et Vetera Nova Spring 2016 • Volume 14, Number 2 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. 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Nova et Vetera The English Edition of the International Theological Journal ISSN 1542-7315 Spring 2016 Vol. 14, No. 2 Commentary The Transcending Orthodoxy: Revealed Truth Authenticating Academic Freedom in the Catholic University . . . . . . . Reinhard Hütter IVF: Mayhem and Murder—Well Disguised . . . . . . . . Paul Conner, O.P. 375 391 Symposium: What Has Athens to Do with Jerusalem? Direct Service between Athens and Jerusalem: On the Purpose and Organizing Principles of the Dominican Colloquia in Berkeley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bryan Kromholtz, O.P. and Justin Gable, O.P The Theology of Disclosure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Robert Sokolowski Response to Robert Sokolowski. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Richard Schenk, O.P. Omnisubjectivity: Why It Is a Divine Attribute . . . . . . . Linda Zagzebski Response to Linda Zagzebski. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bernhard Blankenhorn, O.P. From Aristotle to John Searle and Back Again: Formal Causes, Teleology, and Computation in Nature . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Edward Feser Response to Edward Feser . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Simon Francis Gaine, O.P. “Of All the Gin Joints . . .” Causality, Science, Chance, and God . . . . . . . . . . . Michael J. Dodds, O.P. Response to Michael J. Dodds . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stephen A. Long The Future of Philosophy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . John R. Searle Response to John R. Searle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Michael J. Dodds, O.P. The Vindication of St. Thomas: Thomism and Contemporary Anglo-American Philosophy . . . . . . . . . Alfred J. Freddoso Response to Alfred J. Freddoso . . . . . . . . . . . . . Thomas Joseph White, O.P. Analogical Synthesis: An Impossible Project? . . . . . . Michał Paluch, O.P. Response to Michał Paluch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Matthew Levering Can We Demonstrate that “God Exists”? . . . . . . . . . . . John O’Callaghan Response to John O’Callaghan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Michael S. Sherwin, O.P. Epilogue: Reply to Michael S. Sherwin’s Response . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . John O’Callaghan Not a Miracle: Our Knowledge of God’s Signs and Wonders . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Anselm Ramelow, O.P. The Metaphysics of Meaning: Applying a Thomistic Ontology of Art to a Contemporary Hermeneutical Puzzle and the Problem of the Sensus Literalis. . . . . . . . . Peter Junípero Hannah, O.P. 403 409 425 435 451 459 495 503 527 543 559 565 585 591 609 619 645 653 659 675 Book Reviews Rebuilding Catholic Culture: How the Catechism Can Shape Our Common Life by Ryan N. S. Topping . . . . . . . . Bruno M. Shah, O.P. T & T Clark Companion to Augustine and Modern Theology edited by C. C. Pecknold and Tarmo Toom . . . . . . . . Joshua Gonnerman Dark Passages of the Bible: Engaging Scripture with Benedict XVI and Thomas Aquinas by Matthew J. Ramage . . . . Christopher T. Baglow Dynamic Transcendentals: Truth, Goodness, & Beauty from a Thomistic Perspective by Alice M. Ramos . . . . . . . . Kevin E. O’Reilly, O.P. Explorations in the Theology of Benedict XVI edited by John C. Cavadini . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jonathan Martin Ciraulo Aquinas and the Cry of Rachel: Thomistic Reflections on the Problem of Evil by John F. X. Knasas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Karina Robson 699 702 707 712 716 720 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 978-1-941447-68-0) 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. 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Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 2 (2016): 375–389 375 The Transcending Orthodoxy: Revealed Truth Authenticating Academic Freedom in the Catholic University Reinhard Hütter Duke University Divinity School, Durham, NC Paluch Chair of Theology Mundelein Seminary, Mundelein IL What is —rightly conceived—the relationship between academic freedom and the revealed truth of the deposit of the faith in a Catholic university?1 Are they mutually exclusive, as the contemporary conventional wisdom likes to suppose? Does, therefore, one have to prevail and vanquish the other in an essentially conflictive relationship? I shall put radically into question this powerful preconceived notion and argue that revealed truth authenticates academic freedom. My case is based on a fundamental assumption that I will not establish but rather presuppose: Only in light of a thorough understanding of the idea of a university—and, with it, of a Catholic university—is it possible to address constructively the relationship between divine Revelation and academic freedom. Launching my considerations from this supposition, I shall address four questions: First, what is a university, and indeed, what is a Catholic university? Second, what is academic freedom? Third, what is revealed truth? And fourth, what is the relationship between revealed truth and academic freedom? In the course of 1 This essay was originally delivered as a keynote lecture at the conference “Transcending Orthodoxies: Reexamining Academic Freedom in Religiously Affiliated Universities,” sponsored by the Institute for Scholarship in the Liberal Arts at the University of Notre Dame, October 29–November 1, 2015. 376 Reinhard Hütter answering these four questions, I shall formulate three thesis that state my central argument in condensed form. I. It is an interesting fact worthy of contemplation that many, if not most, colleges in the United States—admittedly quite often for tangible pragmatic and pecuniary reasons—are striving to upgrade themselves to universities. And they do this without explicit references to tangible family resemblances that they—formerly colleges—now might share with those institutions of higher learning that call themselves universities. This wide-spread trend among what one might call upwardly mobile colleges suggests, among other things, that the very notion of “university” has the character of an idea, a norm, a standard to which institutions of higher learning and of advanced research are willing, indeed eager, to conform themselves. It is by way of this idea, norm, or standard that they mutually recognize and acknowledge faculties, students, and degrees, and by way of which they make each other available for mutual accountability in various assessment processes. Hence, in order to address the question, “What is a university?,” we must turn to the idea of a university, an idea that emerged in medieval Europe—the exceedingly few exceptions affirm the rule—with and in the Catholic university and that, arguably, should therefore continue to be most perspicuously realized in a Catholic university. Pope St. John Paul II seems to embrace this conclusion when he states in the opening line of his Apostolic Constitution Ex Corde Ecclesiae: “Born from the heart of the Church, a Catholic University is located in that course of tradition which may be traced back to the very origin of the University as an institution.”2 One of the greatest Catholic theologians of the nineteenth century understood exceedingly well this point that the Catholic university— rightly understood and authentically instantiated—should be the paradigmatic realization of the idea of a university. In his still surprisingly relevant work, The Idea of a University, John Henry Newman states that “[a]s to the range of University teaching, certainly the very name of University is inconsistent with restrictions of any kind. . . . A University should teach universal knowledge.”3 Newman identifies three characteristics that are essential to the idea of a university, characteris2 3 Ex Corde Ecclesiae (1990) §1. John Henry Newman, The Idea of a University (New York: Longman, Green, and Co., 1947), 19 (Discourse II, sect. 1). The Transcending Orthodoxy 377 tics to which, I think, contemporary universities still have to measure up in order to deserve the denomination “university.” First, a university is an institution of teaching universal knowledge. While no single university has to teach all extant academic disciplines, a university—differently from a polytechnicum and a college—must in principle be open and aspire to teaching universal knowledge. The very idea of knowledge already implies universality as a telos or tendency. Universality is not simply an accidens incidentally attributed to knowledge. Rather, universality identifies the entelechy of knowledge properly so called. Conversely, as Newman rightly observes, “knowledge, in proportion as it tends more and more to be particular, ceases to be knowledge.”4 Second, the unity and interrelatedness of university disciplines reflect the unity and interrelatedness of all knowledge. The university lives, indeed, from an underlying metaphysical principle, the convertibility of truth and being, such that no truth can contradict another truth and that all truths are inherently interconnected. Incidentally, the nominalist, and now postmodern, thesis of the radical incommensurability of the domains of discourse destroys the unity of truth and knowledge, and with it the very idea of a university. Third, the university is not an accidental, but a per se unity that carries its end or purpose in its constitutive practices of education and inquiry. In short, the interior unity of the university is constituted neither by a central heating system nor by sundry sports teams—be it football or basketball—but by practices of education and inquiry and a curriculum that reflects tangibly the inherent interconnectedness of universal knowledge. We have reached the apposite point to turn to the second question—What is academic freedom?—and begin to answer it by way of stating the first thesis. II. Academic freedom in its positive sense—that is, authentic academic freedom— realizes the idea or essence of a university. Like every other being in this world, natural or artificial, the university is a specific entity. This entity constitutes the highest species in the genus of school. For, the university realizes the genus of school most extensively, intensively, and comprehensively. Simply to exist as a university is its first perfection. 4 Ibid., 99–100 (Discourse V, sect. 6). 378 Reinhard Hütter To realize its telos or end is its second perfection. Like any other being, the university realizes its telos or end by way of activities characteristic of its nature. The end of the university involves securing and conveying universal knowledge. This entails, first, conveying old and new knowledge, second, acquiring new knowledge, and third, integrating knowledge by reflecting comprehensively and critically upon it. Now, quite likely you will expect me to say: academic freedom is the indispensable ambience in which this overriding end of the university is to be realized. Understood in this way, the point of academic freedom would be to facilitate the university’s second perfection, that is, to facilitate the realization of its telos by way of activities characteristic of its nature. Now, exactly this is the conventional wisdom that— while not completely wrong—turns out to be insufficient, to say the least. For the account of freedom that this understanding of academic freedom (as facilitating ambience) presupposes is exclusively the negative freedom of procedural liberalism, the freedom from contingent interference. This notion of academic freedom is too formalistic, too two-dimensional, and too a-teleological (in short, too un-academic) to be worthy of denoting academic freedom in its full and perfective sense, a sense that characterizes the positive freedom for excellence. Authentic academic freedom is not merely a facilitating ambience. Rather, exercising authentic academic freedom is nothing short of realizing the very essence of the university. In this sense, academic freedom is constitutive of the idea of a university because the knowledge characteristic of the university is essentially “free” knowledge (which accidentally can also turn out to be useful). Authentic academic freedom receives its specific sense from the distinction between the artes liberales, the liberal or free disciplines, on the one hand and, on the other hand, the artes serviles, the applied or useful arts or sciences. While the artes serviles may be part of a university, they are not essential to a university, but are essential to what should properly be called a “polytechnicum,” an institution like MIT, Cal Tech, or Virginia Tech. Consider again John Henry Newman: “Knowledge, I say, is then especially liberal, or sufficient for itself, apart from every external and ulterior object, when and in so far as it is philosophical.”5 The freedom denoted in authentic academic freedom is the freedom that arises from the philosophical character of knowledge. But what exactly is this philosophical character of knowledge? In his 5 Ibid., 98 (Discourse V, sect. 5). The Transcending Orthodoxy 379 classic Leisure, the Basis of Culture—a book that I regard as an absolute “must read” for all university faculty, administrators, and students—the philosopher Josef Pieper offers a helpful clarification. He states: Strictly speaking, a claim for academic freedom can only exist when the “academic” itself is realized in a “philosophical” way. And this is historically the reason: academic freedom has been lost, exactly to the extent that the philosophic character of academic study has been lost, or, to put it another way, to the extent that the totalitarian demands of the working world have conquered the realm of the university.6 Consider also T. S. Eliot’s perspicacious comment: “What is more insidious than any censorship, is the steady influence which operates silently in any mass society organized for profit, for the depression of standards of art and culture.”7 If Pieper and Eliot are right, and I have good reason to think they are, the greatest enemy of authentic academic freedom turns out to be also the greatest enemy of the university qua university: its total instrumentalization and its consequent transformation into a polytechnicum—under the now misapplied label of “university.” What undermines and eventually destroys authentic academic freedom also undermines and eventually destroys the university itself. It is not surprising that, under the pressure of a comprehensive instrumentalization of all university disciplines in conformity with the totalizing logic of the world of work—namely, the by now globalized dynamic of production and consumption— authentic academic freedom devolves into the merely negative freedom from interference. This purely defensive freedom is meant to protect academicians from being turned into pure commodities, from random replacement, from economic exploitation, and from politically and managerially manipulated intrusions into their class rooms and into the substance of their teaching and research. In a context of such instrumentalization and consequent liquidation of academic work— and, note well, also of academic disciplines—academic freedom in its most minimal and indispensable realization is indeed negative freedom. It is the freedom that protects teaching, inquiry, and disciplinary integrity from open and hedged attempts at manipulation and functional6 7 Josef Pieper, Leisure, The Basis of Culture (South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press, 1998), 75. T. S. Eliot, Christianity and Culture (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1960), 32. 380 Reinhard Hütter ization, attempts that aim at substituting the search for truth with the search for utility, or worse, at reducing truth itself to a function of utility. In order to do justice to this most basic and rudimentary aspect of academic freedom, we must differentiate between, on the one hand, the inauthentic freedom of indifference and, on the other hand, the protective negative freedom from interference that can be exercised well only within the confines of the truth and the common good. Severed from the confines of the truth and the common good, the protective negative freedom from interference will always eventually degenerate into the all too familiar inauthentic freedom of indifference, the root of which is nothing but the sovereignty of self-will beyond truth and falsehood, beyond good and evil. While academic freedom understood as negative freedom is not without its importance in the contemporary context of the commodification of higher learning, the quite frequent reduction of authentic academic freedom to the merely negative freedom of protection from extrinsic interference is detrimental. For, the fight for and the insistence upon this kind of negative academic freedom not only blocks sight of what authentic academic freedom is but also of what the root problem is that necessitates this self-protective measure, namely, the transmutation of all knowledge into a form of technē and of academicians into hired experts and clerks. Having replaced authentic academic freedom that arises from—to put it in Augustine’s words—the gaudium de veritate (the joy of searching for and discovering truth) with the computational metrics of research output, the late-modern research university has forgone the community of scholars and students, the universitas magistrorum et scholarium, and only recognizes stake-holders and staff that meet quite accidentally in the processes of knowledge production and knowledge consumption. This problem festers at the very root of the late-modern secular research university. It becomes obvious as soon as authentic academic freedom is recognized as nothing but the very realization of the essence or idea of a university. Differently put, authentic academic freedom exists only where inquiry and teaching are ordered to truth and where the community of academicians is reflexively aware of this teleological ordering of the practices of teaching and inquiry. Newman puts this crucial matter the following way: Truth is the object of knowledge of whatever kind; and when we inquire what is meant by Truth, I suppose it is right to answer that Truth means facts and their relations, which stand The Transcending Orthodoxy 381 toward each other pretty much as subjects and predicates in logic. All that exists, as contemplated by the human mind, forms one large system or complex fact.8 Viewed altogether, [the sciences] approximate to a representation or subjective reflection of the objective truth, as nearly as possible to the human mind.9 Being ordered to this end, the approximation to a representation of the objective truth as nearly as possible to the human mind, and pursuing this end through the means appropriate to each academic discipline in light of its specific subject-matter by way of inquiry and teaching, is the realization of authentic academic freedom and concomitantly of the essence of the university. Note well that the realist understanding of “objective truth” that Newman proposes and that I endorse differs considerably from its scientist appropriation that began in the seventeenth century and that constitutes the prevailing understanding today. It is the understanding of objective knowledge constitutive of the “polytechnicum”: “objective truth” as quantifiable, verifiable, impersonal, and detached. Since the universitas scientiarum includes humanistic studies and philosophy, objective truth necessarily transcends the merely quantifiable and verifiable. Now let us turn to the question of what such academic freedom looks like in the various fields of inquiry and teaching. In the natural sciences, authentic academic freedom is realized emphatically not in the all too eagerly looked for applicability. Rather, authentic academic freedom is realized paradigmatically in the very philosophical reflexivity that enables scientists, first, to make explicit the antecedent and largely implicit philosophical presuppositions and moral commitments they bring to their inquiries and teaching—what Michael Polanyi called personal or tacit knowledge and what Edmund Husserl referred to as the Lebenswelt from which the natural sciences arise and from which they receive their wider meaning—and, second, to maintain the critical distinction between, on the one hand, historically successive models and paradigms and, on the other hand, a transcending truth toward which all inquiry and the very succession of paradigms and models are teleologically ordered. It is the staunch and persistent realization of authentic academic freedom that protects natural scien8 9 Newman, Idea, 40 ff. (Discourse III, sect. 2). Ibid., 43 (Discourse III, sect. 2). 382 Reinhard Hütter tists from reducing themselves to mere laboratory technicians and to executioners of the research agendas dictated by the economic and political interests of the bio-technological and the military-industrial complexes. In the technological and otherwise applied sciences, authentic academic freedom is realized in the reflexive awareness and thematization in the very practice of inquiry and teaching of these sciences that every applied science qua applied science depends on antecedent moral commitments and a concomitant teleology of the common good and of human flourishing in order to make sense as an applied science in the first place. It is not essential to a polytechnicum, but rather to a university and the concomitant realization of authentic academic freedom, that these antecedent commitments and the concomitant teleology of the common good be reflected in the context of teaching these applied sciences. Unsurprisingly, therefore, in the humanistic studies, authentic academic freedom is realized paradigmatically insofar as the question of being human is thematized and the antecedent ontological and moral commitments are made explicit that drive literary, historical, and artistic inquiry and teaching. Note well that all humanistic studies are ultimately forms of moral philosophy—that is, morally committed inquiries into what it means to be human. As Thomas Pfau put it in his recent magisterial study Minding the Modern, humanistic studies realize authentic academic freedom by cultivating “responsible knowledge,” which is “knowledge not merely sought and appraised with regard to its causal efficacy and contingent utility but integrated into an articulated framework of human ends.”10 In philosophy, authentic academic freedom is realized paradigmatically insofar as it is here that the nature of the “academic,” and hence the nature of the university, is explicitly thematized and extensively reflected. A prime example would be Edmund Husserl’s late work The Crisis of the European Sciences and Transcendental Phenomenology. In this still eminently relevant study, Husserl undertook a genuine task of philosophy in the way Newman understood it as the true end of all intellectual training, as well as of the university itself: “[T]he true and adequate end of intellectual training and of a University is not Learning or Acquirement, but rather, is Thought and Reason exer10 Thomas Pfau, Minding the Modern: Human Agency, Intellectual Traditions, and Responsible Knowledge (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2013), 49. The Transcending Orthodoxy 383 cised upon Knowledge, or what may be called Philosophy.”11 Here we see authentic academic freedom in its fullest realization because, when thought and reason are exercised upon knowledge, truth itself is thematized reflexively. Newman puts the matter again succinctly: [T]he comprehension of the bearings of one science upon another, and the use of each to each, and the location and limitation and adjustment and due appreciation of them all, one with another, this belongs, I conceive, to a sort of science distinct from all of them, and in some sense a science of sciences, which is my own conception of what is meant by Philosophy, in the true sense of the word, and of a philosophical habit of mind.12 If we spell out the implications of Newman’s statement, it becomes plain that every university discipline must be philosophical in order to be academic, and thus to realize authentic academic freedom. Unsurprisingly, it is philosophy in the tradition initiated by Socrates, continued by Plato, expanded by Aristotle, the Stoics, and Plotinus, deepened by Augustine, Boethius, and Aquinas, and developed by Leibniz, Hegel, and Husserl—in short, nothing but the expansive tradition of philosophy in the perennial sense—that is the genuine guardian of authentic academic freedom. Last but not least, I shall turn to Catholic theology. Authentic academic freedom is realized paradigmatically in Catholic theology thus: The transcendent truth, Truth Itself, that is formally the end and goal of all the other academic disciplines, is materially received by divine faith and articulated, interpreted, clarified, specified, and defended in the labors of the intellectus fidei called Catholic theology. Authentic academic freedom in Catholic theology has its primordial and originating Urform in the most perfect Christian instantiation of the freedom for excellence, namely, the Blessed Virgin’s response to the Angelic Salutation: “Let it be to me according to your word” (Luke 1:38; RSV). The academic freedom of Catholic theology has a decidedly Marian shape: the active undergoing, the active suffering of divine things. Only the revealed truth in its fullness embraced in an ever deepening effort of the intellectus fidei sets Catholic theology fully free: free from error, free 11 12 Newman, Idea, 123 (Discourse VI, sect. 7). Ibid., 46 (Discourse III, sect. 4). 