum voluntatem.” 284 Matthew R. McWhorter action? The question touches on the Pauline distinction between sin and the imputation of sin.81 In general, a deformed exterior moral action is imputable to an agent to the extent that that agent performed that action voluntarily (some important qualifications to this claim are considered below).82 The criterion of the will’s mastery over the act is thus of key importance when assessing imputation. In De malo, Aquinas maintains that it is because of a defect in the will that a privation in an agent’s deformed exterior moral act can be imputed to that agent.83 Unlike Abelard, yet again echoing Lombard, Aquinas indicates that there can be proper sin or evil in an exterior moral act even though that act is involuntary. The exterior moral act remains deformed whether or not it is imputed to the agent.84 Aquinas also cites Augustine in this respect.85 In one passage, Aquinas explains that an exterior act may be morally specified according to its materia circa quam apart from the agent’s intention because its effect resolves into that exterior act as a voluntary cause. He writes: A thing may be voluntary either “in itself,” as when the will tends towards it directly; or “in its cause,” when the will tends towards that cause and not towards the effect; as is the case with one who willfully gets drunk, for in that case that which he does through being drunk is imputed to him as if it were voluntary.86 Further, Aquinas maintains that if the object of an act is an effect, then that effect is the term of the act and therefore specifies that act.87 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 See Rom 5:13: “peccatum autem non inputatur cum lex non est.” The Latin is that of Biblia Sacra Iuxta Vulgatam Versionem, ed. Robet Weber and Roger Gryson (Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 2007). ST II-II, q. 21, a. 2: “Tunc enim actus imputatur agenti, quando est potestate ipsius, ita quod habeat dominium sui actus. Hoc autem est in omnibus actibus voluntariis, quia per voluntatem homo dominium sui actus habet.” De malo, q. 2, a. 2: “Sed rationem culpae non habet peccatum nisi ex eo quod est voluntarium; nulli enim imputatur ad culpam aliquis inordinatus actus nisi ex eo quod est in eius potestate.” De malo, q. 2, a. 2: “Sed tamen hoc ipsum quod actus exterior deformis imputatur homini ad culpam, est a voluntate.” See ST I-II, q. 71, a. 6, ad 2. ST I-II, q. 77, a. 7: “aliquid potest esse voluntarium vel secundum se, sicut quando voluntas directe in ipsum fertur; vel secundum suam causam, quando voluntas fertur in causam et non in effectum, ut patet in eo qui voluntarie inebriatur; ex hoc enim quasi voluntarium ei imputatur quod per ebrietatem committit.” ST I-II, q. 18 a. 2, ad 3: In certain cases, “ex hoc autem quod obiectum est Aquinas and the Sins of Ignorance 285 When there is an unintended effect, the interior act of the will may be understood as a per accidens cause and not as a per se cause.88 The deformity of the exterior moral act in such a case remains apart from subjective intentionality.89 In this respect, certain kinds of exterior moral acts may be measured as undue in precision from an agent’s subjective intention: such acts are generically considered in light of God and right reason.90 This generic consideration comprises the task of moral theology and moral philosophy, respectively.91 With respect to the imputation of a deformed exterior moral act to the agent, Aquinas considers in the Summa theologiae how an action that would ordinarily involve the imputation of mortal sin can, in certain cases, involve the lesser imputation of venial sin. This happens in the absence of deliberate reason.92 In this passage, Aquinas indicates that the privation “present” in the act (its deformity) imputes to the agent in various degrees in proportion to the voluntariness of the agent’s performance of that act. As an example of a condition that might result in the absence of deliberate reason (and thus limiting imputation), Aquinas mentions demonic possession.93 88 89 90 91 92 93 aliquo modo effectus potentiae activae, sequitur quod sit terminus actionis eius, et per consequens quod det ei formam et speciem; motus enim habet speciem a terminis. – Et quamvis etiam bonitas actionis non causetur ex bonitate effectus, tamen ex hoc dicitur actio bona, quod bonum effectum inducere potest. Et ita ipsa proportio actionis ad effectum est ratio bonitatis ipsius.” De malo, q. 2, a. 1: “Sed voluntas est causa alicuius quandoque quidem per se, quandoque autem per accidens; per se quidem, sicut quando per intentionem agit ad talem effectum… per accidens autem, sicut quando praeter intentionem.” ST I, q. 48, a. 5: “Malum autem quod consistit in subtractione debitae operationis in rebus voluntariis, habet rationem culpae. Hoc enim imputatur alicui in culpam, cum deficit a perfecta actione, cuius dominus est secundum voluntatem.” De malo, q. 2, a. 2: “Deformitas autem actus est per hoc quod discordat a debita regula rationis vel legis Dei. Quae quidem deformitas invenitur non solum in actu interiori, sed etiam exteriori.” ST I-II, q. 71, a. 6, ad 5: “a theologis consideratur peccatum praecipue secundum quod est offensa contra Deum; a philosopho autem morali, secundum quod contrariatur rationi. Et ideo Augustinus convenientibus definit peccatum ex hoc quod est contra legem aeternam.” ST I-II, q. 88, a. 6: “Potest tamen id quod est ex genere mortale, esse veniale propter imperfectionem actus, quia non perfecte pertingit ad rationem actus moralis, cum non sit deliberatus sed subitus…. Et hoc fit per subtractionem quandam, scilicet deliberatae rationis. Et quia a ratione deliberata habet speciem moralis actus, inde est quod per talem subtractionem solvitur species.” ST I-II, q. 80, a. 3: “homo motivo ad peccandum non resistit nisi per rationem; cuius usum totaliter impedire potest movendo imaginationem et appetitum 286 Matthew R. McWhorter Formal Sin and Material Sin Just as with the matter of how the imputation of sin can be lessened from mortal to venial, so too does Aquinas consider how the imputation of sin can be nullified altogether.94 When a deformed exterior moral act cannot be imputed to the agent, Aquinas describes its moral species as “dissolved.”95 His reference to the dissolution of the moral species may be taken to apply to the specification of the interior act of the will. When the species is dissolved, there is no imputation, and thus no formal sin or culpability. At the same time, since sin is broader in scope than culpability, one can still refer to “material sins.” Imputation involves an agent’s sin qua culpability; just as evil is broader in scope than sin, so is sin broader in scope than culpability.96 In this passage, Aquinas arguably is not merely discussing natural malfunctions, which he also states are without culpability.97 Rather, since the exterior act may be evaluated as a voluntary cause in precision from the agent’s intention (as discussed above), the exterior act itself can be specified in accordance with its own moral character. It is in this way that Aquinas refers to a “material sin.” Aquinas explicitly discusses the material specification of the exterior moral act in De malo. He writes: Every circumstance constituting a species of sin necessarily makes the sin more serious. . . . And if such a circumstance is completely unknown in accordance with an ignorance which does not involve culpability, it will not constitute a species of sin formally speaking, but only materially.98 94 95 96 97 98 sensitivum, sicut in arreptitiis patet. Sed tunc, ratione sic ligata, quiquid homo agat, non imputatur ei ad peccatum.” ST I-II, q. 88, a. 6, ad 2: “si sit talis ignorantia quae peccatum omnino excuset, sicut est furiosi vel amentis, tunc ex tali ignorantia fornicationem commitens nec venialiter nec mortaliter peccat.” ST I-II, q. 88, a. 6. ST II-II, q. 21, a. 2: “sicut malum est in plus quam peccatum, ita peccatum est in plus quam culpa. Ex hoc enim dicitur actus culpabilis vel laudabilis, quod imputatur agenti; nihil enim est aliud laudari vel culpari quam imputari alicui malitiam vel bonitatem sui actus.” ST I-II, q. 21, a. 2, ad 1: “actus naturales non sunt in potestate naturalis agentis, cum natura sit determinata ad unum. Et ideo, licet in actibus naturalibus sit peccatum, non tamen est ibi culpa.” De malo, q. 2, a. 6, ad 11: “omnis circumstantia constituens aliquam speciem peccati, necesse est quod aggravet…. Si autem talis circumstantia sit penitus ignorata tali ignorantia quae non habeat culpam, speciem peccati non constituet formaliter loquendo, sed materialiter tantum.” Aquinas and the Sins of Ignorance 287 Material specification should be identified with the specification of the exterior moral act, whereas formal specification should be identified with the specification of the interior act of the will. To illustrate his point regarding material sin in De malo, Aquinas employs Abelard’s example of committing adultery in ignorance. He states: If a man has sexual intercourse with a married woman whom he does not know to be married, he indeed commits what is adultery, yet not as an adulterer, since the form of a moral act proceeds from reason and the will. But what is unknown is not voluntary. And so if a man were to have sexual intercourse with the wife of another whom he thinks to be his own wife, he would be without sin, as when Jacob was brought to lie with Leah instead of Rachel.99 His biblical reference is to Genesis 29:21–25.100 Aquinas makes this same distinction elsewhere when he describes formal sin as affective sin and material sin as effective sin.101 As examples of effective sin, Aquinas mentions material parricide and material pride. So too does Aquinas elsewhere discuss material falsehood102 and material injustice.103 When describing an act of material injustice, Aquinas explains that the formal specification of the act arises in accordance with what is per se, what the agent intends, whereas the matter concerns what is per accidens and is beside the agent’s intention.104 Aquinas repeats De malo, q. 2, a. 6, ad 11: “si aliquis accedit ad coniugatam quam non credit coniugatam, committit quidem id quod est adulterium, non quasi adulter, quia forma talis actu est ex ratione et voluntate. Quod autem ignoratur, non est voluntarium. Unde si accederet ad coniugatam alterius, quam putaret esse suam uxorem, esset absque peccato, sicut cum Lia subinducta est Iacob, loco Rachelis.” 100 Use of this narrative requires inferring that Jacob believes he has celebrated a marriage rite with Rachel (perhaps at Gn 29:22) and that he has no knowledge of Leah’s presence when he believes he is consummating his marriage with Rachel (Gn 29:23–25). 101 ST II-II, q. 162, a. 2, ad 2: “quandoque aliquis committit aliquod peccatum secundum effectum, sed non secundum affectum, sicut ille qui ignoranter occidit patrem, committit parricidium secundum effectum, sed non secundum affectum, quia hoc non intendebat.” 102 See ST II-II, q. 110, a. 1. 103 ST II-II, q. 59, a. 2. See also Finnis, “Object and Intention in Aquinas,” 14. 104 See, for example, Aquinas’s discussion of an intentional lie in ST II-II, q. 110, a. 1, ad 1. 99 288 Matthew R. McWhorter this same teaching in the next article on injustice105 and in his famous passage on self-defense.106 In these passages, he is speaking in terms of assessing the imputation of formal sin. In De malo, Aquinas states that a deformed exterior moral act may even be imputed to an agent regardless of that agent’s intention if that agent knows that foreseeable bad effects will follow from what the agent intends. He writes: Sometimes an accidental product of an effect is in very few cases and rarely associated with the effect, and then the cause, in intending the per se effect, need not in any way intend the per accidens effect. And sometimes such an accident always or in most cases accompanies the effect chiefly intended, and then the accident is not dissociated from the intention of the cause. Therefore, if an evil is in very few cases associated with the good that the will intends, the will can be excused from sin. . . . But if evil is always or in most cases associated with the good per se intended, the will is not excused from sin, although the will does not per se intend the evil.107 An allegedly unintended per accidens effect (if foreseen) may, in the end, be formally imputed to the agent. There is another situation in which a deformed exterior moral act may be imputed to an agent regardless of that agent’s intention. Recall, as stated above, that Aquinas teaches that “ignorance excuses 105 106 107 ST II-II, q. 59, a. 3: “quod iniustum, per se et formaliter loquendo, nullus potest facere nisi volens, nec pati nisi nolens. Per accidens autem et quasi materialiter loquendo, potest aliquis id quod est de se iniustum vel facere nolens, sicut cum quis praeter intentionem operatur, vel pati volens, sicut cum aliquis plus alteri dat sua voluntate quam debeat.” See also ad 3. ST II-II, q. 64, a. 7: “nihil prohibet unius actus esse duos effectus, quorum alter solum sit in intentione, alius vero sit praeter intentionem. Morales autem actus recipiunt speciem secundum id quod intenditur, non autem ab eo quod est praeter intentionem, cum sit per accidens, ut ex supradictis patet.” De malo, q. 1, a. 3, ad 15: “aliquando accidens alicuius effectus coniungitur ei ut in paucioribus et raro; et tunc agens dum intendit effectum per se non oportet quod aliquo modo intendat effectum per accidens. Aliquando vero huiusmodi accidens concomitatur effectum principaliter intentum semper, vel ut in pluribus; et tunc accidens non separatur ab intentione agentis. Si ergo bono quod voluntas intendit, adiungitur aliquod malum ut in paucioribus, potest excusari a peccato. . . . Sed si semper vel ut in pluribus adiungatur malum bono quod per se intendit, non excusatur a peccato, licet illud malum non per se intendat.” Aquinas and the Sins of Ignorance 289 from sin, in so far as something is not known to be a sin.”108 He writes similarly in De malo.109 He reiterates this point again in his Commentum in Evangelium Joannis,110 in a gloss on the passage where Christ relates culpability to the acquisition of knowledge.111 While, in general, a deformed exterior moral action is imputable to an agent to the extent that that agent performed that action voluntarily, there are some important qualifications to keep in mind when interpreting Aquinas. First, one has to take into consideration Aquinas’s distinction between invincible and vincible ignorance,112 as well as his distinction between obligatory and non-obligatory knowledge.113 Such obligatory knowledge might enable an agent to recognize an integral condition of an exterior moral act or judge that the materia circa quam upon which an exterior act bears involves undue matter.114 Aquinas addresses the issue of obligatory moral knowledge explicitly in article 6 of question 19 of the prima secundae in the Summa, where he asks whether the will is good when it agrees with the guidance of corrupt reason.115 It is this article, according to Joseph Ratzinger, that clearly separates the doctrine of Aquinas from the teaching of Abelard.116 Here Aquinas observes that, “ignorance sometimes causes 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 ST I-II, q. 76, a. 3: “Intantum enim ignorantia excusat a peccato, inquantum ignoratur aliquid esse peccatum.” See De malo, q. 2, a. 3, ad 9. Aquinas, Super Ioan. 15, lect. 5, no. 2044, in Commentary on the Gospel of John: Chapters 13–21, trans. Fabian Larcher and James A.Weisheipl (Washington DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2010), 121. For the Latin, see Commentum in Evangelium Joannis, in Commentum in Matthaeum et Joannem Evangelistas (Cadillac, France: Editions Saint-Remi, n.d.), 572a. Jn 15:22. ST I-II, q.76, a. 2: “propter negligentiam ignorantia eorum quae aliquis scire tenetur, est peccatum. Non autem imputatur homini ad negligentiam, si nesciat ea quae scire non potest. Unde horum ignorantia invincibilis dicitur, quia studio superari non potest. . . . ignorantia autem vincibilis est peccatum, si sit eorum quae aliquis scire tenetur.” ST I-II, q.76, a. 2: “Ignorantia vero importat scientiae privationem, dum scilicet alicui deest scientia eorum quae aptus natus est scire. Horum autem quaedam aliquis scire tenetur, illa scilicet sine quorum scientia non potest debitum actum recte exercere.” ST I-II, q.76, a.1, ad 3: “ignorantia est causa peccati; sicut cum aliquis scit hunc quem occidit esse hominem, sed nescit eum esse patrem; vel cum aliquis scit aliquem actum esse delectabilem, nescit tamen eum esse peccatum.” ST I-II, q.19, a. 6: “Utrum voluntas concordans rationi erranti sit bona.” See Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, Values in a Time of Upheaval (San Francisco: Ignatius, 2006), 96–97, esp. n. 19. 290 Matthew R. McWhorter an act to be involuntary, and sometimes not.”117 In order to explain how ignorance in some cases does not cause an act to be involuntary, Aquinas distinguishes between different kinds of “willed ignorance.”118 When there is willed ignorance with respect to obligatory moral knowledge (either as directly intended or as indirectly willed by way of negligence), the unintentional performance of a deformed exterior moral act is imputable to the agent.119 This occurs, for example, when one wills to be ignorant of the revealed moral law.120 Such a deformed exterior moral act is imputable to an ignorant agent as long as his or her ignorance is not invincible.121 On the other hand, an agent is excused who sins as a result of a lack of knowledge that he or she had no obligation to acquire.122 Note also that Aquinas, in this article, refers to what he calls “ignorance of a circumstance”123 (he again gives the example of committing adultery in ignorance124). Aquinas is using the word “circumstance” 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 ST I-II, q. 19, a. 6: “ignorantia quandoque causat involuntarium, quandoque autem non.” ST I-II, q. 19, a. 6: “ignorantia quae est aliquo modo volita, sive directe sive indirecte, non causat involuntarium. Et dico ignorantiam directe voluntarium, in quam actus voluntatis fertur; indirecte autem propter negligentiam, ex eo quod aliquis non vult illud scire quod scire tenetur.” ST I-II, q. 19, a. 6: “Si igitur ratio vel conscientia erret errore voluntario vel directe vel propter negligentiam, quia est error circa id quod quis scire tenetur; tunc talis error rationis vel conscientiae non excusat quin voluntas concordans rationi vel conscientiae sic erranti sit mala.” ST I-II, q.19, a. 6: “Puta si ratio errans dicat quod homo teneatur ad uxorem alterius accedere, voluntas concordans huic rationi erranti est mala, eo quod error iste provenit ex ignorantia legis Dei, quam scire tenetur.” ST I-II, q.76, a. 2: “Unde propter negligentiam ignorantia eorum quae aliquis scire tenetur, est peccatum. Non autem imputatur homini ad negligentiam, si nesciat ea quae scire non potest.Unde horum ignorantia invincibilis dicitur, quia studio superari non potest. Et propter hoc talis ignorantia, cum non sit voluntaria, eo quod non est in potestate nostra eam repellere, non est peccatum. Ex quo patet quod nulla ignorantia invincibilis est peccatum; ignorantia autem vincibilis est peccatum, si sit eorum quae aliquis scire tenetur, non autem si sit eorum quae quis scire non tenetur.” ST I-II, q. 76, a. 3: “Si vero sit talis ignorantia quae omnino sit involuntaria, sive quia est invincibilis, sive quia est eius quod quis scire non tenetur; talis ignorantia omnino excusat a peccato.” ST I-II, q. 19, a. 6: “Si autem sit error qui causat involuntarium, proveniens ex ignorantia alicuius circumstantiae absque omni negligentia; tunc talis error rationis vel conscientiae excusat, ut voluntas concordans rationi erranti non sit mala.” ST I-II, q. 19, a. 6: “Si autem ratio erret in hoc quod credat aliquam mulierem Aquinas and the Sins of Ignorance 291 here as a synonym for an “integral condition” of an exterior moral act.125 It is helpful to refer to non-specifying circumstances as “genuine circumstances” and to refer to specifying circumstances as “integral conditions” of an exterior moral act.126 As a further example of ignorance of an integral condition, Aquinas elsewhere considers someone who mistakes how much alcohol he or she can ingest without incurring drunkenness.127 In yet another passage, Aquinas describes a parricide mistaken as a regular homicide128 (this example is similar to one of Aristotle’s129). It is important to ask in moral assessment whether or not an agent willed himself to be ignorant of an integral condition of his exterior act, as well as whether or not the agent was obligated to obtain that knowledge. A final related point concerns Aquinas’s doctrine of affected ignorance. When Aquinas considers the question of the sin of Christ’s executioners, he divides the various parties into three categories. The Sanhedrin, he maintains, had an “affected ignorance,” and as such it “could not excuse them.”130 (Aquinas elsewhere explains in the Summa that affected ignorance is present when one wills to be ignorant in submissam esse suam uxorem, et ea petente debitum, velit eam cognoscere, excusatur voluntas eius, ut non sit mala; quia error iste ex ignorantia circumstantiae provenit, quae excusat et involuntarium causat.” 125 De malo, q. 2, a. 6, ad 1: “illud quod consideratur ut circumstantia et extrinsecum respectu actus aliquo modo considerati, potest etiam considerari ut intrinsecum respectu actus alio modo considerati, et dare speciem ipsi.” 126 Such follows Aquinas’s mode of speaking in certain texts—for example, ST I-II, q. 7, a. 3, ad 3: “illa conditio causae ex qua substantia actus dependet, non dicitur cimcumstantia, sed aliqua conditio adiuncta.” 127 ST I-II, q. 88 a. 5, ad 1: “De ebrietate vero dicendum est quod secundum suam rationem habet quod sit peccatum mortale. . . . Sed quod sit peccatum veniale, contingit propter ignorantiam quandam vel infirmitatem, puta cum homo nescit virtutem vini aut propriam debilitatem, unde non putat se inebriari; tunc enim non imputatur ei ebrietas ad peccatum, sed solum superabundantia potus. Sed quando frequenter inebriatur, non potest per hanc ignorantiam excusari. . . . Unde redit peccatum ad suam naturam.” 128 ST I-II, q. 76, a. 1: “homo prohibetur ab actu parricidii per hoc quid scit patrem non esse occidendum, et per hoc quod scit hunc esse patrem. Utriusque ergo ignorantia potest causare parricidii actum, scilicet et universalis principii, quod est quaedam regula rationis, et singularis circumstantiae.” 129 See Aquinas, Sent. Eth. III, lec. 3, no. 418. 130 ST III, q. 47, a. 6: “principes Iudaeorum cognoverunt Christum; et si aliqua ignorantia fuit in eis, fuit ignorantia affectata, quae eos non poterat excusare. Et ideo peccatum eorum fuit gravissimum.” 292 Matthew R. McWhorter order to have an excuse for one’s actions;131 he quotes Job 21:14 to illustrate this point132). In contrast to the affected ignorance of the Sanhedrin, the Jewish mob who pleaded for Christ’s crucifixion before Pilate must be considered separately. With respect to the act evaluated “as a genus of sin,” Aquinas affirms that the mob “sinned most grievously,” but “in one respect their crime was lessened by reason of their ignorance.”133 When considering Christ’s prayer asking God the Father to pardon Christ’s executioners due to their ignorance,134 Aquinas contends that one should understand Christ’s prayer as pertaining to the mob and not to the Sanhedrin.135 At the same time, Aquinas indicates that their act was less excusable than that of the Gentiles who crucified Christ, for the common Jewish people did have knowledge of the revealed moral law.136 In each category, one must observe that Aquinas does affirm the presence of sin. His differentiation of the parties into categories involves to what extent the sin is imputable. Such is entirely so in the case of the Sanhedrin, less so in the case of the Jewish mob, and significantly less with respect to the Gentiles lacking moral knowledge. Aquinas’s judgment follows the criterion that the subjective imputation of sin is proportionate to the degree of an informed conscience. He does not teach, however, that persons suffering from moral ignorance are not able to commit a deformed exterior act. Afterword: Interpreting Veritatis splendor §78 If a Thomistic interpretation of Veritatis splendor §78 takes into consideration the foregoing discussion, the Pontiff ’s teaching cannot be said 131 132 133 134 135 136 ST I-II, q. 6, a. 8: “se habet ignorantia ad voluntatem, inquantum ipsa ignorantia est voluntaria. Et hoc contingit dupliciter. . . . Uno modo, quia actus voluntatus fertur in ignorantiam; sicut cum aliquis ignorare vult vel ut non retrahatur a peccando, secundum illud Iob. XXI14: ‘Scientiam viarum tuarum nolumus.’ Et haec dicitur ignorantia affectata.” See Thomas Aquinas, The Literal Exposition on Job: A Scriptural Commentary concerning Providence, ch. 21, trans. Anthony Damico (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1989), 284. ST III, q. 47, a. 6: “Minores autem Iudaei gravissime peccaverunt quantum ad genus peccati; in aliquo tamen diminuebatur eorum peccatum propter eorum ignorantiam.” Lk 23:34. ST III, q. 47, a. 6, ad 1: “excusatio illa Domini non refertur ad principes Iudaeorum, sed ad minores de populo.” ST III, q. 47, a. 6: “Multo autem magis fuit excusabile peccatum gentilium per quorum manus crucifixus est, qui legis scientiam non habebant.” Aquinas and the Sins of Ignorance 293 to condone a moral methodology where an agent may design a moral object which artificially brackets an integral condition of an exterior moral act. Such a practice will involve a kind of methodologically affected ignorance. This ignorance will be directly voluntary, and therefore culpable. Flannery is thus entirely correct to raise a concern with any approach to moral specification that entails an artificial structuring of the formal ratio in accordance with which the moral object is grasped. In closing, when John Paul II states, “in order to be able to grasp the object of an act which specifies that act morally, it is therefore necessary to place oneself in the perspective of the acting person,”137 the object under consideration in this passage should be understood in two ways. First, the object under consideration should be understood materially with respect to the agent’s exterior moral act that relates to the object as materia circa quam. In this respect, an exterior act as specified in light of God and right reason may involve a material sin regardless of the agent’s intention. Second, the object under consideration should be understood formally with respect to the interior act of the agent’s will. In this respect, the agent may or may not be formally culpable for performing a deformed exterior moral act (depending upon whether ignorance is involved and what kind). In either respect, the passage should not be read as ontologically identifying the moral object with a N&V subjectively designed proposal. 137 Veritatis splendor, §78. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 1 (2016): 295–330295 Extra Ecclesiam Nulla Salus and the Substance of Catholic Doctrine: Towards a Realization of Benedict XVI’s “Hermeneutic of Reform” Matthew Ramage Benedictine College Atchison, KS Introduction: Two Rival Hermeneutics “Hence, too, that meaning of the sacred dogmas is ever to be maintained which has once been declared by Holy mother Church, and there must never be any abandonment of this sense under the pretext or in the name of a more profound understanding.”1 Catholics who come across this statement issued by the First Vatican Council could easily be dismayed at its apparent discrepancy with the Second Vatican 1 First Vatican Council, Dei Filius (1870), ch. 4 (Heinrich Denzinger, Enchiridion symbolorum, definitionum et declarationum de rebus fidei et morum [hereafter, Denzinger], no.1800, available at http://patristica.net/denzinger). See ch. 4, can. 3: “If anyone says that it is possible that, at some time, given the advancement of knowledge, a sense may be assigned to the dogmas propounded by the Church which is different from that which the Church has understood and understands: let him be anathema” (Denzinger, no. 1818). See the discussion of this formula in Charles Journet, What Is Dogma? (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2011), 20 and 98. For the rejection of any form of “evolutionism” in the Church, see also Pius X’s Syllabus Lamentabili Sane (1907), his Pascendi Dominici Gregis (1907), §§26–28 (all papal documents can be found at the Vatican website: http://w2.vatican.va), and his “Oath Against Modernism” Sacrorum Antistitum (1910): “I reject entirely the heretical misrepresentation that dogmas evolve and change from one meaning to another different from the one which the Church held previously” (http://www.papalencyclicals. net/Pius10/p10moath.htm). 