384 Reinhard Hütter from being co-opted by the spirit of the age and by the idol of pure positivist or historicist Wissenschaftlichkeit, free for contemplation of the revealed truth, free for inquiry into the revealed truth, and free for teaching the revealed truth. I had claimed earlier rather boldly that authentic academic freedom and, concomitantly, the essence of a university are paradigmatically realized in a Catholic university. How can I make good on such a bold claim? Newman understood perfectly well that an authentic Catholic university is most fundamentally committed to the catholicity of truth, which means that all university disciplines share the common telos of truth. Authentic academic freedom realizes the catholicity of truth in a comprehensive and integral curriculum that reflects the interior coherence of a potentially universal knowledge and that thematizes the philosophical, academic aspect of each discipline. Unsurprisingly, authentic academic freedom and the catholicity of truth depend on each other. The catholicity of truth gives full scope to academic freedom, and academic freedom realizes this scope as the freedom for truth as it is approximated carefully by hypothesis, experiment, and model in the natural sciences, as it discloses itself phenomenologically in humanistic studies, as it is honed in the process of aporetics and dialectics in philosophy in its perennial sense, as it is discovered in the free play of mathematics, and as it is contemplated in Catholic theology as received from God directly by way of Revelation, Incarnation, and inspiration. The catholicity of truth and the search to which it gives rise is ordered to the final end toward which the human intellect itself is directed, the immediate vision of the supreme Truth, who is God. Hence, by way of conclusion the second thesis: The catholicity of truth assures and sustains the realization of authentic academic freedom in the Catholic university and thereby protects it from being functionalized and instrumentalized in the ways typical of the modern secular research university. To summarize: Insofar as the positive freedom for excellence is ordered toward and achieves the realization of the final end of the human intellect, and insofar as authentic academic freedom is the positive freedom for excellence, academic freedom is ordered toward and achieves the full realization of the human intellect and is secured and defended by its intrinsic teleological orientation toward truth. In short, it is nothing but truth that, as telos of all genuinely academic activity, best protects and fosters authentic academic freedom. Authentic academic freedom is corrupted and eventually destroyed when it is severed from truth and misunderstood as an instantiation of the typically modern freedom of indifference, the consequent replacement of The Transcending Orthodoxy 385 truth with utility, and the subsequent transformation of the artes liberales into the artes serviles—in short, the transformation of the university into a polytechnicum with a liberal arts appendix. After having considered the nature of the university, which is the nature of the Catholic university and the nature of authentic academic freedom in distinction from the merely negative academic freedom from interference and the inauthentic freedom of indifference, we can now turn to the question, What is revealed truth? III. Catholic theology is the one and only university discipline for which “the certainty of already knowing the fount of truth”13 is an essential property. This unique difference characterizes the position of Catholic theology in relation to all other university disciplines: the contrast between, on the one hand, being claimed by and already knowing the fount of truth and, on the other, the search for the ultimate truth. This characterization is correct as long as one understands that the relationship of revealed truth to Catholic theology is emphatically not one of a positivist datum, the sheer givenness of facticity that would grant theology the rights of ownership analogous to those we hold over commodities of our own. On the contrary, the relationship of revealed truth to Catholic theology is that of a donum, a gift that puts theology into the position of recipient. Therefore the relationship of Catholic theology to revealed truth is emphatically not the critical conceptual dominium a misplaced Wissenschaftlichkeit exercises over revealed truth, but rather one of intellectual stewardship (procuratio) in relationship to the gift of revealed truth. Revealed truth is received in divine faith, which itself is a gift of grace, a donum—and, emphatically, not an empirical datum to be simply acknowledged as a fact and subsequently submitted to the epistemic dominium of critical rationalism. Furthermore, revealed truth is simultaneously given and transcendent. As transcendent, revealed truth surpasses the confines of our knowledge, but as revealed it is received according to the mode of the human knower. Revealed truth as revealed is essentially testimony about God received from God. As given in communication, it necessarily takes propositional form, whether as narrative or as argument. Furthermore, revealed truth is not had without the instrumental causality of ideational, discursive, magisterial/doctrinal, and liturgical/ sacramental mediation and specification. Catholic theology depends 13 John Paul II, Ex Corde Ecclesiae, §1. Reinhard Hütter 386 directly on a twofold source and an indispensable, divinely instituted instrumentum by which it receives these specifications of revealed truth: Sacred Scripture and sacred Tradition as received, interpreted, and doctrinally specified by the Church’s magisterium. The twofold source, sacred Scripture and sacred Tradition, and the instrumentum form an interdependent unit whose parts work together under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. In the Dogmatic Constitution on Divine Revelation, Dei Verbum, the Council Fathers of the Second Vatican Council put it thus: “In the supremely wise arrangement of God, sacred Tradition, sacred Scripture, and the Magisterium of the Church are so connected and associated that one of them cannot stand without the others.”14 Revealed truth is of a kind that is always first and foremost suffered, undergone—and as such actively received. As stated above, the Blessed Virgin is the paradigm for how revealed truth is rightly received— actively received precisely as suffered, as undergone. Revealed truth is testimony that is always qua testimony propositional. Yet, revealed truth remains at the same time transcendent truth. Its propositionality does not reduce its transcendence to the sheer facticity of conveyed information; it does not reduce the spirit to the letter, but rather conveys the spirit by way of the letter and transcendence by way of propositionality. The propositionality characteristic of inspired testimony is the very conduit of the transcendence of revealed truth. Revealed truth has its acme and center in the incarnate Logos, the Word of God made flesh. Analogous to the hypostatic union of the human and divine natures in the person of the Logos, the Son of God, where the human nature of Christ has a specific created historical concreteness, divine truth qua revealed truth also has a distinct propositional concreteness as it is received by and into the faith of the Church, a created concreteness that is apposite to the way knowledge is received in the human knower. Yet at the same time, revealed truth has an inexhaustible depth of surpassing transcendence irreducible to the empiricist datum of mere historical facticity and impervious to the proud epistemic dominium of critical rationalism. In Catholic theology, authentic academic freedom cannot be realized, therefore, in the flight from the testimonial propositionality of revealed truth into an essentially trans-propositional, apophatic religious transcendence or into a primordial and essentially pre-propositional religious subjectivity. Nor, for that matter, can authentic 14 Dei Verbum §10. The Transcending Orthodoxy 387 academic freedom in Catholic theology be realized in the flight from magisterial authority. Rather (and this is the third thesis), authentic academic freedom in Catholic theology is realized precisely in the fidelity to the testimonial propositionality of revealed truth as conveyed by sacred Scripture and sacred Tradition, and as specified by the Magisterium of the Church. The flight of Catholic theology into a purely negative academic freedom from interference where the magisterium of the Church or, more fundamentally, even the very testimonial propositionality of revealed truth is taken to be an interference, into a positivist or historicist Wissenschaftlichkeit that is incongruous with the very subject matter of Catholic theology, simply amounts to the abandonment of authentic academic freedom, and hence to the self-abolition of Catholic theology as a properly academic university discipline. What is true for the integral part, is also true for the whole. Therefore, what is true for Catholic theology is also true for the Catholic university. The Catholic university is academic in the proper sense of the word precisely insofar as it realizes that its relationship to the supreme Truth, as mediated by the Church, is essential to its institutional identity. We have reached the apposite point to consider finally the relationship of revealed truth to the authentic academic freedom as it is realized on academic disciplines other than Catholic theology. IV. The relationship of revealed truth to authentic academic freedom realized in other academic disciplines is governed by the fundamental principle of the catholicity of truth, namely, that truth cannot contradict truth. When things are in good order in a Catholic university, revealed truth quite obviously informs Catholic theology formally and materially, informs the liturgical life as well as the core-curriculum, informs existentially all academicians by way of what is called the “formation of conscience,” and—by way of Catholic theology—informs the moral suppositions of the humanistic studies and the applied sciences. In this way, via a truly academic Catholic theology, revealed truth protects, secures, and strengthens the exercise of authentic academic freedom in other university disciplines. In short, when things are in good order in a Catholic university, revealed truth, as believed, taught, liturgically celebrated, and lived, informs all operations of the university. It is needless to say that Catholic theology and philosophy (in its perennial sense) play a central role in the curriculum as well as in the intellectual life of such a university. For, it is in the dialogue between these 388 Reinhard Hütter two paradigmatically academic disciplines that the catholicity of truth is reflected upon explicitly and the nature of authentic academic freedom articulated and defended. It is also needless to say that if a Catholic university were to banish Catholic theology and philosophy from its core curriculum and even from the university itself, it would thereby forego its commitment to the catholicity of truth, indeed, it would simply decapitate itself. Conflict between revealed truth and authentic academic freedom may arise from the failure of disciplines other than Catholic theology to realize their respective, properly academic nature. Recall that “academic” denotes also a critical methodological awareness of the nature, integrity, and limitations of a discipline and an awareness of the limitations of knowledge respective to the disciplinary object of study in any given university discipline. Such a failure to realize the properly academic nature of a particular discipline might consist in indifference to the catholicity of truth, in the confusion of science with scientism, in the replacement of philosophy in its perennial sense with the modus of ideology characteristic of not a few things that presently go under the label of “philosophy,” or in the historicist, genealogist, or neuro-scientistic reduction of humanistic studies. This conflict can, of course, be exacerbated by Catholic theology itself when it abandons its respective, properly academic nature, which essentially includes fidelity to the revealed truth. Exactly at the very moment when Catholic theology reduces itself to Christian religious studies—that is, when it embraces and internalizes the unfitting and hence un-academic norm of positivist or historicist Wissenschaftlichkeit—does it forego fidelity to the revealed truth and, concomitantly, to authentic academic freedom. Received, interpreted, and defended well by Catholic theology, revealed truth, in virtue of its transcendence and in virtue of its testimonial propositionality, opens up the horizon of the catholicity of truth and thereby encourages other university disciplines to realize their properly academic nature, and thereby their authentic academic freedom. Reciprocally, insofar as the other university disciplines realize their properly academic nature and thereby contribute to the catholicity of truth, they encourage Catholic theology to search ever more deeply the revealed truth and increasingly unfold its surpassing riches. By being maximally academic and thereby realizing authentic academic freedom and thus giving witness to the catholicity of truth, the universitas scientiarum assists Catholic theology in realizing its own authentic academic freedom. The Transcending Orthodoxy 389 V. In conclusion: Catholic universities have a great gift that secular universities lack. Compared to Catholic universities, secular universities, especially advanced research universities, are like orphaned children who know neither where they come from nor where they are going. And when upwardly mobile Catholic universities eager to catch up with the leading secular research universities eventually leave behind their Catholic identity, they will all too soon begin to suffer from the same condition that ails the secular research universities—the absence of a proper unifying teleology and, hence, the absence of authentic academic freedom. You might recall the astute observation Alasdair MacIntyre made some years ago, that the administrative leaders of major Catholic universities in the United States “are for the most part hell-bent on imitating their prestigious secular counterparts, which already imitate one another. So we find Notre Dame glancing nervously at Duke, only to catch Duke in the act of glancing nervously at Princeton.”15 Catholic universities mindful of their Catholic identity, of which the catholicity of truth is an integral component, are protected from this fate of mindless imitation. For, Catholic universities receive the gift of accountability from the revealed truth by way of the Church. They are called by the Church to nothing less than to the exercise of authentic academic freedom. In short, the Catholic university is called to live out a truth that is as demanding as it is beautiful—namely, that fidelity to the revealed truth does not contradict, but rather perfects, authentic academic freedom. By authorizing authentic academic freedom, revealed truth conveys its nature as the one and only transcending orthodoxy that the Second Vatican Council’s Pastoral Constitution on the Church in the Modern World, Gaudium et Spes, formulates so strikingly: “Christ, the final Adam, by the revelation of the mystery of the Father and His love, fully reveals man to man himself and makes his supreme calling clear.”16 The icon of Christ, the Incarnate Lord, is the very face of the one transcending orthodoxy that is the heart of the Catholic university. And only because Christ fully reveals human beings to themselves does divine revelation authorize authentic academic freedom and does N&V the Catholic university display the very idea of a university. 15 16 Commonweal, October 20, 2006, 10. Gaudium et Spes §22. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 2 (2016): 391–402 391 IVF: Mayhem and Murder—Well Disguised Paul Conner, O.P. Providence College Providence, Rhode Island “Finally, we have a baby!” “We are parents!” “Now we have our family!” Similar shouts of joy have been repeated millions of times throughout the world since Louise Brown, the first test-tube baby, was born in 1978. The growing scourge of infertility in Western countries has been defeated time and again, together with the searing anguish and disappointment of good-willed couples who have tried every means possible, but unsuccessfully, to have their own child and family. Turning to IVF (in vitro fertilization), usually as a last resort, has brought these couples the parental fulfillment so earnestly sought. But is the technological wonder of IVF such a simple blessing to an infertile couple and to the child it provides them? To piece together an answer to this question as objectively as possible is the aim of this article.1 To be complete in this effort,2 we will look both at the defining steps of the medical procedure itself and the moral concerns about 1 2 Objective thinking and judging are essential to a worthwhile moral evaluation. The “subject” who is evaluating must refrain from imposing personal slants on the “object” or topic being evaluated. The human mind is capable of forming accurate concepts or ideas of every object it thinks about if it is not “subjectivized” or distorted by an undue influence of emotions, prejudice, ignorance, or especially fixed wants or “frozen” desires of the free will. With adequate awareness of these main distorting influences and personal discipline to set them aside when thinking about a topic, objectivity is achieved. There are four elements to an adequate moral evaluation of any issue: the “moral object,” or what a person knowingly and freely chooses to do; the “motive” (goal), or reason why the person chooses to act; the surrounding circumstances before the choice (one’s situation); and those after the choice (the consequences). 392 Paul Conner, O.P. what a couple who chooses IVF does, why they do it, and some crucial circumstances they suffer from their infertility, as well as those they suffer as a result of IVF. Throughout, we will be looking for harmony with or contradiction to any known truths about our human dignity that are involved.3 As we strive for objectivity at each stage of our investigation, this process of comparison and conscientious judgment will require both a well-informed and well-formed conscience.4 I. Already, the statistics of 2008 proclaimed that as many as six million couples of child-bearing age in the USA alone (around 10%) were infertile.5 Science is still unsure of the precise combination of causes. Some appear to come from our degraded nutrition, polluted environment, damaging pharmaceuticals, and so on. But without knowing the causes adequately, science has had no cure for what is an epidemic in Western cultures.6 To a rising number of infertile couples, the lack of a conception through natural sexual intercourse, sometimes for years, has brought cycles of dashed hopes and consequent frustration and sometimes despair. Even if many of these couples had reservations about IVF, they often could not resist the temptation to choose whatever would work. Only scientific help became important, and any 3 4 5 6 Our human dignity or worth can be intellectually assessed as the highest we know by considering our origins (both physical and spiritual), our distinctive make-up or nature as humans, and our destiny or in-built purpose for which we exist. A “well-informed” conscience is one’s intellect possessing adequate knowledge of the issue it is called to judge. In regard to this article, adequate knowledge would be understanding of the process of IVF and of the moral principles needed to compare each of its determining steps to essential truths of human dignity. A “well-formed” conscience is gained by adequate experience of comparing concrete choices to known truths of human dignity, judging the comparison as favorable or harmful to one’s dignity, and submitting this conclusion to one’s free will together with the injunction to either “do this” or “avoid this” choice. See http://www.webmd.com/infertility-and-reproduction/guide/invitro-fertilization. A first ever study of the effects of DEHP, a derivative of phthalate, the substance present in synthetic fabrics and plastic bottles, charts a lowering of sperm production in modern European society. This finding confirms an earlier French study that concluded that “men nowadays produce half as much sperm as their fathers or grandfathers.” See the report by Violaine de Montclos, Le Point, March 29, 2012. IVF: Mayhem and Murder—Well Disguised 393 moral considerations usually faded from their thinking and choosing.7 An additional fact is that a growing number of women who delay child-bearing until that ability weakens or ceases turn to IVF. Then, recently, more and more lesbians wanting to become mothers are making the same choice. In fact, the world’s first “throuple” came to be when three women “married” in Massachusetts in August, 2013. One of the three, pregnant with donor sperm through IVF, has agreed to bear one child for each of the three.8 In consequence of this increased demand, we have seen the number of IVF clinics increase rapidly. And there is great financial profit from offering this medical service. While actual costs and rates of success vary widely among clinics, couples can usually pay $10–15,000 per attempt,9 with only a 6–35% chance of a conception and birth.10 Moreover, IVF is virtually uncontrolled by government oversight to insure high medical standards. Each clinic is left to its own sense of honor and professionalism. It was only in 2003 in the USA that IVF clinics even had to register themselves with the government.11 II. There are two types of IVF, depending on the source of the gametes used. Each type raises different moral judgments about whether the 7 8 9 10 11 The Church teaches in the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith’s Donum Vitae (1987) that marriage gives spouses the right to the fullest act of human love, but not to a child, because the child’s human dignity is equal to everyone else’s and, so, is beyond another human being’s dominion or right to something. Hence, the parents’ motive should be for the child’s, not their own, welfare (or self-fulfillment), as expressed in such a statement as, “I so want to become a mother, a father!” Only two of the women are legally “married.” The third woman is “handfasted” to the other two, so that the three are as “married” as the law of Massachusetts currently allows. See http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/ article-2611020/Meet-worlds-married-lesbian-threesome-baby-make-fourJuly.html#ixzz301cMn4w0. See http://infertility.about.com/od/ivf/f/ivf_cost.htm. At http://infertility.about.com/od/infertilitytreatments, national success rates are 30–35% for women under 35, 25% for women between 35 and 37, 15–20% for women between 38 and 40, and 6–10% for women 40 years old. Both exorbitant costs and unsure medical competence represent prudential, and so additional, moral considerations for each couple thinking of IVF. For example, a report of 2011 revealed that mistakes in IVF centers in the United Kingdom had trebled in the previous three years, numbering 564 mistakes involving sperm injections, embryo destructions, and implantations; see The Daily Mail, August 13, 2011. 394 Paul Conner, O.P. procedure is in full harmony with what it is to be human or whether it is anti-human in any important ways.12 If the egg and the sperm used are from the childless couple, the IVF is termed “homologous.” This results in only two parents for the possible child, and therefore this aspect of the procedure is not immoral. Most often, though, the sperm used are obtained from the prospective father by way of masturbation. This sexual act is obviously separate from sexual intercourse in marriage, the act of total self-giving love between husband and wife. Therefore, using sperm from masturbation objectively violates the interpersonal union of the marriage and alters the love-character of the physical origin of the child (both beautiful requirements of human nature); his or her body will not come from an act of marital love, but from self-stimulation and then a technician’s act of manipulating sperm and eggs in a laboratory. Moreover, multiple eggs are used (in some clinics, as many as 15+), and to obtain them, the prospective mother takes “fertility drugs” to increase her ovarian production by as many times (since human nature normally matures only one egg per cycle).13 By this point in time, statistics show that such an invasive procedure can have lasting harmful effects on women, even ovarian cancer. To run such a risk knowingly is plainly an immoral choice. Beyond this concern, though, should it become clear that fertility drugs replace natural fertility instead of assist it, as is now claimed, this method of obtaining eggs for human conception would be judged immoral as well.14 The second type of IVF can be complicated. Science terms it “heterologous” IVF. The sources of the gametes can be multiple. The most frequent situation is that the sperm alone are obtained from a donor. Typically, the donor is anonymous, although this policy is slowly changing in some States, and in some countries, because of the growing number of children produced from donor sperm who seek (often desperately) to know their biological father and to learn from 12 13 14 For a brief Catholic assessment of ART (artificial reproductive technologies) or MAP (medically assisted reproduction), see http://www.cfpeople.org/ SeminarianWritings/Sem008.html. See http://infertility.about.com/od/infertilitytreatments for a step-by-step description of the complex regimen of fertility drugs used to achieve multiple mature eggs in a given ovarian cycle. Donum Vitae explains that medical interventions that assist faulty bodily functions are truly therapeutic and wonderfully moral. Interventions that replace or substitute for healthy bodily functions imply a preference for imperfect human invention to the designs of nature, and so of the Creator, and so are immoral. IVF: Mayhem and Murder—Well Disguised 395 him why he did not want the child he brought into the world.15 The moral evil here is not only the deprived knowledge of one’s human origins, but also that the child will have three “parents” in his origin and upbringing.16 These injustices to the child can bring life-long suffering. Of course, another immoral aspect of the donor source of sperm is the violation of the marriage act and resultant interpersonal relationships by an outsider. Furthermore, considerable grief has been caused, on occasion, when the donor sperm was contaminated and transmitted a disease to the child, and also, owing to confusion at the clinic, when the sperm used was not that of the desired donor. A less frequent form of heterologous IVF is when the eggs alone are from a donor (there is a growing trend in IVF clinics to encourage egg donations and donor egg usage17). The same moral concerns apply to this situation. Finally, it can happen that both the sperm and eggs used are from donor sources. This situation multiplies the moral evil, since the child will now have four “parents” to relate to in his or her life, and the adults involved will have to live with altered relationships to the child and to one another.18 We have all heard of another complication that can enter the life of a test-tube baby and the lives of the adults involved. This is the case of surrogacy, and its practice is increasing throughout the world.19 If a 15 16 17 18 19 See the study entitled “My Daddy’s Name is Donor.” 67% of 560 people between the ages of 18 and 45 (who had been conceived through IVF) called for their donor’s identity to be revealed, see Le Monde, June 8, 2010. See the report by David Hudson, dated September 16, 2014, about a “married” lesbian couple in Brazil that is believed to be the first to have three parents and six grandparents listed legally on the child’s birth certificate (http://www.gaystarnews.com/article/brazil-allows-three-parents-be-listedbirth-certificate160914). For example, see http://www.rscnewengland.com/?gclid=CMC0-cLdzMACFUVo7AodPAUAYQ. Donum Vitae teaches that every child, because of its human dignity, has a natural right to be conceived by an act of married love, gestated in and born from its real mother, and raised to maturity by its real mother and father. One might think that these requirements of human nature would also make adoption immoral. However, adoptive parents are not the cause of the missing biological parents of the adopted child, as a couple is in choosing IVF. Adoptive parents rescue a child from its unjust situation that was caused by its biological parents. See http://www.growinggenerations.com/surrogacy-program/surrogates/ surrogate-mother-pay/ for details, including usual costs. See also the January 16, 2012 post on Slate.fr describing the services of the Planet Hospital of Los Angeles in the international surrogacy business. 396 Paul Conner, O.P. conceived egg is implanted in and gestated by a second woman, either employed or volunteer, several anti-human consequences occur. An additional “parent” is added to a child’s life, and it could mean the child would have five parental sources in its origin and upbringing. Moreover, the irreplaceable bonds over nine months of gestation will be missing between the child and the “mother” who will raise him or her. The sincere love of those who raise the child, no matter how strong and generous, can only add to, not replace, this vital bond. And such a bond, now ruptured with the surrogate, will have effects of loss in both the surrogate and the child.20 Should the surrogate be a married woman with children, her familial relationships are impacted by her being pregnant for the whole of nine months and then “childless” afterwards. Her husband will surely have trouble dealing with his wife’s being pregnant from outside their marriage, and her children will wonder with some anxiety what happened to their expected brother or sister (with similar wonderment from extended family members and friends).21 In all of these donor situations, the real parental relationships of human nature are altered for life. For example, the man or woman in single-donor heterologous IVF will always know that he or she did not generate “their” child. One parent will be “real” and the other not. This difference may show itself at difficult times in raising the child, since the two parents are not equally responsible for the existence of this troublesome child. And subconsciously, at least, “my child” will mean something different for each of the two parents. Then, if the child is ever told who its biological parent is and who is not, this knowledge could be very disruptive psychologically for the child. Of course, the disruption of the natural relationships of a human family will only be more complex and troublesome in the other forms of donor IVF. After the gametes to be used are obtained, the next stage of IVF has earned a resultant child the popular label “test-tube baby.” This 20 21 See the report by Claire Legros, La Vie, June 11, 2009, in which Dr. Jean-Marie Delassus reacts to the sentence debated by the French Senate: “Surrogacy consists of asking the surrogate mother not to love the child which she is carrying.” Surrogacy can be very expensive. The contractual fee for the surrogate can be up to $25,000, and the clinical and insurance costs even more. Should there be a lawsuit by the surrogate wanting to keep the child she carried to term, these costs and the heartache involved can be considerable. All of these circumstances can add to the immorality of choosing IVF. IVF: Mayhem and Murder—Well Disguised 397 is because around 10,000 of the “best looking” sperm (there are from 2–400,000,000 in a normal ejaculate) are placed in a laboratory petri dish or test tube, with each of as many as 8–15 (or more) retrieved eggs.22 In the natural process of conception, the sperm have an enzyme cap at their head that prevents their penetration into body cells of the woman’s reproductive tract while they are on their way up through the uterus and into the fallopian tubes where a ripened egg is normally waiting in one of the tubes. This enzyme cap is slowly worn away during the sperm’s journey. Many IVF clinics, after washing away all semen fluids from the sperm, attempt to remove this enzyme cap by spinning the sperm in a centrifuge. Then, to encourage as many fertilizations as possible, the sperm are often stirred around each egg judged most healthy by a technician. In some clinics, a sperm is injected into each egg using a special needle. It is surprising to me that so little has been made of the possible harms that could be done to sperm or eggs (and to the genes they contain) by such relatively gross physical manipulations, especially since we know statistically that more physical defects occur in IVF children than in children conceived naturally. Should an IVF child grow up not liking one or another of his or her physical features, would they not always wonder if it were the unwanted result of the IVF procedure? In natural intercourse, the journey of the 2–4,000,000 sperm from the vagina to the fallopian tube is something of an obstacle course that “weeds out” all but about fifty of the strongest sperm. And only one of these penetrates the waiting egg, which then hardens its shell so that no other sperm may enter it. In this magnificent way, nature selects the best suited sperm for the conception of new human life, while this stage of the IVF procedure selects sperm to join with eggs indiscriminately, that is, only by the visual guesses of technicians. An IVF technician will be happy to have six or more fertilizations that look healthy under the microscope. Usually, those judged not as healthy are disposed of, cryo-preserved in liquid nitrogen (perhaps to be used in future IVF attempts), or sold for scientific experimentation by others, increasingly to embryonic stem cell researchers. This last possible fate of these human conceptions reveals plainly what IVF clinics and others wish to deny, namely, that each of these conceptions is a human life. Embryonic stem cell researchers need living human 22 Science has chosen to name this procedure after the Latin phrase, in vitro fertilization, that is, conception that takes place not in a mother’s body but in glass. See http://infertility.about.com/od/infertilitytreatments. 398 Paul Conner, O.P. embryos! And if there are too many healthy embryos to inject into the woman’s uterus, these “extras” too are available for scientific research. The three to four “best looking” embryos are nurtured a day or so in a culture and then are inserted into the woman’s womb in hopes that at least one will implant and begin to grow.23 As mentioned, the success rate is very low, but, as the famous “octomom” shows, several inserted embryos may implant. And statistics now indicate that twinning is more frequent in IVF procedures than in nature. For these reasons it can happen that too many embryos begin growing in the woman’s womb, either from the points of view of her health or of her desires. She is told to make a harrowing decision. It is euphemized as “selective reduction” or “multifetal pregnancy reduction,” and it means that she must decide which embryos to abort and which to keep.24 I hope that the reader can see that the immorality of the IVF procedure itself is immense. It ranges all the way from questionable sources of gametes and technological manipulation of gametes and embryos (and possible harm to resulting children) to abortion of several to many human embryos. This range includes entrusting the judgment of who should live and who should die to a technician, the near freezing of human beings (only 50% even survive cryo-preservation), the fate of those left frozen, the selling of human beings for experimentation, and the experimentation itself, which involves the death of the embryos used.25 Knowing this list of atrocities involved in IVF, who could approve such a procedure, either the technician or the man or woman desiring a child (or the culture and government)? A further moral affront of IVF to the dignity of human origins is that the fertilizations are not the result of the act of fullest human love 23 24 25 An American study presented to the American Society for Reproductive Medicine on October 30, 2012, reveals that “the centers for medically assisted procreation (MAP) with a success rate lower than the national average transfer more embryos per cycle.” This study from the Yale University School of Medicine analyzed “the data of all the American clinics that reported their activity to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.” See http://infertility.about.com/od/infertilitytreatments. This source also states that, while rare, ectopic pregnancies can occur, and miscarriages do occur 15% of the time for women under 35, 25% of the time for women between 35 and 40, and 35% of the time for women over 42. Of course, the medical arts exist to assist human life that is somehow defective to again prosper. Medicine should not exist to harm or kill human life. IVF therefore contradicts the very purpose of medicine in so many ways. It glares, as an example, of how irrational even highly educated medical personnel can be when they devise procedures that substitute for healthy, natural processes instead of merely assisting defective, natural processes. IVF: Mayhem and Murder—Well Disguised 399 (yielding a unique body) to match God’s creative love (bestowing a unique spirit), the only fitting origin of human life. Because of innate dignity, every human being deserves “to be loved into existence”—by its parents and by God. In addition, a technician’s judgment prevails over nature’s selection of which sperm impregnates which egg. No one will ever know in what ways the child’s body might have been different from these two ways of combining gametes. The foregoing has considered various forms of IVF as a moral object—that is, what a couple who says “yes” to the procedure (as well as the clinical personnel who also say “yes”) becomes responsible for morally. Each form of IVF has anti-human features in the different ways discussed. Next, it is usually assumed that the second moral determinant, the couple’s motive for saying “yes” is altruistic. We tend to think that people go through this dangerous and expensive procedure for the welfare of the hoped-for child. And yet, telling questions must be asked. How could anyone truly be wanting only good for a child whom they are submitting to the severe physical, psychological, and spiritual harms that sound statistical studies forecast as probable? Are not such couples really saying “yes” to their natural instincts of parenthood and family at the expense of the child? Does this not amount, in truth, to using the child as a means to their fulfillment? Is their choice of IVF not one to love themselves through the child, instead of to love the child for its own sake? Of course, if they are not knowledgeable of the probable deleterious effects to the child and to family relationships, and of the many aborted human lives, they are not responsible for this immoral motive or for the immoral object they have chosen. And in this latter possibility of non-awareness of the evil of IVF as the means to their goal of wanting a child, still a couple must discern whether they want the child for its own sake or for their own parental satisfaction. In regard to the third moral determinant, circumstances surrounding the infertile couple prior to their decision to use IVF, the Church is very understanding and compassionate of their heartache. Besides urging them to bear their suffering of infertility in union with Jesus Christ’s saving sacrifice, she encourages such couples to channel their parental energies to needy children who are parentless (by way of adoption), neglected, ill, or poor. Such true charity for children can give them a wholesome chance at life and will give great satisfaction to the adults. Lastly, let us weigh morally the statistically known harms to IVF children to which we have alluded. These are the circumstances result- 400 Paul Conner, O.P. ing from the chosen action that add to the evaluation of moral object and motive. Several informative studies of the outcomes of IVF for everyone involved have been conducted in the past few years. Psychologically, child abuse occurs more in families with IVF children than in families with naturally conceived children. Also, a revelatory study by the Commission on Parenthood’s Future showed that more than half of the children surveyed who were conceived from donor sperm suffer a psychological disquiet about their origins. They feel “wronged” by this parental choice (“a bad thing”) and by the place money had to play in their conception. A full 25% “feel at odds with themselves” and find that “no one really understood them,” and 46% feel a strong fear of incest: “When I’m attracted to someone, I worry that we could be related.” Twice as many children conceived by donor sperm as children conceived normally grow up to become involved with drugs and the law.26 In regard to negative physical effects in IVF children, a study in the Journal of the American Medical Association reported that an American sperm donor, even though he had undergone the required tests for sperm donation, passed on a genetic heart condition to nine of the twenty-five children he fathered. One of them died at age two.27 Several studies have found that babies born by IVF were more than twice as likely to have cerebral palsy as those conceived naturally,28 while other studies conducted at the University Gotenborg (Sweden), reported in the journal Human Reproduction and in the magazine Elle, revealed that children born from a single IVF pregnancy have a 67% higher risk of being born prematurely before twenty-eight weeks and 15% more risk of being born before thirty-seven weeks than children conceived normally.29 Moreover, neural tube malformations and underweight births are higher than for normal pregnancies. Low birth weight can also cause long-term health problems, including obesity, type-2 diabetes and hypertension. Finally, research into genes involved 26 27 28 29 See the report of this pivotal study by Brigitte Perucca, Le Monde, June 9, 2010. See the article by Michelle Roberts, BBC News, November 2, 2009, in which Dr. Allan Pacey of Sheffield University and the British Fertility Society judges this undetected transmission of genetic defect a near endless problem: “If you were to consider every disease the list would never end. And some things will always slip through the net.” For example, see the respected study done at the University of Aarhus in Denmark reported in TheTelegraph, November 3, 2010. Elle, December 29, 2010. IVF: Mayhem and Murder—Well Disguised 401 in insulin and glucose metabolism has revealed specific DNA differences in children born through IVF.30 For the mother, there is a higher risk of miscarriage, as we have seen, and a likelihood of health issues such as diabetes and heart disease.31 III How can our culture miss the flagrant contradiction in some practices of medicine today? This wondrous technology and art has developed over the centuries with the aim of assisting faulty bodily functions to regain their vital powers and sick persons to regain their health. Yet today, we have invented and even legalized medical technologies that kill human beings, either as their aim (abortion and physician-assisted suicide) or as one of their consequences (some contraceptives, IVF, embryonic stem cell research, and attempts at human cloning). In several ways, our contemporary culture has put us at critical crossroads. St. John Paul II often pointed to the power of culture, and he startled the world with his characterization of Western culture today as the “culture of death.” He strongly warned us of the moral fallacy that, in one way or another, tempts nearly everyone in every age: “good goals do not justify evil means to achieve them.” IVF pursues the wonderful goal (in itself) of giving a child to an infertile couple. This seems to be all that our culture considers. If IVF results in a child, it must be good! How can the Church prohibit this amazing technology and deprive the childless of their fulfillment? The Church does care! And she gladly approves any helps to such couples that fully respect their and the child’s humanity, such as the sound medical practice of microsurgery and hormone therapy.32 She 30 31 32 See the report by Alison Cranage, BioNews, February 2, 2010. The British Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority (HFEA) decided in 2009 to inform couples that IVF babies could be up to 30% more likely to suffer from certain genetic flaws. Their report cited a study on 14,000 babies that found that IVF babies had a significantly higher chance of having heart valve defects, cleft lips, and digestive system abnormalities. See The Guardian and BBC News, March, 21, 2009. Ibid. The most effective and fully Catholic medical help available to the infertile is NaPro Technology, developed over several decades by Dr. Thomas Hilgers (Omaha, NE) and now being introduced into several medical schools. His techniques have an 80% success rate of diagnosing and treating infertility problems. 402 Paul Conner, O.P. recommends the use of NFP to detect the most favorable opportunities for a couple to conceive. At the moment, however, the Church suspends judgment about two techniques developed by Catholic physicians who sought to honor moral requirements. These procedures are known popularly as “TOTS” and “GIFT.” The Church is studying them carefully to determine whether they merely assist a couple’s reproductive efforts or essentially replace them with scientific procedures. At present, she counsels couples considering these procedures to study them in detail and then decide in their conscience whether they see them as only assisting or really replacing human procreation. In this article, we have examined the goal of IVF that, to many people, seems totally altruistic (“At last, we have a baby!”), but we have seen that, for those knowledgeable, their goal is very likely self-serving (“We are parents, finally!”). This motive stands in contradiction to the baby’s welfare if, in fact, the baby is not wanted for its own sake. And this self-serving motivation becomes a seriously worse abuse of the child when the couple is aware of the many deleterious effects of IVF. We have looked at IVF as a means to that goal and have discovered the enormous but unspoken immorality of the procedure. In several severe ways, it contradicts not only the true aim of the medical arts, but more startlingly, the good of human nature (in the child and in the possible multiple “parents”), the very individuality of the child, and the natural human origins and resultant family relationships. Here we have not considered in detail the third determinant of human dignity, namely, the human destinies affected by IVF, but we have at least put into question the destiny of the innocent children harmed and killed and that of the adults involved knowingly and freely. Let me close with an explanation of the title of this article. The word “mayhem” was chosen to refer principally to physical harms often suffered by the child. But we have shown also that this word can be applied psychologically and spiritually to several instances of interpersonal harm caused by IVF. The word “murder” has been used only in its literal meaning, for much human life is created artificially by the IVF procedure and then destroyed. Truly, IVF is mayhem and N&V murder—so very well disguised. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 2 (2016): 403–407 403 Direct Service between Athens and Jerusalem: On the Purpose and Organizing Principles of the Dominican Colloquia in Berkeley Bryan Kromholtz, O.P. and Justin Gable, O.P. C O - ORGANIZERS Dominican School of Philosophy and Theology Berkeley, CA The greater part of the current issue of Nova et Vetera comprises articles based on papers presented at the colloquium held at the Dominican School of Philosophy and Theology in Berkeley, California, in July 2014 entitled “What has Athens to Do with Jerusalem?” Initiated at the request of the Master of the Order of Preachers, Fr. Bruno Cadoré, the colloquium was the first of a recurring triennial symposium series, the Dominican Colloquia in Berkeley, subtitled “Philosophers and Theologians in Conversation.” As this publication marks the beginning of an ongoing effort, it calls for not only an expression of gratitude to the editors of Nova et Vetera for allowing us to present you with a portion of the outstanding scholarship that is the fruit of the colloquium, but also an explanation regarding the overall aim and value of the colloquia series itself. As its subtitle suggests, the colloquia series is designed to bring philosophers and theologians into conversation concerning matters of mutual interest. Such an undertaking might seem like merely one more example of academia’s current infatuation with interdisciplinary dialogue. While the contemporary trend toward interdisciplinary approaches has much to commend it, we would argue that an ongoing dialogue between philosophy and theology is of the greatest importance for these two disciplines. While there is a unique integrity and proper methodology for philosophy and for theology, neither can do 404 Bryan Kromholtz, O.P. and Justin Gable, O.P. justice to its subject matter or attain its fullest expression without being in contact with the other. Philosophy’s importance for theology is seen rather readily. Since philosophy is, at least potentially, universal in scope, it touches on the most fundamental questions of human existence that theology, too, must address: the meaning of life, the nature of the world, the ultimate fate of existing things, and the reality of a divine being or beings. Thus, the subject matter of philosophy clearly overlaps with that of theology. Philosophical method, too, is of the utmost importance for theology. Theology is, by its very nature, a human science of the divine, subject to logic and hermeneutic principles. Indeed, divine revelation itself, if it is to be true communication between God and man, must express itself according to the limitations of human language and in continuity with the human intellect’s already existing grasp of the world. While divine revelation illuminates and transforms, it does so through a human medium; while it may provide a glimpse of the ineffable, it does so in a manner still accessible to the human heart and mind. Divine revelation encounters philosophy the moment it is explicated and expounded. Philosophy’s need to reckon with theology is perhaps not quite as obvious. And yet philosophy, if it is to be a search for true wisdom, must ask questions of a universal nature, reflecting on the whole of existence and the meaning, source, and end of everything. Theology, although based in religious belief rather than human reason alone, is similarly oriented to the universal truth of things. Its conclusions, then, should be of interest to philosophy. Can philosophy remain a truly open inquiry if it fails to consider theological or religious answers to the questions it is asking? Can it exclude reasoned reflection on a meaningful mode of human experience and remain an authentic, sincere search for the truth? What is more, in seeking answers to its own questions, philosophy searches for ultimate causes. Such ultimate causes lead us to consider “that thing which we call God” as the source of the existence, intelligibility, and goodness of human life and the world around us. Avoiding theology would seem possible only if philosophy were to refuse to deal with ultimate questions and to content itself with the particular and partial. But such would leave us with a form of rational inquiry much less than philosophy has understood itself to be, and with no plausible claim to be a seeking of true wisdom. That there is something essential for both philosophy and theology in their mutual cooperation is not, of course, a new claim. Theology’s Direct Service between Athens and Jerusalem 405 dependence upon philosophical reflection is an insight to be found in ancient, patristic, and medieval understandings of philosophy. During the medieval period, when theology was seen as queen of the sciences and the highest of human activities, philosophy was ancilla theologiae, its handmaid. And even after the revival of Thomistic philosophy in the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the idea of a “Christian philosophy” articulated by Maritain, Gilson, and others was an acknowledgment that there was an essential complementarity between philosophy and theology, even as each maintained its own distinct character and proper integrity. And it is a particular part of the tradition of the Order of Preachers, in the