296 Matthew Ramage Council’s theology of doctrinal development. For, while Vatican I was reluctant to accept the suggestion that Catholic doctrine developed over the centuries, the Church’s most recent ecumenical council appears to teach the precise opposite in affirming that “[t]he tradition which comes from the Apostles develops in the Church with the help of the Holy Spirit” and that over time “there is a growth in the understanding of the realities and the words which have been handed down.”2 Dissenting Catholics of various stripes base their rejection of today’s Magisterium precisely on the seeming contradiction between formulas such as these. For those of a certain persuasion described by Pope Benedict XVI as “progressivist,” discontinuity in Catholic doctrine over the years is an indication that the Magisterium is a fallible human institution susceptible to correction in accordance with the signs of the times and the demands of the faithful. Benedict famously labeled this approach a “hermeneutic of discontinuity and rupture” and all-too accurately observed that “it has frequently availed itself of the sympathies of the mass media.”3 Regrettably, many Catholics today know 2 3 Second Vatican Council, Dei Verbum (1965), §8: “This tradition which comes from the Apostles develops in the Church with the help of the Holy Spirit. For there is a growth in the understanding of the realities and the words which have been handed down. This happens through the contemplation and study made by believers, who treasure these things in their hearts (Luke: 2:19, 51) through a penetrating understanding of the spiritual realities which they experience, and through the preaching of those who have received through episcopal succession the sure gift of truth. For as the centuries succeed one another, the Church constantly moves forward toward the fullness of divine truth until the words of God reach their complete fulfillment in her.” Benedict XVI, Christmas Address to the Roman Curia (December 22, 2005). In one of his final public addresses as pope, the Pontiff returned to treat the variant interpretations of Vatican II, observing that “there was the Council of the Fathers – the real Council – but there was also the Council of the media.” He lamented, “We know that this Council of the media was accessible to everyone. Therefore, this was the dominant one, the more effective one, and it created so many disasters, so many problems, so much suffering: seminaries closed, convents closed, banal liturgy.” At the same time, in this speech Benedict exuded a firm hope that the media’s portrayal of Vatican II as a rupture will not be the final word and that the Church has great reason to rejoice in finally seeing the council bear the fruit it was designed to yield (Address to the Parish Priests and Clergy of the Rome Diocese, February 14, 2013). As for the damage that occurred to the Church after Vatican II, Benedict had earlier stated, “I am convinced that the damage that we have incurred in these twenty years is due, not to the ‘true’ Council, but to the unleashing within the Church of latent polemical and centrifugal forces; and outside the Church Towards a Realization of Benedict XVI’s “Hermeneutic of Reform”  297 only this popularized misinterpretation of Catholic doctrine. On the other side of the spectrum, one finds Catholics who subscribe to what Benedict calls “traditionalism,” a view that has led some into schism over the direction taken by the Magisterium since the time of Vatican II. Unlike their counterparts already mentioned, these individuals claim to accept the Church’s traditional teaching in matters of faith and morals, yet like the former, they interpret the Council through a hermeneutic of rupture and thereby draw the same basic conclusion: the teachings of today’s official Magisterium are not warranted and thus fail to merit assent on the part of the faithful. According to Benedict, these contradictory partisan perspectives both fundamentally undermine the unity of the Catholic faith “which can exist only as an indivisible unity” over time.4 The question of how to reconcile the teaching of Vatican II and the post-conciliar Magisterium with what preceded it becomes especially thorny when one endeavors to pause and consider particular cases of doctrinal development throughout history.5 This essay will treat one 4 5 it is due to the confrontation with a cultural revolution in the West” (Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger and Vittorio Messori, The Ratzinger Report [San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1985], 30). In this text, Benedict observed that, historically, any ecumenical council is typically followed by tumult, for which reason John Henry Newman spoke of the danger involved with convoking councils (ibid., 39–40). Note that, to simplify matters, I have for the most part opted for the convention of referring to the one man Ratzinger/Benedict as “Benedict” throughout this article, even in writings antedating his pontificate. “It is impossible (‘for a Catholic’) to take a position for or against Trent or Vatican I. Whoever accepts Vatican II, as it has clearly expressed and understood itself, at the same time accepts the whole binding tradition of the Catholic Church, particularly also the two previous councils. And that also applies to the so-called ‘progressivism,’ at least in its extreme forms. . . . It is likewise impossible to decide in favor of Trent and Vatican I, but against Vatican II. Whoever denies Vatican II denies the authority that upholds the other two councils and thereby detaches them from their foundation. And this applies to the so-called ‘traditionalism,’ also in its extreme forms. . . . Every partisan choice destroys the whole (the very history of the Church) which can exist only as an indivisible unity.” (Ratzinger, The Ratzinger Report, 28–29). For further comments in this regard, see Avery Cardinal Dulles, S.J., “Benedict XVI: Interpreter of Vatican II,” in Church and Society: The Laurence J. McGinley Lectures, 1988–2007 (New York: Fordham University Press, 2008), 468–484. Concerning “the problem of the historical dimension in theology which underlay the problems of revealed truth, scripture, and tradition,” then-Father Ratzinger states that it “set off a most violent controversy” among the fathers of the Second Vatican Council (Theological Highlights of Vatican II [New York: Paulist Press, 1966], 147). 298 Matthew Ramage such area that sometimes proves to be an obstacle for assent to the Magisterium: the doctrine extra ecclesiam nulla salus (hereafter, EENS) and the question of whether salvation is possible for those outside of the visible Catholic Church. When examined in its various formulations over the course of the centuries, the Church’s doctrine on this point seemingly proves to be a case of discontinuity rather than legitimate development. As Benedict indicated on a couple of occasions, John Henry Newman’s theory of doctrinal development offers an invaluable aid for considering these matters. Newman pithily remarked, “Young birds do not grow into fishes.”6 In this light, the question that arises from an enquiry into the development of doctrine is whether a particular doctrine has preserved its substance by maintaining a consistent meaning over time according to the standards of Vatican I, which in turn would justify recognizing in it genuine doctrinal development according to the teaching of Vatican II.7 In response to this question, this essay proposes that assent to the doctrine of EENS or other apparently contradictory teachings of the Catholic Church is warranted if we tease out the substance of said doctrines in light of their entire history and of the Magisterium’s counsel to “define exactly the intention of teaching proper to the various formulas.”8 To borrow an expression frequently found in the writings of Benedict XVI, this article will attempt to ascertain “the essential point” that contentious texts wish to assert. In discerning the core assertions of doctrinal formulas, we discover the abiding substance of the Catholic faith.9 6 7 8 9 John Henry Newman, An Essay on the Development of Christian Doctrine (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1989), 172. Francis Sullivan, S.J., poignantly formulates this question in his Salvation Outside the Church:Tracing the History of the Catholic Response (New York: Paulist Press, 1992), 9. Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith (hereafter, CDF), Mysterium Ecclesiae (1973), §5. Benedict frequently employs this phrase and several variations upon it when seeking to discern the principal affirmation of a problematic biblical text. Although an examination of Benedict’s exegesis is beyond the scope of this essay, it is instructive to observe the affinity between his method of dealing with problematic texts in the Bible and in the Magisterium. For just a few among dozens of examples, see his God and the World (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2002), 45, 75ff, 104, 165–168, and his Jesus of Nazareth (New York: Doubleday, 2007), 215–216. For an application of this method to some of the “darkest” passages in the Bible, see Matthew Ramage, Dark Passages of the Bible: Engaging Scripture with Benedict XVI and Thomas Aquinas (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2013). Towards a Realization of Benedict XVI’s “Hermeneutic of Reform”  299 This enterprise lies at the heart of what is needed to counter the hermeneutic of rupture and implement what Benedict calls a “hermeneutic of reform” in the Church. In this Pontiff ’s view, a robust hermeneutic must, to a certain extent, grant the former hermeneutical point that the writings of the Vatican II reveal a certain discontinuity with respect to what preceded the Council. At the same time, Benedict has incorporated Newman’s language in affirming that a sound hermeneutic also must firmly insist on the existence of a “permanent aspect” in the Church’s teaching and that at Vatican II “the continuity of principles proved not to have been abandoned.”10 Thus for the Pontiff, “It is precisely in this combination of continuity and discontinuity at different levels that the very nature of true reform consists.”11 10 11 I find it significant that Benedict’s choice of the expression “continuity of principles” (translated into English) reflects verbatim Newman’s second “note” for distinguishing a genuine doctrinal development from a “corruption” (Pope Benedict XVI, Christmas Address to the Roman Curia, December 22, 2005). Cf. John Henry Newman, An Essay on the Development of Christian Doctrine (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1989), 178–785. Regarding the language of permanence used by Benedict, see ibid., 178, where Newman states, “Doctrines grow and are enlarged; principles are permanent.” See also the discussion of these parallels in Gerard O’Collins, S.J., “Does Vatican II Represent Continuity or Discontinuity?” Theological Studies 73 (2012), 793. For a further indication of Benedict’s dependence upon Newman, his reflection in the following speech is highly instructive: “Even deeper for me was the contribution which Heinrich Fries published in connection with the Jubilee of Chalcedon. Here I found access to Newman’s teaching on the development of doctrine, which I regard along with his doctrine on conscience as his decisive contribution to the renewal of theology. With this he had placed the key in our hand to build historical thought into theology, or much more, he taught us to think historically in theology and so to recognize the identity of faith in all developments. Here I have to refrain from deepening these ideas further. It seems to me that Newman’s starting point, also in modern theology, has not yet been fully evaluated. Fruitful possibilities awaiting development are still hidden in it. At this point I would only like to refer again to the biographical background of this concept. It is known how Newman’s insight into the ideas of development influenced his way to Catholicism. But it is not just a matter of an unfolding of ideas. In the concept of development, Newman’s own life plays a role. That seems to become visible to me in his well-known words: ‘to live is to change, and to be perfect is to have changed often’” (Joseph Ratzinger, Presentation on the Occasion of the First Centenary of the Death of Cardinal John Henry Newman, April 28, 1990). Benedict XVI, Christmas Address to the Roman Curia, December 22, 2005. To understand what Benedict is up to here, it is important to note that he is not proposing a “hermeneutic of continuity,” but rather a hermeneutic of reform that accounts for elements of continuity as well as discontinuity. For 300 Matthew Ramage Benedict explained this in a particularly interesting way in a Wednesday catechesis on the life of St. Bonaventure: Indeed, we know that after the Second Vatican Council some were convinced that everything was new, that there was a different Church, that the pre-Conciliar Church was finished and that we had another, totally “other” Church, an anarchic utopianism! And thanks be to God the wise helmsmen of the Barque of St Peter, Pope Paul VI and Pope John Paul II, on the one hand defended the newness of the Council, and on the other, defended the oneness and continuity of the Church, which is always a Church of sinners and always a place of grace.12 Benedict notes that St. Bonaventure, serving as Minister General of the Franciscan order in his day, faced a problem similar to that faced by the Church in the modern period. For the sake of unity in his order, Bonaventure made it a pastoral priority to combat the widespread “anarchic utopianism” that caused many to dissociate the search for authentic spirituality from the hierarchical structure of the Church. As indicated above, this is precisely the type of attitude we often witness today: the search for spirituality or freedom to the neglect of the hierarchical Church, a search that takes its cue from the supposition that Vatican II is completely new and that it has fundamentally changed the nature of the rigid, pre-conciliar, hierarchical, outdated institutional church. That said, in these passages, Benedict does indeed acknowledge a real “newness” and “discontinuity” in Vatican II. It will thus be necessary to address the extent to which the Church’s doctrinal formulas are conditioned by history, and therefore subject to certain changes. Foundational Principles from the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith Before tackling thorny doctrinal formulations of EENS on an individual basis, it is important first to elucidate at greater length the hermeneutical foundations of this essay, based primarily on principles outlined by the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith (hereafter, CDF). To this end, the 1973 declaration Mysterium Ecclesiae is of particular importance. At the beginning of a pivotal section entitled “The 12 this principle and its application to the thorny issue of religious freedom, see Martin Rhonheimer, “Benedict XVI’s ‘Hermeneutic of Reform’ and Religious Freedom,’” Nova et Vetera (English) 9, no. 4 (2011): 1029–1054. Benedict XVI, Audience, March 20, 2010. Towards a Realization of Benedict XVI’s “Hermeneutic of Reform”  301 Notion of the Church’s Infallibility Not To Be Falsified” it indicates that difficulties arise in this domain for two reasons: from the fact that God’s mysteries so transcend the human intellect that they remain “wrapped in darkness” in this life; and from “the historical condition that affects the expression of revelation.”13 Spelling out what is meant by this “historical condition,” the CDF argues first that “the meaning of the pronouncements of faith depends partly upon the expressive power of the language used at a certain point in time and in particular circumstances.” The word meaning (sensum) is significant because it echoes the text of the First Vatican Council mentioned above, wherein the Church anathematizes those who would claim that the meaning of dogmas can change over time. Next, the CDF admits the possibility that a dogma “is first expressed incompletely (but not falsely), and at a later date, when considered in a broader context of faith or human knowledge, it receives a fuller and more perfect expression.” Here the CDF signals the importance of context in the formulation of dogma: different contexts throughout history enable the Church to express the truth more fully. Third, when one attends to these contexts, we see that the Church “usually has the intention of solving certain questions or removing certain errors,” and that “all these things have to be taken into account in order that these pronouncements may be properly interpreted.” Though not explicitly mentioned in the document, the intention and context above naturally assume the need to consider the audience for whom a given document is destined. Finally, ever affirming that the truths of the faith are not dependent upon “the changeable conceptions of a given epoch,” the document acknowledges that “it can sometimes happen that these truths may be enunciated by the Sacred Magisterium in terms that bear traces of such conceptions.”14 This is significant because, in conjunction with a consideration of meaning, context, and intention, it helps theologians explain aspects of dogmatic formulas that today’s faithful Catholic may find untenable. In light of the foregoing argument, the document concludes that, while the Church’s ancient dogmatic formulas “remain forever suitable” when interpreted correctly, “it does not however follow that every one of these formulas has always been or will always be so to the same extent.” This concession is followed by a commendation of the enterprise in which theologians demonstrate the truth of the Catholic faith as they endeavor to ascertain and “define exactly the intention of 13 14 CDF, Mysterium Ecclesiae, §5, echoing the words of Dei Filius, ch. 4. Ibid. (emphasis mine). 302 Matthew Ramage teaching proper to the various formulas.” In carrying out this work, they are thus “of considerable assistance to the living Magisterium of the Church, to which they remain subordinated.” Once again, however, the CDF reminds us that every such effort, if authentic, will “maintain . . . completely the same meaning” that dogmatic truths have always had from the beginning.15 A second CDF document, the 1990 instruction on “The Ecclesial Vocation of the Theologian,” further elaborates on how theologians are to deal with magisterial documents that contain problems when viewed from the vantage point of later texts that deal with the same issue. Of particular interest is what Donum Veritatis has to say about interventions of the Magisterium in the prudential order. “It could happen,” the text allows, “that some Magisterial documents might not be free from all deficiencies. Bishops and their advisors have not always taken into immediate consideration every aspect or the entire complexity of a question.”16 The importance of this statement lies in the fact that it indicates that certain aspects of magisterial utterances contain “deficiencies”—to borrow a term from Mysterium Ecclesiae above—that are not intended to be the comprehensive final word in response to their respective questions. In order to pursue his discipline well, the theologian must be competent in history in order to ascertain correctly the context in which dogmatic formulas arise and to be mindful of “the filtering which occurs with the passage of time.” While the document is careful to ensure that this statement not be construed as “a relativization of the tenets of the faith,” it proceeds to add these poignant words: The theologian knows that some judgments of the Magisterium could be justified at the time in which they were made, because while the pronouncements contained true assertions and others which were not sure, both types were inextricably connected. Only time has permitted discernment and, after deeper study, the attainment of true doctrinal progress.17 15 16 17 Ibid. The document proceeds to indicate two options that the faithful are to “shun” in this regard: first, that dogmatic formulas “can only offer changeable approximations to [the truth], which to a certain extent distort or alter it; and second, that these formulas signify the truth only in an indeterminate way, this truth being like a goal that is constantly being sought by means of such approximations.” CDF, Donum Veritatis (1990), §24. Ibid. Towards a Realization of Benedict XVI’s “Hermeneutic of Reform”  303 The first line cited here indicates that certain magisterial judgments throughout history cannot remain justified today even though they are “inextricably connected” with other truths that are de fide. This admission may sound alarming to some Catholics, but the reader later discovers that the document insists on the necessity of time and deeper study in order to discern properly in matters concerning the development of doctrine. We find further elaboration on this theme in Benedict’s initial presentation of Donum Veritatis to the press: The text also presents the various forms of binding which correspond to the grades of [magisterial teaching]. It states—perhaps for the first time with such candor—that there are magisterial decisions which cannot be the final word on a given matter as such but, despite the permanent value of their principles [a substantial anchorage in the problem], are chiefly also a signal for pastoral prudence, a sort of provisional policy. Their kernel [core] remains valid, but the particulars determined by circumstances can stand in need of correction.18 18 Joseph Ratzinger, “On the ‘Instruction Concerning the Ecclesial Vocation of the Theologian,’” in The Nature and Mission of Theology: Approaches to Understanding Its Role in Light of the Present Controversy, trans. Adrian Walker (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1995), 106 (emphasis added). Again, it is illuminating to observe that he displays similar outlooks on the nature of magisterial authority and biblical inerrancy: “It is one thing to regard the Bible strictly as a collection of historical documents, which expose the human element, so to speak, without mercy. It is another thing to see the Bible as a whole as the Word of God, in which everything relates to everything else, and everything is disclosed as you go on. It follows straightaway that neither the criterion of inspiration nor that of infallibility can be applied mechanically. It is quite impossible to pick out one single sentence and say, right, you find this sentence in God’s great book, so it must simply be true in itself ” (God and the World, 153). See also Benedict XVI, Address to Participants in the Plenary Meeting of the Pontifical Biblical Commission, May 2, 2011: “Lastly, I would only like to mention the fact that in a good hermeneutic it is not possible to apply mechanically the criterion of inspiration, or indeed of absolute truth by extrapolating a single sentence or expression. The plan in which it is possible to perceive Sacred Scripture as a Word of God is that of the unity of God, in a totality in which the individual elements are illuminated reciprocally and are opened to understanding.” For another thought-provoking take on the relationship between magisterial infallibility and biblical inerrancy, see James Tunstead Burtchaell, Catholic Theories of Biblical Inspiration since 1810: A Review and Critique (London: Cambridge University Press, 1969), 299, 303–304. 304 Matthew Ramage This citation contains two points germane to our endeavor. First, Benedict confirms that some magisterial decisions are not intended to be definitive, but rather “provisional” determinations of pastoral prudence. Second, he indicates that such statements have a “kernel” or substance that remains valid throughout history, while certain “particulars” or accidental features “can stand in need of correction” by later formulations. In this connection, Benedict mentions two examples where this teaching can be applied.19 While neither of these directly concerns the doctrine of EENS, the principles articulated here can be applied in the case of this and many other Catholic doctrines. The upshot is that, in evaluating the various magisterial formulations of EENS we will come across, it is necessary to locate their core and distinguish it from accidental features that needed to be corrected in light of later theological knowledge and pastoral prudence. The Doctrine of EENS throughout Catholic History With the above principles in place, the next step of our endeavor is to survey the history of the formula EENS such as it has been articulated over two millennia.20 The formula is grounded in Scripture and the writings of the apostolic Fathers, but it first appears explicitly in the third century, where Origen and St. Cyprian expressed it in reference to apostates and schismatics.21 The Fathers of subsequent centuries 19 20 21 Benedict offers two examples that illustrate this point: the first one involves papal statements of the last century concerning religious freedom. The second has to do with the Church’s attitude towards modern methods of biblical exegesis. While these are both important issues, in this essay I have chosen to focus exclusively on another similar issue Benedict discusses in his corpus: the question of salvation for non-Christians. There are a number of outstanding sources that treat the history of the problem. In particular I will be drawing from Ralph Martin, Will Many Be Saved? What Vatican II Actually Teaches and Its Implications for the New Evangelization (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2012) and Sullivan, Salvation Outside the Church? Shorter, but also helpful, is Martin’s article “Doctrinal Clarity for the New Evangelization: The Importance of Lumen Gentium 16,” Fellowship of Catholic Scholars Quarterly 34 (2011): 15n9. My point in this article is not to provide an exhaustive history of the doctrine in question. Here I focus on a representative sample of texts in light of the systematic treatments of them in the above sources. Origen, Honiliae in Jesu Nave 3:5 (Migne, Patrologia Graeca [hereafter, PG] 12:841–842); Cyprian, Epist. 4,4; (Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum [hereafter, CSEL] 3,2:476–77): “Let them not think the way of life or salvation exists for them, if they have refused to obey the bishops and priests. . . . For they cannot live outside, since there is only one house of God, and there can be no salvation for anyone except in the church.” For an Towards a Realization of Benedict XVI’s “Hermeneutic of Reform”  305 preserved and extended the scope of EENS, with St. Augustine holding that neither those of his day who remained pagans and Jews nor those of the pre-Christian era who lacked faith in Christ could be saved.22 The strictest articulation of the doctrine came in the early sixth century from a North African bishop and follower of St. Augustine, Fulgentius of Ruspe, a teaching that would become mainstream in the Church: “Most firmly hold and by no means doubt, that not only all pagans, but also all Jews, and all heretics and schismatics who die outside the Catholic Church, will go to the eternal fire that was prepared for the devil and his angels.”23 The popes and ecumenical councils of subsequent centuries continued to teach EENS. In a profession of faith to be made by the Waldensians who wished to be reconciled with Rome, Innocent III wrote (in 1208) that “there is one church, not that of the heretics, but the holy Roman Catholic and apostolic church, outside of which we believe that no one is saved.”24 Under the same pope, the Fourth Lateran Council (1215) issued a similar definition against the Albigensians.25 After reiterating this teaching in his bull Unam Sanctam (1302), Boniface VIII added the well-known words, “Moreover, we declare, state, and define that for every human creature it is a matter of strict necessity for salvation to be subject to the Roman Pontiff.”26 In the fifteenth century, the Council of Florence issued an important decree for the Jacobites, in which it reproduced almost verbatim the formula of Fulgentius: [The Holy Roman Church] firmly believes, professes, and teaches that none of those who exist outside of the Catholic Church—neither pagans nor Jews nor heretics nor schismatics—can become sharers of eternal life; rather, they will go into 22 23 24 25 26 excellent overview of the biblical foundations of the doctrine, see Martin, Will Many Be Saved?, 57–92. In particular, Martin highlights Rom 1–2 and Mk 16:14-16. Romans demonstrates that humans are not worthy of heaven simply by the fact that they have not explicitly heard the Gospel. Jesus’s words in Mark, meanwhile, contain the commandment to preach the Gospel to the whole world, along with the harrowing teaching that those who do not believe will be condemned. See the many works of Augustine cited in Sullivan, Salvation Outside the Church?, 28ff. Fulgentius of Ruspe, De fide, ad Petrum 38 (79) (Migne, Patrologia Latina [hereafter, PL] 65:704); See also Sullivan, S.J., Salvation Outside the Church?, 42–43. Denzinger, no. 792. Ibid., no. 802. Ibid., no. 875; cf. no. 870. 306 Matthew Ramage the eternal fire . . . unless, before the end of their lives, they are joined to that same church.27 The Council of Trent’s Profession of Faith (1564) would teach likewise, albeit in not so explicit a manner, as would Leo XII’s Ubi Primum (1824) and Gregory XVI’s Summo Iugiter Studio (1832).28 In 1854 and 1863, respectively, we find Pius IX declaring, “Certainly we must hold it as of faith that no one can be saved outside the Apostolic Roman Church” and, “It is a well-known Catholic dogma that no one can be saved outside the Catholic Church.” Pius’s 1864 Syllabus of Errors enshrined the same teaching. 