spirit of St. Albert the Great and St. Thomas Aquinas, to see the complementarity and mutual relevance of philosophy and theology. St. Albert the Great, patron saint of the sciences, is known for his attention to the philosophical and empirical sciences in the service of theology. St. Thomas Aquinas is rightly famous for his incorporation of Aristotle—and, indeed, the whole of the Western intellectual tradition, from the Church Fathers through Neo-Platonism and to the Islamic commentators—to develop a singular systematic and synthetic theological vision. Together, these great saints have formed the foundation of the Dominican order’s 800-year-old intellectual tradition, a tradition that has taken the integration of faith and reason as the starting point for study, contemplation, and proclamation of the Gospel. In many ways, the mission of the Dominican School of Philosophy and Theology in Berkeley and the Dominican Colloquia in Berkeley is but a continuation of the ancient Dominican tradition of bringing philosophy and theology together. Thus, we would contend that the conversation between theologians and philosophers is much more than another example of the current rage in academia for interdisciplinary dialogue. The dialogue we are sponsoring between philosophy and theology is intended to broaden, enliven, and enrich each discipline in an essential way. The very structure of the colloquia has been designed to provide a dialogical forum and to encourage interaction across the two domains. Each plenary session’s main paper, while belonging primarily to either philosophy or theology, had significance for both disciplines. Remarks from a respondent, designed to explore the consequences of the paper for the complementary field of study and to provide a genuine cross-disciplinary exchange, followed every main paper. Such pairings, along with significant and lively question-and-answer periods for both speaker and respondent, will continue to be the hallmark of our collo- 406 Bryan Kromholtz, O.P. and Justin Gable, O.P. quia. As with many conferences, the schedule for our colloquium also included a number of outstanding shorter papers presented in concurrent sessions. We are pleased to be able to present to you each of the main papers from the plenary sessions of 2014’s colloquium, along with the remarks of each respondent. Due to limitations of space, of the nearly sixty shorter papers presented in concurrent sessions, we have been able to include only the very smallest of samplings. Despite these limited offerings, we trust something of the excitement, liveliness, and interest that characterized each day of the 2014 colloquium will be palpable. Each paper, both in the topics it addresses and the questions it raises, gives eloquent testimony to the kind of interchange we hope to continue to foster for many years to come. Although the topic for the inaugural colloquium was left intentionally broad, certain themes emerged as areas of interest and importance for further dialogue. The papers of Robert Sokolowski and Linda Zagzebski reflect the ongoing importance of studies of subjectivity, intersubjectivity, and interpersonal relations, not only between God and humanity, but also on the level of individuals and communities. Edward Feser, Michael Dodds, O.P., and Anselm Ramelow, O.P., explored issues of causality and divine action, essential topics for articulating the relationship between God and the world. The articles of John Searle and Alfred Freddoso concern the state of philosophy and its future, raising the question of the status and possibility of philosophical reflection on the world, issues integral to the natural human apprehension of the divine. Finally, the contributions of Michal Paluch, O.P., John O’Callaghan, and Peter Junipero Hannah, O.P., address various philosophical, logical, and hermeneutic aspects of human language applied to divine matters. While the papers published here already indicate areas of overlapping interest for philosophy and theology, readers will, of course, find many other topics deserving of attention and examination waiting in the wings. The following are but a few examples of controversies, taken from the contemporary scene, where philosophical and theological issues intersect and intertwine. (1) The current debate over the meaning of marriage, integral to the Catholic faith and so many other faith traditions, calls for theological argumentation. Yet, interpreting the meaning and purpose of marriage inevitably depends on presuppositions concerning the nature of the human person, the relation between personal identity, sexuality, embodiment, intersubjectivity, and the common good, and a host of other fundamental anthropological issues that can be adequately addressed only by philosophy. Direct Service between Athens and Jerusalem 407 Theology’s attempts to elucidate the notion of marriage in the context of mutual self-giving, the natural law, and the relation of each creature to his or her Creator must also include an appropriation of the insights of a rigorous philosophical anthropology. (2) The ongoing theological debate over how properly to conceive of the relationship between nature and grace demands an adequate philosophical grasp of the meaning of nature—not only of human nature, but of the whole natural world in its proper integrity. (3) Questions regarding the qualitative distinction between humanity and non-human animal life are becoming more acute. Since theologians can no longer take this distinction for granted, a philosophical examination of this distinction is absolutely vital for properly articulating the relationship between God and humanity in general and explicating in particular the ongoing relevance of the Incarnation—Jesus Christ as God become man—in the life of every Christian. (4) Meanwhile, society itself seems adrift, unable to conceive or conjure for itself any overarching purpose for its existence. Such purposelessness cannot long continue, and more and more do we hear stories of individuals and even entire communities suffering in their search for that meaning—turning, for instance, to ISIS or other radical fundamentalist organizations—in order to recover some purpose and order to their lives. Faith, explained by theology, claims to be able to give an account of the ultimate purpose of life, not only of individuals, but of societies, mankind, and indeed, the entire universe. But such theological accounts must present themselves as answers to human questions; faith cannot hope to provide meaning to human existence without the cooperation of philosophy and human reason. Such is but a sampling of the many possible frontiers that philosophy and theology can and should explore together and is but an indication of the enormous intellectual riches to be discovered by the ongoing dialogue to which the Western Dominican Province and the Dominican School of Philosophy and Theology, the co-sponsors of the Dominican Colloquia in Berkeley, have committed themselves. Once again, we would like to express our sincerest thanks to Nova et Vetera for allowing us to share with you the fruit of our colloquium in 2014. N&V We sincerely hope that you will enjoy this present issue. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 2 (2016): 409–423 409 The Theology of Disclosure Robert Sokolowski The Catholic University of America Washington, DC When Fr. Anselm Ramelow invited me to participate in this colloquium on faith and reason, he suggested that I discuss what I have called the theology of disclosure. I have used this term to name a way of reflecting theologically on mysteries in the faith of the Church, such as Sacred Scripture, the Eucharist, the theological virtues, and especially the distinctive Christian understanding of God, both as Creator and as the Holy Trinity.1 This approach makes use of the philosophical style of thinking called phenomenology, which exercised a great influence on European thought during the twentieth century. There were many authors in this movement, but I have primarily used the work of Edmund Husserl, its founder and primary inspiration. I have not simply taken over his thoughts and used them in theology. Rather, I have adopted, adapted, and supplemented them in my own philosophical and theological work, just as other writers, both major and minor, have done in their writings in other fields of inquiry. I might have called my approach “a phenomenological theology,” but this would obviously be an unwieldy name for it. Furthermore, such terminology might link this theological style too closely with a particular philosophical movement, and I think it would be better to let it 1 For example, see Robert Sokolowski, Eucharistic Presence: A Study in the Theology of Disclosure (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1994), 5–12 and 173–208; Sokolowski, “God the Father: The Human Expression of the Holy Trinity,” The Thomist 74 (2010): 33–56; and Sokolowski, “God’s Word and Human Speech,” Nova et Vetera (English) 11 (2013): 189–212. 410 Robert Sokolowski stand on its own, even though it will use some ways of thinking that have originated in phenomenology. Philosophical Resources Why should anyone be interested in this philosophical approach in theology? What contribution can phenomenology offer to our reflection on the mysteries revealed in Christian faith? It can help us clarify how Christian things come to light for us, but how it does so can best be shown by going into specific issues, which I will do later in this article. Phenomenology can also help us deal with some problematic theoretical positions in modernity. Modern thinking, the kind that has dominated Western thought for the last five centuries, was inaugurated as an explicit rejection of what went before it. It defined itself as decidedly new and different over against what was in place, whether Scholasticism or Greek thought, and by this rejection it fragmented the history of philosophy into the periods of ancient, medieval, and modern. We no longer had philosophy pure and simple. Instead, we had the philosophy of a certain period, where it was rendered radically historical and relative to its time.2 This modern rejection of the past occurred in two areas. The first was the domain of human conduct, that is, politics and ethics. This project was initiated by Machiavelli and systematized by Hobbes. Other political philosophers, such as Spinoza, Locke, Rousseau, and Hegel, worked in the space opened up by these two modern founders, and they have given us the modern state as a replacement for the ancient city. The second domain was that of science, nature, and truth: the area of ontology and epistemology. This project was introduced by Francis Bacon and Descartes. Hobbes and Leibniz made contributions, and Kant and Hegel were its great synthesizers. In both instances, the political and the scientific, modernity turns to the subject—we might say it constructs the modern subject—and it does so in two corresponding ways: it establishes the political subject, that is, Machiavelli’s prince or Hobbes’s sovereign; and it fabricates the epistemological subject, the subject tailored to mathematical science, the isolated ego cogitans who carries out such science and measures everything in its terms.3 2 3 Thomas Prufer has stressed the importance of the fragmentation of the history of philosophy; see his “The Logic of Modernity,” in Recapitulations: Essays in Philosophy (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1993), 66–71. On the modern construction of the political and epistemological subject, see Francis Slade, “Two Versions of Political Philosophy: Teleology and the The Theology of Disclosure 411 I think that there are resources in phenomenology, and especially in Husserl, that can be used to loosen the grip of modern thinking and help us to reactivate both ancient philosophy and the medieval Christian blend of philosophy and theology. It can open a way for us to recover philosophy as such, as opposed to philosophy divided into periods. It is something contemporary that can be blended with the perennial. Perhaps Brentano’s work helps explain why these resources can be found in phenomenology; for he exercised a great influence on Husserl, and he was versed in both medieval and Aristotelian thought. I would, however, also want to credit Husserl’s own honesty and intensity as a philosopher, which enabled him to see certain things in the philosophical issues themselves and to move beyond the modern understanding. Consider, for example, the way he showed that modern mathematical science does not replace the world we live in; it does not disqualify the apparent world in favor of the world discovered by science. Husserl shows instead that the scientific world is founded on the Lebenswelt and nested within it. I do not know any other modern thinker who can help us heal the breach between the ancient and the modern in the way that Husserl can. We will need, of course, to interpret his work if we are to gain these advantages, for he is himself a modern philosopher. Husserl has practically nothing to say about political philosophy, but he has much to say about cognition. In fact, one could say that his major concern was the issue of truth. Aristotle, in the Metaphysics, says that being is said in four ways: first, as the accidental; second, as the true; third, as the schemata of categories; and fourth, as the potential and the actual.4 I think that Husserl’s philosophy is restricted to the two middle senses of being: he deals with being as true and, correlatively, with being as the schemata of categories. Husserl obviously deals with truth in his many writings on logic and judgment, and I would also claim that he deals with something like the categories when he discusses states of affairs or Sachverhalte. He treats these as the objective correlates of judgments, the articulated things that make the judgments 4 Conceptual Genesis of the Modern State,” in Natural Moral Law in Contemporary Society, ed. Holger Zaborowski (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2010), 242–247. While commenting on Prufer’s remark that modernity breaks up the history of philosophy, Slade says, “Taken in the most formal sense philosophy has no past. To the extent that it might be said to have one, it is not philosophy. All philosophy insofar as it is philosophy is contemporary” (238). Aristotle, Metaphysics 5.7 and 6. 2. 412 Robert Sokolowski to be true or false, and he shows how the origins of both judgments and states of affairs can be found in our pre-categorial experience. He also discusses in an original way how the human subject, which he calls the “transcendental ego,” engages in truth in many different ways besides by making judgments. Aspects of truth occur, for example, in perception, remembrance, imaging, calculation, and the experience of one’s own corporeality. I think that moral action can be clarified if we take it as another way of being truthful and that we can properly understand the human person by considering him as the agent of truth. Phenomenology does turn primarily to subjectivity, but I think we can interpret this as a turn toward “being as the true” and use it as an access to thinking about “being as being.” I would like to use a remark made by John Rist to illustrate this point. Rist held the Father Kurt Pritzl, O.P., Chair in Philosophy at Catholic University in 2012–2016. He once said in a conversation that the first-person perspective has not been adequately treated in classical philosophy. Most classical philosophy has been strictly objectivist: it restricts itself to ontology and treats the human subject from an ontological point of view. He said that St. Augustine introduced the first-person perspective, the philosophical and theological treatment of the human subject as such, but authors in the medieval period returned to the objectivist viewpoint, and when Descartes introduced the first-person perspective he got it wrong and set it in opposition to the manifestation of things. It has been wrongly handled ever since. It seems to me that phenomenology provides resources for accommodating the first-person philosophical viewpoint in a better way and for reconciling it with the objectivist approach precisely by defining the human subject as being engaged in truth. Truth is, after all, one of the ways in which being itself is said. A proper turn to the first-person perspective does not mean that we merely report how things look and feel. It means that we philosophically explore the activities and structures of subjectivity and show how they are involved in the manifestation and truth of things. Such a philosophical exploration can enter into a theology that clarifies how Christian things differentiate and identify themselves for us. Some Philosophical Issues One of the most fruitful topics found in Husserl is what he calls “categorial intuition.” He claims that syntactic structures occur, not just in judgments or propositions “in our minds,” but in our thoughtful experience of things. We syntactically articulate what is given in our The Theology of Disclosure 413 perceptions. We predicate, collect, and arrange what we experience. I can intellectually “take in” not just this colored area, nor even this tree-like shape, each of which is a simple given; I can also take in the fact that this tree is swaying in the wind. We articulate the way things are, and as we do so we intuit or perceive not just simple things, but states of affairs in their direct presence. We bring out the parts and wholes of things. A state of affairs is a part of the world articulated by human thinking. In elaborating such categorial intuition, Husserl distinguishes two kinds of truth: the truth of correctness (Richtigkeit), in which a judgment is experienced as conforming to the way things are; and the truth of actuality (Wirklichkeit), in which the thing or the state of affairs itself is given to us directly, in person.5 The state of affairs is registered, not just reported. This second sense of truth, the truth of actuality, involves what Husserl calls the evidence of self-possession (Evidenz der Selbsthabe). Here we have the thing itself, given to us in the thoughtful articulations we carry out in its presence. This second sense of truth, Husserl adds, is “intrinsically first.” It is prior to the truth of correctness because judgments originate in the direct presence of things and depend on it for their verification. In Husserl’s analysis, the center of gravity is shifted from the judgments in our minds to the things being articulated; there is no Kantian “thing in itself” behind its appearances. Things themselves are given to us and identified by us in their direct presence in the manifolds of experience that are appropriate to them. But they are also given—not just to sensory perception, but also to the intellect—as they become “syntaxed” with the help of speech and images. Things are given to us as identities in manifolds of appearance, and some of these manifolds are categorial or syntactic. The words “disclosure” and “manifestation” are appropriate English terms for the truth of actuality or self-givenness. It is this kind of truth that comes to the fore in the theology of disclosure. In such truth, things come to light for us. They emerge and define themselves out of vagueness and absence, out of confusion and hearsay. I think that this kind of truth is a modern version of what Aristotle describes in Metaphysics 9.10, where he speaks about the grasp of indivisibles. In such disclosure, the intelligibility of things is presented to us. Besides syntax and the kind of intuition associated with it, another theme that is of great importance for both philosophy and theology is 5 See Edmund Husserl, Formal and Transcendental Logic, trans. Dorion Cairns (New York: Springer, 1969), §46. 414 Robert Sokolowski the activity of making distinctions, of letting the essential differences among things show up to us. Husserl himself does not explicitly focus on the making of distinctions, but he uses it and mentions the practice everywhere in his work. It pops up frequently but he does not reflect on it. In fact, it comes to the fore right at the beginning of his writings. It is highlighted in the “First Investigation” in Logical Investigations, at the point where he begins presenting his own philosophy. The first chapter of that volume is entitled “The Essential Distinctions [Die wesentlichen Unterscheidungen].”6 In my opinion, this title stands forth like a trumpet blast or a motto on a coat of arms. Husserl begins his work by making distinctions, and throughout his work he continues making them. He brings things out by distinguishing them one from another. He will, for example, distinguish memory from perception, words from pictures, intending an object in its presence from intending it in its absence, manipulating numerals from actually counting a group of things, and the philosophical attitude from the natural attitude in which we originally live our lives. In each case, he reveals his target by strategically distinguishing it from its proper other. And yet, despite his desire to be fully aware of his own activity as a philosopher, he does not reflect on this omnipresent procedure, so this is an area in which we can complement his work. In that spirit, permit me to say a few more words about making distinctions. This activity can be related to predication and other forms of syntactic action, which we have identified as the core of human rationality. I would claim that making distinctions is not just one more syntactic form. It deals not with the syntax but with the content of what we know and what we express in our speech. When we think, it is not the case that we first collect a number of concepts and then conjoin and disjoin them in our predications, conjunctions, alternations, and quantifications. Rather, what happens is that we first start speaking about things as we interact with other people, but at first we speak vaguely. Our initial words are not yet fully words; they are embedded in larger vocal sounds and are only gradually distinguished as individual words. In our early years of life, baby-talk and childish speech are rehearsals of the use of words, and they involve incipient syntactic structures; they are rehearsals of language. We start with proto-sentences. We predicate, but only vaguely and without respon6 See Edmund Husserl, Logical Investigations, trans. John N. Findlay, ed. Dermot Moran (New York: Routledge, 2001), 1:183. I have slightly altered Findlay’s translation of this phrase. The Theology of Disclosure 415 sibility, as children predicate. We are not yet responsible in what we say and we cannot be held accountable for what we have said. We have not yet said anything specific or quotable. In the midst of such incipient thinking, things are present to us, but only confusedly. As time goes on, however, and if we begin to think more distinctly, the differences become sharper, and the things themselves become more and more defined for us. But they become more defined not apart from our syntactic activity, but within it. The sounds we make move from sing-song speech to distinct declarations, and we gradually become accountable for what we say, and we become accountable because what we are talking about becomes more distinctly present to us and to our interlocutors. The contents of our speech become more distinguished as our syntax becomes more responsible, more authentically achieved. The things we are talking about become distinct by being distinguished from strategic other things, and they do so with the help of our grammatical speech and syntactic actions. There is a grasp of indivisibles, as Aristotle and Aquinas call it, and it does involve getting at the differentiae of the things in question, but it does not occur one by one in single exposures of things to the intellect; it occurs when one thing is distinguished from another. All this occurs in speech and conversation, and not before conversational predication but within it. Distinction and disclosure go hand in hand. I would like to mention two other resources in phenomenology that can be helpful in theological reflection. One is the idea that linguistic grammar can serve as a signal of categorial activity. In spoken language, words like “is,” “and,” “of,” “if,” and “therefore” do not name things. They are grammatical terms and they obviously serve in language to link other words. They are connectives. But Husserl points out at the beginning of his Logical Investigations that such words also serve to indicate (anzeigen) or to signal that we are performing a categorial act: they signal that we are predicating, conjoining, partitioning, and inferring even as we speak.7 Grammatical words signal intellectual activities, 7 Husserl distinguishes between expression (Ausdruck) and indication (Anzeige) in chapter 1 of Investigation I in Logical Investigations (Findlay and Moran, 1:183–198). This material finds its fulfillment in chapter 6 of Investigation VI, where he asks whether the grammatical parts of speech have any objective correlatives. See 2:271–294 (Findlay and Moran), particularly 291: “What intuitively corresponds to the words ‘and’ and ‘or,’ to ‘both’ or ‘either,’ is not anything . . . that can be grasped with one’s hands, or apprehended with some sense, as it can also not really be represented in an image, e.g., in a painting. I can paint A and I can paint B, and I can paint them both on the same canvas: 416 Robert Sokolowski and they do so in two ways. They signal that the speaker is performing the indicated intellectual act, that he is predicating or conjoining as he speaks, and they also signal to the listener to perform the act himself, to be drawn into the intellectual display and reasoning that is being carried on by the one who is speaking. The listener does this immediately as he hears the word in question. The listener thinks what the speaker is saying and he cannot help but do so if he understands the words. Intellectual activity is made tangibly present in the words that we use. The acts of the mind do not occur silently and secretly in the solitary mind of each person, as Descartes would have it. The activities of the mind are exhibited in our speech and they are also supported by our speech. They really cannot happen without the help of spoken or at least imagined words. Our thinking “rides” on our speech. If we want philosophical access to intellectual activity, we need to focus on speech, where thinking becomes tangible (or audible). The other resource I want to discuss is not mentioned by Husserl himself. It is what I would call the declarative use of the first-person pronoun. We can use the word “I” in two different ways. We can simply state ordinary facts about ourselves, as when a person says, “I am forty-five years old” or “I studied forestry in Colorado.” Such cases are what we might call an “informational” use of the word “I.” But if I say things like “I know the earth is round” or “I see that he is untrustworthy,” I do more than just state facts about myself; I endorse or appropriate, I make more formally my own the opinion or decision that I express. I do not say simply “The earth is round,” but “I know that the earth is round.” Such declarative uses of pronouns are a pre-philosophical expression of the working of our transcendental ego. They do not merely state further facts about ourselves. They are connected to the intellectual activities that are signaled by the grammar of our speech, and just like our grammatical signals they make our intellectual activities palpably present in the words we pronounce. They exhibit and refer to us as what I would like to call “agents of truth.”8 8 I cannot, however, paint the both, nor paint the A and the B. Here we have only the one possibility which is always open to us: to perform a new act of conjunction or collection on the basis of our two single acts of intuition, and so mean the aggregate of the objects A and B.” On declaratives, see Robert Sokolowski, Phenomenology of the Human Person (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2009), chapter 1 (“Two Ways of Saying ‘I’”). The Theology of Disclosure 417 As I have said before, phenomenology can help us overcome the alienation from ancient and medieval thought introduced by modernity, and I hope that what I have just described provides some examples of how it can do so. This does not mean, however, that we can simply restore the ancient and medieval forms of philosophy. Nothing ever comes back just as it was. Phenomenology can add new and helpful themes to the ancient and medieval repertoire. For example, it can add resources in the philosophy of language and the philosophy of picturing, and it can help us to show how philosophical speech differs from ordinary and scientific discourse. It can add further precision to the philosophy of time and history. More generally, however, it helps us return to philosophy as such instead of dividing it into historical periods and leaving ourselves able only to report what other people have said in other times and places. It does so by reflecting on how things show up for us—that is, how their ways of being become manifest—and also by reflecting in greater detail on what we need to do as agents of truth to allow things to appear to us. Theological Issues How does this study of manifestation work in regard to what we believe in Christian faith? How can we speak, in this domain, not just about the truth of correctness but also about the truth of disclosure? There are, of course, many elements in Christian faith. They are spelled out—they are articulated, as the articula fidei—in the Creed and in the catechism of the Church, and they are embodied and illustrated in the lives, practices, and witness of believers and saints. All these truths, things, and persons are essential to its manifestation. The articles of faith, however, should not be seen as disjointed doctrines, assorted beliefs that Christians just happen to have. They are not coincidental. Instead, they all cluster around some basic beliefs that make up God’s revelation and action toward us. All of them, furthermore, are intelligible only against the background of the most central of all beliefs, the understanding of God that is revealed in biblical and Christian faith.9 This understanding of the God who speaks through the Scriptures 9 Robert Spaemann puts this well when he says, “The first question that philosophy asks in relation to religious belief is not, ‘Does God exist?’ but ‘What do we mean when we say that God exists or does not exist?’ What do we mean by the word God?”; see his “What Do We Mean When We Say ‘God’?” in God: Reason and Reality, ed. Anselm Ramelow, O.P. (Munich: Philosophia Verlag, 2014), 19. 418 Robert Sokolowski does not just unify the other doctrines; it also opens up for us the dimension of being that makes them meaningful. For example, the Christian doctrine of grace and the theological virtues of faith, hope, and charity cannot be properly understood in a coherent way if God is not understood to be in a certain way, nor can the Eucharist be understood for what it is except against the background of the Christian understanding of God. Christian faith, in its deepest core, is the response to God’s revelation of himself to us, and this revelation does not just tell us new facts about the world; it opens up a new dimension of the being of things. What is this central and definitive understanding? In the faith of the Church, we believe that God exists in such perfection that he could exist with no less goodness and greatness even if he were all that there is. God is not part of the world and he could be without the world. The world, all that there is besides God, exists because God chose it to be, and he chose it out of unconstrained generosity. To use the cryptic phrase of Thomas Prufer, “God does not need to give and does not gain from giving.”10 This is the God who revealed himself in the Old Covenant and who became incarnate in Jesus Christ for our salvation. His transcendence to the world is so great that even the humility of the Incarnation does not diminish it. Rather, the Incarnation intensifies our understanding—our glimpse of an understanding—of God’s power and goodness. This distinction between the world and God is the center of Christian revelation, and in Thomistic theology it is expressed metaphysically in terms of God as esse subsistens, God as sheer esse unlimited by any distinct essence or kind. God’s essence is purely and simply “to be.” This is a new understanding of divinity, different from what other religions and philosophies present as the divine. God is not just the highest being. Divinity itself is now transformed: it is not one kind of being among many, but the one that could be even if there were no kinds of being, and yet this intense existing does not dissolve the being and truth of the kinds of being, which are now understood to have been created out of nothing. To think about God is to think about existence, not about a kind of entity, no matter how exalted and powerful. This “Christian distinction” between the world and God is 10 The phrase was used in his teaching, but I have not been able to find it in his written work. For another version, see Prufer, “Creation, Solitude and Publicity,” in Recapitulations, 32: “The one who is best creates, but creating is not what is best—the one who creates would be just as good if He did not create.” The Theology of Disclosure 419 at the core of Christian faith, but it also presents itself as understandable by human reason. But it is not just one among the praeambula fidei; it is at their center, at the intersection of faith and reason. I have presented this understanding in words, and when we discuss it this way it might seem to be primarily an issue for academic speculation, but its original disclosure was to Abraham, to Moses at the burning bush, and to the Jewish people at the Red Sea, on Mount Sinai, in the Temple, and in exile. It was manifested to the disciples in the life, death, and resurrection Jesus Christ and to all of us in the sacramental life and teaching of the Church and in her saints and martyrs. This original manifestation through the Old and New Covenants was and is an understanding. It involves making something present and in an appropriate way understood and it needs words to be made present; it is not just a sensory percept or an affect. It becomes presented or revealed to our minds, not just to our sentiment, and it elevates our intellects by its intensity of truth and being. Our theological reflection on it depends on its initial presentation and distinction in faith. This understanding is related to other Christian mysteries. It provides the context in which they can be seen as coherent and consistent. To illustrate this, let us consider again the Christian doctrine of grace and the theological, infused virtues. Given the radical transcendence of God, it becomes meaningful and even obvious to say that we as human agents cannot enter into the presence of God on our own. We cannot rely on our own strength, virtue, and ingenuity. We cannot stretch that far by ourselves. We need to be elevated and graced if we are going to be able to act in this new dimension. Therefore, the Church has insisted, in the various controversies in which she has been engaged, that our very ability to act toward God, and even our ability to turn toward God in faith, must be God’s gift, and yet it must become our action and our disposition as well. Our actions in response to God are not like the good or bad actions we perform as human agents involved in the setting of the world, where we act through our own virtue or strength and can be proud of what we achieve, or where we fail because of our own vice or weakness. The theological virtues are not simply higher forms of human courage, temperance, justice, prudence, and friendship. The categories that we use to describe human ethical and political conduct need to be adjusted when the context is expanded to the world as created and redeemed by God. Things that might seem contradictory or incoherent when they are said about natural human agency and worldly human interactions 420 Robert Sokolowski can become meaningful here. Our actions toward God are indeed our responsible acts, and yet they are and must be God’s actions first and foremost. Their substance is God’s grace and not just human accomplishment. We should notice, incidentally, how the theological virtues are presented to us precisely as distinguished from natural virtues. Here, as elsewhere, we clarify by distinguishing. As a further thought about the theological virtues, consider the declarative use of the word “I” in an act of faith. If we begin the Creed by saying, “I believe in God the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth,” we are not just saying ,“I am of the opinion that God created heaven and earth,” nor are we saying , “I know that God created heaven and earth.” For one thing, in the Creed, we do not just state what we believe. Rather, we begin by saying that we believe in God; we have confidence in the one who spoke to us. The articles of faith, the propositions that we believe, follow as descriptions of the one in whom we believe; they express who and what he is and what he has done. It is necessary for us to have such propositions: without them it would not be clear in whom we have placed our faith or why nothing else but faith would be an appropriate response to him. Furthermore, we express our belief as different from the opinions and knowledge that we declare ourselves to have in regard to the things that we experience in the world. These articles are not simply added to our other opinions about the way things are. They are not just more opinions. We believe them as revealed to us by the one whom they describe, and part of our belief is that we are enabled to believe by him. The ability to believe is itself his gift, a gift of grace. The declarative “I” in the act of faith has its own logic. It is not simply ranged along the declarations we make in our natural involvements, and yet it is clarified and defined by being contrasted with them. Of course, faith alone is not the last word. Faith is obliged to express itself in actions, not just words, so the theological virtue of charity has an ontological priority over belief. Faith opens the context in which charity is possible, but charity is the end and perfection of faith. It bears witness that the faith is genuine. In his epistle, St. James says, “What good is it, my brothers, if someone says he has faith but does not have works?” (James 2:14). The apostle does not say, “If someone has faith but does not have works.” Rather, he says, “If someone says he has faith (ean pistin legēi tis echein).” Faith is shown, not by the declaration, but by the actions that follow from it and the disposition that underlies the actions: “Demonstrate your faith to me without works, and I will demonstrate my faith to you from my works” (James 2:18). We might The Theology of Disclosure 421 also observe, however, that an act of charity does not declare itself in words. We need to publicly endorse our faith by saying, “I believe,” but it would be inappropriate to say,“I love God and my neighbor in what I am doing.” Speaking this way is uncomfortably similar to the Pharisee’s saying, “I fast twice a week, and I pay tithes on all that I acquire” (Luke 18:12). Charity forgets itself when it loves and serves both God and others, whereas the Pharisee is anything but forgetful of himself when he says, “O God, I thank you that I am not like the rest of men . . . or even like this tax collector” (Luke 18:11). It is not insignificant that the parable introduces the Pharisee with the words, “The Pharisee took up his position and spoke this prayer to himself (pros heauton).” Final Remarks In this fourth and final part of my article, I will briefly indicate three other issues in the theology of disclosure. The first concerns the mystery of the Holy Trinity. God is initially revealed to us as creator, as the origin or cause of all things, the one who gives the world and each of us our being. But through the coming of Christ, God becomes also understood as an origin in a different way. He is God the Father, the source of the Eternal Word. He is not just the creator of the world, but the origin of the Son and the Holy Spirit. This relationship is not like creation, and it needs to be distinguished specifically from creation. In the Trinity, God does not engender something less than himself, but expresses himself as spoken or imaged. In God’s life such an expression is not external to himself, as words and images are external to us. God’s expression of himself is the second person, the Son; the Son is not another God, but God again, God spoken or God imaged. A distinction, therefore, needs to be made between two kinds of origination, a distinction that Arius failed to make, as he considered the Son to be the first of creatures. The mystery of the Trinity is disclosed to us precisely in this contrast between God as creator and God the Father as the principle of the Holy Trinity. Through the revelation made in the New Testament, we come to know that God could not be except as Trinitarian. God does not choose to be three persons, as he chooses to create; he is that way, and this divine way of being has been revealed to us. We come to know that, without the Holy Trinity, our sense of God is truncated.11 11 I owe this term to Francis Slade. 422 Robert Sokolowski A second issue is the Eucharist. The words of the Eucharistic Prayer are directed toward God, and specifically toward God the Father. As the prayer moves toward the consecration, the priest calls down the Holy Spirit on the gifts, but he does not address the Holy Spirit as such; he continues to address the Father and asks him to send down the Spirit, and while addressing the Father he speaks about “your most beloved Son, our Lord Jesus Christ.” Then, in the narrative of institution, the priest speaks about Jesus Christ and describes his actions at the Last Supper, but he still addresses the Father. Finally, in the formula of the consecration, the priest stops speaking in his own voice and repeats the words of Christ himself. It is important to note that the literary form of these words is that of a quotation. The priest does not say that Jesus said these words. Rather, he says the words that Jesus said, and he says them as being said by Christ. The institutional narrative gives way to a quotation, which allows Christ himself to be the authoritative speaker at that moment of the Eucharist. Note also that every quotation needs a narrative to introduce it. We always need to say something like “he said . . .” when we wish to quote someone, when we wish to let our voice become the vehicle for the speech of someone else, and we need to identify the speaker whose authority we are making present and effective. Quotation is one of the extraordinary resources of human language and speech, the ability that defines the rational animal. The quoted words of Christ, speaking through the Church, achieve what they achieved when they were originally spoken on the night before he suffered.12 This quotation is within a speech directed toward the eternal Father. Even the Eucharistic narrative and the words of consecration embedded within it are spoken by the priest toward the Father, though it may at the moment seem that they are directed toward the congregation. This orientation toward the eternal Father helps us see how the present Eucharistic sacrifice can be the same as that achieved by Christ on Calvary and anticipated by him at the Last Supper. Time present and time past are identifiable in God’s eternal now. The Christian distinction between God and the world opens a logical or theological space within which the Church’s teaching on the nature of the Eucharist is meaningful: the Eucharist is not just a sign and a symbol, but the same sacrifice of our redemption. The Eucharist is not only the reenactment of the one sacrifice of Christ; it is also a perpetual reminder of the 12 See Robert Sokolowski, 2014 Edward Cardinal Egan Lecture, “The Eucharist: Words of Christ, Words of the Church” (https://www.magnificat.net/ foundation/cardinal_egan_lecture_2014.asp). The Theology of Disclosure 423 transcendence of God. The quotation of Christ’s words is sacramental; it is not just dramatic, literary, or conversational. A third and final point deals with ethics and moral theology. I think it would be very helpful to appeal to the philosophy of friendship in working out the ontology of moral action. Friendship is given a very prominent role in Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics. It is placed higher than justice, it is treated later than justice, and two entire books are dedicated to it. Friendship involves a special moral syntax, just as justice does. In friendship we wish the good of another and make it, as such, our own good in what we do, and this disposition and activity enlarges our moral reason and our moral virtue. We are more rational and more human the more we are capable of friendship. Friendship can also provide a natural analogue and basis for charity, the highest of the infused theological virtues. I only briefly mention this theme as yet another area for the theology of disclosure. The theology of disclosure shows how appearances are involved in the truth of things and shows that things do truly appear to us, even though we must also account for such things as error, deception, and camouflage. Discussing such topics leads us toward concrete, particular analyses, which Husserl called the Kleingeld, the “small change” of philosophy. It enhances our appreciation of what things are and how they differentiate or define themselves for us. Such an approach complements the ontology of Thomism and medieval philosophy, and it would be important to show how the two approaches differ. It helps us deal with skeptical treatments of appearance in modern thinking, but its value is not just therapeutic or historical. It enriches our contemplative understanding of the truth of things and the truthfulness N&V of the human subject. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 2 (2016): 425–433 425 Response to Robert Sokolowski’s “The Theology of Disclosure” Richard Schenk, O.P. University of Eichstaett Eichstaett, Germany This first colloquium on “Philosophers and Theologians in Conversation” has good reason to begin with reflections by Robert Sokolowski, the author of a remarkable body of work in which this conversation has been fostered from both sides of the table, from the vantage point of philosophy and of theology and in the dialogue of the two disciplines with one another. It was a growing insight of the phenomenological movement, especially in conversation with the hermeneutical method that philosophy had garnered from theology, that complete statements of our interpretations or a fortiori complete interpretations of our understanding are not possible.1 Whatever the periodic aspirations to philosophy to be at once a first and a rigorous science, it belongs to the accomplishment of philosophy and theology to acknowledge that there is no presuppositionless understanding and no completion to the search for wisdom, no defined beginning or end. That is true not only for what philosophy and theology can and should be on average, singularly or in conversation, but also and consciously for the work done by the most outstanding thinkers in these fields. It was fifty years ago (1964) that Robert Sokolowski, after initial studies in both disciplines, published the first segment (on the consti1 See the 1927 epoch-making work by Martin Heidegger, Sein und Zeit, 19th ed. (Tuebingen: M. Niemeyer, 2006), nos. 31–33 and 142–60; in English, Being and Time, trans. John Macquarrie and Edward Robinson (New York: Harper & Row 1962), which preserves the paragraph numbers and (in the margins) the pagination of the German edition, here 182–203. 426 Richard Schenk, O.P. tution of temporality) of what soon became widely available as his philosophical dissertation, The Formation of Husserl’s Concept of Constitution.2 This work on the intellectual spontaneity needed from us for any access to reality was directed at the Catholic University of Leuven in Belgium by the Franciscan Herman Leo Van Breda, who had rescued Edmund Husserl’s mostly unpublished manuscripts after the latter’s death in April of 1938 and brought them to the Catholic University, where the first Husserl archive was founded in 1939. The philosophical side of Professor Sokolowski’s conversation will consist largely in developments of Husserlian phenomenology, a reception, as Sokolowski tells us without exaggeration, that not only adopts, but also adapts and develops Husserl’s varied investigations. It is impossible to understand Sokolowski’s “theology of disclosure” without attending to his phenomenological work, just as it is impossible to follow his contribution to phenomenology without examining his attention to what could be of theological interest. Not every contributor to the potential conversation between philosophy and theology needs to be as conversant in both disciplines or as sure of the fruitfulness of their possible communication. One of Husserl’s earliest and theologically most influential students, Martin Heidegger, would state that a “mortal enmity” exists between the two disciplines insofar as they express existential stances.3 So, when Robert Sokolowski is conversant in each discipline and in their dialogue with one another, familiar with the travel routes connecting Athens and Jerusalem, we want to ask how this can be. Monsignor Sokolowski has been kind enough to recall for this colloquium the major themes that need to be addressed by this conversation. In this brief response to his reflections, I want to draw attention to a more minor, often overlooked theme that nevertheless makes this conversation possible. I want to point out where 2 3 Robert Sokolowski, The Formation of Husserl’s Concept of Constitution, Phaenomenologica 18 (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1964 and 1970). See the 1927 lecture by Martin Heidegger—slightly amended by the author as Phänomenologie und Theologie (Frankfurt: Klostermann, 1970), 32—in which he also famously describes the notion of a Christian philosophy as a “hölzernes Eisen” (wooden iron), but also rejects relationships in the other direction for the same reasons: “neukantische, wertphilosophische, phänomenologische Theologie.” Sokolowski points to the coexistence of religious and philosophical stances in Heidegger’s own phenomenological work as a contrast to Husserl’s less religiously motivated thought; see Robert Sokolowski, Introduction to Phenomenology (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 214–217. Response to Robert Sokolowski 427 Sokolowski intentionally stops short of blending philosophy and theology into a single unified theory. My argument will be that Sokolowski’s conversation succeeds because it is only partially synthetic. In an early monograph on Presence and Absence, Sokolowski analyzed three interrelated pairs of opposites, “a triangle of couples,” as he calls them, that structure the intelligibility or “presentability” that first philosophy requires to “permit the identifications and dissociations which stabilize experience and thought and allow them to be carried on.”4 They testify to the abidingly philosophical quality of a conversation that has not passed into a theological monologue. These three couples—rest and motion, presence and absence, sameness and otherness—can also testify to the dialogical non-identity (the discrete togetherness of the One and the Indeterminate Dyad, as the Platonic tradition put it) that characterizes Sokolowski’s programmatic dialogue of phenomenology with disclosure theology, as he has described it for us in his reflections above. I would like to offer a word of reflection on each of these pairs of opposites within the scope of our present topic. Rest and Motion: Sokolowski on the History of Philosophy Sokolowski was keen from the beginning of his work to augment “Husserl’s Interpretation of the History of Philosophy.”5 In this early study, Sokolowski was able to show how Husserl’s works after the conclusion of World War I opened themselves to the continuous historical development of phenomenology in the future, but also that, both before and after that shift, around 1918, the self-understanding of phenomenology as a new starting point for philosophy minimized any