29 The popes of the first half of the twentieth century maintained this tradition, as evident in Pius X’s Iucunda Sane (1904), Benedict XV’s Ad Beatissimi Apostolorum (1914), and Pius XII’s Humani Generis (1950). The last observed that, while knowing that “the Mystical Body of Christ and the Roman Catholic Church are one and the same thing, [s]ome reduce to a meaningless formula the necessity of belonging to the true Church in order to gain eternal salvation.”30 According to Benedict XVI, an obsessive preoccupation with combating modern thought persisted as a sort of “camped thinking” in the Church “until its last reverberation” in Humani Generis.31 27 28 29 30 31 Ibid., no. 1351. Leo XII, Ubi Primum, §14; Gregory XVI, Summo Iugiter Studio (1832), §§4–5. As proof of this doctrine, Gregory calls on its precedents in St. Gregory the Great, Innocent III, and the Fourth Lateran Council, see also Pius IV, Iniunctum nobis (Denzinger, no. 1870). Pius IX, Singulari quadam (Denzinger, no. 2865) and Quanto conficiamur moerore (Denzinger, no. 2867). See also the condemnations in his 1864 “Syllabus of Errors,” §§16–17. In Quanto conficiamur moerore, he acknowledges, “There are, of course, those who are struggling with invincible ignorance about our most holy religion. Sincerely observing the natural law and its precepts inscribed by God on all hearts and ready to obey God, they live honest lives and are able to attain eternal life by the efficacious virtue of divine light and grace. Because God knows, searches and clearly understands the minds, hearts, thoughts, and nature of all, his supreme kindness and clemency do not permit anyone at all who is not guilty of deliberate sin to suffer eternal punishments.” In the words that follow, we see that the specific object of his teaching concerns those who have been inside the Church and then rejected its authority: “Also well known is the Catholic teaching that no one can be saved outside the Catholic Church. Eternal salvation cannot be obtained by those who oppose the authority and statements of the same Church and are stubbornly separated from the unity of the Church and also from the successor of Peter, the Roman Pontiff.” Pius XII, Humani Generis (1950), §27, referencing his Mystici Corporis Christi (1943). Theological Highlights, 42. Towards a Realization of Benedict XVI’s “Hermeneutic of Reform”  307 ENNS, Vatican II, and the Post-Conciliar Church What, then, could be problematic when the Church has such a unanimous and longstanding tradition concerning the dogma of EENS?32 The issue is precisely this:Vatican II and the post-conciliar Magisterium seem to teach an entirely different doctrine from what was taught over the greater part of the previous two thousand years. In the statements we will examine below, the Magisterium appears to have violated Vatican I’s declaration that the “meaning of the sacred dogmas is ever to be maintained which has once been declared by Holy mother Church.” For, while the dogmatic constitution Lumen Gentium (1964) articulates EENS in its own way, its scope appears to have been reduced to the point of yielding an altogether different meaning: In explicit terms [Christ] Himself affirmed the necessity of faith and baptism and thereby affirmed also the necessity of the Church, for through baptism as through a door men enter the Church. Whosoever, therefore, knowing that the Catholic Church was made necessary by Christ, would refuse to enter or to remain in it, could not be saved. . . . He is not saved, however, who, though part of the body of the Church, does not persevere in charity.”33 The novelty here is that Vatican II reformulates the ancient dogma of EENS and recasts it in a positive light, restricting its application to those who know the Church is necessary for salvation and still refuse to enter or remain in it. However, it leaves open the question of what it means to truly “know” this reality. As an indication of what the Council intends, Lumen Gentium proceeds to discuss the positive elements the Church sees in other Christian communities, as well as in Judaism, Islam, and other religions 32 33 Sullivan cites a text from Frank Sheed that sheds light on the longstanding Catholic belief that non-Catholics, or at least non-Christians, could not be saved: “In the handling of Father Feeney we hear a troubling echo of the handling of the Modernists at the turn of the century. Like them he was condemned but not answered. When Boniface VIII said in the bull Unam Sanctam that it was ‘altogether necessary for salvation for every human creature to be subject to the Roman Pontiff,’ he seemed to be saying not only what Father Feeney was condemned for saying, but what a vast number of yesterday’s Catholics had grown up believing” (Frank Sheed, The Church and I [Garden City: The Catholic Book Club, 1974], 166). Cf. Sullivan, Salvation Outside the Church?, 4. Second Vatican Council, Lumen Gentium (1964), §14. 308 Matthew Ramage whose members “in shadows and images seek the unknown God.” It affirms that “those who have not yet received the Gospel are related in various ways to the people of God.” 34 Citing St. Paul concerning God’s desire to save all men, the document reflects the reality of invincible ignorance in stating, “Those also can attain to salvation who through no fault of their own do not know the Gospel of Christ or His Church, yet sincerely seek God and moved by grace strive by their deeds to do His will as it is known to them through the dictates of conscience.”35 Even non-theists are potential recipients of salvation: “Nor does Divine Providence deny the helps necessary for salvation to those who, without blame on their part, have not yet arrived at an explicit knowledge of God and with His grace strive to live a good life.”36 The Council’s constitution on the Church in the modern world likewise embraces this possibility with open arms: All this holds true not only for Christians, but for all men of good will in whose hearts grace works in an unseen way. For, since Christ died for all men, and since the ultimate vocation of man is in fact one, and divine, we ought to believe that the Holy Spirit in a manner known only to God offers to every man the possibility of being associated with this paschal mystery.37 So significant was the message of this paragraph for the history of Catholic doctrine that Benedict wrote, “If it is desirable to offer a diagnosis of the text as a whole, we might say that (in conjunction with the texts on religious liberty and world religions) it is a revision of the Syllabus of Pius IX, a kind of countersyllabus.”38 Benedict further 34 35 36 37 38 Ibid., §16, with allusions to Paul’s preaching at the Athenian Areopagus in Acts 17:25–28 and 1 Tim 2:4, in which the apostle writes that God “desires all men to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth.” It should be observed that the word ordinantur, translated here “related,” implies that non-Christians are “ordered towards” or called to full membership in the People of God, as is stated in Lumen Gentium, §13. See also the Council’s declaration Nostra Aetate (1965), which is dedicated to elucidating the positive elements the Church shares with non-Christian religions. Popes John Paul II and Benedict XVI, in turn, have sought to do this in their own writings. See John Paul II, Crossing the Threshold of Hope (New York: Knopf, 1994), and Benedict XVI, Verbum Domini (2010), §§117–120 (Frederick, MD: Word Among Us, 2010). Lumen Gentium, §16. Ibid. Second Vatican Council, Gaudium et Spes (1965), §22. Joseph Ratzinger, Principles of Catholic Theology (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1986), 381. Towards a Realization of Benedict XVI’s “Hermeneutic of Reform”  309 describes the “generous spirit” of Pope John XXIII and Vatican II as a “cure” for “the anti-Modernistic neurosis which had again and again crippled the Church since the turn of the century.”39 While the above texts are quite difficult to reconcile with the ancient doctrine of EENS, it is not just Vatican II that teaches a doctrine concerning non-Christians that is seemingly incongruous with the theology of times past. In Redemptor Hominis (1979), John Paul II wrote that the Holy Spirit operates through other religions, leading their adherents to belief in God. He described this in terms of “the firm belief of the followers of the non-Christian religions—a belief that is also an effect of the Spirit of truth operating outside the visible confines of the Mystical Body.”40 The Pontifical Council for Interreligious Dialogue’s Dialogue and Proclamation (1991) cites the aforementioned passage and writes that “the Council has openly acknowledged the presence of positive values not only in the religious life of individual believers of other religious traditions, but also in the religious traditions to which they belong.”41 Citing Vatican II’s Nostra Aetate (1965), it adds this exhortation: “Let Christians, while witnessing to their own faith and way of life, acknowledge, preserve and encourage the spiritual and moral good found among non-Christians, as well as their social and cultural values.”42 Referencing Vatican II’s Ad Gentes (1965) on the mission activity of the Church, the document concludes: From this mystery of unity it follows that all men and women who are saved share, though differently, in the same mystery of salvation in Jesus Christ through his Spirit. . . . Concretely, it will be in the sincere practice of what is good in their own religious traditions and by following the dictates of their conscience that the members of other religions respond positively to God’s invitation and receive salvation in Jesus Christ, even while they do not recognize or acknowledge him as their savior.43 Ibid., 27. John Paul II, Redemptor Hominis (1979), §6. 41 Pontifical Council for Interreligious Dialogue (hereafter, PCID), Dialogue and Proclamation (Vatican City: Pontifical Council for Interreligious Dialogue, 1991), §17. 42 Ibid.; cf. Nostra Aetate, §2. 43 PCID, Dialogue and Proclamation, §29 (emphasis added); cf. Second Vatican Council, Decree on the Missionary Activity of the Church Ad Gentes (1965), §§3, 9, and 11. 39 40 310 Matthew Ramage Although this document does not have the same authority as a papal encyclical or ecumenical council, it is representative of a common ecclesiastical stance vis-à-vis the question of salvation for non-Christians such as it has developed over the past fifty years. What is striking about these last statements is that they ascribe “firm belief ” to people who practice religions other than Christianity, and even go so far as to teach that such individuals respond to God’s call precisely through “the sincere practice of what is good in their own religious traditions.” As we will discuss below, the above affirmation does not mean that non-Christians have no need of Christ’s grace, yet it appears to be worlds apart from the teaching of the past in which those who refused to submit explicitly to the authority of the pope were condemned along with their religious traditions. Francis Sullivan poses the problem in this way: The question is whether this radical change from pessimism to optimism, this about-face from the position of “no salvation outside the Catholic Church” to the recognition by Vatican II of the universal possibility of salvation, can really be seen as a genuine development of the church’s understanding of her faith. In other words, can this be justified as a legitimate development of doctrine? . . . Is there any consistent meaning which would justify recognizing this as a legitimate development of doctrine?44 Sullivan’s question dovetails perfectly with the overall scope of this essay. If the changes we have witnessed from the time of Vatican II forward are to be considered legitimate developments of doctrine according to the standards famously articulated by Newman, then it must also adhere to the standard of Vatican I, which taught that dogmas maintain a consistent meaning over the millennia. Historical Conditioning and the Substance of EENS In response to his own challenging question, Sullivan emphasizes the necessity of recourse to the principles of Mysterium Ecclesiae outlined above. For Sullivan, it is of paramount importance to deal with the reality that magisterial pronouncements are to a certain extent “histor44 Sullivan, Salvation Outside the Church?, 9–10. See below for a discussion of Sullivan’s comments regarding the “radical change from pessimism to optimism,” as Ralph Martin and Avery Dulles offer helpful criticisms to keep us from misconstruing the “change” of which Sullivan speaks. Towards a Realization of Benedict XVI’s “Hermeneutic of Reform”  311 ically conditioned.”45 In this document, the CDF has called on scholars to identify historical factors that have influenced the way the Church expressed her faith through the ages. Sullivan takes up this call and applies it to EENS, beginning with this brief sketch of the dogma in historical context: During the first three centuries of church history, “No salvation outside the church” was used exclusively as a warning to Christians who had separated themselves from the catholica through adherence to a heretical or schismatic sect. . . . But from the end of the fourth century, when Christianity had become the official religion of the empire, we begin to find the fathers of the church addressing a similar warning to pagans and Jews. Here their argument was that by now the gospel had been preached everywhere in the world, all had had ample opportunity to hear and respond to it, and there was no excuse for those who persisted in their refusal to accept it. Now, not only Christian heretics and schismatics, but pagans and Jews were judged guilty of grave sin for refusing to join the Christian community. And so, in the sixth century, we find Fulgentius, bishop of Ruspe, formulating the doctrine of the necessity of belonging to the church in terms of the belief that all pagans, Jews, and schismatics would be condemned to Hell. That this remained the standard expression of the doctrine for almost a thousand years is shown by the fact that the Council of Florence, in 1442, incorporated Fulgentius’ formula into its Decree for the Jacobites.46 Here Sullivan identifies three stages in the history of EENS, from its initial use directed towards Catholics themselves in the context of schism, to its later application in which pagans and Jews were considered damned due to the assumption that they had heard the gospel and knew better, to Fulgentius’ blanket condemnation of all pagans, Jews, and schismatics. The first of these cases is the easiest to justify. As Benedict indicates in an objection to the teaching of St. Cyprian, the earliest expressions of EENS were conditioned by a context of persecution and schism in the Church: 45 46 Ibid., 199–200; CDF, Mysterium Ecclesiae, §5. Sullivan, Salvation Outside the Church?, 200–201. 312 Matthew Ramage Cyprian is talking about the relationship between God and the Church in the context of persecution. He is thinking of people who leave the Church because of their fear of being martyred and who think that they will, of course, still keep on with Christ and God. He is telling them that whoever leaves the living community, the living body, is climbing out of Noah’s ark and will drown in the flood. It is in this sense that he is showing them how the Church and faith in Christ are indivisible. . . . Cyprian did not invent any theory concerning what God will do about those who did not know the Church. Even Saint Paul, who so insists on the importance of the Church, tells us that we must behave as we should within the Church; God will do whatever he is going to do about those outside.47 As Benedict shows, EENS was originally intended to indicate only what happens to a Catholic who leaves the Church, a teaching that Vatican II reiterates in no uncertain terms. Unlike Vatican II, however, Cyprian did not have in his immediate sights the fate of those who never belonged to the Church in the first place. In another text Benedict makes a similar point and adds further distinctions regarding the formula’s meaning that he describes in terms of its concern, assertion, or preoccupation: Cyprian, for instance, is concerned with defending the unity of the Church in each individual bishop, and with opposing any attempt at independence and separation from the ecclesiastical community rooted in the bishop. The meaning of his statement is the positive assertion that the episcopal structure is absolutely essential to the Church, rather than the negative statement that the majority of mankind is lost. This question, in all its universal implications, was not the concern [of] Cyprian, [who] was preoccupied only with the danger that threatened the Church from schism, and not with the speculations about the salvation of mankind.48 In this piece, Benedict distinguishes a “positive assertion” concerning the essential role of the episcopacy from a “negative statement” regarding the salvation of mankind. While he does not deny the implications 47 48 Ratzinger, God and the World, 88–89 (emphasis added). Ratzinger, “Salus Extra Ecclesiam Nulla Est,” Documentatie Centrum Concilie, Series I, no. 88 (1963), 1 (emphasis added). Towards a Realization of Benedict XVI’s “Hermeneutic of Reform”  313 of Cyprian’s thought for the latter, it is the former with which Benedict is preoccupied and that he considers to be the real truth claim at stake in Cyprian’s formulation of EENS. Subsequent formulations of the dogma require more effort to harmonize with the Magisterium’s teaching today. In order to do this, we have to acknowledge two further factors that conditioned these stricter articulations of EENS. Sullivan explains: First of all, there was the fact that their world was practically identical with Christian Europe. . . . When they spoke of the possibility that someone might never have heard the gospel preached, they imagined the case of a child brought up in the wilderness. The limits of their geographical horizon led them to the conviction that everyone had had ample opportunity to hear and respond to the gospel. At the same time, the limits of their grasp of human psychology led them to the conviction that all those who had heard the message of the gospel and did not accept it must be guilty of sinning against the truth which surely was evident to them.49 This is a fascinating explanation because it shows that false presuppositions have sometimes led the Church to express her teachings in a way that fails to square with what we know to be true today in hindsight. If Fulgentius, Boniface VIII, or the Fathers of the Council of Florence had enjoyed the better grasp of psychology we have today, they may 49 Sullivan, Salvation Outside the Church?, 201. On the subject of the limits of medieval Christendom’s geographical horizon and its impact on their position concerning the salvation of non-Christians, see Jean-Pierre Torrell, O.P., “Saint Thomas et les non-chrétiens,” Revue Thomiste 106 (2006): 17–49. Ralph Martin summarizes this reality as follows: “Given the common medieval understanding that Christianity was so widely known and promulgated that invincible ignorance would be extremely rare, it was assumed that nonbelievers were culpable for their unbelief ” (Will Many Be Saved?, 37–38). While not referencing Torrell, the treatment of this issue in Martin and Sullivan aligns well with his careful analysis. Martin and Torrell both cite Aquinas, De Veritate, q.14, a.11 ad 1, in which Thomas discusses the hypothetical case of the invincibly ignorant person raised in the wilderness or by animals. According to Thomas, we must most certainly hold (certissime tenendum est) that God would reveal himself to this person by means of an interior inspiration or by a preacher specifically sent to him. It is pivotal to recall here, however, Aquinas’s stipulation that God will extend such an offer “provided that he followed his natural reason in seeking the good and avoiding evil.” 314 Matthew Ramage not have concluded that all who refused to accept Christ explicitly were fully aware of the grave repercussions of their decision. Likewise, had they known about the New World and all the other peoples of the earth who had never heard the Gospel, they likely would have articulated their doctrine differently to account for this knowledge. As Benedict recalls, the ancient worldview underlying many formulations of EENS took it for granted that the Gospel had been preached to all mankind and that only culpable hardness of heart kept people from the Church. “In this light,” he articulates, “it would seem that the phrase, which is correct in its content, was colored by a geographic and historical misconception concerning the extent of the Church on earth.”50 In other words, the essential point of the affirmation in question remains valid despite the fact that it was bound up with a certain false assumption or misconception. Benedict adds, “In order to arrive at its enduring theological meaning, we must see the phrase apart from the historical context which influenced its formulation. The phrase should not be seen in isolation, but as part of a whole process of dogmatic development.”51 To accurately assess the various formulations of EENS, we have to understand their immediate context as well as placing them in the broader context of dogmatic development that led the Church to where she is today. Here, Benedict’s statement that we need to see the phrase “apart from its historical context” means that we need to elucidate its “enduring theological meaning.” Ironically, if we took Benedict’s statement “apart from the historical context,” out of its own context within his essay, he would seem to be saying that context is an irrelevant hermeneutical factor! If the above historical factors have conditioned the Magisterium’s position on the salvation of non-Christians over the centuries, then it remains to ask: what is the substance of the formula EENS that has endured over the centuries? In the words of Sullivan, it is as simple as this: As I see it, the “substance” of the doctrine whose history we have been following is that God has assigned to the Church a necessary role in the divine economy of salvation. As Christ is the one mediator, so his body, the church, has a subordinate but necessary role of mediation in the salvation of mankind.52 50 51 52 Ratzinger, “Salus Extra Ecclesiam Nulla Est,” 1 (emphasis added). Ibid. Sullivan, Salvation Outside the Church?, 199. Towards a Realization of Benedict XVI’s “Hermeneutic of Reform”  315 Sullivan employs the vocabulary of “substance” in the endeavor to elucidate what precisely is the common thread, the real point, in the Magisterium’s teaching over the millennia vis-à-vis the salvation of non-Christians. He recalls John XXIII’s opening words at the Second Vatican Council: “The substance of the ancient doctrine of the deposit of faith is one thing, and the way in which it is presented is another.”53 According to Sullivan, the Church has presented the same truth in various ways over the centuries.To apply Newman’s thought, we might say that the Church’s modern distillation of EENS is something that Catholics of all epochs, if given the knowledge we have today, would agree upon.54 What does Sullivan mean in expressing the formula in this way? Precisely what would we be agreeing upon with our fathers in the faith if we had the chance to bounce our expressions of EENS off of one another? The truth is that, while God desires all to be saved, salvation of non-Christians is in no way guaranteed. Indeed, no one can be saved without the grace of Christ operating through the “sacrament of salvation,” the Church. Thus, Catholicism of both the past and the present teaches that the Church is necessary for salvation.55 In his evaluation of Sullivan’s work, Ralph Martin adds further important clarifications to the Church’s current way of articulating EENS, stressing something that he believes Sullivan’s treatment inadequately presents: the reality 53 54 55 John XXIII, Opening Address of the Second Vatican Council (1962), 6. This is a rather loose translation of the Latin text, which reads: Est enim aliud ipsum depositum Fidei, seu veritates, quae veneranda doctrina nostra continentur, aliud modus, quo eaedem enuntiantur, eodem tamen sensu eademque sententia. Cf. John Henry Newman, “The Theory of Developments in Religious Doctrine,” in Fifteen Sermons Preached before the University of Oxford (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1998), 312–351. See Newman, The Theological Papers of John Henry Newman on Biblical Inspiration and on Infallibility, ed. J. Derek Holmes (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979), 157: “The Church does not know more than the Apostles knew. . . . I wish to hold that there is nothing which the Church has defined or shall define but what an Apostle, if asked, would have been fully able to answer and would have answered, as the Church has answered, the one answering by inspiration, the other from its gift of infallibility.” Cf. Ian Ker, foreword to Newman, An Essay on the Development of Christian Doctrine, xxiii-xxiv. Second Vatican Council, Lumen Gentium, §48. Speaking on the subject of non-Catholic churches and ecclesiastical communities, the Council lays the foundation for this understanding by reminding us, “For the Spirit of Christ has not refrained from using them as means of salvation which derive their efficacy from the very fullness of grace and truth entrusted to the Church.” See also Second Vatican Council, Unitatis Redintegratio (1964), §3. 316 Matthew Ramage that anyone who is to be saved must possess supernatural faith and supernatural charity.56 Expounding upon the implications of this need in the case of persons who are inculpably ignorant of the faith, he writes: Just because salvation is possible for people who are inculpably ignorant of the gospel or who have not heard a presentation that is adequate, does not mean they are hereby saved. It is essential that the initial, mysterious “yes” that is said to God be followed by perseverance in that “yes” to the end. 57 Thus, not only must a person make a supernatural assent to God in one way or another at some point in his life; he who is saved must 56 57 Martin, Will Many Be Saved?, 53. Charles Journet provides an illuminating analogy to illustrate the role of grace in the salvation of non-Christians who lived before the Incarnation in What is Dogma?, trans. Mark Pontifex, O.S.B. (New York: Hawthorn Books, 1964), 38–39: “Christianity existed in embryo form before Christ. . . . Those who were saved before Christ were saved through him; they constituted, by anticipation, his Mystical Body, his Church. For, even then, grace was Christian.” In these same pages, Journet develops another insightful analogy, likening an acceptance of God’s existence and providence to an embryo that contains the whole substance of the Christian faith or a rosebud that has yet to fully blossom. Journet’s analysis is but a modern commentary on the thought of St. Thomas Aquinas, Summar Theologiae, II-II, q.2, a.7, ad 3; cf. ibid., II-II, q.1, a.7. For his part, Journet draws on the thought of Jacques Maritain to go a step beyond Aquinas in suggesting that there exists a situation in which an individual could possess the entire substance of the Christian faith and be saved, even if he lacks conscious assent to God’s existence and providence. In Journet’s theology, this person arrives at possession of the entire substance of the Christian faith through an act of the will rather than the intellect. He there encounters in an implicit manner the full mystery of the Church (see Journet, What is Dogma?, 30–35, as well as a compatible treatment of the subject in Torrell, “Saint Thomas et les non-chrétiens”). See also the discussion of Journet in Martin, Will Many Be Saved?, 51–52. Martin is careful to observe that Journet is not advocating a sort of naïve optimism that would hold that everyone is saved. For, Journet adds, “But this is a provisional, unstable, dangerous state of faith, a state of childhood” (What Is Dogma?, 35). In other words, the non-believer who is fundamentally ordered toward God remains in peril of damnation, and eventually such a soul is required to leave his ignorance and acknowledge the reality of God’s existence and providence. For an application of Journet’s theology to the development of doctrine within the Bible, see Ramage, Dark Passages of the Bible, especially ch. 4. Martin, Will Many Be Saved?, 53. For a brief recent helpful treatment of Journet’s thought in this regard, see Charles Morerod, O.P., “Extra Ecclesiam Nulla Salus,” The Thomist 75 (2011): 517–536. Towards a Realization of Benedict XVI’s “Hermeneutic of Reform”  317 further carry out this belief in supernatural charity until he dies. All this requires grace, a grace mysteriously offered even to those who have no explicit knowledge of God. Precisely how and whether this grace reaches an individual non-Christian is another question. Earlier generations of Christians were hesitant to accept that Christ’s salvific grace reached anyone outside the visible confines of the Roman Catholic Church. Although the teaching of the later Magisterium would correct this conception, the ancient and the modern Church agree in maintaining the essential truth of the Church’s necessity as well as the sobriety to refrain from affirming that particular non-Christians are in fact saved—thus leaving the “how” and “whether” questions in the hands of God. In this way the centuries-long equation of Christ’s Church with the visible Roman Catholic Church may no longer be taught, but it does contain an important theological kernel and must be therefore understood within its proper context. Benedict explains: The definition of the Church, born in the battles of the Reformation, which had prevailed until the present century, was that of Robert Bellarmine. It got off to a bad start by being a definition “against” something. Bellarmine, in opposition to the reformers’ idea of an invisible church, placed great stress on its institutional character. So much did he emphasize the Church’s juridical aspects that he was able to put this in the formula that the Church was as visible as the Republic of Venice.58 Like the other factors above, the Reformation as a historical circumstance conditioned the Church so as to emphasize, and sometimes over-accentuate, her institutional dimension. However, this formulation was made primarily “against” the reformers’ view of the invisible Church and ought to be read as such. Following this trajectory were post-Tridentine formulations of EENS all the way up to those of the mid-twentieth century. Benedict described the thinking behind such statements as at once “cramped,” and yet “once so necessary as a line of defense.”59 As we saw above in the case of St. Cyprian’s early doctrine of EENS, we have to concentrate our efforts on discerning the “positive affirmation” being made in these defensive formulations. Only over time and in a context more removed from the quarrels of the Refor58 59 Ratzinger, Theological Highlights, 73–74. Ibid., 42. 