interest in the pre-Cartesian history of philosophy. Unlike that of Franz Brentano, Husserl’s vision of philosophy as “a rigorous and first philosophy” had understood the directive, “to the things themselves,” from the vantage-point of a first-person singular distant from the diachronic history of philosophy.6 Even with the increasing openness 4 5 6 Robert Sokolowski, Presence and Absence: A Philosophical Investigation of Language and Being (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1978), 174; see also 160–181. The title of Sokolowski’s article in Franciscan Studies 24 (1964): 261–280. The influential essay written in the year prior to Dilthey’s death and published in the first volume of the periodical Logos (Tübingen: Mohr, 1910/1911) is available in a second edition as Edmund Husserl, Philosophie als strenge Wissenschaft (Frankfurt: Klostermann, 1965 and 1971). It has been translated into English as “Philosophy as Rigorous Science,” in Phenomenology and the Crisis of Philosophy, ed. Quentin Lauer (New York: Harper, 1965). Heidegger’s 428 Richard Schenk, O.P. to the opaque beginnings in the lived world, the living body, and inter-subjectivity,7 even with the growing sense that phenomenology could never attain the conclusiveness of Husserl’s early geometric ideals and that the dream of philosophy as a first and rigorous science had indeed been “dreamed out,” the novelty of the turn to the transcendental subject meant, for Husserl, a turn away from pre-Cartesian thought.8 In contrast to Husserl, Sokolowski will seek an alternative phenomenological reading of ancient and medieval philosophy. True, despite his own stress on quotation as “one of the extraordinary resources of human language and speech, the ability that defines the rational animal,”9 Sokolowski too sees philosophy culminating in “disquoting,” in its move beyond and behind the authority of others to the evidence of individual experience.10 Historical and systematic thought, though no doubt intertwined, initially seem to favor quotation and disquotation respectively. And yet, Sokolowski’s expectation for a relatively synchronic dialogue with ancient Greek and medieval Latin philosophies is clearly more reminiscent of Brentano than of Husserl and touches Sokolowski’s chief criticism of Husserl’s (admittedly moderated) “modernity.” What distinguishes Sokolowski from both Husserl and Brentano is the way his theology interrupts this dialogue. The Christian distinction that is founded in the insight into a transcendent God who chooses 7 8 9 10 Being and Time attempted a reconciliation of Husserl’s phenomenology with Dilthey’s hermeneutics. Although the second volume of Husserl’s Ideas would appear only posthumously, as Edmund Husserl, Ideen zu einer reinen Phänomenologie und phänomenologischen Philosophie: Zweites Buch, ed. Marly Biemel, Husserliana 4 (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1952), Heidegger thanked Husserl in Sein und Zeit for providing him access to the unpublished work and for the light it added to Husserl’s reflections on Dilthey and the themes of personality and world (Sein und Zeit 38, no. 3 and 47, no. 1). See Edmund Husserl, Die Krisis der europäischen Wissenschaften und die transzendentale Phänomenologie, 2nd edition, ed. Walter Biemel, Husserliana 6 (The Hague: M. Nijhoff, 1953 and 1976). See Robert Sokolowski’s “The Theology of Disclosure,” in this present issue (14.2) of Nova et Vetera (English), 409–423. See also Sokolowski, Phenomenology of the Human Person (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 68–79. Sokolowski makes clear that he does not intend to restrict his “‘disquotational’ theory of truth” to diachronic conversations with the history of philosophy (Introduction to Phenomenology, 101). Response to Robert Sokolowski 429 freely to create and perfect the world without being simply one more being in or alongside or added to it was an insight that antiquity could not attain. It is the formal light under which the “disclosure” of Sokolowski’s theology proceeds in all of its manifold considerations. His is a fundamental theology of method, a methodological foundation that has only become possible over time, a study of how theological truths can appear. “The theology of disclosure deals with the way Christian realities come forward, but it also deals with the way they are distinguished. It deals with the Christian distinction itself. Distinction and manifestation are treated here together, and indeed they belong together, because for something to become manifest is for it to be distinguished.”11 The emphasis on the manner of appearance and the linguistic articulation of distinction also distinguishes Sokolowski’s thought from Greek philosophy, evident even more in his subsequent distinction of infused from acquired virtue or his affirmation, against Aristotle, of “friendship” with the divine.12 Here are human possibilities that could not be elicited from human faculties alone. This source of non-contemporaneity with ancient philosophy is likewise the locus of non-contemporaneity with medieval philosophy, which knew that formal objects required formal methods, a formal light under which the object could first be adequately considered, but did not move as programmatically as phenomenology from attention to the how to the identification of the what. (Admittedly, discussions like the one by Thomas Aquinas in his commentary on Boethius’s De Trinitate concerning the methods of abstraction and separation as distinguishing the sciences and their formal objects are moving already somewhat in this direction.)13 In his stress on the development, cultivation, and historical vicissitudes of disclosure by language, articulation, and distinction, Sokolowski sets a starting point that is relatively different from those of both ancient and medieval thought. As Allen Vigneron once elaborated on a citation of Sokolowski: “Sokolowski’s 11 12 13 Robert Sokolowski, “The Theology of Disclosure,” in The God of Faith and Reason: Foundations of Christian Theology (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1995), 88–103, at 92. See Guy Mansini, “Charity and the Form of Friendship,” in Ethics and Theological Disclosures: The Thought of Robert Sokolowski, ed. Guy Mansini and James G. Hart (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2003), 31–43. See the selection, introduction, and translation by Armand Maurer in St. Thomas Aquinas, The Division and Method of the Sciences: Questions V and VI of his Commentary on the De Trinitate of Boethius, 3rd ed. (Toronto: PIMS, 1963). 430 Richard Schenk, O.P. claim is that his theology of disclosure ‘provides us with a way of theologically appropriating modernity,’ instead of evading it or being ensnared by it.”14 For such a theology to embrace key aspects of the subjective orientation of modern philosophy while avoiding much of its rejection of other epochs is to point both to the “rest” or continuity of philosophy from age to age and to its “motion” in discontinuity with pre-modern formulations that could simply be treated as perennially evident and thus, being taken as directly experiential, be “disquoted” with little adjustment today. If modernity suggested not the overcoming, but a wrestling and coming-to-terms-with the metaphysical tradition (in a German word game, Verwindung, rather than Überwindung, “coming to terms with” rather than “overcoming”),15 then the merely partial accord with the history of philosophy proposed by Sokolowski also suggests a continued wrestling and a partial coming-to-terms even with this qualified “Verwindung.” Phenomenology searches for the renewal of a first philosophy that could provide an alternative to the simple rejection or the simple reassertion of classical metaphysics. Presence and Absence: Sokolowski on the Limits of Evidence The relationship of philosophy and theology can be inscribed into a second coupled structure, that of presence and absence. Sokolowski indicates in many texts his predilection for presence over absence. Presence has priority by definition as naming a process of the growing “truth of actuality or self-givenness.” To understand is to make present. Here it is that things “emerge and define themselves out of vagueness and absence, out of confusion and hearsay.”16 Disclosure means in recto an increasing presence. But Sokolowski makes clear in his larger work that this also involves the coupling of absence and presence, making absence present, not just as the “where from,” say of the natural attitude or Lebenswelt, but as the abiding limit of the present that is possible for us, as a sense of what or even who is unreached or missing. Since that essay on Husserl’s history of philosophy fifty years ago, Sokolowski 14 15 16 Allen Vigneron, “The Christian Mystery and the Presence and Absence of God,” in The Truthful and the Good: Essays in Honor of Robert Sokolowski, ed. John J. Drummond and James G. Hart, Contributions to Phenomenology 23 (Boston: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1996), 181–189, at 184 (citing Sokolowski, The God of Faith and Reason, 179–180). See Martin Heidegger, “Die Überwindung der Metaphysik,” in Vorträge und Aufsätze (Pfullingen: Neske, 1954), 71–99, e.g., 78. See Sokolowski’s “The Theology of Disclosure” in this present volume. Response to Robert Sokolowski 431 has sympathized with the later Husserl after 1918, who would make present the future absence of a completed system of phenomenology. “To make present” demands of us a kind of “ignorantia docta” about the limits of evidence, a sense of the experiential antinomies at least about a gracious God of infused virtue, and so also for the God of that “Christian distinction” that first provides, by its faith, the light of theological disclosure. The inability of not just ancient philosophy to make self-evident the God of grace becomes an inner moment of the theology of disclosure, which needs a form of philosophy accomplished in itself and yet aware of the limits of what it can ever make manifest with “the evidence of self-possession.” If with Hegel (but less optimistically than in the Philosophy of Right) philosophy can be described as “its epoch captured in thoughts,” then even faltering philosophies must be understood and respected as expressions of the perceived human needs of their day. Both the “gaudium et spes” and the “luctus et angor” of an epoch, both the “rose” of reason in the “cross” borne by an era (but also the “cross” of unreason hidden beneath what merely seems rosy about an age) may be traced in their philosophical expressions and in neighboring disciplines.17 Sokolowski’s sense of rest and motion in the history of philosophy and in its potential appropriation today leads to a more fundamental coupling of the near and the far, of the mutually qualifying dynamics of increasing presence and abiding absence.18 In his monograph designed to illuminate mutually the theology of disclosure and Eucharistic presence, Sokolowski emphasizes absence as “a particularly important theme in the understanding of human existence and in thinking about being.”19 Pointing to the “new context of past, present, and eternity” into which the Eucharist draws us, he expands the threefold signification with which Thomas Aquinas had opened his first book on the sacraments (the signum rememorativum, demonstrativum et prognosticum of genuine sacramentality)20 to disclosure in general. It is 17 18 19 20 See Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Grundlinien der Philosophie des Rechts, Werke 7 (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1986), 26. See also Richard Schenk, “The Place of Mimesis and the Apocalyptic: Toward a Typology of the ‘Far and Near,’” Contagion 20 (Spring 2013): 1–24. Robert Sokolowski, Eucharistic Presence: A Study in the Theology of Disclosure (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press 1993), 194. See Thomas Aquinas, In IV sent. d. 1, q. 1, a. 1, qa. 1, obj. 4: “Praeterea, triplex est signum; scilicet demonstrativum, quod est de praesenti; rememorativum, quod est de praeterito; prognosticum, quod est de futuro” (http:// www.corpusthomisticum.org/snp4001.html). See also Summa theologiae III, q. 60, a. 3, resp. (Rome: Editiones Paulinae, 1962) and the “O sacrum convivium” from the second vespers of the liturgy of Corpus Christi. 432 Richard Schenk, O.P. only by reference to these two forms of absence, to the initial Cross of Christ and to the eschaton that it anticipates, and thus also by reference to the community’s vis-à-vis—that is, to Christ himself as the primary subject of the Eucharistic sacrifice—that there is a manifestation of growing grace in the celebrating community (the “signum demonstrativum”).21 The theology of those theological virtues that are at the core of a theology of disclosure presupposes a similar sense of the absence of self-justifying acquired virtue. This sense of the absence of what could be acquired solely by human invention and practice, with its attention to the “epoch captured in thoughts,” is the condition of the possibility of a new dimension of disclosure and presence. It demands of theologians an understanding even for the more skeptical forms of philosophical thought and the sense of absence that they express. If we can bring out necessities in the way things must appear, we thereby say something about the being of such things. If things must be presented or absented in certain ways, if they demand to be distinguished from certain other things, it is because they exist in a certain way. It is not happenstance that Christian realities emerge by differentiation from natural things. The theology of disclosure and the theology of Christian things must therefore be developed in tandem.22 Sameness and Otherness: Sokolowski and the Conversation between Philosophy and Theology Even from this short response, it should be clear that the relationship between philosophy and theology can also be inscribed into the third coupled structure, that of sameness and otherness. Sokolowski frequently uses the metaphor of a “foil,” originally a folium or page of color used as a contrasting background to bring out the details of an otherwise overlooked dimension of an illustration or a gem. Philosophy is, however, not just the “other” than theology. As articulating many of the same and still other similar dynamics of presentation and absenting, there are moments of identity as well. Despite what might, at first, be suspected about a philosophically articulated theology, the 21 22 Immanuel Kant’s reference to this tripartite division of signs missed the sense of contemporary efficacy that Thomas had associated with the signum demonstrativum; see Immanuel Kant, Der Streit der Fakultäten, Zweiter Abschnitt, 5 (A 142), found in Werkausgabe, vol. 11, ed. Wilhelm Weischedel (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1977), 357. Sokolowski, The God of Faith and Reason, 93. Response to Robert Sokolowski 433 sameness and otherness of these partners in conversation profit from each other. Dialogues of all kinds are threatened from two sides: when the potential dialogue partners think they have nothing to say to one another and when one partner dictates the entire conversation. By contrast, what we might call a bilingual approach to the conversation of philosophy and theology can save us from one misunderstanding and fruitless controversy from the start, the question of which discipline is the mere ancilla or servant of the other. Fluency in both disciplines offers an alternative to monolinguism, to understanding just one language, but also to the search for some new form of Esperanto, some new common language that could replace the diversity of the two disciplines. A rationalism of the adventurous type (say, the Hegelian system of an Anton Günther, d.1863), or even a rationalism of the more cautious type (as the intentionally Kantian program of Georg Hermes, d. 1831), leaves little room for theological discourse. No less monological are claims by fideistic theologies to generate even basic philosophical insights and the very terms of God-talk of which fallen nature would otherwise be incapable. There is an alternative to these monologues, a sort of bilingualism, a fluency in theological and philosophical discourse that makes possible the best kind of translation, the chance to find in one’s mother tongue as yet unrealized possibilities already evident, or at least implicit, in a second language. The translation of the Hebrew, Greek, and Latin texts into the vernacular by, say, Aelfric or Luther, helped to shape and develop their own native languages, eliciting from them new possibilities thanks to the need to express what had been foreign to them. So too, the success of the conversation of philosophy and theology can be measured by the degree of their mutual service to each other. In the end, friendship is a more fitting metaphor than service, since it suggests that, at least at its most successful, the conversation of philosophy and theology will be motivated by the hope of sustaining and promoting each as a distinct and flourishing discipline. Professor Sokolowski has given us an example of how this interdisciplinary friendship can work to weather the N&V relationship’s periodic storms. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 2 (2016): 435–450 435 Omnisubjectivity: Why It Is a Divine Attribute Linda Zagzebski University of Oklahoma Norman, Oklahoma Introduction One of the most important discoveries in the history of philosophy was the discovery of subjectivity. What I mean by subjectivity is consciousness as it is experienced by the individual subject. At some point in the modern era, philosophers began to appreciate that the viewpoint of the individual subject cannot be reduced to an alleged objective viewpoint outside any person’s consciousness. Whether anything is lost by looking at persons from the outside rather than from the inside is an important question. But if persons are unique, as I believe they are, a primary candidate for their uniqueness is their unique perceptual perspective, and even more fundamentally, the uniqueness of contents of their consciousness. But subjectivity raises its own problems. One is the issue of how one person’s conscious experiences can be grasped by someone else. If the point of view of the subject is intrinsic to it, no one else can grasp it without “seeing through her eyes,” as we sometimes say. I have argued that the existence of subjectivity requires an addition to the traditional attributes of God. I call the attribute “omnisubjectivity.”1 It is the property of consciously grasping with perfect accuracy and completeness every conscious state of every creature from that creature’s own perspective, a perspective that is unique. I believe that, 1 I argued for the existence of the attribute of omnisubjectivity in “Omnisubjectivity,” Oxford Studies in Philosophy of Religion (volume one), edited by Jonathan Kvanvig, 2008, and in Omnisubjectivity: A Defense of a Divine Attribute (Aquinas Lecture 2013), Milwaukee: Marquette University Press, 2013. 436 Linda Zagzebski given the existence of conscious beings in the universe, the traditional attributes of omniscience and omnipresence entail omnisubjectivity and that it is implied in traditional practices of prayer. I believe that this attribute also gives us a way to think about the operations of grace, and it has implications for the doctrines of the Trinity and the Incarnation. Omniscience and Subjectivity Subjectivity can be approached in a number of different ways. In one of its senses, it is the feature of consciousness that allows us to say that there is such a thing as what it is like to have a conscious experience of a certain kind—what it is like to see the color red, what it is like to taste chocolate, what it is like to sense like a bat, what it is like to feel fear, and so on. Thomas Nagel gets the credit for calling our attention to subjectivity in this sense in his well-known essay “What Is It Like To Be a Bat?” This sense of subjectivity raises the problem of how a being can know what it is like to have conscious experiences that it cannot have. It would seem that only a bat can know what it is like to be a bat. A person blind from birth cannot know what it is like to see color. In fact, we can go further and say that even creatures who can see color do not know what it is like to see color if they have never seen color. That was one of the points of Frank Jackson’s famous thought experiment about Mary. In that story, we imagine that Mary has lived all her life in a black-and-white room and has never seen a single colored object. All of her education comes from black-and-white videos and books. Yet, we also imagine that Mary knows everything there is to know about the physical world. There is no physical fact she does not know. But Jackson concludes that she does not know everything there is to know because, when she leaves her black-and-white room and sees in color for the first time, she finds out something she did not know before. She finds out what it is like to see in color. Knowing what it is like to see in color is something that cannot be known descriptively. She knew complete descriptions of colored objects and human perception before. So even though Mary always was human, and hence was the kind of being who can see in color, she did not previously know what it is like to see in color because she had not yet experienced seeing color. The existence of subjectivity raises a further possibility. Maybe nobody but me sees exactly what I see when I see a red tulip at a particular time. Maybe nobody but me tastes exactly what I taste when I take a bite of a chocolate torte. Maybe nobody but me is in a state exactly like the state I am in when I feel anxious about a deadline. If Omnisubjectivity: Why It Is a Divine Attribute 437 so, how can anybody else know what it is like to have my conscious experiences? Even if they have felt something similar to the anxiety I feel, they do not know exactly what it is like for me to feel the anxiety I feel unless they have felt something qualitatively identical to my feeling. And of course, the same point applies to any conscious state. Talking about an imaginary person who has never seen in color is just a dramatic way to make the general point that a person must have been in a conscious state of a certain kind in order to know what it is like to be in such a state. What you feel when you feel anxious or cheerful or indignant or peaceful might be similar to feelings I have had, but if there are any differences, I cannot know exactly what it is like to have your feelings and you cannot know exactly what it like to have mine. I am sure you can see how this problem applies to God. How can a divine being know what it is like to be one of his creatures? No traditional Christian denies that God knows all the objective facts about his creation. God knows of every true proposition that it is true and of every false proposition that it is false, and he knows it with the greatest possible clarity and precision. The problem is that knowing all the facts about his creatures is not enough to know everything there is to know about his creatures because there is more to know about them than the facts. Having conscious states is a feature of conscious beings, perhaps the most important feature. If God knows everything, he must know the subjective part of his creation as well as the objective facts. He must know what it is like to see in color. But, like Mary, he cannot know what it is like to see in color unless he sees in color or has seen color in the past. Likewise, he cannot know what it is like to taste chocolate, feel anxiety, and so on unless he himself has had the conscious experience of tasting chocolate, feeling anxiety, and all the rest of the conscious states experienced by creatures. Even worse, if there are differences between different creatures in their sensations of color or their emotions or moods or other conscious states, it seems that God cannot know with complete accuracy what it is like to be in the conscious states of his creatures without having had conscious states exactly like those of each one of his creatures. Some philosophers will respond that this is not a problem for God’s knowledge because knowledge is directed at propositions and that as long as God grasps the truth value of all propositions, God is omniscient. There is nothing left to be known. This response does not solve the problem; it merely requires that it be reformulated. I do not insist that what God would lack if he lacked a grasp of what it is like to have the conscious experiences of his creatures is knowledge. The 438 Linda Zagzebski crucial point is that he would lack something, and what he would lack is cognitive. He would not fully cognitively grasp everything that happens in his creation. Each of us cognitively grasps what it is like to be in the conscious states we are in right now, and those states are parts of the created world. If God does not grasp those states and grasp them as well as we do, God is not cognitively perfect. As Aquinas says, “even the Philosopher considers it absurd that we should have cognition of something that God does not have cognition of.”2 Hence, if God is cognitively perfect, he must grasp what it is like to be his creatures and to have each and every one of their experiences. I will argue that the attribute of omnisubjectivity solves this problem. Omnipresence Another traditional attribute of God is omnipresence, or the property of being everywhere. Omnipresence has never received the attention of such attributes as omniscience and omnipotence, and what little attention it gets usually focuses on the puzzle of how an immaterial being can be present at all points of space. That puzzle is not my current concern, but the solution to the puzzle is interesting because it has an implication that nobody talks about, as far as I know. Anselm’s solution to the puzzle of omnipresence requires denying that being present at a point in space is to be extended in space or contained by some portion of space, the way a chair is contained by the room in which it is located and spread out on the floor beneath it, each part of the chair taking up a different portion of space. God has no parts and does not take up space, and