318 Matthew Ramage mation would the Magisterium be able to clarify that her emphasis on the visible does not entail the exclusion of the Church’s invisible dimension and Christ’s ability to convey grace to non-Catholics. The clarity and balance of the Church’s current teaching on the salvation of non-Christians was made possible through her encounter with challenges like that of the Reformation and through the long process of reflection we have surveyed above. This refreshing refinement comes across when reading the various magisterial documents of the past half century, from Vatican II to the writings of the Pontifical Council for Interreligious Dialogue to the works of Popes John Paul II and Benedict XVI. Benedict for his part, while maintaining that Christ wishes to save all men and that there can even be “pagan saints,”60 remained sober and balanced in reiterating the conviction that Christ’s Church fully “subsists” only in the visible Catholic Church.”61 This view is based on Scripture and the magisterial tradition of Vatican II. Christ remains the one true mediator of God and man, and it must be remembered that the good in other traditions is to be seen as 60 61 Joseph Ratzinger, Truth and Tolerance (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2004), 207. Second Vatican Council, Lumen Gentium, §8. Elucidating the meaning of this formula, the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith states: “With the expression subsistit in, the Second Vatican Council sought to harmonize two doctrinal statements: on the one hand, that the Church of Christ, despite the divisions which exist among Christians, continues to exist fully only in the Catholic Church, and on the other hand, that ‘outside of her structure, many elements can be found of sanctification and truth,’ that is, in those Churches and ecclesial communities which are not yet in full communion with the Catholic Church” (CDF, Dominus Iesus [2000], §16). Note that, while the document does not preclude the existence of “elements of sanctification and truth” outside of Christianity, what it describes here are those elements residing within non-Catholic Christian communities. It is illuminating to read Benedict XVI’s comments on this formula in his private academic writings: “With the subsistit formula, Vatican II intended—in line with the Catholic tradition—to say something the exact opposite of ‘ecclesiological relativism’: there is a Church of Jesus Christ. . . . The distinction between subsistit and est contains and conceals the entire difficulty of ecumenism.” In this piece, Benedict is combatting the claim that Vatican II intended to weaken the ancient tradition that Christ’s Church is (est) the Catholic Church. On the contrary, he indicates, subsistit is the Latin counterpart of the Greek hypostasis. With this word, Vatican II was trying counter a certain “ecclesiological relativism” so as to show that there indeed exists a unique Church that alone contains the fullness of the means of salvation. A hypostasis, he observes, “can happen only once” (Joseph Ratzinger, Pilgrim Fellowship of Faith [San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2005], 147). Towards a Realization of Benedict XVI’s “Hermeneutic of Reform”  319 a preparation for the Gospel.62 Furthermore, part of this balanced attitude involves the recognition that non-Christian religions sometimes contain elements that are not the effect of grace and that may well constitute obstacles to salvation.63 This essay maintains that such a view is substantially the same as the formula EENS such as it was articulated by St. Cyprian, Boniface VIII, the Council of Florence, and the entire cloud of authoritative witnesses throughout Church history. On the Fear of a Slippery Slope The foregoing discussion raises an important question for the Catholic who follows Benedict XVI’s “hermeneutic of reform” in admitting the presence of both continuity and discontinuity in magisterial doctrines such as EENS: why should we assent to the Church’s teaching today, knowing that certain aspects of it theoretically could change tomorrow and that, ultimately, sometimes only time allows us to discern the substance of doctrinal affirmations? Indeed, in addition to the problem of EENS explored in here, one could adduce other equally challenging instances of doctrinal discontinuity throughout Church history.64 How 62 63 64 “And there is salvation in no one else, for there is no other name under heaven given among men by which we must be saved” (Acts 4:12). Benedict sharply criticizes certain trends in modern theology as “alien to the biblical thought-world or even antipathetic to its spirit. The prevailing optimism, which understands the world religions as in some way salvific agencies, is simply irreconcilable with the biblical assessment of these religions” (Theological Highlights, 246). See Lumen Gentium, §§16–17, and PCID, Dialogue and Proclamation, §31. As explained by the CDF with then-Cardinal Ratzinger at its helm, “Furthermore, it cannot be overlooked that other rituals, insofar as they depend on superstitions or other errors (cf. 1 Cor 10:20–21), constitute an obstacle to salvation. . . . If it is true that the followers of other religions can receive divine grace, it is also certain that objectively speaking they are in a gravely deficient situation in comparison with those who, in the Church, have the fullness of the means of salvation” (Dominus Iesus, 21–22). See also John Paul II, Redemptoris Missio (1990), §§10–11 and 55. Hans Küng is well-known for his criticism of the Church concerning these matters. For an example of this reaction, which requires an erudite response on our part, see his Infallible? An Inquiry (Garden City, New York: Doubleday, 1971), 30ff. Küng believes that “classical errors of the ecclesiastical teaching office” include the excommunication of Photius, which made formal the schism with the Eastern Church, the prohibition of interest at the beginning of modern times, the condemnation of Galileo, the condemnation of new forms of worship in the “Chinese Rites controversy,” the insistence on the secular power of the pope up to the First Vatican Council, and “the numerous condemnations of the approach of modern critical-historical exegesis.” He likewise identifies as problematic the Church’s past anti-modernistic condem- 320 Matthew Ramage then are we to stem the “slippery slope” tide of dissent that becomes possible when people become acquainted with the undeniable presence of discontinuity in certain areas of Catholic teaching? In response, it is critical—and relieving—to emphasize that the Church recognizes various levels of magisterial teaching commanding correspondingly different types of assent. Among the various doctrines of the Church, the CDF indicates that many require “irrevocable assent,” since of their own nature they are “irreformable.”65 These teachings form the substance of the Catholic faith that cannot change. For example, the CDF has taught that a Catholic may never withhold assent to a divine revealed truth, such as the articles of the Creed, Marian dogmas, the inerrancy of Scripture, and papal infallibility. Likewise, a Catholic may never refuse to accept “those teachings belonging to the dogmatic or moral area, which are necessary for faithfully keeping and expounding the deposit of faith, even if they have not been proposed by the Magisterium of the Church as formally revealed.” Among many doctrines that fall within the scope of this statement, the CDF reminds us of the illicitness of euthanasia, the legitimacy of saint canonizations, and the reservation of priestly ordination only to men, to name only a few examples.66 That said, with this the CDF has not intended to provide a complete list of truths that Catholics are bound to hold as irreformable. Indeed, it even elucidates a third category of teachings “which either the Roman Pontiff or the College of Bishops enunciate when they exercise their authentic Magisterium.” Even if these are not proclaimed “by a definitive act,” the document indicates that they nevertheless require “religious submission of will and intellect” on the part of the faithful.67 In this regard, I would like to recall that, while this essay clearly does not offer an exhaustive apologia for warranted assent to the Catholic magisterium, it seeks to remove a certain type of obstacle for such assent. It provides a framework to help Catholics face some of the greatest challenges to the Church’s authority in a way that recognizes legitimate difficulties in doctrinal development over the centuries 65 66 67 nations of theories involving evolution and development of dogma. As we saw above, Benedict XVI himself also signals the Church’s past teaching on religious liberty as a problematic area that stood “in need of correction” by the later Magisterium. CDF, Doctrinal Commentary on the Concluding Formula of the Professio Fidei (1998), §§5 and 8. For a delineation of these levels along with examples of doctrines that have an “irrevocable character,” see ibid., §11. Ibid., §10. Towards a Realization of Benedict XVI’s “Hermeneutic of Reform”  321 while also remaining firm in the conviction that the Magisterium today has safeguarded for believers the same revelation entrusted to the Church by Jesus himself. We must therefore regard as illegitimate the moves of those who, believing themselves to be ahead of the curve in matters of doctrinal development, dissent from today’s Magisterium on the hypothetical grounds that its teaching might change some day and that, at any rate, their views do not deny anything “irreformable.”68 Indeed, given what was said above, certain features some consider essential to the faith eventually could be shown to be accidental, but the CDF rightly reminds us that individual Catholics are in no position to preempt the Magisterium in these matters. The Perennial Truth of EENS Leaves No Room for Naïve Optimism or a “Spirit” of Vatican II The above principles apply to all kinds of matters in which we observe open dissent within the Church today. However, it also applies to the seemingly benign popular assumption that more or less all human beings are going to be saved regardless of whether they accept the Gospel or not. Martin describes this widespread optimism in terms of a post-conciliar “culture of universalism.” It is here that Martin, while giving due respect to Sullivan’s careful analysis of the doctrinal history of EENS, critiques the latter’s work for exhibiting an unfounded optimism regarding the salvation of non-Christians: Even Francis Sullivan, who provides such a valuable history of the development of the doctrine EENS, seems to have strong views about how the doctrine should keep developing in a certain direction, and he invokes the “optimism” of Vatican II as support. He speaks sometimes as if a total reversal has been made from “pessimism” to “optimism” even though he himself has traced out the painstaking and precise development of the doctrine, which as we see is rather nuanced. . . . In his treatment of LG 16, he simply does not comment on the significant qualification that LG 16 puts on its “salvation optimism.” If one ignores or glosses over LG 16c, one cannot possibly give 68 For example, the CDF does not explicitly identify such issues as the immorality of contraception or homosexual practice as irreformable in this document. The Magisterium’s mind on these matters has been made manifest in myriad other ways that call for the “religious submission” of the Catholic’s will and intellect. 322 Matthew Ramage a balanced judgment about the teaching of the council on the status of non-Christians.69 In fairness to Sullivan, however, it is not just he who holds this sanguine view vis-à-vis the salvation of non-Christians. Benedict has more than once voiced his concern for the presence of this mentality at certain points within Vatican II itself. Thus, while praising Gaudium et Spes for moving away from “the creed of obligation,” the “anathema of negation,” and “a posture of authoritative imperatives” with regard to doctrine, he saw in the document “an almost naïve progressivist optimism” and a failure to emphasize the continuing need to evangelize.70 The foregoing reflections lead Martin to offer an important corrective to the prevailing opinion concerning EENS within the Church today: An important distinction needs to be made, it seems to me, about an “optimism” that sees the possibility of people who have never 69 70 Martin, Will Many Be Saved?, 54–55. “But another distinction should have been made between pronouncement and dialogue. The first would have been to replace authoritative imperatives with the proclamation of the gospel—thus opening up the faith to the nonbeliever” (Ratzinger, Theological Highlights, 224–225 and 227). Benedict XVI elsewhere critiqued the council fathers for exhibiting an excessively self-deprecatory posture with regard to the history of the Catholic Church. This “self-rejection,” he argues, was bound up with the “naïve optimism” and “utopianism” typical of the Kennedy era. He further stated, “The kind of self-accusation at which the Council arrived . . . expressed itself in ways that can only be called neurotic” (Principles of Catholic Theology, 372–373). For more on the “thoughtless optimism” that he sees as the dominant mentality today, see Avery Cardinal Dulles, S.J., “The Population of Hell,” in Church and Society, 387–400: “Today a kind of thoughtless optimism is the more prevalent error. Quite apart from what theologians teach, popular piety has become saccharine. Unable to grasp the rationale for eternal punishment, many Christians take it almost for granted that everyone, or practically everyone, must be saved. The Mass for the Dead has turned into a Mass of the Resurrection, which sometimes seems to celebrate not so much the resurrection of the Lord as the salvation of the deceased, without any reference to sin and punishment” (397–398). Also germane to the subject is Dulles’s lecture “Who Can Be Saved?” (ibid., 522–534). As Martin observes, even Karl Rahner—whose great optimism Martin spends a substantial chapter of his book critiquing—states: “Although I took part in the elaboration of Gaudium et Spes at the Council I would not deny that its undertone is too euphoric in its evaluation of humanity and the human condition” (Karl Rahner, “Christian Pessimism,” in Theological Investigations, vol. 22, Human Society and the Church of Tomorrow, trans. Joseph Donceel [London: Darton, Longman, and Todd, 1991], 157–158). Towards a Realization of Benedict XVI’s “Hermeneutic of Reform”  323 heard the gospel, or who have never heard it “adequately,” having a possibility of being saved under certain very specific conditions. . . . and an “optimism” that presumes that “possibility” means in fact “probability.” It is a short step from an assumed “probability” concerning salvation to the widespread assumption now common in the culture of the Church as well as in the culture at large, that virtually everyone will be saved. Fr. Sullivan even claims that the Council’s optimism implies a “general presumption of innocence” among those who have not heard the gospel. . . . Unfortunately, no sources are indicated for the alleged “presumption of innocence” that is supposedly the “official attitude” of the Church. Huge leaps in logic are being made here.71 Martin’s point is quite simple. While Vatican II did bring about real development vis-à-vis the doctrine of EENS, this development is not tantamount to an official attitude of optimism or a presumption that those outside the visible Catholic Church are inculpably ignorant. Catholics can debate the nature and mechanism whereby non-Christians may be saved, but the Church has never taught that non-Christians are presumed innocent and therefore saved. In his lecture, “The Population of Hell,” Avery Dulles provides a balanced summary of the proper way to assess the current state of affairs vis-à-vis the doctrine of EENS in the Church: One might ask at this point whether there has been any shift in Catholic theology on the matter. The answer appears to be Yes, although the shift is not as dramatic as some imagine. The earlier pessimism was based on the unwarranted assumption that explicit Christian faith is absolutely necessary for salvation. This assumption has been corrected, particularly at Vatican II.72 In the above piece, Dulles also treats the contributions of Karl Rahner and Hans Urs von Balthasar, to each of whose work Martin dedicates a chapter of his book. As Dulles indicates, Rahner held the possibility that Hell is empty, but he also allowed for the real possibility of eternal damnation. Von Balthasar wrote that Christians have a right and duty to hope for the salvation of all, yet he, too, granted the possibility of eternal damnation.73 While acknowledging that the relative optimism 71 72 73 Ibid., 55. Dulles, “The Population of Hell,” 397. Ibid., 393. 324 Matthew Ramage of these two scholars represents a minority view in the Christian tradition, Dulles is also careful to recall, “Even if this consensus be granted, however, it is not binding, because the theologians did not claim that their opinion was revealed, or that to take the opposite view was heretical. Nor is the opinion that most people attain salvation contradicted by authoritative Church teaching.”74 As an indication of the truth of Dulles’ conclusion, it should be noted that Benedict XVI himself at times seems to espouse the sort of optimism which Martin criticizes. One such instance is found in Spe Salvi, a text to which Martin’s work drew attention, thus sparking a lively debate in the internet blogosphere. Benedict states, “For the majority of people—we may suppose—there remains in the depths of their being an ultimate interior openness to truth, to love, to God.”75 While this is not the place to enter into the details of the debate sparked by Martin’s comments regarding this text, his words are worth recalling: “Unfortunately some of the remarks of Benedict XVI have furthered this impression [that most people will be saved].” Martin suggests that Benedict is not teaching authoritatively here but rather stating theological speculation. He understandably adds that the argument of his book “would suggest a need for clarification.”76 Whether or not one shares Martin’s reservations concerning Benedict’s mode of speaking, the fact remains that Benedict exudes a rather sanguine attitude in an authoritative papal encyclical. It may not be a definitive teaching, but as Dulles said above, it is certainly not contradicted by authoritative Church teaching. Granted Benedict’s rather optimistic stance, Martin, Dulles, and he are all careful to remind us that articulating Catholic dogma requires the sobriety to stick to the evidence we have, not the conclusions we would like to have. Even if Benedict hopes that most people will in fact be saved, he does not claim to know this for a fact or to teach it definitively. As the great Pontiff so lucidly taught us throughout his pontificate, we must have the courage and patience to deal with the existing formulations of the various thorny doctrines held by the Catholic Church. There is no “spirit” of Vatican II’s teaching on EENS that would warrant the definitive claim that all or most human beings will 74 75 76 Ibid., “The Population of Hell,” 391. Representatives of the minority view among the Fathers include Clement of Alexandria, Origen, Gregory of Nazianzen, and Gregory of Nyssa. See John Sachs, “Apocatastasis in Patristic Theology,” Theological Studies 54 (1993): 617–640. Benedict XVI, Spe Salvi (2007), §46. Martin, Will Many Be Saved?, 284n14. Towards a Realization of Benedict XVI’s “Hermeneutic of Reform”  325 be saved. To properly understand what EENS means today, we have to stick to the actual texts of Vatican II and the post-conciliar magisterium. Benedict warns: An interpretation of the Council that understands its dogmatic texts as mere preludes to a still unattained conciliar spirit, that regards the whole as just a preparation for Gaudium et spes and that looks upon the latter text as just the beginning of an unswerving course toward an ever greater union with what is called progress—such an interpretation is not only contrary to what the Council Fathers intended and meant, it has been reduced ad absurdum by the course of events. Where the spirit of the Council is turned against the word of the Council and is vaguely regarded as a distillation from the development that evolved from the “Pastoral Constitution,” this spirit becomes a specter and leads to meaninglessness.77 As with all magisterial documents, the true spirit of the Council is expressed in its texts.The hopefulness of Gaudium et Spes is real, but it is far from the text of Vatican II that must be brought to bear on the question of salvation for non-Christians. The Church must not fail to recall the sober optimism of Lumen Gentium, its affirmation of the possibility of damnation, and its continued emphasis on the need for Christian mission activity. Ralph Martin’s recent book stands out as a shining illustration that the Church has not forgotten the truth professed in this text. For his part, Benedict XVI believes that the Church is only now truly beginning to discover and see the fruit of Vatican II’s texts: “It seems to me that, 50 years after the Council, we see that this virtual Council is broken, is lost, and there now appears the true Council with all its spiritual force.”78 That said, the pontiff ’s earlier thought concern77 78 Joseph Ratzinger, Principles of Catholic Theology, 390. Matthew Lamb and Matthew Levering neatly summarize Benedict’s thought concerning a hermeneutic of rupture by saying that “it was more the spirit of the age (Zeitgeist) than the Holy Spirit.” Vatican II: Renewal within Tradition, eds. Matthew Lamb and Matthew Levering (New York: Oxford University Press, 2008), 5. Address to the Parish Priests and Clergy of Rome, February 14, 2013. It was especially heartening to hear these words from Benedict when we compare them with his assessments in previous decades. In 1985, he had spoken similarly (but less favorably) concerning the state of affairs at the time: “I believe . . . that the true time of Vatican II has not yet come, that its authentic reception has not yet begun: its documents were quickly buried under a pile 326 Matthew Ramage ing Vatican II loses none of its initial force, as he reminds us that the destiny of the Council lies in our hands: “If, in the end, it will be numbered among the highlights of Church history depends on those who will transform its words into the life of the Church.”79 EENS, Conscience, and Christian Mission Today Martin draws attention to a singularly harmful consequence of the so-called “spirit of Vatican II” and the “culture of universalism” prevalent in today’s Church: the increasingly deteriorating state of Catholic missionary activity over the past several decades. Reflecting on his time spent as a peritus at the Second Vatican Council, Benedict wrote of a “crisis of missions” in the Catholic Church beginning as early as the early 1960s: The crucial issue, which gravely affected the whole context in the question, especially for the missionary bishops, was the crisis in which the very idea of missions found itself. The cause of this crisis lay in profound changes in modern thinking about the 79 of superficial or frankly inexact publications. The reading of the letter of the documents will enable us to discover their true spirit. If thus rediscovered in their truth, those great texts will make it possible for us to understand just what happened and to react with a new vigor” (The Ratzinger Report, 41). Ratzinger made poignant comments such as these throughout the course of his academic career, of which the following is particularly incisive: “Does this mean that the Council itself must be revoked? Certainly not. It means only that the real reception of the Council has not yet even begun. What devastated the Church in the decade after the Council was not the Council but the refusal to accept it. This becomes clear precisely in the history of the influence of Gaudium et spes. What was identified with the Council was, for the most part, the expression of an attitude that did not coincide with the Statements to be found in the text itself, although it is recognizable as a tendency in its development and in some of its individual formulations. The task is not, therefore, to suppress the Council but to discover the real Council and to deepen its true intention in the light of present experience. That means that there can be no return to the Syllabus [of Pius IX], which may have marked the first stage in the confrontation with liberalism and a newly conceived Marxism but cannot be the last stage. In the long run, neither embrace nor ghetto can solve for Christians the problem of the modern world. The fact is, as Hans Urs von Balthasar pointed out as early as 1952, that the ‘demolition of the bastions’ is a long-overdue task. . . . But the demolition of bastions cannot mean that she no longer has anything to defend or that she can live by forces other than those that brought her forth” (Principles of Catholic Theology, 390–391). Ratzinger, Principles of Catholic Theology, 378. Towards a Realization of Benedict XVI’s “Hermeneutic of Reform”  327 necessity of missions. The motive which had driven missionaries in the past to bring other people to Christ had increasingly lost its urgency. What drove the great missionaries in the beginning of the modern era to go out into the world, and what filled them with holy unrest, was the conviction that salvation is in Christ alone.80 The issue concerning Martin, Benedict, and the bishops of Vatican II is that if we lose a proper understanding of EENS—the necessity of Christ and his Church for salvation—the Church is bound to lose her missionary impulse. If everyone is saved, why bother inconveniencing ourselves with evangelizing them? Non-Christians are just as well off if we leave them alone. Benedict observes a disturbing corollary to this pervasive optimism, namely the underlying suggestion that non-Christians are not merely as well off left alone, but that they may in fact be better off than Christians themselves. How can this be so? Already, at the beginning of his academic career in the early 1950s, then-Father Ratzinger was witnessing the spread of a deeply misguided perception of the relation of conscience to freedom, truth, and the Church. He felt particular concern because this false notion was rooted not merely among dissenters but even in the thought of a senior colleague whom he considered a “sincere believer” and “a strict Catholic.” On the subject of his conversations with this professor, he writes: What disturbed me was the notion that it harbored, that faith is a burden which can hardly be borne. . . . According to this view, faith would not make salvation easier but harder. Being happy would mean not being burdened with having to believe or having to submit to the moral yoke of the faith of the Catholic church. The erroneous conscience, which makes life easier and marks a more human course, would then be a real grace, the normal way to salvation. Untruth, keeping truth at bay, would be better for man than truth. . . . In the last few decades, notions of this sort have discernibly crippled the disposition to evangelize. The one who spoke in this manner was a sincere believer, and, I would say, a strict Catholic who performed his moral duty with care and conviction. But he expressed a form of experience of faith which is disquieting. Its propagation could only be fatal to the faith. 80 Ratzinger, Theological Highlights, 245. 