God is not subject to spatio-temporal laws. God is wholly present in each part of the created world. But that means that there is nothing special about God’s presence in spatial beings as opposed to non-spatial beings. Anselm accepts that implication explicitly when he says: “The supreme nature exists in everything that exists, just as much as it exists in every place. It is not contained, but contains all, by permeating all. This we know. Why not say, then, that it is ‘everywhere’ (meaning in everything that exists) rather than ‘in every place.’”3 The solution to the puzzle of how an immaterial, non-spatial God can be present at all points of space has 2 3 St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae I, q. 14, a. 11 (trans. Alfred Freddoso at http://www3.nd.edu/~afreddos/summa-translation/TOC.htm). St. Anselm, Monologion 23, in Anselm of Canterbury: The Major Works, trans. by Simon Harrison, ed. Brian Davies and G. R. Evans (Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 1998). Omnisubjectivity: Why It Is a Divine Attribute 439 the consequence that omnipresence applies to the non-spatial part of the creation as well as to the spatial world. It seems to me that it is as reasonable to think that God is in every non-physical place as in every physical place. If God cannot be “in” a physical place the way a coffee cup is in the cupboard, any sense in which God can be in a physical place would apply to non-physical parts of the creation. I think, then, that omnisubjectivity is a requirement of omnipresence in this sense, but before I get to that, I want to look at another issue that is much more personal than the implications of divine attributes: the practice of prayer. The Practice of Prayer There is very little scholarly work on prayer by philosophers, and the little I know of usually focuses on issues about petitionary prayer. For instance, if God does not change, prayer cannot make him change, and if God is providential, there seems to be no need to pray anyway. But I am not focusing on any issues about petitionary prayer in particular. The issue I want to raise is how we understand what is going on between us and God when we pray any kind of prayer. It could be a prayer of praise, of thanksgiving, of contrition, or of request, or just a coming together with God. In Catholic theology, prayer is traditionally defined as raising one’s mind and heart to God. What is interesting to me about this definition is that it focuses on the human side of prayer and is curiously silent about the recipient. Does God hear our prayers? Most people who pray do not think of prayer as a form of talking to themselves. They will say that their prayers are directed to God, and they believe, or at least hope, that God hears their prayers. But it is hard to get clear on how God hears them. In communal prayer at Mass or a worship service, people pray out loud, but it is very unlikely that they think of God as hovering above them in the room. Obviously, they do not think they need to pray loudly to make sure God hears them. In fact, many prayers are not vocalized. The words are only in the head, yet we still think of that as prayer. If God can hear prayers, surely he can hear the words that are unspoken. As the psalmist says, “Before a word slips from my tongue, Lord, you know what I will say” (Ps 139). But consider also the practices of prayer that do not involve words, not even unspoken words. Many meditative practices begin with images before the mind, and in more advanced states of contemplation, the images disappear and the person feels herself or himself to be in the presence of God with neither words nor images. Is God aware 440 Linda Zagzebski of that person’s state? Well, why not? It seems to me it is no more difficult to imagine that than to imagine God hearing the unspoken words mentioned by the psalmist. In both cases God would have to be “in our head” to be aware of our mental state. But if he can be aware of words we are thinking, why not images we are having and feelings we are feeling? But what exactly is the connection between your psychic state when you are praying with or without words and God’s psychic state? One possibility is that your conscious space is occupied by two persons, or two conscious selves. That seems to make omnisubjectivity impossible because, sometimes, a self is just defined as the being who possesses a certain conscious space. A psychic state is individuated by its bearer. Only one being can be thinking the thought you are having right now, and that being is you. If someone else had that thought, it would not be that thought, although, of course, it could be like your thought in content. If you feel an itch, you are the being who has the itch. Nobody can have that particular itch but you. If you make a choice, you are the one making the choice. There cannot be any other being making that choice. If more than one being had those states, that would mean there are two of you, and that is impossible. We also need to avoid the consequence that, when you make a decision, God makes the decision, even when the decision is sinful. This view will not work on anything close to the traditional view of God. We need another model, one that does not require that God literally feels your feelings or makes your choices, but which also explains how God understands your prayers as well as you do. The Model of Empathy The model I will use starts with human empathy. I assume that empathy is a way of acquiring an emotion like that of another person. When Michael empathizes with Elizabeth’s grief, Michael becomes conscious of Elizabeth’s grief and acquires an emotion like that of Elizabeth in the process of taking on her perspective—imagining what it would be like to be Elizabeth in her situation as she sees it—to have lost her loved one and to have her personal history with that person. Michael’s grief is not identical to the grief Elizabeth has because human empathy is never a perfect copy, but more importantly, Michael’s emotion is consciously representational, whereas Elizabeth’s emotion is not. Elizabeth’s emotion comes first and has nothing to do with Michael. Michael’s emotion comes in response to hers, and loses its point if Omnisubjectivity: Why It Is a Divine Attribute 441 he discovers she does not have the emotion he thought she had. His psychic state includes his attempt at copying Elizabeth’s emotion “as if” from her first-person perspective, but it also includes his own ego. So he does not grieve over the death of Elizabeth’s father when he empathizes with her, but he imaginatively adopts a state of grieving as if he were Elizabeth. Although I assume that this experience of empathy is common, it is not important for my purpose that I have identified the features of every instance of human empathy. I am starting with the experience I have described because I think everyone has had an experience like it. I want us, then, to imagine expanding that experience to apply to the transference of other psychic states from one person to another, and we will use that as a model for the transference of all psychic states from a human to God. Suppose you imaginatively project yourself into another person’s perspective and attempt to copy other conscious states she has in the same way you attempt to copy her emotion when you empathize with her. We can do that with intimate friends, and we can often do that when we are reading a novel. As we imaginatively project ourselves into the character’s point of view, we imagine having his or her thoughts, beliefs, feelings, desires, sensations, and emotions, making choices and acting, and experiencing various responses from others as these states are described by the novelist. Our ability to do all of that is limited both by the novelist’s skill at description and by the fact that we have to depend upon our previous experience to use those descriptions in imagining what it is like to be the character in the novel. My conjecture is that novelists usually are fairly successful at conveying visual scenes because they can depend upon the readers’ past experiences of virtually all colors and shapes and most elements of nature that aid readers in imagining something visual. But it is harder for the writer to convey sounds and smells and tastes. If the writer says the character smells cinnamon, perhaps most readers can bring the smell to mind, but if the writer says the character smells Chinese Five Spice, many readers will not know what to imagine. The same point applies to tastes and sounds, and it certainly applies to emotions, which is the reason the young have so much trouble understanding stories in which complex emotions play a central role. Conveying the character’s thoughts, beliefs, and decisions is easier because those kinds of states are verbally mediated even within the character’s own mind, and since the novelist makes the character mentally verbalize, the 442 Linda Zagzebski reader can imagine the character’s experience of thinking, believing, and deciding from the character’s viewpoint. What we do when we imagine being the character and taking on the character’s beliefs and decisions in this way is analogous to empathizing with her feelings. Since we never forget that we are doing this in imagination, there is no difficulty of confusing who we are with who the character is. We are always aware that the character’s beliefs are not our own beliefs, that the character’s sensations are not our own sensations, and that the character’s decisions are not our own decisions. But we have an imaginative identification with the character that permits us to empathize—very imperfectly—with many different psychic states of the character, and thus to grasp—again very imperfectly—what it is like to be such a character. We can expand this model even further. What I will call total empathy is empathizing with every one of a person’s conscious states throughout that person’s entire life—every thought, belief, sensation, mood, desire, and choice, as well as every emotion. What I call perfect total empathy is a complete and accurate representation of all of a person’s conscious states. If A has perfect total empathy with B, then, whenever B is in a conscious state C, A acquires a state that is a perfectly accurate copy of C and A is aware that her conscious state is a copy of C. A is in this way able to grasp what it is like for B to be in state C. Because A is in an empathic state, A’s awareness of her ego is included in her empathic state, so an empathic state always includes something not included in the state of the person with whom she is empathizing. In addition, since she is always aware that her empathic copy is a copy, that her empathic copy of B’s awareness of being B is not an awareness of being B. Nobody can be aware of being B except B. I propose that God has total perfect empathy with all conscious beings who have ever lived or ever will live. That is the property I call omnisubjectivity. Since I also accept the traditional view that God knows everything directly, I propose that omnisubjectivity is direct acquaintance with the conscious states of creatures—like direct seeing, only without any physical distance between perceiver and perceived. It is not mediated by anything analogous to a novelist’s attempt to convey conscious states of an imaginary character to the reader, nor is it inferred from behavior, as in our experience of persons in daily life. Since it is not inferred, it does not require a similarity of past experience between God and creatures in order for God to understand the experience. There is no imaginary projection from the Omnisubjectivity: Why It Is a Divine Attribute 443 outside. What we do by imagining, God does by directly grasping someone’s conscious state. Since your state is from your first-person point of view, God grasps it from your first-person point of view, but in an empathic way, never forgetting that he is not you. Also, as with empathy, you may be unaware that there is someone empathizing with you. The empathizer’s consciousness does not necessarily affect what is going on in your own consciousness, although it can, and I will return to that briefly at the end of this essay. I think that the model of omnisubjectivity as total perfect empathy shows that omnisubjectivity is coherent. At least, I do not see anything that rules out its possibility. It does not rely upon the view that two distinct selves literally have the same conscious state. You and God are not confused or merged, and you are not a part of God. If omnisubjectivity is total perfect empathy, it is the most intimate acquaintance possible compatible with a separation of selves. I propose that omnisubjectivity resolves the puzzles I mentioned about the attributes of omniscience and omnipresence. If an omniscient being is a being who knows everything there is to know, that being must know what it is like to have every conscious experience anyone has ever had, and since each conscious experience is distinguished by the way it is experienced from the perspective of the subject, an omniscient being must know what it is like to have the experience from the perspective of the subject. God is not omniscient unless he is omnisubjective. The puzzle about omniscience is solved as long as omnisubjectivity is possible and an omnisubjective being knows what it is like to have each conscious state and knows it as well as the subject who is in that state. Omnisubjectivity recognizes that there is something that is learned through living a conscious life that cannot be learned any other way. What is learned through living a conscious life is not a list of facts. There is something about lived experience that cannot be summed up by facts about the world that are gleaned from that experience. I am suggesting, then, that God lives through the conscious experience of each being who possesses consciousness. He knows everything you know or understand from living your life, and similarly for every other conscious being. He knows what it is like to be you, what it is like to be your dog, and what it is like to be each and every animal that has conscious awareness. If I am right about that, omnisubjectivity is implied by the traditional solution to the puzzle of how an immaterial God can be present in all points of space. As I have said, the traditional answer to the puzzle 444 Linda Zagzebski is that an immaterial being is not present in space the way a material being is located in space or extended over some portion of space. Instead, to say God is omnipresent is to say at least this much: God is present to everything that exists, and is present to everything that is going on in the sense of being immediately and directly acquainted with it. “All things are naked and open to his eyes,” as Aquinas says,4 and that applies as much to the non-physical part of creation as to the physical part. If omnipresence means everything is immediately and directly grasped by God, then surely that includes not only objects located in space, but also conscious experiences that are not located in space. If God is truly everywhere, God must be omnisubjective. This brings me to the implications of prayer. What I have said about practices of prayer so far does not require the full attribute of omnisubjectivity because it does not require that God is intimately acquainted with the first-person perspective of beings who do not pray. But it requires at least the attribute of assuming the first-person perspective of all human beings who have ever lived and have ever prayed, or will ever live and will ever pray. However, I think that our practices of prayer do not assume that God becomes aware of our conscious life only at the moment of the prayer. How could we address God in prayer unless God was already aware of what was happening in our consciousness? If I am right about that, prayer is a practice of us noticing God more than of God noticing us. If so, our practices assume that God is directly acquainted with the conscious states of any being who can pray, whether or not that being actually prays. That would require the attribute of grasping the conscious states of all human beings from their own perspectives. We might call that attribute “omni-homo-subjectivity.” It would not apply to non-human conscious animals, animals who cannot pray. However, it seems to me that, if you accept such an attribute, it is but a small step to accepting the full attribute of omnisubjectivity. Surely a being who has the power to enter into the consciousness of a human also has the power to enter into the consciousness of all creatures with consciousness. If he can do it for one, he can do it for all of them. I have already argued that an omniscient God should be omnisubjective, and I have argued in this section that he can be omnisubjective. I am claiming now that we treat God as being omnisubjective in our practices of prayer. 4 St. Thomas Aquinas, Compendium theologiae bk. I, ch. 216, trans. Cyril Vollert (St Louis and London: B. Herder, 1947). Omnisubjectivity: Why It Is a Divine Attribute 445 The Trinity I assume the Christian doctrine of the Trinity according to which there are three divine Persons, but one nature. I interpret the doctrine to mean more than that the three Persons share a nature in the way you and I share a nature. If that was all there was to the doctrine, there would be no mystery to it, and the correct answer to the question “How many Gods are there?” would be “three.” But I assume there is one God, one divine being. I think also that there is only one divine substance, although I am not going to try to adjudicate controversies about the concepts of “being” and “substance” in this paper. I do, however, want to say something about the concept of a person, since it is a concept that connects the topic of this paper with the Trinity. I said at the beginning of this paper that I believe there is something unique about persons. I do not know whether the uniqueness is qualitative, meaning that each person has a different kind of experience than anyone else. To make this point another way, I do not know whether chocolate has a different kind of taste to one person than to another, whether each person’s fear has some qualitative difference from any other person’s fear, whether your thought that Oklahoma is a state in the middle of the United States has a different conceptual content than my thought that Oklahoma is a state in the middle of the United States. But I do think that there is something different in my consciousness that makes it impossible to duplicate and that is intrinsically connected to what makes me the person that I am. If the difference between my conscious states and your conscious states were merely qualitative, there would be nothing in principle preventing the duplication of my conscious states. But if there is something unique about each person, and if each person is essentially tied to her conscious states, then the difference between one person and another cannot be limited to a qualitative difference between the conscious states of one person and another. But what could it mean for there to be a non-qualitative difference between the conscious states of one person and another? In this paper, I have adopted the idea that one person necessarily differs from another in what we vaguely call “point of view.” This perceptual term is misleading because a person is not just the bearer of a particular view on the world. A person is also an agent, and while the nature of agency is one of the most trying of philosophical problems, I want to say at least this much: agents exist; the way an agent is understood by another agent is necessarily different from the way an agent understands herself; and there is something superior or more fundamental about the way an agent relates to herself than the way someone on the 446 Linda Zagzebski outside relates to her. When I say a person has a point of view that is necessarily unique, I mean to include the uniqueness of agency as well as the uniqueness in viewpoint on what is outside the agent. I have argued that God is not omniscient nor omnipresent unless God is in some sense “in” the mind of each conscious being, able to grasp what that being grasps in as perfect a way as it is possible to have, compatible with a distinction in persons. I think this point applies to the Persons of the Trinity. Intrinsic to the personhood of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit is a distinction in point of view. The point of view of the Father is necessarily distinct from the point of view of the Son and from the point of view of the Holy Spirit because, on my hypothesis, such a difference is intrinsic to the distinction in personhood. But if each Person of the Trinity is omnisubjective, each perfectly grasps the point of view of each other member of the Trinity, but does so in the way I have described, in which the omnisubjective person A grasps the conscious states of person B “as if” from B’s viewpoint, but never forgetting that A is himself. As I mentioned in describing empathy, when A empathizes with B, there is more in the consciousness of A than in the consciousness of B because A has her own ego in her consciousness as well as a simulacrum of the ego of B. On this model, the Father perfectly grasps the Son’s experience of suffering as if from the Son’s point of view, but the Father is aware of being the Father grasping the Son’s conscious state, and that is not identical to the Son’s grasp of his own state. But the Son is also omnisubjective. So the Son grasps all of the Father’s conscious states from the Father’s point of view, which means that the Son grasps the Father’s grasp of the Son’s conscious states. The same point applies, of course, to the Holy Spirit. I propose that each member of the Trinity is perfectly omnisubjective of each other member of the Trinity. The Trinity is a model of the most perfect understanding possible among persons, the most perfect understanding possible within a community of persons. The union of consciousness among the Persons of the Trinity is perfect, but that is compatible with a difference in the point of view of each member of the Trinity, and it is also compatible with the existence of qualitatively different conscious states among the members of the Trinity. What unifies them is not a qualitative similarity among all their conscious states, but a perfect grasp of each other. That grasp makes possible something else—perfect love among the three Persons. We cannot love what we cannot grasp. A perfect grasp makes possible perfect love. Omnisubjectivity: Why It Is a Divine Attribute 447 The Moral Objection Omnisubjectivity would be a problem if (a) some conscious states are immoral and (b) even the representation of such states in the consciousness of a perfectly empathic being is immoral. I will not deny that some conscious states are immoral. If an act is morally wrong, surely the conscious decision to perform the act is wrong, and probably also the intention to perform it. Motivational states and certain emotions might be wrong, as well—for example, hate, envy, bitterness, and despair. There are probably also morally wrong beliefs, such as the belief that some person does not deserve to be treated as a full person. There are so many examples that it does not matter if I am mistaken about some of them. Clearly, there are morally wrong conscious states. But if a state is wrong, is it wrong to consciously represent it? Once again, think about reading a novel. If a character is vicious, is there anything wrong with empathizing with that character’s vicious feelings, beliefs, or decisions? Surely there is nothing wrong with empathizing with the character’s decision or belief, since a representation of a decision is not a decision and the representation of a belief is not a belief. One can fully grasp a belief from the character’s viewpoint without having the belief, and likewise for a decision. But what about empathizing with a sensation or an emotion? As I have already suggested, a representation of a sensation is something very much like a sensation, and similarly for an emotion. One cannot grasp what it is like to see red without seeing red in imagination, and seeing red in imagination is very much like seeing red. The difference is that, when we humans imagine, we usually do not imagine as vividly as an actual sensation, but that is because of a defect in our imaginations. If we could imagine red perfectly, would not the sensation of red pop into our minds? I am not saying we would be confused about whether the imaginary sensation is an actual sensation. We would probably have a way to tell the difference—for instance, because we know we intentionally brought it to mind rather than had it inflicted on us by turning our heads. My point is not that we could not tell the difference. I am only suggesting that a copy of a red sensation is phenomenally very much like a red sensation. Even though the items in our imagination tend to be weaker than the items they copy, a perfect empathizer’s imagination would not be weaker. If there are morally bad sensations, an omnisubjective being would have a morally bad sensation. Or so it seems. 