328 Matthew Ramage The almost traumatic aversion many have to what they hold to be “pre-conciliar” Catholicism is rooted, I am convinced, in the encounter with such a faith seen only as encumbrance.81 According to Benedict, people like this man consciously or unconsciously harbor the belief that truth is not liberating for man, but rather a burden upon him that only hinders his freedom and happiness. From this perspective, having the opportunity to hear the Gospel and profess the Church’s teachings is a burden—something that is more likely to lead a person away from salvation than toward it. An inculpably erroneous conscience, meanwhile, “would then be a real grace, the normal way to salvation.” It is not difficult to see the implications of this false understanding for Christian mission. As Benedict pointedly observed in the above passage, “Notions of this sort have discernibly crippled the disposition to evangelize,” and “Its propagation could only be fatal to the faith.” Benedict’s portrait here at first may appear to be a caricature, but its effects are all-too obvious in the Church today. Deep down, many Christians envy the lot of nonbelievers who get to do what they want in life and yet still get rewarded in the end. We tend to harbor the feeling that our freedom is compromised, rather than fulfilled, through the obedience of Christian faith. The fact of the matter is, though, that a person does not get rewarded for doing whatever he pleases, or even for being a good person. EENS means that salvation comes through Christ and his Church alone. If salvation is possible and even probable outside the confines of the visible Catholic Church, then a final question remains: why evangelize at all? Martin eloquently and forcefully makes the case that today’s Catholics need to make it a priority to answer this very question. As for the Second Vatican Council and the subsequent magisterial tradi81 Joseph Ratzinger, “Conscience and Truth.” Presented at the 10th Workshop for Bishops in Dallas, Texas, February 1991 (available at http://www.ewtn. com/library/curia/ratzcons.htm). In this essay, Ratzinger discusses Newman’s theory of the papacy as a divinely instituted guide “not put in opposition to the primacy of conscience but based on it and guaranteeing it.” He elaborates, “For Newman, the middle term which establishes the connection between authority and subjectivity is truth. I do not hesitate to say that truth is the central thought of Newman’s intellectual grappling.” For the purpose of this essay, Ratzinger’s observation becomes significant when we consider that he has seen Newman’s writings on conscience and development of doctrine to be his two great intellectual contributions to the Church. Towards a Realization of Benedict XVI’s “Hermeneutic of Reform”  329 tion, however, the answer is already there for the finding in the section Martin referred to above as “LG 16c”: But often men, deceived by the Evil One, have become vain in their reasonings and have exchanged the truth of God for a lie, serving the creature rather than the Creator. Or some there are who, living and dying in this world without God, are exposed to final despair. Wherefore to promote the glory of God and procure the salvation of all of these, and mindful of the command of the Lord, “Preach the Gospel to every creature,” the Church fosters the missions with care and attention.82 As this passage reveals, Vatican II no more intended to call off the missions than it did to change the doctrine of EENS. We evangelize not merely to give people a better life on earth or to get them a better place in Heaven, but to get them to Heaven in the first place—because “some” people without God fall into final despair, and “often” they find themselves deceived by the Evil One. The call to mission issued by Vatican II is an urgent matter for all Christians today. It is a mission that takes many forms, both domestic and abroad. Nobody has put this better than Saint John Paul II: God is opening before the Church the horizons of a humanity more fully prepared for the sowing of the Gospel. I sense that the moment has come to commit all of the Church’s energies to a new evangelization and to the mission ad gentes. No believer in Christ, no institution of the Church can avoid this supreme duty: to proclaim Christ to all peoples.83 82 83 Lumen Gentium, §16. Pope John Paul II, Redemptoris Missio, §3. The Pontiff makes several related comments in this great encyclical, for example: “On the other hand, the boundaries between pastoral care of the faithful, new evangelization and specific missionary activity are not clearly definable, and it is unthinkable to create barriers between them or to put them into watertight compartments. Nevertheless, there must be no lessening of the impetus to preach the Gospel and to establish new churches among peoples or communities where they do not yet exist, for this is the first task of the Church, which has been sent forth to all peoples and to the very ends of the earth. Without the mission ad gentes, the Church’s very missionary dimension would be deprived of its essential meaning and of the very activity that exemplifies it” (§34). Throughout the document, John Paul goes even further by repeatedly recalling the words of Paul VI to the effect that all people “have the right to know the riches of the 330 Matthew Ramage In John Paul’s exhortation, we face a certain element of “newness” in the call for a “New Evangelization,” but the essential content of the Church’s ancient missionary mandate remains the same. Most Christians today will not proclaim the Gospel in foreign lands, but every day we do have the opportunity to evangelize our fallen-away brother or our uncatechized neighbor who needs to hear the good news that salvation is to be found in Jesus Christ and the Catholic Church. N&V mystery of Christ—riches in which we believe that the whole of humanity can find, in unsuspected fullness, everything that it is gropingly searching for concerning God, man and his destiny, life and death, and truth.” Paul VI added, “This is why the Church keeps her missionary spirit alive, and even wishes to intensify it in the moment of history in which we are living” (Evangelii Nuntiandi [1975], §53). For a helpful treatment of Vatican II’s Ad Gentes in light of these post-conciliar writings, see Francis Cardinal George, O.M.I., “The Decree on the Church’s Missionary Activity, Ad Gentes,” in Vatican II: Renewal within Tradition, 287–310. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 1 (2016): 331–341331 On The Unity of Christ by Christopher A. Beeley Michel René Barnes Marquette University Milwaukee, WI Less than fifty miles separate two Turkish cities that loom large in the history of Christianity: Nicaea and Chalcedon. Each city is synonymous with councils and doctrines that became the measures of Christian orthodoxy. The council of Nicaea in 325 defined orthodox Trinitarian theology, and the council of Chalcedon in 451 defined orthodox theology of the Incarnation. Each of these councils has come to dominate perceptions of their centuries: the fourth century was “all about” the Trinity, and the fifth century was “all about” the Incarnation. The reality was more complex, but the logic of “first Trinity, then Incarnation” has a simplicity that is compelling. Logic tends to crush history, and however daunting the task, telling the complicated story of Christian theology in the fourth and fifth centuries needs to happen. Christopher Beeley’s The Unity of Christ is a self-conscious attempt at unmasking the false realities and setting things aright. What Beeley wants to accomplish is to shift the center of gravity in accounts of early Christian belief from Trinity to Incarnation, to find the deep grammar of Patristic theology of God and salvation in its Christology and not in “the development of the doctrine of the Trinity.” In this book, Beeley is less concerned to make a conceptually airtight argument than he is to produce an occasional, albeit seemingly synoptic, work, though the book employs the rhetoric of a comprehensive, finely tuned, forensic discourse—falsely, as it turns out. 332 Michel Rene Barnes Beeley’s agenda is huge: to debunk the picture of the Patristic Church as a golden age of Christian theology, to establish the centrality of Christology for understanding that theology in the Patristic era, to praise one trajectory of Christology in the era, and to re-package the reputations of several key theologians of the era. While Beeley’s book treats major Christian theologians from 200 to 800—e.g., from Origen to the Cappadocians, to Augustine, to Leo and Cyril, and to Maximus the Confessor—the most substantial chapters are those that treat the authors Beeley claims to have “re-interpreted” the most: Origen, Eusebius of Caesarea, and Athanasius. My review will center upon his treatment of Origen and Eusebius, since everything flows from them. Origen represents the source of a broad trajectory Beeley is identifying (an imperfect source, but the source nonetheless), whereas Eusebius represents the full height of that theological trajectory—almost its booster stage. These two figures are clearly Beeley’s heroes; he claims to reveal the “complexities and the unrecognized conflicts” that characterized their contributions to Christian faith. Beeley’s rhetoric is highly charged: his narrative has definite good guys, bad guys, and “conflict” between them. The revelation of hitherto submerged “conflicts” is a key feature of what Beeley sets out to do. However, I cannot say that the book brings to light any unrecognized conflicts involving either Origen or Eusebius. Beeley does retell the stories of widely known conflicts from what he regards as a new perspective. If there is anything previously “unrecognized” in his account, it is the orthodoxy and catholicity he attributes to the theologies of Origen and, especially, Eusebius. His reinterpretation of Athanasius, the third of the trio, makes him out to be the fourth-century version of a not-very-bright fascist. This story is very old news indeed: in 1983 a well-known authority on Athanasius referred to him as a “gangster.” (A short-lived scholarly “Athanasian Society” was even formed to combat the defamation of the saint’s character.) Beeley’s account re-invents the vitriol as if it had never rolled before. For Beeley, the theologies of Origen and Eusebius are meritorious in two ways. First, they both have a doctrine of the Trinity that recognizes the full and equal divinity of all three Persons yet does so while avoiding the ontologizing model of “from the essence of the Father” in favor of “by the will of the Father.” And second, to unequal degrees, their Christologies treat Christ as a single, unified “subject” who fully experiences both divine and human life without sacrificing the full reality of either nature as the basis for the unity. In modern theological jargon, the two types of Christology Beeley identifies are known Essay on The Unity of Christ by Christopher A. Beeley 333 as the “unitive” and the “disjunctive.” Beeley uses the term “dualist” rather than “disjunctive,” and the intimations of a worldview by the term “dualist” are, I think, intentional. The grammar of a “dualist” Christology regularly turns out to be Platonic, with its hierarchical and polarized conceptions of mind and body, material and immaterial. The substance of Beeley’s account begins with Origen: the map he offers for the next six hundred years of Christology is based upon the determining influence of Origen’s theology for all the significant theologians of those centuries. Each author is judged according to the degree to which he works within the models for Trinity and Incarnation Origen supplied, or whether he works against them. An Origen-neutral option is not identified and seems not to have been possible. The account of Origen’s theology is offered as though it is new and insightful, but I found it to be neither, for it resembles nothing so much as what one would find in the writings of Hahn (1898) and Prestige (1933).Where Beeley’s account differs from venerable German scholarship, it is not an improvement. First, Beeley overstates the orthodoxy of Origen’s Trinitarian theology, and one is left with the impression that the difference between Origen’s Trinitarian theology and that of late fourth-century Nicenes lies only at the level of details. Moreover, the step-by-step Trinitarian logic that Beeley discovers in Origen’s theology is the product of his own synthetic redaction of Origen’s writings (the neat progression in Origen’s Trinitarian grammar is documented by stitching together passages across his writings). Second, Beeley is careless about key load-bearing concepts he finds in Origen’s theology, such as “essential,” “simple,” and “being.” These terms often float free of any identified Greek or Latin words, and it sometimes seems that Beeley considers these concepts as rough synonyms. He also argues for the Son’s full and equal divinity to the Father on the basis of the Son’s being “simple” as the Father is “simple” and then speaks of the Father as being “really simple.” Third, while Beeley is right to draw out the significance between essential and accidental in Origen’s Trinitarian theology, he does so at the expense of any significant reflection on the role that participation plays in it. Beeley’s emphasis on the categories of essential and accidental seems like a carry-over from his previous study of Gregory Nazianzus. Very few scholars can match Beeley for his minimizing of the role of “participation” in Origen’s Trinitarian theology; if you blink, you will miss its mention. Beeley’s entire discussion of the “Son as Image” takes place without any dense discussion of the fact that, 334 Michel Rene Barnes for Origen and Eusebius, the dynamics of “image” were mapped out through the calculus provided by the school of Platonism. Patristic exegesis of Hebrews 1:3 from AD 100 to 400 evidently owed nothing to philosophical discussions of causality. I will return to the matter of Beeley’s handling of philosophy. The center of gravity of Beeley’s reading of fourth-century Christology is Eusebius of Caesarea, who carries Origen’s theology into the fourth century. Beeley starts off with the (seemingly) bold declaration that it is Eusebius who should be regarded as the mainstream representative of Greek Christian theology for most of the first half of the fourth century—Eusebius, and not Athanasius. Beeley is the third English language scholar in the last ten years who has “discovered” this insight into Eusebius’ significance and offered a narrative based on this “new” perspective—and I am getting tired of it. In 1998 I published “Fourth Century as Trinitarian Canon,” in which I denied that Athanasius was an exemplar for Greek theology, giving that status to Eusebius. In that article, I professed nothing more than that I was expressing the understanding of fourth-century development of Trinitarian theology that was at that time (1998) current among “those whose field of research is fourth-century Trinitarian controversies.” Beeley makes no mention of this article, nor does he acknowledge that his turn to Eusebius is fifteen years behind the curve. Beeley regards the shift from Origen’s (and Eusebius’s) doctrine of the Son produced from the will of God to Alexander’s (Athanasius’s, and Nicaea’s) doctrine of the Son produced from the essence of God as an epoch-making change. He also regards it as the ontologization of Trinitarian theology (which, for him, is not a good thing), a turn that was unnecessary, quasi-materialist, and possibly crypto-gnostic. The doctrine of the Son being produced from the will of God avoids the implicit and unavoidable materialist connotations of “being” and “essence.” Beeley is emphatic that Origen and Eusebius believed that the Son had the same divine nature as God, a divinity not less than the Father’s. But yet, for him the category of “having the same nature” does not trigger “ontology” or “metaphysics,” while “same in essence” does. Beeley goes so far as to argue that Father-Son models used by Origen and Eusebius, which privilege the title “Son” (instead of “Word”), must work on the principle of “the child is of the same nature as the parent.” For Beeley, such a logic does not admit the possibility of subordinationism, and thus both Origen and Eusebius are falsely, ignorantly, and maliciously accused of teaching a two-tiered Trinity. Origen’s argument for a theology of the full and equal divinity of Essay on The Unity of Christ by Christopher A. Beeley 335 the Father and Son includes two questions: what do the Father and the Son both properly possess that differentiates them from everything else, and what do the Father and the Son each properly possess that differentiates them from one another? Beeley is not the first to argue that, for Origen, the Father and the Son both properly possess goodness (R. P. C. Hanson did in 1981), though this reading is still disputed. Even if the Father and Son both possess goodness properly, can we move on to deduce that they both possess being—and all other divine attributes—properly? What differentiates them one from each other is—at a minimum—their identities as cause (the Father) and effect or product (the Son). Beeley understands this mechanism of distinction to imply no difference in nature between the two: the Father, being “cause” is not thereby superior to the Son as “product.” Beeley asserts this on the basis of an analogy to material parenthood: an offspring has the same nature as the parent(s). The fact that his argument depends upon a materialist understanding of divine generation escapes Beeley; it did not escape theologians of the third and fourth centuries. What happened in the fourth century, after Nicaea, was a polemically developed understanding in which the hitherto intrinsically materialist notion of parenthood was stripped of its materialist ground in a way not unlike Plotinus’s stripping away the materialist ground of Stoic tonos causality and then applying that causality to the intelligible. But the fact that Plotinus was able to develop Stoic tonos causality “beyond” its original materialist ground does not mean that the Stoic causality was always implicitly— much less explicitly—conceptually free of materialism; something Origen owes to Plotinus. Beeley talks as though the fact that, in the late fourth century, Father-Son causality was understood apart from a material logic means that all previous Father-Son causalities were supported by an immaterial logic. This is just one of the ways in which Beeley takes late fourth-century Trinitarian orthodoxy and finds it in Origen. In almost every case, he does this by declining to recognize technical philosophical content in discourse about immaterial realities. Beeley covers his failure to engage by identifying Origen’s ideas—and his own ideas—with the simple, un-philosophical narrative categories of Scripture. It is one thing for Beeley to be innocent of the philosophical content of thirdto fifth-century discussions of immaterial causality; it is something else to assert that Origen was innocent of such discourse—and then to make an account of Origen’s Trinitarian theology depend upon such an innocence. 336 Michel Rene Barnes One reason Beeley feels free to presume a fully developed logic of immaterial “reproductive” causality in Origen (and Eusebius) is the fact that catholic Patristic author(s) attack and reject gnosticism because it represents a materialist logic of reproduction. The orthodox rejection of gnostic materialism goes a long way for Beeley: it solves all potential problems of a materialist ground for all orthodox Trinitarian theology—if an author rejects the materialist logic of gnostic causality then that author has freed himself from all materialist logics. But this is not so. For one thing, it is not possible to claim that the relationship between gnostic generative logic and orthodox generative logic was that of simple, mutually exclusive, and polar oppositions. Tertullian, Origen’s Latin contemporary, makes a point of claiming emanation language for orthodox Catholics even if the gnostics use it too (Against praxeus 8). Every Catholic who talks about the origins of the Son in the Father explicitly rejects and criticizes gnostic materialist causality and finds it in the theology of their opponent. This move binds Irenaeus, Tertullian, Origen, Eusebius, Alexander, Arius, Marcellus, and Athanasius, and indeed one could argue that the rhetoric is part of the construction of “Catholic” theology over-against “gnostic” theology.To be Catholic is to worry about gnostic “materialist” Trinitarian aetiologies. From Irenaeus to Tertullian and Origen, the gnostic alternative is alive, and Catholic rebuttals are quite specific about their opponents. (Think of Origen’s counter-exegesis of Heraclitus’s reading of John.) But after a certain point in time (i.e., the early fourth century), one wants to ask: who, exactly, is talking material partition of the Godhead? Moreover—and this goes directly to Beeley’s presumption that anti-gnosticism signals a wholly post-materialist Trinitarian logic—no one at the time draws the conclusion that denouncing gnostic materialism inoculates a theology from materialism. Beeley imports the rhetoric of opposition between Catholic and gnostic, accepts it uncritically, and uses it to make the “Father-Son” model safely free of materialism and—already with Origen—as successful an aetiology of common nature as anything produced in the fourth century. All questions about “participation” are either contained within an orthodox Father-Son theology or rendered irrelevant by such a theology. Again, this is not so. The thesis that the Trinitarian theology of Eusebius (and other non-Nicenes) was based upon a volitional, psychological causality rather than the metaphysical, ontological causality of Nicaea (and Athanasius especially) was argued in 1981 by Robert Gregg and Dennis Groh in their book, Early Arianism: A View of Salvation. Like Beeley, Essay on The Unity of Christ by Christopher A. Beeley 337 Gregg and Groh regarded the volition-based model as soteriological and narrative-centered, in contrast to the Nicene foundationalism of metaphysics and “being” (see their chapter on “Arian Christology: A Christology of Divine Will”). Where Beeley differs from Gregg and Groh is that he sees the volitional-versus-ontological Trinitarian debate as dependent upon tectonic Christologies in opposition with each other. Beeley has jettisoned Arius as superfluous, expanded the doctrinal narrative, and reclaimed the “problem” of Hellenization (with a hint of Barth thrown in). He also declines to give any recognition to the weaknesses inherent in a volition-based divine origin for the Son. Several times, Beeley remarks that Eusebius of Caesarea’s reputation has suffered unjustly through the machinations of his opponents and critics, and this judgment applies both to Eusebius’s contemporaries and to modern scholarship. Not much evidence is offered in support of these twin judgments, and through his silence, Beeley has left his reader the task of filling in the blanks. The problem with Beeley attributing such machinations to Eusebius’s contemporaries is that very few of his exact contemporaries—those who attended Nicaea—left writings for us to judge them by; the pool of suspects who have left any evidence is very small. Alexander of Alexandria and Athanasius are the obvious exceptions to this statement, but the writings of Eusebius’s bête noir, Marcellus of Ancyra, survive only to the extent that Eusebius quotes them in refuting them. (There is a short letter by Marcellus that survives independently.) In any case, Beeley goes through these three and then comes up short on other examples of anti-Eusebian polemic that successfully depreciated him. What other Nicene attendant left any texts to judge the author by? The obvious suspect to answer Beeley’s charges is Eustathius of Antioch. But, if Eustathius successfully obscured the “real” Eusebius, he did so only at the cost of being himself rendered invisible. Beeley is cagey about Eustathius because a serious treatment of this Nicene figure would contradict Beeley’s narrative. Eustathius was vehemently anti-Arian: in 325 he hosted a synod in Antioch that investigated Alexander’s charges against Arius. Alexander was not there, but Eusebius was—and the synod condemned Arius and questioned Eusebius’s orthodoxy, requiring the latter to present a summary of his beliefs at the coming council in Nicaea later that year. This Eusebius did, in the presence of the Emperor and of Eustathius, who chaired the council (perhaps only temporarily). Once Eusebius signed the Creed, he was welcomed back into the fold—and in less than three years was respon- 338 Michel Rene Barnes sible for Eustathius being deposed as bishop of Antioch and exiled. Now no one is sure when or where Eustathius eventually died. Eusebius died May 30, 339. The story of Eustathius is most revealing about Eusebius—or at least the Eusebius Beeley wants us to believe in—not so much because it shows Eusebius to be more closely aligned with Arius than Beeley says, nor even because Eusebius is seen to be vengeful and calculating. The story of Eustathius unseats the “Eusebius” Beeley constructs because several of the key doctrines that Beeley claims to be distinctive to Eusebius are in fact held by Eustathius as well. Like Eusebius, Eustathius applies “Son” to the pre-Incarnate Second Person. Like Eusebius, Eustathius favors “image” language for the Son’s production. And—most importantly—like Eusebius, Eustathius believes that Christ had a complete human soul and that this soul is significant for the economy of the Incarnation. How can these doctrines be Eusebius’s great and distinctive development of the Alexandrian heritage when Eustathius—his strong opponent in the office of the bishop of Antioch— has the same beliefs? It almost seems that the glue that holds Beeley’s narrative together is his conviction that his readers will be ignorant. The frightening thing is that, to an extent, Beeley’s confidence in his readers’ ignorance is warranted, because many people will read Beeley’s book precisely so they do not have to know who Eustathius was. This is a book for people who do not sweat the details. In Beeley’s account of the council of Nicaea in 325, he asserts that the Creed it produced was based upon that used by Eusebius of Caesarea. The relationship between the Nicene creed and Eusebius’s is laid out confidently by Beeley as he gives a detailed exegesis of the “Nicene” Creed (N) through a comparison with its supposed origin, Eusebius’s own creed. Beeley’s confidence misleads the reader: his judgment on the relationship of N to Eusebius’s creed is the same as that offered by Harnack, and it was carefully refuted in 1950 by J. N. D. Kelly in his monograph, Early Christian Creeds (London and New York: Longmans, Green)—a work that receives no mention in Beeley’s book. Kelly writes: “The truth of the matter is, as anyone can discover for himself who cares to make an exhaustive comparison, that CAES. [Eusebius’s creed] and N differ . . . radically” (218). In Beeley’s account, the definitive moment in Eusebius’s Trinitarian theology occurs in the last two years of his life, when he writes against Marcellus of Ancyra. The purpose that Eusebius writes for—that is, the genre—in each of his texts is a fact that Beeley feels other scholars have been insufficiently sensitive to, which has resulted in some of Essay on The Unity of Christ by Christopher A. Beeley 339 Eusebius’s writings being read “excessively literally” (70). The product of such excessively literal readings of Eusebius’s apologetic writings is, in turn, a widespread scholarly projection of philosophical concepts and sources onto his theology, seeing “ontological mediation,” when in fact Eusebius espouses nothing of this sort. In Ecclesiastical Theology III, Beeley singles out Eusebius’s exegesis of Proverbs 8:22–30 as an exemplary case of Eusebius’ exegetically-driven theology expressing itself free of apologetic concerns. In this text, Eusebius gives an extended argument that Proverbs 8:22 and following describes the origin of Wisdom (the Son) and not, as Marcellus claims, the Incarnation. (These two alternate readings function, for Beeley, as trajectory markers.) Eusebius’ polemically-driven exegesis is indeed impressive, but the passage in Ecclesiastical Theology III ends up defeating the division Beeley has insisted upon between Eusebius’s theology formulated for pagans and his theology formulated for other Christians. The origins of the “Trinitarian” reading of Proverbs 8:22 and following are precisely apologetics: in his Dialogue with Trypho 61 and 89, Justin Martyr—for the first time in Christian literature—applies Proverbs 8:22 to the Second Person, identifying Wisdom with the Word. Wisdom is inserted into a list of titles—mostly derived from Jewish apocalyptic literature—by which Jesus is identified as the pre-existent Messiah, Glory of the Lord, Son, Wisdom, Angel, Lord, and Logos. The apologetic significance of Proverbs 8:22 and following was already evident in Aristobulus Paneas, the Jewish writer who put the Old Testament passage in line with what he regarded as similar texts from Orphic literature and the Peripatetics. We know that Aristobulus used the passage in this way because Eusebius himself preserved the fragment in his Preparation for the Gospel 3.12. Eusebius’ Christian contemporary, Lactantius, who read his own “apologetic” Institutes to Constantine in Arles, quotes Proverbs 8:22–30 in chapter 6 of book IV of that work, sandwiched between a Sibylline oracle and a reference to Hermes Trismegestes. At what point and in what way did Eusebius bracket all the “apologetic” content that he had read concerning the passage? And did he think his readers would also practice this selective conceptual amnesia? If Eusebius was able to construct that kind of a noetic “safe room,” then that was a process worth documenting. The quality of Beeley’s handling of the philosophical sources is not just a question by a crusty old-timer (me) raging against the philosophical illiteracy that is now the norm in theology. (Patristics fails to be an exception to this rule.) Beeley’s handling of the philosophical sources is fundamental for any evaluation of the book’s arguments because of 340 Michel Rene Barnes the way in which Beeley’s conclusions are implicitly contained, if not predetermined, in the language he himself uses. The most important case of an undefined term carrying Beeley’s argument is the word “subject.” “Eusebius observes that Jesus is speaking of himself as having existed before his incarnation, as being dependent on the Father, who sent him, and as now being the incarnate Christ—a single subject of existence” (81, emphasis added). Does “single subject of existence” simply stand for the Greek word, “hypostasis”? Why does he not say so? Does the phrase have this meaning every time Beeley uses the “subject” phrase, or only sometimes? Does this phrase indicate a concept that Beeley thinks was present across different vocabularies but never clearly articulated by the ancient authors? Or does he think that this concept has to be there because his sense of the texts requires it? In Beeley’s analysis, “single subject of existence” minimally functions to name what continues from pre-Incarnation into Incarnation, and which contains (or stands under) the two kinds of existence, divine and human. The single subject is what speaks self-reflexively (in, e.g., Prov. 8:22 and a host of Johannine texts). Is self-reflective speech important because it indicates self-consciousness and historical self-reflective speech (e.g., “I was” or “I am”) indicates continuity of a single self-consciousness? Is this judgment about the link between self-reflective speech and a single subject of existence the ancient author’s (Eusebius’s), or Beeley’s, or the coincidence of the two? Or is self-consciousness irrelevant because “single subject of existence” refers simply to “that which acts”—a single continuous actor or agent? “Eusebius normally speaks of Christ’s economic activity as a single subject of existence” (93, emphasis added). The ultimate effect of Beeley’s rediscovery of the true theologies of Origen and Eusebius is to render their Trinitarian theologies more conventionally “orthodox” and their mental lives more jejune. Both Origen and Eusebius were men of great intellectual scope, with rare breadth and depth of knowledge (Origen probably the greater depth, Eusebius possibly the greater breadth). Christianity and Western civilization are indebted to the textual treasures that Eusebius preserved in his works.What is strange in Beeley’s account of the theologies of these two brilliant men is that, to hear him tell it, very little of all that they knew made any positive contribution to their theologies: their worldly knowledge made them more effective apologists, but their accommodations to apology distorted their theological insights and disfigured their texts in tradition. Yet, there is a correspondence between what Essay on The Unity of Christ by Christopher A. Beeley 341 Beeley says and how he says it: in each case “narrative” trumps “logic.” Logical, dense, “metaphysical” articulations of the Incarnation are seen as wrong; narrative, economic articulations as right. Why even try to offer a dense articulation of this theological principle, or a dense account of its dynamic in the history Christian theology? To offer that kind of scholarship would contradict the Christian narrative’s trump of N&V logic. This is a book whose reach has exceeded its grasp. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 1 (2016): 343–374343 Book Reviews Unlocking Divine Action: Contemporary Science and Thomas Aquinas by Michael J. Dodds, O.P. (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2012), xii + 311 pp. At the beginning of his book, Dodds observes that discussions about God’s action, either in creating the world or in any divine action in the world, require an adequate language of causality. For as long as there has been reflection on the relationship between God and the world, when God is viewed as a transcendent source, yet an ever-present agent in the world, such reflection employs some sense or senses of what it means to be a cause. The extraordinary developments in modern and contemporary science have seemed to present new challenges for any attempt to speak of divine action. The more one views developments in cosmology and evolutionary biology, for example, as offering exhaustive accounts of nature and of the processes within nature, the more it may seem that any appeal to God, to explain either the origin of nature or its operations, is unnecessary. At the beginning of the twentieth century, Heinrich Caro, a German chemist, noted that “science has conducted God to its frontiers, thanking him for his provisional services.” Rather than eliminating appeals to a God now seen as superfluous, some theologians and philosophers have argued for a radically revised view of God, so as to find a God and divine action that would be compatible with contemporary science. As John Haught has noted, after the life and work of Charles Darwin, “any thoughts we may have about God can hardly remain the same as before.” One concern for some scholars is to make sure that we understand divine action in such a way that it does not interfere with natural process, what Robert Russell of Berkeley’s Centre for Theology and Science calls NIODA (non-interfering objective, divine action). 344 Book Reviews Dodds thinks that natural philosophy and metaphysics in the tradition of Thomas Aquinas offer fruitful ways to “unlock divine action”— that is, to see how one can accept the insights of contemporary science without rejecting God or altering the traditional sense of God as Creator and continual agent in the universe. In particular, he thinks that a retrieval of Thomas’s notion of cause offers the key necessary for affirming a robust understanding of divine action while also embracing what the natural sciences tell us about the world. An understanding of causality is a complex endeavor. Following Thomas, Dodds emphasizes the analogical sense of the term. In fact, a good deal of the confusion in discussions about divine causality and the causality the natural sciences discover is the result of a failure to recognize that “cause” has many senses when applied not only to natural phenomena, but also to God. Often, when modern and contemporary thinkers speak of cause, they employ a more limited notion of the term than that found in Thomas. As “cause” came to be identified almost exclusively in terms of agent cause, traditional categories of final and formal causality were ignored or dismissed as irrelevant. Under the influence of David Hume, causality became simply a temporal sequence between events, a regularity that the observer designates as cause and effect. For Thomas, the root sense of causality concerns some kind of real dependence, and hence explanations of causality are ultimately resolved in metaphysics. On the contrary, a Humean analysis considers causality as a category in epistemology. How we think of causal relations in nature affects how we think of God as cause. Dodds’s claim is that Thomas’s analysis of cause can overcome obstacles to thinking clearly about divine agency in a world described by contemporary science. After initial chapters in which he gives a brief account of the Thomistic understanding of causality and how that understanding “was contracted” in the seventeenth to the early twentieth centuries (and the consequent effect of such contraction on discussions of divine agency), Dodds turns to developments in contemporary science (especially relativity theory, quantum mechanics, and evolutionary biology). He thinks that recent scientific discoveries and their philosophical interpretations offer not only a challenge to what had become a narrow, orthodox interpretation of causality, but are also an opportunity for engaging a Thomistic account of cause. Dodds thinks, for example, that the controversies associated with explanations in evolutionary biology can contribute to “unlocking Book Reviews 345 the idea of causality inherited from modern science.” Among other topics in this regard, Dodds points to the relationship between theories of emergence and traditional notions of formal causality. As quantum mechanics points to a world of neither pure chance nor complete determinism, it opens possibilities for discussions of potentiality that were crucial for the natural philosophy of Thomas and Aristotle. The indeterminism featured in quantum mechanics might be seen as an analogue for Aristotle’s notion of the pure potentiality of prime matter. New theories in contemporary science have had effects on the way theologians speak of divine causality. To speak of indeterminism at the level of genetic mutations has encouraged some theologians to find a kind of metaphysical space in which God can act in nature without interfering with natural processes—since there would be, in principle, no natural causes with which divine action would compete. Another conception of God’s action, panentheism, seeks to avoid the claim of divine action’s interfering with natural causes by arguing that God’s being “includes and penetrates the whole universe, so that every part of it exists in him, but that his being is more than and is not exhausted by the universe.” Dodds is critical of the various approaches to divine action that directly employ interpretations of the theories of contemporary science. His fundamental criticism is that these accounts of divine causality, popular in many circles today, suffer from a univocal sense of cause, such that God is one cause among all other causes, different only in degree. As Dodds points out: “Implicit in the concern that God’s action not violate the laws of nature is the conviction that God could violate those laws—that the action of the Creator might somehow contradict the very creation which exists from moment to moment only through his sustaining influence” (155). Thomas’s understanding of God as cause and creatures as causes—a distinction traditionally seen in terms of primary and secondary causality—allows for a robust understanding both of the causes discovered in nature and their dependency upon the on-going causality of a transcendent primary cause. He thinks that contemporary science encourages a new reflection on the analogous notions of causality. To speak of efficient, final, and formal causes, per se and per accidens causes, primary and secondary cause, and principal and instrumental causes, all in the tradition of Thomas, allows for a better understanding not only of our accounts of nature, but also of how to speak about divine agency, of God as Creator and continuing agent in the world. This approach is especially 346 Book Reviews valuable in discussing the “secondary causality” central to explanations in evolutionary biology. An effect, such as the coming into existence of a new species, can be greater than its immediate cause, “if that cause is also an instrument of some higher cause” (202). Natural effects are attributed both to God and to causes in nature. The natural agent is completely the cause of its effect and so is God the complete cause. It is not a matter of partial causes. It is not that God somehow makes room for natural causes. Rather, God causes them to be the causes that they are. It is crucial to recognize that “cause” is being attributed to natural causes and to God in radically different ways, but not in ways that, finally, are unintelligible. We must remember that God as transcendent cause is of a different order from any created cause. In fact, this is so to such a degree that it is not really accurate to say that God’s causality is of a different order, since this might suggest a common ground of comparison. Furthermore, whatever role chance and indeterminism play in nature, God is the cause of chance and indeterminism precisely as chance and indeterminism. As Dodds puts it: God acts “through the indeterminism of nature in its very indeterminism.” Or again, in referring to chance in nature, we might say that “God’s causality acts precisely through the ‘non-causality’ of chance” (219–220). In the final chapters of his book, Dodds takes up difficult questions concerning whether it is correct to say that anything happens “by chance” from God’s point of view, how we should understand the role of miracles and petitionary prayer, and what it means for God to be providential (e.g., whether any effect falls outside God’s providence). Throughout his analysis, Dodds emphasizes the importance of grasping what it means for God to be Creator and how we should understand the non-reciprocal relationship of creatures to the Creator. As Josef Pieper observed, the doctrine of creation is the key to Thomas’s entire intellectual project, and Dodds notes that the failure to understand causality as exercised by the Creator—the transcendent primary cause of all that exists in whatever way or ways things exist— results in most, if not all, of the difficulties in achieving an adequate sense of divine agency. The emphasis Dodds urges on thinking clearly about cause, especially about the language of analogy, is an important corrective to much of the confusion in contemporary analyses of divine agency. To approach the question of divine action by examining what contemporary science invites us to consider about what causes there are is a good example of beginning with the philosophy of nature in order Book Reviews 347 to understand metaphysics and theology. The book is very welldocumented with extensive quotations and footnotes, thus allowing N&V the reader to turn to these sources should he or she wish. William E. Carroll Blackfriars Oxford University Oxford, England A Service of Love: Papal Primacy, the Eucharist and Church Unity by Paul McPartlan (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2013), vii + 100 pp. The sensationalizing attention given by popular media to Pope Francis has certainly brought the papal office into the world spotlight in a new and unprecedented way. Many of us may wonder how long the enthusiasm will last before it descends again into boredom, scorn, and attack.Yet, the dramatic and obvious differences in “style,” for want of a better word, between the three most recent popes invite us to consider afresh the foundations and characteristics of the papal office and to reread the Church’s recent declarations about the papacy against the background of the broad sweep of doctrinal history. McPartlan’s little book on the topic is a handy place to start. Not much longer than an extended essay, it is an immediately accessible, if unsystematic, study. The content outline suggests a historical treatment, but going in reverse: the second millennium is handled before the first. But the movement makes sense, since the entire essay appears prompted by the 2007 publication of the Catholic-Orthodox dialogue statement, Ecclesial and Canonical Consequences of the Sacramental Nature of the Church, otherwise known as the Ravenna document. The key thrust of the Ravenna document, echoing an emphatic shift since the Second Vatican Council, is upon the mutual interdependence of primacy and conciliarity, itself a corollary of the relation between ecclesial governance and Eucharistic communion. As McPartlan develops it, this inter-relation profoundly qualifies the legal terminology of “jurisdiction” that, to his mind, overly dominated the ecclesiological landscape for most of the second millennium. In contrast, it is now “urgent for Catholics and Orthodox to discern once again the true characteristics of universal primacy aside from administrative and juridical considerations” (26). To this end, it is above all the Eucharist itself—its practice and theology—that can guide us. When interpreted Eucharistically and liturgically, episcopacy has less to do 348 Book Reviews with juridical authority and more to do with preserving the unity of the Spirit in the bond of love. According to McPartlan, drawing on the resources of the early Church deepens this sense of the limits of papal power, whose proper exercise remains always at the service of Eucharistic communion and ecclesial fellowship. There is much to admire in this approach, and McPartlan does well in bringing to light numerous sources that highlight the way in which the bishop of Rome’s universal primacy has, from the earliest centuries, been linked to presidency at the Eucharist. I wonder, however, whether McPartlan does justice to the first millennium, particularly to problematic evidence that undermines the neat exclusion of juridical factors from the pope’s episcopal role. For example, McPartlan underlines a repeatedly expressed contemporary view that, for most of the first millennium, the authority of Rome’s bishop, while widely accepted, “was never understood as an authority ‘by divine right,’ and in particular the East never shared the West’s basic understanding of the link between the bishop of Rome and Peter” (54). But is this in fact correct? Was for example the Greek theologian Maximus the Confessor a rare exception when, in the seventh century, he directly connected Christ’s promise to Peter to the unique foundational status of the Church of Rome among all the Churches, and to its abiding orthodoxy in the face of widespread apostasy? What of the famous declaration of the Council Fathers gathered in Chalcedon—“Peter has spoken!”—after the reading aloud of Pope Leo’s Letter to Flavius? A more pointed concern has to do with McPartlan’s effort to minimise the juridical aspects of Rome’s episcopal primacy. Latching on to the phrase “primacy of honour” or, as he prefers to render it, “honour of primacy,” McPartlan argues that the early Church regarded the bishop of Rome more as a “messenger of love, unity, and peace” (87) than doctrinal arbiter or ecclesiastical prince. But what does this make of numerous studies, such as that by Brian E. Daley,1 that demonstrate that the phrase “primacy of honour,” first used by the second ecumenical council (381), implied not just an honorific position or moral authority, but real prerogatives of office with practical, effective juridical implications. In fact, McPartlan cites Daley’s study (55), but completely omits to mention Daley’s central thesis that, in its original Christian context, “primacy of honour” included—these are Daley’s terms—“final executive and juridical power,” “practical leadership,” “Position and Patronage in the Early Church: The Original Meaning of ‘Primacy of Honour,” Journal of Theological Studies 44, no. 2 (1993), 529–553. 1 Book Reviews 349 and “the ability to act as referee.” Among other sources, Daley refers to canons 6 and 7 of the Council of Nicaea, which affirm the practical authority (exousia), prerogatives (presbeia), and “consequences of rank” attending episcopal leadership in general, and Rome’s in particular. None of this is to say that McPartlan’s argument about the primarily “communional configuration” (82) of the papal office is wrong. It simply calls for a widening in his account of Eucharistic presidency (and, by implication, of universal jurisdiction) to include the often very difficult practical task of judging whom to admit to the Church’s communion and whom to exclude. In other words, the practice of Eucharistic presidency must include the practice of excommunication—which, on a large scale, can implicate entire jurisdictions. This, in part, is what is meant by the office of the keys, given to be exercised by all bishops, but chiefly and in a unique way by Peter’s successor, the first among equals, servant of the servants of God. It goes without saying that all such judgements must concretely express the charity and solicitude proper to Christ’s redemptive office. Here the burden of McPartlan’s book is spot on. For it is only thereby that the papacy, in addition to exercising its other responsibilities and prerogatives, will continue to serve the truth of the Gospel and the unbreakable unity of N&V the one true Church. Adam G. Cooper John Paul II Institute for Marriage and the Family Melbourne, Australia Incarnation Anyway: Arguments for Supralapsarian Christology by Edwin Chr. van Driel (New York: Oxford University Press, 2008), 194 pp. At least from the time of Rupert of Deutz, Edwin Chr. van Driel observes, Christian theologians have considered the place of redemption from sin amongst the motives for the Incarnation. Responses have divided into two camps, or “families”—infralapsarians and supralapsarians. He summarizes those positions as follows: for infralapsarians, “the divine will to become incarnate logically follows the divine will to allow sin,” while for supralapsarians, “the divine will to become incarnate logically precedes the divine will to allow sin” (4–5). According to van Driel, Western theology has favored the former; that is, until a resurgence of supralapsarian positions in nineteenth- and twentieth-century theology. He therefore selects three 350 Book Reviews supralapsarian resurgents as his primary interlocutors: Friedrich Schleiermacher, Isaak August Dorner, and Karl Barth. By engaging these theologians, he seeks both to “draw up the supralapsarian family tree” (5) and to develop his own supralapsarian arguments. Van Driel utilizes two analytical distinctions in his investigation. First and foremost, he distinguishes between the three ways in which God is related to the world: creation, redemption, and consummation.These serve as three distinct “bases” for supralapsarian arguments. Each of his interlocutors exemplify one of these three “bases.” Next, van Driel distinguishes between two conceptions of the recipient of the Incarnation: (1) human nature and (2) human persons. This distinction, he contends, is obfuscated by all his supralapsarian interlocutors, resulting in Christological incoherence. These distinctions are not, then, merely analytic, but are put to constructive use throughout Incarnation Anyway. Following an Introduction, van Driel gives a dense and impressive sketch of Schleiermacher’s supralapsarian “argument from redemption” (per the first aforementioned distinction). Schleiermacher’s argument, rather tersely put, runs as follows: given that humans are nonreciprocally related to God (i.e., absolutely dependent), the Incarnation cannot be in response to sin, but must be logically prior to sin.Van Driel objects, however, that this solution is internally incoherent: “The same notions of absolute dependence and divine causality that lead Schleiermacher to his supralapsarianism lead him to hold a form of divine omnipotence that excludes any alternative for reality as it is” (31). And yet, it is essential to Schleiermacher’s doctrine of redemption that any human being is possibly the Redeemer, given that sin is in no way essential to human nature.Van Driel, once he has exerted tremendous effort to save Schleiermacher from this dilemma, concludes that it is finally intractable. Thus Schleiermacher’s supralapsarian argument fails. Dorner’s supralapsarian argument is grounded in his doctrine of creation, which van Driel finds curious. “Dorner’s root intuition is that the relationship between God and human beings is one of free, mutual love and embrace” (34). Surprisingly, Dorner derives from this premise a series of necessary arguments for creation and the Incarnation. Van Driel presents objections to Dorner’s claimed necessity, but still derives from Dorner a series of less dubious arguments for the supralapsarian conclusion and objections to the infralapsarian conclusion. Like Schleiermacher’s, Dorner’s supralapsarian arguments entail problematically necessary divine operations ad extra, thereby raising problems for both Christology and the divine will. For these reasons, van Driel argues, “the argument for supralapsarian incarnation should Book Reviews 351 not be embedded in the doctrine of creation [or redemption] but in eschatology [i.e., consummation]” (62). With this observation, van Driel transitions to the primary interlocutor for the supralapsarian position he will develop: Karl Barth. Two full chapters are devoted to Barth, one to Barth’s “supralapsarian narrative,” the other to his “supralapsarian ontology.” By “supralapsarian narrative,” van Driel intends Barth’s reading of Scripture under the matrix of election. Election, which is primary in the order of divine decrees, is eschatological. Thus, Barth’s argument is “based” in eschatology or consummation. Moreover, Barth’s insistence that Jesus Christ is “subject and object” of the divine election entails that “incarnation stands at the very beginning of God’s relating to what is not God” (81)—at least, so long as the assertion can be rendered coherent. The following chapter, on Barth’s “supralapsarian ontology” analyzes the aforementioned assertion that Christ is both subject and object of election in order to clarify Barth’s supralapsarian argument from consummation. Here he gives a penetrating analysis of three possible interpretations of Barth’s deeply disputed assertion, distinguishing his own position from that of Berkouwer, Brunner, and McCormack. He follows this with an extended reflection on two “objects” of election: (1) human nature in Christ and (2) das Nichtige. Van Driel is critical of both accounts of the “object” of election, insofar as Barth (1) fails to retain an adequate account of human agency in the eschaton and (2) assumes “creational entropy.” Following the Barth chapters, van Driel rehearses and sharpens his case for grounding supralapsarian arguments in eschatology. He then presents a series of objections to what he dubs infralapsarian felix culpa arguments, as well as Robert Grosseteste’s supralapsarian arguments in De Cessatione Legalium. While he reiterates his preference for Barth’s eschatological approach, he moves his second analytic distinction to the fore: Barth’s supralapsarian Christology suffers insofar as it conceives the recipient of the Incarnation as human nature rather than human persons. Finally, van Driel supplies three arguments of his own in support of supralapsarian Christology, which lack the aforementioned detriments of the other accounts.Very briefly, van Driel argues from the eschaton’s “abundance” vis-à-vis, in van Driel’s terminology, the proton that the means whereby abundance comes (i.e., Christ) cannot be contingent upon sin. I take it that this argument is built upon the premise that abundance orders divine motives. Second, he argues from Scripture that the beatific vision (“seeing God face to face”) is a sensible, embod- 352 Book Reviews ied vision. If sensible vision is part of beatitude, and beatitude cannot be contingent upon sin (per the first argument), then the Incarnation is not contingent upon sin. Finally, God has revealed his desire for friendship with creatures, and friendship entails making oneself as available to the other as much as possible. Since this desire for friendship is prior to the need for redemption, his supralapsarian conclusion follows. Incarnation Anyway retrieves a neglected question in Christian theology. Van Driel demonstrates both the importance of the question and the remarkable range of theological considerations a response elicits. Moreover, he draws attention to several related yet distinct modern attempts to secure the primacy of Christ. He isolates the central theological and conceptual issues at stake concerning each thinker with remarkable precision, and consistently works to render his interlocutors’ positions as coherent and compelling as possible.Van Driel argues with impressive rigor. But Incarnation Anyway is not without its weaknesses. Perhaps its greatest weakness stems from a lack of engagement with the medieval debates. For instance, van Driel asserts that the medieval conversation was problematic insofar as it was speculative, addressing the counterfactual question, “Would God have become human if human beings had not sinned?” (164). But of course, his putatively modern criticism of medieval speculation was raised much earlier by Bonaventure and accepted by Scotus, and this after both Albert and Thomas issued serious worries about the counterfactual posing of the question. Such oversights are unfortunately frequent, and above all marred by the insistent use of the supralapsarian and infralapsarian categories of later Reformed dogmatics. This prevents van Driel from seeing, for instance, that neither the modern arguments he recites nor his own final arguments engage Scotus’s Christological argument for the so-called supralapsarian conclusion. In spite of this, van Driel’s Incarnation Anyway is a real achievement. Even the shortcomings prove the point: the question of the divine motive for the Incarnation is both demanding and central to Christian theology. As van Driel demonstrates, there is ample reason to hope that it will once again be taken up and given serious reflection by theoloN&V gians today. Justus H. Hunter Southern Methodist University Dallas, TX Book Reviews 353 Dust Bound for Heaven: Explorations in the Theology of Thomas Aquinas by Reinhard Hütter (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2012), x + 511 In his Acknowledgments , Reinhard Hütter observes that this book took shape over the course of his first seven years as a Catholic theologian. Born and raised in Germany and educated both in Germany (PhD, University of Erlangen) and at Duke University Divinity School under Stanley Hauerwas, Hütter was an eminent Lutheran theologian, heavily involved with the journal Pro Ecclesia, at the time of his entrance into the Catholic Church at the end of 2004. Since his conversion, he has served as President of the Academy of Catholic Theology and co-editor of Nova et Vetera. While remaining on the faculty at Duke University Divinity School, he has held distinguished visiting appointments at Providence College (the Randall Chair) and Mundelein Seminary (the Paluch Chair). On my reading, Dust Bound for Heaven is partly a response to the German theological and political context within which Hütter was educated and with which it seems reasonable that he should continue to engage. An examination of the chapters reflects this pattern of engagement. Thus, chapter 2 (the first chapter after the introduction, which Hütter titles chapter 1) is titled “‘Is There a Cure for Reason’s Presumption and Despair?’—Why Thomas Matters Today,” and it begins by discussing Friedrich Nietzsche’s challenge to the success of modernity’s purely “instrumental rationality” (30). Hütter insists that theology must not follow Nietzsche’s path of “‘postmetaphysical thought,’ characterized by the familiar agonistic strategies of ‘situating,’ ‘outbidding,’ ‘unmasking,’ and ‘overcoming’” (35). Chapter 3, “‘Body Politics beyond Angelism and Animalism’—The Human Passions and Their Irreducible Spiritual Dimension,” surely has Immanuel Kant and German idealism in view, though Hütter’s contrastive reflections on Aquinas on the passions engage René Descartes, as one would expect. Chapter 4, “‘Democracy after Christendom’—Sovereign Secularism, Genuine Liberalism, and the Natural Love of God: What Thomas Can Teach Us about Modernity’s Fraternal Twins,” proposes that Germany, chastened and instructed by the terrible disaster of Nazism, implemented after World War II a “genuine liberalism” guided by explicitly Christian principles, whose theoretical roots are found in the work of the German Catholic legal scholar, Ernst-Wolfgang Böckenförde. This “genuine liberalism” endured for some years, thereby showing that 354 Book Reviews liberalism is not necessarily the “sovereign secularism” that the West (including Germany) now experiences. After this chapter explicitly engaging with the German context, chapter 5, “‘Paleothomism?’—The Continuing Debate over the Natural Desire for the Vision of God,” responds to John Milbank’s “Bulgakovian reading of de Lubac’s theology” (131), at the bottom of which, in my view, Hütter senses the monistic vision of Hegel. Here Hütter again critiques the Nietzschean/postmodern style of modern theological discourse according to which theology “can only be conceived as defensible and intelligible in a thoroughly historical-contextualist and constructivist mode” so that “[t]he only way to forward arguments is by situating and out-narrating opponents as well as offering rhetorical and aesthetic appeals leading to the volitional as well as conceptual conversion of the interlocutor” (137). Anyone familiar not only with Nietzsche but also with theology influenced by German critical theory (or even, from a different angle, with the theology of Hütter’s Duke teacher and colleague, Stanley Hauerwas) will resonate with Hütter’s depiction of the current scene: “Propositional discourse as informed by metaphysical realism and discursive, conceptual argumentation is therefore at present widely dismissed as a suspiciously disembodied and philosophically outmoded mode of speculative theology, oblivious to the historical, pragmatic, and practice-oriented nature of theology itself and thus vulnerable to being constantly co-opted by deeply entrenched as well as concealed discourses of power and interest” (137). Chapter 5 additionally finds Hütter contesting the way in which Karl Barth lays speculative groundwork for universal apokatastasis, although Hütter allows that “universal human salvation remains a legitimate theological expression of the infused, supernatural virtues of hope and charity and hence a matter of fervent prayers of intercession, as consistently argued by Hans Urs von Balthasar” (181). Chapter 6, “‘Thomist Ressourcement’—A Rereading of Thomas on the Natural Desire for the Vision of God,” should be read as a companion piece to chapter 5. Rather than ruling out a natural desire for the vision of God, Hütter affirms it—though not a natural desire for the supernatural—along the creative and controversial lines set forth in 1950 by the Dominican, Marie-Joseph Le Guillou, who explicitly sought a middle ground between Henri de Lubac’s Surnaturel and those who attacked it most strongly. Chapter 7, “‘Thomas the Augustinian’—Recovering a Surpassing Synthesis of Grace and Free Will,” moves back in time to address Martin Luther on the issue of grace and free will. Hütter argues that Aquinas achieves a vision that, by means of Book Reviews 355 philosophical analysis of divine and human non-competitive causality, enables us to avoid Luther’s view that humans are not free in relation to God. In chapter 8, “‘In Hope He Believed Against Hope’—The Unity of Faith and Hope in Paul, Thomas, and Benedict XVI,” Hütter again takes up Luther, this time through the writings of Pope Benedict XVI (Joseph Ratzinger). In Spe Salvi, Benedict XVI challenges Luther’s translation of Hebrews 11:1. Luther interprets this crucial verse on faith as a description of our own subjective stance or firmness, rather than a description of an objective reality given to us. Hütter supports Benedict XVI’s approach via a retrieval of Aquinas’s teaching about faith and hope. In Chapter 9, “‘A Forgotten Truth?’—Theological Faith, Source and Guarantee of Theology’s Inner Unity,” Hütter addresses the nature of theological faith and the nature of theology through a brilliant critique of Walter Kasper’s 1967 The Methods of Dogmatic Theology. He observes that, for Kasper, indebted to the later Schelling and the later Heidegger, “[b]ecause there is no perennial supernatural given of the faith, there can be no contemplation of the faith that rises above the flux of history toward God” (329). Chapter 10, “‘The Wisdom of Analogy Defended’—From Effect to Cause, from Creation to God,” defends the balance and fruitfulness of Aquinas’s account of the analogy of being (as interpreted especially by Bernard Montagnes) through an exposition of the contradictory criticisms lodged against it by two major German Lutheran theologians: Wolfhart Pannenberg’s charge that the analogy of being anthropomorphizes God through univocity, and Eberhard Jüngel’s charge that the analogy of being makes God utterly unknowable through equivocity. In Pannenberg, Hütter finds “metaphysical conceptualism with its strong Hegelian undertones,” whereas he notes that “Jüngel, by mistaking Thomas for Cajetan—read in turn through Kant—reduces Thomas’s way of analogical predication to conception proportionality,” so as to turn the analogy of being into “merely . . . a mentally immanent system of comparison” (382). Chapter 11, “‘Seeking Truth on Dry Soil and under Thornbushes’— God, the University, and the Missing Link: Wisdom,” constitutes a nuanced and constructive critique of the modern research university, based as it is upon the German model established in the nineteenth century. Hütter begins this chapter with Pope Benedict XVI’s 2006 address to the University of Regensburg, where Benedict depicted the true university as necessarily inclusive of theology. Despite its natural orientation to the transcendent, human reason that lacks the contribution of theology becomes truncated, instrumentalized, and frag- 356 Book Reviews mented. In the same chapter, Hütter underlines yet again his critique of “post-metaphysical” theology, which in his view inevitably opens the door to “deficient understandings of God, what it is to be human, and the world as created ‘all the way down’” (414). He contrasts Benedict Ashley’s insistence upon reason’s ability to apprehend the transcendent with Kant’s reduction of reason’s scope to the level of the phenomenal. Rather than completely rejecting the German research model, Hütter—much as he does for “genuine liberalism”—has an affirmative word for the goods offered by the German university in its ideal form: “Ashley’s approach and agenda seem more capable to accommodate the modern, Berlin-type research university with its ideal of an integral unity between research and teaching. . . . For Ashley can acknowledge the modern research university as the great-grandchild of Aristotle’s comprehensive program of research, from whence Ashley also sees arising the very potential for internal reform” (416). In his final chapter, titled “‘This Is My Body’—Eucharistic Adoration and Metaphysical Contemplation,” Hütter focuses on transubstantiation, set forth in light of his experience of participating in Eucharistic adoration in the diocese of Raleigh, North Carolina. Though he does not mention it explicitly, the presence of Luther’s insistence upon consubstantiation inevitably looms large for any reader who has been paying attention up to this point. The connections with German theology and the German context that I have highlighted might seem to paint Hütter’s book in a reductionary way, as though his theology could be reduced to biography, which it most certainly cannot. Thus we should recall the significance of German theology and philosophy for all theology—and especially all Catholic theology—done in the United States today. No Catholic theology in the United States today could be imagined that does not deal in some way with Ratzinger, von Balthasar, Rahner, Kasper, and even Barth and Pannenberg—to say nothing of Nietzsche, Adorno, Heidegger, Hegel, Schelling, and Kant. Hütter’s work, thus, is as fully American as it is rooted in the German context. Indeed, it is a much better contribution precisely to the American context, precisely because of its intimate and multi-sided knowledge of the German context. Given Hütter’s effort to retrieve Aquinas’s philosophical theology in dialogue with German philosophy and theology, a predictable question should be addressed: is Hütter’s insistence upon the value of Thomas Aquinas a repetition of Leo XIII’s attempt to replace modern German philosophy with Aquinas’s metaphysics and epistemology, cast as the Book Reviews 357 philosophia perennis? Put more plainly, given the implicit meaning that such a question typically bears, in my experience, has Hütter become reactionary and defensive in his post-conversion theological path? The answer (obviously) is no, for a twofold reason. First, Hütter’s engagement with German scholarship needs to be read through his nuanced presentations of genuine liberalism and the university, and especially through the crucial function that Ratzinger/Benedict XVI plays throughout the book as the representative of salutary Catholic theology today. For Hütter, a Thomistic contribution is not here opposed to the insights of the nouvelle théologie and the contributions of the modern world. Second, rather than a reactionary defensiveness, a deep optimism about human capacities and human destiny—and even about the potential of modern politics and universities—courses through this book, without detriment to Hütter’s awareness of the dire consequences of human sin. Consider Hütter’s critique throughout of an all-too-commonplace agonistic theology that depends solely upon “rhetorical and aesthetic appeals” due to its inability, having jettisoned metaphysical and dogmatic realism, to defend truth about God and creation. In fact, Hütter’s critique works not primarily in a negative direction, but in a way that aims to highlight a highly positive account of reason’s capacities. In chapter 2, in which Hütter defends reason’s wondrous capacity to obtain real knowledge of God, this positive view of reason does not lead Hütter to minimize the need for revelation or to neglect the need for the conversion of the will for the attainment of knowledge of God. Hütter’s optimistic anthropology is rooted appropriately in a strong sense of the will’s fallenness and its important role in reasoning. He states, “The ‘will’ here addressed might better be described as reasoning’s directedness—that which constitutes the horizon of the gaze in which judgments are made. This gaze is not just conceptual but volitional. . . . [T]he will also exacts a constant impact on the intellect by directing it in light of the good to which the will is drawn” (43). For this reason, intellectual judgment of truth cannot, ultimately, be separated from “reasoning’s directness under the condition of sin” (45). Thus, his highly positive anthropology remains balanced by awareness of the need for conversion via the Christological “restoration and perfection of the image” (46) all the way to deification. Hütter also argues in this chapter that the metaphysics of being, in order to fully differentiate beings from Being (as required by creation ex nihilo), needs the aid of the metaphysics of creation, which flows 358 Book Reviews from divine revelation that culminates in Christ Jesus. Hütter explains: “While its arguments are in principle universally acceptable (assuming the absence of error), a metaphysics of creation will be less than universally acceptable, not just because philosophy is an intrinsically controversial phenomenon, but more importantly because it requires a seeing and a willing, informed by a particular practice of judgment, that is shared in only historically contingent ways” (63). The fact that theology cannot do without the metaphysics of creation (or without the metaphysics of being) makes clear that theology has not become a self-sufficient philosophical realm for prideful humans to ascend to the knowledge of God. Even those whose will has been converted and whose minds have been enlightened still experience this “under the condition of sin” (69) and therefore stand in constant need of self-emptying transformation by Christ’s Cross.Yet, the highly positive valuation the power of our created rational capacities remains in place. In making this complex point, Hütter recognizes himself to be at odds with those German philosophers who sought to cut reason of from Christian faith while, at the same time, subsuming and re-casting certain fundamental aspects of faith (see 69). The same generous optimism about human capacities, without losing awareness of human sinfulness, appears in chapter 3 on the human passions in light of the twin pitfalls of angelism and animalism. Hütter here insists upon the goodness of the passions, despite the unruliness that we experience. He emphasizes that, far from being in need of repression, the passions integrally belong to the life of virtue because they “are in potency to and indeed indispensable for a moral and spiritual formation that is integral to achieving the twofold human end” (88). In fact, according to Hütter (and Aquinas), the passions can and should be formed or habituated by human reason under the power of grace, so that they are able to contribute to the full flourishing of the human person, rather than merely leading the person astray through the violent impulses of lust, anger, fear, hunger, and so forth. We have already seen a similar optimism in chapter 4’s defense of liberalism (implicitly against the much more negative view of Hauerwas and others) as fully open to a “genuine” Christian liberalism, and therefore not necessarily productive of a “sovereign secularism”—although, in Hütter’s view, liberalism becomes secularism once the connection to Christianity has been rejected. The implications for Dignitatis Humanae are clear: we need not choose between Christendom (or sectarianism) and liberalism, for there can exist a Christian liberalism. The two chap- Book Reviews 359 ters (5 and 6) on the natural desire for the vision of God have been much discussed since their publication, and unsympathetic readers have sometimes construed them as a bad-old-Thomism attempt to secure Aristotelian nature at the obviously unacceptable cost of making grace irrelevant to human flourishing. Hütter, however, resists the view that grace is a mere intensification of a dynamism that already belongs to nature—and he does so not in order to remove the necessity of grace, but in order to insist upon its necessity and, indeed, upon its greatness. Our destiny is so great that not even our highest rational dynamism touches upon it, while grace utterly accords with and fulfills that highest human dynamism. Surely this is a tremendously positive portrait of the human being and human destiny, despite Hütter’s point that Christian revelation does not permit us to seed human nature itself with the logic of a necessary salvation of all persons. Hütter also makes clear that the human “specific obediential potency” (177) for divinization is not a mere neutrality toward God. The optimism of Hütter’s chapter 7 on free will’s non-competitive relationship with grace should already be clear, given that the alternative is the rejection of true human freedom in matters of salvation. Likewise, one can only be consoled by Hütter’s dual insistence in chapter 8 that Christian faith is not reducible to a blind leap of trust taken by isolated individuals in the depths of their subjectivities and that Christian hope is not annulled by suffering, but rather goes along with it. The extraordinary optimism of Christian hope can be seen not least by contrast with contemporary culture’s growing despair about death: materialist accounts of the human person can give no firm or lasting place to any object of hope, and therefore the materialist view of the human person that Hütter devotes his work to opposing is inevitably the most negative and defensive (because inhumane) view of existence. Like Hütter’s account of hope, the vision of wisdom set forth by chapters 9 and 11 is so optimistic as to be thought laughably naïve by most of Hütter’s university contemporaries, perhaps especially at secular universities such as Duke. The same goes for his accounts in chapter 10 of the analogy of being and of our capacity to reason from finite effects to a transcendent cause. Rather than giving up the theological task to philosophy, Hütter makes clear that “because sacra doctrina is a subaltern scientia and as such essentially informed by the principles of the superior scientia Dei et beatorum, there is by definition no way that the analogy of being could ever determine or govern what infinitely surpasses it in dignity as well as depth” (386).Yet, lacking the ability to 360 Book Reviews conceive analogously the transcendence of God, we could not receive a revelation from God, since we could literally not conceive God in any way whatsoever. Chapter 11’s reflections on wisdom and the university raise the question of whether any Catholic college or university today provides a home for the integrated quest for wisdom, which Hütter conceives primarily along Benedict Ashley’s lines. In this case, Hütter’s optimism leads him to propose that Thomas Aquinas College serves as a living example of the integrated quest for wisdom, although Ashley, as Hütter recognizes, insists upon the goodness of diverse intellectual disciplines and research programs (even for undergraduate institutions) in a way that Thomas Aquinas College does not. Lastly, the very act of adoring Jesus Christ in the consecrated host—the topic of chapter 12—is surely an act of deep affirmation of the material and the human, which is only amplified by the chapter’s commitment to philosophical reflection upon the Eucharistic mystery, which is therefore accessible in some way to human reason. In short, the Christianly optimistic title, Dust Bound for Heaven, aptly describes the great themes of this book, which treats human reason and will, the passions, human sociality (in liberal democracy, in universities, in the Church, and in the task of theology), human desire for the vision of God, the human call to a supernatural destiny, the meaning of faith and hope, and Eucharistic adoration. Dust Bound for Heaven offers an extraordinarily positive vision of humans coming forth from God and being drawn up to God in the Church of Christ and in relation to other social institutions, such as the state and the university. At the same time, the book does not flinch from human fallenness.This is to say that Dust Bound for Heaven exhibits the same virtues that the Church has long found in Thomas Aquinas, and does so from within Hütter’s own German and American context. Hütter’s self-described “seven-yearlong journey of becoming a Catholic theologian” thereby becomes also a journey into what it means to think of God and humanity when divine revelation is read and heard through the contemporary Magisterium (here meaning mainly Pope Benedict XVI, since the book was written between 2004–2011) and through Aquinas as mediating and enriching the patristic interpretation of the Gospel. If this splendid book could be enhanced, it would be by a more detailed and consistent introduction (or chapter 1). The introduction/ chapter 1 is admittedly the most pessimistic part of the book. Hütter encourages “a ressourcement in Thomas” but then undermines his own Book Reviews 361 ability to undertake such a project by stating that such a ressourcement would require “a coherent philosophical and theological curriculum ad mentem S. Thomae, a body of teachers competent and dedicated to implement such a curriculum, gifted students dedicated to the arduous task of being ‘beginners’ under the tutelage of Thomas Aquinas, a way of apostolic life and witness of which study and contemplation are integral components, and last but not least an institution that enables, coordinates, and fosters such an ambitious and complex intellectual endeavor” (6). Hütter means here to be signaling the value of the renewal currently underway at the Dominican House of Studies, and he is right to do so, but the problem is that, for most young readers, the suggestion that all these things are needed in order to think with Aquinas will quite simply be too daunting and may produce an impulse to put the book down before going further. Indeed, if Hütter himself had believed that all these things were necessary before he could think ad mentem S. Thomae, he could not have written this book, because his own training and institutional contexts are largely the opposite of his description of what is ideally required for his project. The success of the book makes clear that the ongoing and utterly crucial Dominican renewal, in which Hütter participates as a Third-Order Dominican, is not the sole path by which young (or older) students of theology can find enrichment in Aquinas—as no doubt Hütter would agree. In my view, too, the summaries of the chapters in the introduction (chapter 1) do not bring out the book’s full unity or its fitting connection with Hütter’s own theological journey. Furthermore, by concluding the introduction with an extensive annotated bibliography for “further explorations” in Aquinas’s philosophy and theology, Hütter amplifies the sense of the arduousness of reading Aquinas and may cause introductory readers to turn back in fear that the field has already been plowed by too many brilliantly educated thinkers. My own advice would be for beginners simply to start reading Aquinas, ideally under the guidance of a teacher, and things will go well. For many readers such as Flannery O’Connor, it is immediately a pleasure to read Aquinas. For others like myself, the practice of reading him under the guidance of a teacher for a few months reveals why so many generations have found his work to be so helpful. I do not think that Hütter and I disagree in this regard, but I mention the point here in order to encourage readers to take up Dust Bound for Heaven and read the whole thing with confidence in the treasure-trove of Christian wisdom that it contains. Let me add that the bibliography that Hütter offers at the 362 Book Reviews end of his introduction will certainly be of help, in due time, to the beginners who read this book and who become inspired by its powerful N&V vision of the human journey, dust bound for heaven. Matthew Levering Mundelein Seminary Mundelein, IL Aquinas at Prayer: The Bible, Mysticism and Poetry by Paul Murray (New York: Bloomsbury, 2013), xii + 274 pp. News of Paul Murray’s publications always promises edification and delight, and Aquinas at Prayer delivers. It picks up on Jean-Pierre Torrell’s seminal study, Saint Thomas Aquinas, which, toward the beginning of volume 2, quotes Étienne Gilson: “[the Summa Theologiae’s] abstract clarity, impersonal transparency, crystallizes before our very eyes [Thomas’s] interior life” (cf. 16). For Murray, the student and devotee of Thomas need not stop at defending his lapidary prose or expositing his spiritual brilliance. One can boldly aim for “a direct way of gaining access” to his very interior life. To that end, Aquinas at Prayer looks at Thomas’s prayers and biblical commentaries and their expression of heartfelt desire and poetic grace. Part I, “Aquinas: man of prayer,” begins by considering “The interior life of a ‘mystic on campus’” (chap. 1). Murray argues that Thomas deserves the title “mystic,” addressing a contention found in Adrienne von Speyr’s The Book of All Saints, “a truly unique and bizarre document”(4). That book lists over two hundred dictations to Hans Urs von Balthasar, ostensible records of entranced visions of “saints” at prayer. Thomas is witnessed as all head and no heart. Contrarily, Murray discovers much of the “secret” of Thomas’s heart precisely in his conceptual clarity and “plainness.” Hyper-intellectualism in scientific endeavor is a real danger to avoid (Murray cites Charles Darwin as an intriguing example)—but it is a danger to which Thomas did not fall prey. The Angelic Doctor was significantly concerned with “experience” and “affection” in life and in theology. His spiritual ardor is one Murray likens (as did Gilson) to that of St. John of the Cross, connecting the nothing of “non nisi te” with that of “todo y nada.” Even publicly, Thomas defended his positions with vehemence, e.g., “on campus” at the University of Paris. At the same time, his intellectual confidence was balanced with a certain apophaticism, and he taught by way of the quaestio. Book Reviews 363 It would be helpful to know what Murray thinks are the formal judgments of Thomas’s apophaticism. What does it really mean to say that “[Thomas] is prepared, at times, to risk sounding almost like an agnostic”? (26) Is it even the case that “believing Christians today seldom hear from preachers and teachers about the incomprehensibility of the divine nature”? (25) It might rather seem that that is all the rage. Indeed, certain kinds of emphasis upon “mystery,” while casting aspersion upon Latin and/or scholastic theology, fund various discourses of “experience.” It is just this trend that demands that the superior “theologian” be a “mystic.” For Murray (and Torrell), M. D. Chenu is in the background, for whom theologies are expressions of spiritualities. (See the debate between Louis Bouyer and Jean Daniélou on whether the one Church of Christ reducibly has one or many spiritualities.) But if someone like von Speyr is commonly accepted as a “mystic,” why is the medieval magister’s head in need of such a post-Reformation laurel? Not too long ago, theologians debated about the nature and universality of mystical prayer. One could abandon reference to these debates—between Dominicans and Jesuits, somewhat adjudicated by a Benedictine (Cuthbert Butler)—because of their controversialism or jargon. Indeed, Murray is wary of “the dogged, abstract idiom of a scholastic philosopher or theologian” (159). But the “universal call to holiness” of the “new evangelization” has its roots in these very debates (and arguably in the position of Réginald Garrigou-Lagrange, via St. John Paul II). The “spiritual theology” of a saint might be understood as a “practically practical science” (Jacques Maritain) without becoming a windowless factory that manufactures deductions to no end. I think this is an overall take-away from Aquinas at Prayer: utilization of scientific reason, vehemence of loving desire, and creativity of poetic expression all find iconic integration in the Church’s Common Doctor. Like any great teacher, Murray not only gives his students wonderful conclusions, of which there are many in Aquinas at Prayer; he also inspires them to discover new questions and answers. Not for nothing is he a favorite and longtime professor at the Pontifical University of St. Thomas in Rome (the Angelicum), president of its Institute of Spirituality, and Master of Sacred Theology (a Dominican accolade of the highest rank, carefully given by the Master of the Order). He is also an accomplished and scintillating poet. One of this book’s luminous facets is that it seems to be a very personal quest: a Dominican seeking to discover and bear witness to the interior life of another Dominican. Appropriately, Murray draws heavily upon early biographies, especially 364 Book Reviews those of Dominicans William of Tocco and Bernard Gui. Moreover, Murray’s own experience—as a preacher, teacher, and poet—is, I infer, critical for his accessing Aquinas from the friar’s own experience of those same gifts. Murray possesses the proper connaturality to apprehend Thomas’s life of prayer—a noteworthy fact that adds unique authority and verve to his arguments. Murray makes the fraternal situation of Aquinas’s own thought and passion evident in chapter 2, “Four prayers: the influence of Humbert of Romans,” where he considers four of the Piae preces. Although these short personal prayers are written in prose, Murray lays bare the “clear bronze-like pattern of thought and image” characteristic of “good verse” (34), providing fresh English translations in versified style. Precisely as devotional prayers, it is not surprising, he says, that they were not included amongst the opera catalogued for Thomas’s canonization. They are almost certainly by a Dominican—a kind of pious response to a letter issued by Bl. Humbert, Master of the Order of Preachers (1254–1263). If the prayers are Thomas’s, identifying Humbert as an influence upon him is a scholarly gain. But Lydia Maidl finds the “popular” language of the prayers unrepresentative of Thomas’s “scholastic conceptual world.” Against her conclusion, Murray deploys Mark-Robin Hoogland’s presentation of Thomas’s “academic sermons,” noting that Thomas used different linguistic and conceptual registers. In these sermons, the technical language is sparing and the discourse is “strikingly plain and simple.” In the prayers, Humbert’s words are “imaginatively transformed,” rendered more in keeping with concerns and phrasing characteristically Thomas’s. The same mind and heart is at work in the theology, sermons, and prayers. Finally, William of Tocco’s inclusion of the Piae preces in the fourth and final edition of his biography of Thomas resolves the question for Murray. All told, his wide consideration of the most recent scholarship, his attention to the best and original manuscripts, his own theologico-poetic attention, and his Dominican connaturality are marshaled to proffer an original, coherent, and personal apologia for the authenticity and import of these prayers. Part II, “Prayer considered: soundings in the biblical commentaries,” is where, to my mind, Murray’s sense for the way of the friar preacher is most significantly at play. He continues the happy trend in recent scholarship of giving attention to the commentaries of a first-rate magister in Sacra Pagina. He further highlights the charismatic and ecclesial context of Thomas’s mendicant preaching order. Different from the neo-Platonic, spiritualistic readings of the monastics, and Book Reviews 365 against contemporary influences from creation-disparaging heretics, Thomas analyzes the surface of the text, attentive to the materiality of things and happenings.The use of logic is meant to serve this reverence for the literal in service of the Church’s contemporary needs. Murray notes that Thomas’s attention to “prayer” in the Pauline commentaries has not received focused attention from scholars. Thomas repeatedly considers prayer in these commentaries in terms of “petition” and “thanksgiving.” To understand prayer in terms of “petition” had come to be regarded “as almost the poorest cousin within the family of prayer” (101). But approaching “prayer” as the “prayer of asking” unlocks the deeply experiential and Christological mode of Thomas’s theology. Murray’s work further demonstrates “something of Thomas’s own passion, as a friar preacher.” It “bear[s] witness, and with telling force and beauty, to both the apostolic and contemplative energy and passion of St.Thomas” (108–109). The reader gathers that Murray’s close reading of the commentaries likewise manifests something of his own passion, as well as “humility and tact” similar to Thomas’s commentarial restraint and deliberateness (per Kenelm Foster). In Chapter 5, “Praying in time of need: Aquinas on the Psalms,” Murray locks in on the most exigent questions about the nature of prayer: how is it that prayer is at once most simple and most arduous? What does it mean to pray always? Why does God sometimes feel absent? As he does throughout his book, Murray selects the choicest passages and phrases from Thomas. In a marvelous commentary on Psalm 32, both Dominicans teach us that “prayer is the interpreter of hope.” How? Reflecting on God’s nature to be merciful and on mercies received nourishes hope, which exercises itself in prayer. Thomas himself, “in a situation of manifest terror [while sailing through a life-threatening storm], reminded himself of the two greatest ‘favors’ of God’s mercy in all of human history: the Incarnation and the Redemption. And that thought, that memory of grace in itself, was enough to give him confidence and serenity” (145). Analytic attention, speculative commitment, and practical import are strung together and furthermore concretized through a narratival snapshot of Thomas’s own life. The most enchanting section of the book is Part III, which one suspects also contains the work dearest to Murray: “Poet of the Eucharist: the hymns and canticles of Aquinas.” Throughout four chapters and an appendix, he considers the only known vernacular work attributed to Thomas, the Corpus Christi texts, and the Adoro te devote, which Murray subheads “the finest prayer of Aquinas.” It is this final chapter on the Adoro te that, if it is not too precious to say, “sings with 366 Book Reviews authority” (cf. 237). It recapitulates the main themes and positions of the book, while introducing an original argument on the Adoro te’s two-part structure as one of reflection, or adoration, and petition. In all of the commentaries, the most recent historical and textual research is consulted and illuminatingly presented, arguing for Thomas’s authorship (new translations are provided). To Murray’s mind, the hymns and canticles are assuredly “poetry.” Alluding to W. H. Auden’s pithy description, Murray states that poetry is “memorable speech” (cf. 231). But it is the “musical,” “singing” quality of Thomas’s work that most establishes its poetic form. Murray also raises the question of poetry’s relation to truth and theology. What was the value of poetic expression for Thomas himself? Did he not say that poetic knowledge suffers from a defectum veritatis? In answering these questions, drawing upon the work of the late Jesuit, Walter J. Ong, Murray would connect the medieval and the modern, resisting the postmodern. On the one hand, certain moderns grant that poetry is a supreme form of expression, though this appreciation tends to be grounded in skepticism at the conclusiveness of “reason.” On the other hand, though not scientific,Thomas locates the nature of poetry within the ambit of logic. Murray’s resolution is to show how Thomas is the “poet of paradox.” The presentations are compelling, and Murray’s close poetic analyses themselves repay close reading. Admittedly, one may question the degree of rapprochement that is suggested. Throughout his book, Murray references many modern writers one would not expect to find in a scholarly work about Thomas Aquinas’s interior life—Herman Hesse, Ted Hughes, Rainer Maria Rilke, Archibald MacLeish, Dylan Thomas, Ezra Pound, Seamus Heaney, etc. Do these references help to convey Murray’s arguments? Perhaps they do not so much. But their inclusion is more personal than probative.They reveal the author’s love of God and humble delight in contemplation, rooted in his apostolic experience of the age’s approaches to truth and beauty. If what our time needs are, pace Kierkegaard, not only witnesses, but also teachers and poets, we have all three in Murray.What he ultimately says about Thomas regarding his apostolic and contemplative spirit is also rightly said of Murray himself: he is a bonus teologus. All of us who aspire to the same must certainly study the one; we would also do well to N&V read the other. Bruno M. Shah, O.P. University of Notre Dame Notre Dame, Indiana Book Reviews 367 God the Father in the Theology of St. Thomas Aquinas by John Baptist Ku, O.P. (New York: Peter Lang, 2013), xvii + 378 pp. The number of extended theological studies on the person of God the Father is meager, to say the least. Thankfully, Fr. Ku’s recent exposition of St. Thomas’s theology of the Father not only serves to redress that paucity, but does so with remarkable comprehension and skill. Ku’s text unfolds in three movements: the first provides the scriptural basis for Thomas’s theology of the Father (chapter 1); the second explores the Father in relation to the intra-Trinitarian life (chapters 2–5); and the third covers the Father’s role vis-à-vis creation (chapter 6). One of the greatest strengths of Ku’s text, concentrated most thoroughly in his opening chapter, is its demonstration of Thomas’s unwavering dependence on divine revelation in whatever theological speculation may have followed thereafter. Working primarily through Thomas’s scriptural commentaries, Ku provides overwhelming textual evidence in showing just how scripturally saturated Thomas’s theology of the Father truly is. Ku also makes a convincing case in showing how Thomas’s theology of the Father is grounded solely in God’s self-revelation in Jesus Christ by way of the Holy Spirit. The unfortunate prejudice that St. Thomas is insufficiently biblical or Christologically deficient will have difficulty in explaining away the textual data that Fr. Ku so skillfully displays. The necessity in Thomas’s theology of God’s self-revelation in Christ for the formation of any competent theology of the Father is underscored in Ku’s second chapter, wherein he shows why Thomas holds paternity—not innascibility (being “utterly without origin”)—is best taken to be foundational for identifying what constitutes the person of the Father precisely as such. Over against St. Bonaventure’s claim that innascibility includes the idea of fontal plentitude as a positive principle, Ku shows how Thomas’s treatment of innascibility as a pure negation exhibits its dependence on the prior notion of paternity, rendering it a non-privative property of the Father’s person, and yet not a personal property. That is, Ku demonstrates that, while innascibility is certainly to be taken as a notion that makes the Father known and distinguishes him from the Son and Spirit, it cannot rightly be thought to constitute the person of the Father qua person, for all negations depend upon an affirmative in order to function, and innascibility is a pure negation. It is therefore the subsisting relations that are the Son’s begottenness and the Spirit’s common spiration that provide the necessary affirma- 368 Book Reviews tive element that, according to our way of knowing, must be thought to constitute the person of the Father precisely as such. “’Paternity’” describes the relation of the Father to the Son, while ‘unbegotten’ (like ‘innascibility’) designates the Father’s absence of relation to any origin” (84). The Father is the “principle not from a principle.” With his third chapter, Ku further examines what it means when Thomas claims the Father is the “principle” of the Godhead, particularly as Thomas strives to eliminate any hints of Trinitarian subordinationism. Ku nicely displays Thomas’s distinction between being a principle (“that from which something proceeds” but which need not be “outside the essence of the principled”) and being a cause (which implies “a diversity of substance and the dependence of one on another”). “Although the Father is indeed the principle of the Son’s personal being by giving him the divine essence, he is not the cause of the essence which the Son receives” (144). Ku here provides a helpful account of Thomas’s use of “author” and “authority” among the Trinitarian persons, the former being restricted to the Father alone as a principle not from a principle, with application to the Father’s relation to the Son. “Authority,” however, is a term Thomas will allow to find application not only with the Son and the Holy Spirit, but with creatures as well. Thus, taking the Father as the “principle” of the Godhead in no way implies that the Son and Spirit are subordinate to the Father as “author” of the Son. For, the Father is not the cause of the essence the Son receives from him, and all of the Trinitarian person share equal authority. Recognition of order within the Trinity, Ku argues (via Thomas), need not (indeed, should not) imply priority. Particularly, though by no means exclusively, in this chapter, Ku demonstrates Thomas’s theological distinctiveness with respect to Bonaventure. Focusing on their respective usages of the concept “principle,” Ku shows that, for Bonaventure, it is possible to abstract paternity from the hypostasis of the Father such that a pre-relational person can be thought to exist prior to its being manifested in a paternal relation. “For Aquinas, the relative personal property (a subsisting relation) constitutes the divine hypostasis, and the definition of ‘person’ is an intellectual hypostasis. For Bonaventure, origin constitutes the hypostasis, and the relative personal property (not a subsisting relation) manifests the distinct person but does not constitute his hypostasis” (172). Here Ku highlights Thomas’s use of the words “relation” and “origin” over against Bonaventure’s use of the same to show the greater coherence of the former. Thomas maintains that “notional acts differ from the relations of the persons only according to our mode of signification; Book Reviews 369 in the real order they are altogether the same” (174). Though the Father’s act of generation makes his paternal relation known to us, it as the acting person of the Father who performs the generative act. To posit a pre-relational hypostasis of the Father, constituted by his mode of origin (innascibility) and simply manifested by the paternal relation that stems from his generative act vis-à-vis the Son, is to risk making Trinitarian faith unintelligible. The Son either becomes subordinate to the Father in the direction of Arianism, lacking the innascible essence that the Father has as himself, the divine essence, or the Son becomes conflated with the Father in the direction of Sabellianism, sharing in the innascible essence but lacking anything to distinguish him constitutively from that by which the person of the Father is established. Ku shifts to explore the name “Father” in his fourth chapter, showing why Thomas holds it to be the most proper term for distinguishing the subsisting relation that the Father is. Here he shows why Thomas takes the analogous terms of “father” and “paternity” to be most fitting according to the res significata: the Father’s generation of the Son is more perfect and complete than the imperfect mode of paternal generation found among creatures. And since a name is that by which a thing is identified, and given that the Father simply is his act of paternity, it is most fitting to identify him as Father. By way of the divine essence that he simply is, then, the Father communicates all that he has to the Son. Here Ku shows how and why Thomas favors Augustine’s analogy of the generation of the Son in terms of the procession of an internal word. The Father speaks his Word in perfect self-knowledge that, just as that which is spoken is really distinct from the one who speaks, distinguishes between the Father and the Word. Ku likewise maintains that Thomas finds fecundity in the analogy and power of generation itself (especially when the power to beget is viewed more in terms of a “principle of action” than as “productive capacity”) in that it neatly manifests both that the Father “concomitantly desires the Son’s generation” and that the Son “possesses the power of generation as the one receiving” (232). With Ku’s fifth chapter, the Father’s relation to the Holy Spirit takes center stage, just as the Father’s relation to the Son took pride of place in his third and fourth chapters. Here Ku adroitly shows why Thomas holds that, if one does not hold that the Spirit is spirated from the Father and the Son, it becomes so exceedingly difficult to identify clearly that which distinguishes the Son from the Spirit. Moreover, Ku exhibits how the principal role of the Father in the procession of the Spirit is manifest in the Father’s generation of the Son as one precisely with the 370 Book Reviews same power sufficient to breathe forth the Spirit, such that they are not “two Spirators but two persons spirating as one single principle” (280). Carefully navigating the debate between Anselm and Richard of St. Victor, Ku then provides an account of Thomas’s understanding of the Holy Spirit as the procession of the love of God for himself and as the bond of mutual love shared between the Father and the Son. And while Thomas gives preference to the former analogy (i.e., the Holy Spirit as God’s love for himself), Ku nevertheless evidences the importance of the latter analogy (i.e., the Holy Spirit as the mutual love of Father and Son) to Thomas’s scripturally reasoned pneumatology. With his final chapter, Ku focuses on Thomas’s understanding of the Father as it relates to creatures and the divine economy. Distinguishing between the united Trinity as the ostensive Father of all creatures and the person of the Father as the unoriginate principle of creation, Ku displays Thomas’s case for how the latter serves as both the origin and last end of the created economy. For, while the Trinity is the principle by which all creation comes into being, the unique relations of the Trinitarian persons are reflected in creation by way of the temporal missions of each person. Thus, Ku provides evidence that, for Thomas, as the person of the Father communicates the divine essence to the Son and Spirit by way of generation and common spiration, so too the Father can be seen in the temporal missions of the Son and Spirit to be the unoriginate principle and ultimate end of all creation. Through divine grace, the Spirit and Son reveal the Father as the invisible beginning and redemptive end of all things. There is a great deal to be celebrated in Ku’s thorough and carefully researched text. First, Ku’s juxtaposition of various texts in the vast Thomistic corpus is a boon for the theological (and especially Thomist) community, showing the ways in which the Angelic Doctor’s thinking developed over time in response to his surrounding circumstances and bringing texts into the conversation that might not otherwise be easily available to some readers. Second, Fr. Ku does a laudable job manifesting and expanding on the divergences between Thomas and Bonaventure in a manner that is clarifying and equally charitable to the positions of both. Third, while Ku provides his own translations of Thomas’s text for the reader unfamiliar with Latin, he thankfully supplies the original language for all quotations in the endnotes. Fourth, Ku does an excellent job reminding the reader frequently that the vocation of the theologian, as modeled in exemplary fashion by St. Thomas, is to distinguish according to the mode of signification. He provides careful grammatical analyses of the relevant terms and Book Reviews 371 arguments in a way that maintains the distinction between second and first order discourse. Fifth, Ku leaves no room for doubt that Thomas’s theology of the Father is a scripturally saturated enterprise through and through, repeatedly drawing the reader’s attention to the biblical bases for Thomas’s arguments. It should be said that Fr. Ku’s book does suffer from certain small stylistic deficiencies. However, he demonstrates awareness of these and perhaps rightly suggests that, given the amount and type of material with which he is engaged, certain aesthetic shortcomings were all but inevitable. That he was able to keep the text to 300 pages is quite an achievement in itself, after all. But because of his continuing use of outline in structuring the book and its argument, at times the volume reads as if it simply were an outline, albeit one with a bit more filling out. And the recurrence of the outline’s numeric and alphabetic signposts in the body of the text, signaled with brackets and parentheses, is often more distracting than enlightening. One might also have hoped for footnotes rather than endnotes. And those readers who are not already somewhat familiar with St. Thomas’s theology and/or the technical intricacies of early scholastic theology will find Ku’s work difficult to inhabit. Nonetheless, these considerations detract in no way from the significance of the theological gem Fr. Ku has provided us. Whatever its weaknesses, its great strengths are its demonstration of Thomas scriptural genealogy, its display of Thomas’s thought and development across multiple texts, and its illuminating engagement with St. N&V Bonaventure’s (and others’) contrasting theological positions. T. Adam Van Wart Southern Methodist University Dallas, Texas Philosophical Virtues and Psychological Strengths: Building the Bridge edited by Romanus Cessario, O.P., Craig Steven Titus, and Paul C. Vitz (Manchester, NH: Sophia Institute Press, 2013), 322 pp. The wisdom of Catholicism , accumulated and handed down through centuries of experience and reflection, remains a resource of tremendous proportions, although one that is, by and large, neglected today, not least by Catholics themselves. The present volume proposes to draw on this resource for the benefit of the contemporary psychological sciences and their application in therapy. The contributors help establish “a foundation column near the side of philosophy” for the “bridge” between the philosophical virtues and the psychologi- 372 Book Reviews cal strengths mentioned in the title (293). At the heart of their considerations, therefore, is the notion of virtue. Virtue, as Catholic tradition has it, is a stable quality of mind, a “habit” of soul, by which one has a fixed disposition to act rightly as a rule, and in so doing, to lead a good life. The virtuous man or woman is the constant one, the reliable one. Together with reason, truth, nature, and being, virtue is one of the great Leitmotifs of Western thought. After much elaboration by Plato, Aristotle, and the Stoics, the theme of virtue was given a Christian inflection by the Fathers of the Church and the scholastics. In the modern world, the word virtue has taken on a prim and priggish tone, but the human excellence that it names continues to show up regularly in human affairs, as does, of course, its opposite, vice. More recently, the theme of virtue has been revived by philosophical scholars under the somewhat awkward term virtue ethics, a term whose reach is taken to include the work of some Thomistic philosophers and theologians, including such notable figures as Josef Pieper, Servais Pinckaers, and Alasdair MacIntryre. The theme of virtue enters into an ancient analogy between philosophy and medicine: as medicine heals the body, it was thought, so philosophy heals the soul, which it does by cultivating true virtue. Medieval Christianity took up this theme of health of soul under the name cura animarum, the care or cure of souls exercised by priests, especially in their preaching and hearing of confessions. The term cura animarum coincides semantically with the modern word psychiatry, and the obvious similarity between the sacrament of confession and psychiatric consultation—two situations in which one is assured that one can “come clean” with the truth about oneself—has often been noted. As many even non-Catholics might agree, the theme of virtue finds its most perfect expression in the Summa theologiae of St. Thomas Aquinas, a work whose central part contains Aquinas’s most complete account of virtue in general, the seven great virtues in particular, the three theological virtues (faith, hope, and charity), and the four cardinal virtues (prudence, justice, courage, and moderation). Leonard Boyle has shown that an important context for the Summa is the concern of the Dominican order, from its beginnings, with cura animarum. Aquinas evidently saw a close connection between care of souls and the doctrine of virtue. Most of the contributors to this volume draw on the works of Aquinas, especially the Summa theologiae. Several of them also refer to the form of psychotherapy called cognitive therapy, the premise of which is that awareness of truth can of itself be curative. Book Reviews 373 The essays are the fruit of meetings organized by the Scholarly Research Center of the Institute for the Psychological Sciences in Arlington, Virginia. Gladys Sweeney, Academic Dean Emerita of the Institute, and Romanus Cessario, O.P., one of the editors of the collection, have played important roles, both theoretically and practically, in eliciting the contributions and bringing them together into a whole. Other notable influences on the contributors include Benedict Ashley’s Theologies of the Body: Humanist and Christian (1995) and St. John Paul II’s encyclical Fides et ratio (1998). (Fr. Ashley, who also contributed to the volume, passed away on February 23, 2013, shortly before the volume was published.) The volume is divided into three sections, the first consisting of two introductory essays. Romanus Cessario (“Fresh Beginnings from Classical Foundations”) presents the interdisciplinary, bridge-building aims of the volume. Kenneth Schmitz (“Overarching Considerations”) provides metaphysical context by giving an account of the transcendental properties of being, then indicates how each of the essays in the central section of the volume can be placed in this context. The central section consists of eight essays in Thomistic philosophy, each of which includes suggestions for therapeutic application of philosophical principles. Christopher J. Thompson (“At the Therapist’s Door”) proposes that conversation between Thomists and clinical psychologists should begin in the setting of the contemporary counselor, who must be aware of what it means to be a human person, made to pursue one’s own good, and ultimately one’s beatitude. Matthew Cuddeback (“Personal Unity”) presents Aquinas’s account of the nature of the human soul, its union with a body, and its powers. John Cuddeback (“Ordered Inclinations”) discusses the ordering of human inclinations and the measuring of human action in light of man’s true end. Craig Steven Titus (“Reasonable Acts”) develops several aspects of the large and complex topic of right practical reason. Tobias Hoffmann (“Free Choices”) gives a clear and thoughtful Thomistic account of will and free choice and reflects on the meaning of freedom. Paul Gondreau (“Balanced Emotions”) provides a metaphysical account of the emotions, then shows how emotion can participate in reason and thereby become ordered to the human good; he draws implications for clinical therapy in cases of intemperance. Daniel McInerny (“Poised Strength”) discusses effective cognitive therapy with particular reference to the irascible appetite. He shows how disturbing passions of the irascible appetite, such as anger, hope, 374 Book Reviews daring, and striving for honor, can be turned to good use in therapy; and he presents Aquinas’s sophisticated analysis of the virtue of the irascible appetite, namely, courage, into elements of attack (confidence and magnificence) and endurance (patience and perseverance). J. David Franks (“Tempered Desire”) discusses temperance, in particular chastity, in the context of an interesting, non-Marxist critique of the pernicious effects of consumerist ideology on human desire. Three essays make up the concluding section. Roger Scruton (“Modern Philosophical Anthropology”) provides an alternative to the volume’s predominantly Thomistic approach by discussing modern “anthropology” and the modern theme of “subjectivity,” especially as developed in the German tradition stemming from Kant. Benedict M. Ashley (“Mental Health and Human Well-Being”) reviews the articles of the central section and closes with the pertinent suggestion that Thomists might look more closely into what Aquinas calls the vis aestimativa in animals and the vis cogitativa in human beings. Paul C.Vitz (“Postscript”) brings the volume to a close by proposing that fuller application of the analyses and suggestions of the foregoing essays must be carefully worked out with reference to particular pathologies and mental problems. By way of illustration, he briefly describes the work of two students at the Institute for the Psychological Sciences, Leslie Trautman and Eric Gudan. The editors and contributors are evidently motivated by the admirable hope that Thomistic insights can be made to serve the prudence of contemporary counselors of troubled souls. May it prove to be so. Meanwhile, this collection of essays provides much material for reflection, not just for therapists, both Catholic and non-Catholic, but also for Thomistic scholars with an interest in Aquinas’s astonishingly accuN&V rate understanding of human nature. Kevin White Catholic University of America Washington, DC Discover the Church’s Ancient Understanding of Scripture, Liturgy, and Sacrament “A marvelous guide to the typology and symbolism of the sacraments found in Scripture and Tradition.” —Peter S. Williamson, Adam Cardinal Maida Chair in Sacred Scripture at Sacred Heart Major Seminary, Co-editor of the Catholic Commentary on Sacred Scripture “If this book is well-used, it may spell an end to the sad neglect and under-appreciation of the divine mysteries that Christ has so graciously placed in our weak hands.” —Sean Innerst, Professor of Theology and Catechetics, St. John Vianney Theological Seminary, Augustine Institute “Fr. Roza provides us with an excellent compendium of biblical types that will greatly assist in recovering the typological vision of the Fathers for the contemporary Church.” —John Bergsma, Professor of Sacred Scripture, Franciscan University of Steubenville Get it today! EmmausRoad.org