448 Linda Zagzebski The problem is aggravated when we look at copies of emotions. Possibly there are no morally bad sensations, but emotions are a harder kind of case. Suppose a person feels hatred, fury, or envy. Maybe someone takes pleasure in the pain of another. Would it not be morally wrong for a perfectly empathic being to consciously copy those conscious states? I think the answer is no, but to explain why I think that, I want to return to reading a novel or watching a movie. The most evil person I have ever seen depicted in any form—biography, novel, or film—is the character of Daniel Plainview, played by Daniel Day-Lewis in Paul Thomas Anderson’s movie There Will be Blood. Assuming you can tolerate watching this movie and can bring yourself to empathize with Daniel Plainview, you project yourself into the consciousness of a person who fears love and humiliates people who love him, who has no appreciation of the value of other persons, who enjoys inflicting pain, and who is treacherous, prideful, greedy, and so on. When you do that, you grasp the world and Plainview’s reactions to the world through his eyes, but you also respond to those attitudes and feelings as yourself. If you have a negative reaction to cruelty and greed and hate, you will have a negative reaction to your empathic copy of those psychic states. You “get” what it feels like to be hateful and greedy, but that does not make you hateful and greedy or even more likely to be hateful and greedy. In fact, it probably makes you less likely to be hateful and greedy. Since Plainview enjoys hurting people, empathizing with him will permit you to get what it feels like to enjoy hurting people, and I imagine you will feel revulsion for that feeling also. Of course, it can happen that empathizing with another person in the real or fictional world leads you to change your reaction to certain psychic states. You might even come to judge that someone’s feelings are not bad after all. Such a judgment is either correct or incorrect. If it is correct, it is no objection to the morality of empathizing with him. If it is incorrect, that is because you, the empathizer, have made a mistake in your reaction to the psychic state with which you are empathizing, but that is no objection to the empathic state. It is a problem with the reaction that you have as the empathizer. Since God does not make mistakes in his responses to states with which he empathizes, there is no danger that empathizing with a hateful person is a taint on God’s character, any more than it is a taint on your character if you empathize with Plainview in There Will Be Blood. In fact, I think a case can be made that God must empathize perfectly with a person’s conscious states in order to judge the person with complete accuracy and fairness. Omnisubjectivity: Why It Is a Divine Attribute 449 This answer will not satisfy someone who thinks that there are intrinsically immoral emotions and that the conscious representation of an intrinsically immoral emotion is itself intrinsically immoral. On this view God would be contaminated by his own creatures if he really grasped what it is like to have their bad feelings. God can only know these things in the abstract. According to this view, God can know that someone is hateful, but God cannot grasp what it feels like to be hateful without jeopardizing his own goodness. A perfectly good God must be shielded from too intimate a contact with certain human experiences. I find the idea that God would be less than fully perfect, and hence, less than divine, if he had too close a contact with the created world peculiar and quite implausible, but I doubt that this issue can be settled without a closer look at other Christian doctrines that pertain to the relationship between God and human beings, such as the doctrines of grace, providence, and sanctification, and I will only raise a couple of questions about the implications of these doctrines. For instance, given that a person in a state of grace shares in the divine life (1 Cor 1:9), does that sharing go both ways? I am inclined to think it does because intimate sharing between two persons always goes both ways. Sanctification may involve a breaking down of the barriers between human life and divine life so that, when a human being shares in the divine life, God also shares in our own lives. The issue of sharing lives is especially important when we think about love between God and individual human persons. Love is premised on understanding the other, and the fuller the understanding, the greater the possibility for love. The Trinity gives us a model of love between perfect persons that is generated from perfect comprehension of the other. St. Thomas understands the Second Person of the Trinity, or the Word, as the verbum mentale, or intellectual concept, of the Father. The Holy Spirit proceeds as an act of the divine will whereby the Father and the Son love each other. Although the three Persons of the Trinity are equal, the order of generation is important, the intellectual generation preceding the generation of the act of love. I am proposing that God’s love for each of us is generated from a preceding act of total, unmediated intellectual comprehension of us. God knows everything we know about ourselves through living our life, in addition to knowing all the things we do not know about ourselves. I am suggesting, then, that omnisubjectivity is a condition for the perfect love God has for us. 450 Linda Zagzebski Conclusion I like the attribute of omnisubjectivity because it is the most personal of divine attributes, and yet it is just as much a high metaphysical property as omniscience, omnipotence, and perfect goodness. It is an attribute we would expect in a perfect being, but it is not vulnerable to attack on the grounds that it belongs to the so-called “God of the philosophers,” who does not seem to be a person at all. The traditional “omni” attributes have often been criticized as a hold-over from Greek philosophy, insufficiently grounded in the Biblical message of a loving God who has continuous personal relationships with his people. In my view, omnisubjectivity ties omniscience and omnipresence to the personhood of God. It is the attribute of being omniscient and omnipresent in the most personal way. An omnisubjective God is the most intimately loving because he is the most intimately knowing. If there is an omnisubjective God, each of us has the comfort of knowing that, no matter what is going in, we are never truly alone. That knowledge allows some people to acquire a knowledge of God and a depth of love for him that would be impossible if there were not an omnisubjective God present to them. Perhaps mystics are those persons who become aware of God’s awareness of them, as we sometimes can do when someone is empathizing with us and we are able to detect the sharing of our emotion. That awareness brings us into the conscious life of the empathizer, and that can affect the way we think of our own experience and its significance. More importantly, it brings us into unity with the empathizer. We feel understood, accepted, sustained, and loved. We can understand and love others because we ourselves have been understood and loved in the way of perfect intimacy. N&V Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 2 (2016): 451–458 451 Response to Linda Zagzebski’s “Omnisubjectivity: Why It Is a Divine Attribute” Bernhard Blankenhorn, O.P. Pontifical University of St. Thomas Aquinas Rome, Italy Linda Zagzebski has made a strong case for the need to expand the list of divine attributes. In my view, she has successfully taken the philosophy of divine knowledge one step further. I agree with her main thesis: I think that omnisubjectivity follows directly from a classical Christian notion of God’s perfect knowledge coupled with a modern notion of human subjectivity. My comments will therefore focus on ways in which Zagzebski’s proposal might be nuanced or developed. Her stimulating insights deserve our closest attention. Zagzebski nicely distinguishes between human and divine empathy. In a human relationship, we try to represent for ourselves what another person experiences. But divine knowledge is direct, as Zagzebski affirms. God does not try to copy our consciousness within himself. That is, Zagzebski rightly warns us to recognize the immense difference between human and divine modes of knowing. I would like to take this approach a bit further by integrating the scholastic notion that God is present in all things as their cause. God’s knowledge of our conscious states and our first-person perspective is somewhat like a kind of direct window into the depth of the human self, yet it is also much more. For, God’s way of knowing individual creatures follows directly from his relationship to them as their Creator. Thus, God’s cognition occurs by his being the first cause of our conscious states, first-person perspectives, and acts of knowing, yet without violating 452 Bernhard Blankenhorn, O.P. human freedom.1 Any actuality and goodness that can be found in our mental acts utterly depend on the constant operation of the Creator God within us. According to Thomas Aquinas, God is the first cause of every human act (except for the evil element in human acts, though evil can never deprive an act of all metaphysical goodness). Consequently, God is also the first cause of our mode of knowing and of my way of perceiving my surroundings right now. If we do not give some account of divine knowledge as essentially causal (Thomistic or otherwise), then we end up making God’s knowledge reactive to our activity. This approach leads to endless metaphysical and theological problems and ultimately renders a Christian account of the divine life incoherent.2 Now, if we propose that God possesses omnisubjectivity as the first cause of all human subjectivity, then we move even further away from the notion that God’s knowledge involves an external perspective whereby he tries to climb into our heads and our emotions. In this way, God can precisely be aware of how Mary is aware of being Mary. Yet, because he is aware of Mary’s self-awareness as her Creator, God’s so-called conscious awareness remains distinct from hers. That is to say, God can have each of Mary’s thoughts and know them from her perspective, but because he always knows them as her primary cause, those thoughts remain distinctly hers. God’s knowledge as cause goes hand-in-hand with divine simplicity. The latter notion also helps us to grasp omnisubjectivity in a more coherent way. In himself, God does not have multiple thoughts, but only a single infinite thought whereby he knows all things, events, persons, and the whole of our lives. This single divine thought is identical with the divine essence. Now, when we posit God knowing things as cause and in an utterly simple way, we further transcend the problematic notion that divine cognition remains limited to the objects 1 2 Thomas Aquinas discusses the link between God’s knowledge and causality in Summa theologiae (hereafter, ST) I, q. 14, a. 8. For the non-competitive nature of divine causality and human freedom, see Michael J. Dodds, Unlocking Divine Action: Contemporary Science & Thomas Aquinas (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2012), 205–228; and Bernard Lonergan, Grace and Freedom: Operative Grace in the Thought of St. Thomas Aquinas, Collected Works of Bernard Lonergan 1 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2000). Process theologies and other major modern schools of thought that exclude the cause–knowledge link in God and introduce limit or finitude into the divine life lead to unacceptable theological consequences, as I argue at the end of this paper. Response to Linda Zagzebski’s 453 of propositional or factual knowledge, an idea that Zagzebski rightly rejects. Indeed, the latter model would seem to reduce the divine mind to some type of supercomputer. Now, the cosmos is filled with fascinating elements that can ground divine naming, such as love, beauty, and power, but computers make for very bad analogies when it comes to our way of conceiving and speaking about God, just as computers make for terribly misleading analogies for our way of conceiving the human mind. Thus, overall, omnisubjectivity deserves to be integrated more fully with a notion of the Creator God as the first cause of being, he whose being is utterly simple.3 I now come to my main critique of Zagzebski’s paper, which concerns her description of the Trinity. Having closely linked consciousness with personhood, she posits a qualitative difference between the knowledge possessed by the Father, the Son, and the Spirit. Each divine person perfectly grasps the experience of the other, she says. Furthermore, according to Zagzebski, each divine person enjoys a distinct point of view. I think that this notion stands in too great a tension with the Trinitarian theology that has constituted the classical position since the Cappadocian Fathers in the fourth century, namely, that the divine persons share a single divine operation. The three persons’ operational unity follows directly from the unicity of the divine nature. For, operation follows primarily from nature, not personhood. Operation naturally includes the act of knowing. Now, let me qualify my claim: recent studies in Trinitarian theology have certainly helped to recover the notion that each divine person acts according to their proper mode or their personal property. That is, divine action has a truly Trinitarian character. We find this position in many classical theologians, including Bonaventure, Albert the Great, and Thomas Aquinas.4 We can say that the Father knows as the ultimate source of the Son, the Spirit, and of all things, that the Son knows as the generated Word, and that the Spirit knows as spirated Love, the Love of Father and Son. However, the notion of three distinct conscious states in the Trinity strikes me as problem3 4 Let us note that Thomas’s approach to divine knowledge also avoids conceiving of God’s knowledge as operating in a propositional mode, since God’s knowledge is simple. See Gilles Emery, The Trinitarian Theology of Saint Thomas Aquinas, trans. Francesca Aran Murphy (Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 2007), chapter 14; and Emery, La Trinité créatrice: Trinité et création dans les commentaires aux Sentences de Thomas d’Aquin et de ses précurseurs Albert le Grand et Bonaventure, Bibliothèque Thomiste 47 (Paris: Vrin, 1995). 454 Bernhard Blankenhorn, O.P. atic. Can we refer to such distinct states without also positing three distinct divine minds? Would such distinct mental states not entail three separate acts of knowing? In that case, we risk moving toward three distinct divine agents. I do not see how this can be reconciled with unicity of the divine nature. I suspect that Zagzebski’s close link between personhood and a state of consciousness lies at the root of the problem. The classical vision of the Trinity focuses on a properly metaphysical understanding of personhood, of which the sixth-century philosopher Boethius offers a good representative: a person is an individual substance of a rational nature. Here, we are dealing with the level of first act (substance with its esse), which grounds second act or operation. Consciousness occurs at the level of second act. But if the divine nature is perfectly simple, then the distinction between first act and second act cannot be real in God. I agree that individual consciousness, relationality, and life in community are all crucial for a rich understanding of human personhood (at the level of second act), but these categories can mislead us when we try to apply them to divine persons. Here, we need a bit more apophatism, a bit more distance between our conception of human personhood and our way of understanding divine personhood. Also, the Swiss Dominican Gilles Emery has made a strong case for the claim that only a metaphysical approach to personhood can allow us to posit three divine persons in a coherent way, a way that avoids modalism and tritheism.5 A coherent Trinitarian theology demands both analogy and metaphysics for our way of conceiving divine personhood. I would now like to apply some of Zagzebski’s insights to the humanity of Christ as it relates to our subjectivity. I think that her proposal can be developed in a Christological way. For, the human soul of Christ can receive the gift of sharing in the Trinity’s omnisubjectivity through the direct, beatifying vision of the Father and the divine essence. Jesus thereby enters into deep empathy with us. First, I will treat the glorified Christ who abides in the presence of the Father since his Ascension, and then I will turn to Jesus’s earthly life. When Thomas Aquinas discusses Christ’s human vision of the Logos, he explains that, unlike other saints, the human soul of Jesus enjoys a particular privilege. Because all things will be submitted under his feet in the eschaton, and because Christ in his humanity is to judge the living and the dead, he must know the deeds and thoughts of 5 Gilles Emery, “The Dignity of Being a Substance: Person, Subsistence and Nature,” Nova et Vetera (English) 9 (2011). Response to Linda Zagzebski’s 455 those whom he is to judge.6 In other words, it is not just the hypostatic union, but also the nature of Christ’s saving mission that calls for this extraordinary knowledge of the lives of all human beings. The glorified Christ never judges in an arbitrary way: because he knows the depth of our minds and hearts, because he knows our personal history in the most intimate way, his judgment is utterly lucid, just, and most merciful. We can see how this leads directly to a profound empathy between the glorified Christ and human beings on their earthly pilgrimage: by sharing our first-person perspective, Jesus, in his humanity, can fully grasp our deepest motives and intentions, desires and longings, our reasons for acting virtuously, and the reasons for our shortcomings. Without a share in the Trinity’s omnisubjectivity, Christ could not perfectly fulfill his mission as eschatological judge, he who orders all things rightly and with mercy. We can claim omnisubjectivity for the glorified Christ without collapsing his two natures, for omnisubjectivity does not require an infinite mind (though it evidently constitutes an extraordinary noetic gift that Christ receives in his sacred humanity). Following the gospel passages that show Christ reading the minds of his interlocutors, Aquinas affirms Christ’s graced human ability to pierce the secrets of our hearts, all the while affirming that the same Christ cannot wrap his human mind around the infinite divine nature and all that the divine mind contains.7 Exhaustive knowledge of God and all that God can do escapes the human cognition of Christ, but I think that omnisubjectivity does not fall into this category. Now in addition to enabling Christ’s perfect and merciful judgment, omnisubjectivity could also shed new light on other important activities of the glorified Christ, especially his constant intercession for us as heavenly High Priest and his perfect friendship for us. Thus, Zagzebski’s proposals concerning omnisubjectivity and a philosophy of prayer can enrich a theological account of the glorified Christ who prays with and in us. Now let us consider how omnisubjectivity relates to Christ during his earthly life. Here, too, I posit Christ having the beatific vision already during and even before his passion.8 The beatific vision once again forms the bridge that makes it possible to attribute to Christ’s humanity some share in God’s omnisubjectivity. At first sight, such a Christology may seem naïve and outdated. However, the recent revival of so-called “High Christology” in biblical exegesis points in a 6 7 8 ST III, q. 10, a. 2. ST I, q. 12, a. 7; q. 14, a. 3; ST III, q. 10, aa. 1–2. ST III, q. 9, a. 2. 456 Bernhard Blankenhorn, O.P. different direction. Scholars such as Larry Hurtado and Simon Gathercole have shown convincingly that the doctrines of the pre-existent and divine Christ are neither a late-first-century invention nor limited to the Johannine literature.9 The need to account for Christ having some human awareness of his divine identity takes us directly to the issue of his beatific vision. Also, the French exegete André Feuillet has made a strong case that we have a biblical foundation to posit Christ’s pre-Paschal beatific vision. Feuillet appeals to the Johannine Prologue, Christ’s discourse with Nicodemus in John 3, and Jesus’s cry of jubilation in Matthew 11 (about the revelation that God has made to his little ones).10 The French Dominican Emmanuel Durand builds on this exegesis and offers further theological arguments for Christ’s pre-Paschal beatific vision.11 If Durand is correct, then we can go even further in applying some share in divine omnisubjectivity to Christ’s humanity. Let us recall that his beatific vision of the Father does not suffice to establish that the pre-glorified Christ already knows all the thoughts and deeds of every human being. As noted, Aquinas links Christ’s knowledge of our thoughts and deeds with his mission as eschatological judge. Interestingly, Durand sees Christ’s knowledge of others’ thoughts as either linked to the beatific vision or to a type of habitual prophetic cognition. Durand holds that Christ’s knowledge of our thoughts may be distinct from what he learns via the beatific vision.12 I would go one step further and argue that some type of extraordinary awareness of all human hearts was crucial for Christ to make a perfect offering of himself on the Cross for each of us and our salvation. Aquinas makes a similar claim as he appeals to Galatians 2:20, where Paul exclaims: “Christ loved me and gave himself up for me.”13 9 10 11 12 13 See Simon Gathercole, The Preexistent Son: Recovering the Christologies of Matthew, Mark and Luke (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, 2006), and Larry W. Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ: Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, 2005). André Feuillet, “La science de vision de Jésus et les évangiles,” Doctor Communis 36 (1983): 158–179. Emmanuel Durand, L’offre universelle du salut en Christ, Cogitatio Fidei 285 (Paris: Cerf, 2012), 156–173. Ibid., 169–173. Pope Pius XII’s encyclical Mystici Corporis (1943), §75, and the Catechism of the Catholic Church, §478, read this Pauline text in a similar way. The Catechism does not explicitly evoke Christ’s beatific vision in relation to Galatians 2:20, but it does refer to the Incarnate Word having an immediate knowledge of the Father (§473). Response to Linda Zagzebski’s 457 This Christology can be enriched by integrating Zagzebski’s insights on omnisubjectivity. Here, I would posit a distinction between the glorified Christ’s perfect share in divine omnisubjectivity and his limited share in that subjectivity before the Resurrection. That is, it is not clear to me that Christ had to know the whole of our lives and perceive our first-person perspective for every thought and act in order to make a perfect sacrifice and enter into perfect compassion with us on the Cross. One can also give numerous biblical arguments for placing limits on Christ’s knowledge of human hearts before his glorification. For example, during his ministry, Jesus did not read the hearts of all those whom he encountered, for he also expressed surprise at several key moments. Perhaps Christ’s human knowledge of each individual person and life from a shared first-person perspective need not have been actualized before the Passion. However, might a powerful yet partial participation in divine omnisubjectivity have become actual in Christ’s human soul precisely in the moment of the Passion, the very moment when such extraordinary knowledge would enable a perfect human love for each human person? As Zagzebski recalls, perfect knowledge grounds perfect love. Finally, I should point out one of several advantages behind this Christology as it relates to omnisubjectivity, as well as the imperfect omnisubjectivity just described. If we maintain that Christ’s human soul had a partial glimpse of our consciousness during his Passion, then we can give a powerful account of his perfect compassion for us. Consequently, the infinitely loving and immutable compassion of the three divine persons in their shared divine nature finds its complement in the suffering compassion of Christ’s human nature. That is, we can locate in the Second Person of the Trinity a perfect empathy that concretizes itself as a way of suffering with us precisely in the moment of the Passion. On Calvary, by a single, intuitive flash, Christ’s human soul glimpses something of our lives from the perspective that each of us has. This supernatural cognition provokes in Christ an act of perfect human love for us. That love is intimately joined to his suffering in his human nature. This would also allow us to posit a perfect suffering compassion in Christ without turning suffering into a divine perfection. Thus, by integrating Zagzebski’s proposal into Christology, we can offer a richer account of Christ’s perfect, human compassion. There is a payoff in keeping the operations of the two natures of Christ distinct on this point. The notion of divine suffering seems to remain popular today. But I suspect that it leads to endless problems. For if God suffers, then he suffers eternally. If God suffers, then 458 Bernhard Blankenhorn, O.P. suffering is a divine perfection. But this would mean that our destiny in heaven would involve a share in God’s suffering, for heaven is the place of human perfection, of us becoming like God in the most intense way possible without losing our creaturely status. Divine suffering thus leads directly to a heaven filled with human suffering. But that is precisely not the heaven revealed to us in the Bible’s apocalyptic literature or other eschatological texts of Scripture. Rather, we want to maintain both God’s perfect, immutable compassion that entails no suffering in the divine nature and a perfect, suffering compassion in the humanity of Christ. The latter may well require something like Christ having the beatific vision before his glorification. We can see that the pastoral consequences of the theology of Christ’s beatific vision are considerable. That being said, I do not doubt that Aquinas’s Christology needs modification and development. But we hardly need to dismiss his metaphysical Christology as outdated or the whole of Aquinas’s psychology of Christ as exegetically surpassed. Overall then, I think that Zagzebski’s insightful proposal needs the classical notion that God knows as cause in order to remain internally coherent and in harmony with both Scripture and Tradition. In addition, any Trinitarian account of omnisubjectivity should integrate a healthy dose of apophatism and some type of substance metaphysics, so as to avoid both tritheism and modalism. Finally, Christology can gain much from Zagzebski’s philosophical claim, especially when we integrate it with the seemingly outdated “High Christology” of the medieval scholastics and their successors. Here, the partial complementarity of analytic and scholastic modes of thought comes N&V to light. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 2 (2016): 459–494 459 From Aristotle to John Searle and Back Again: Formal Causes, Teleology, and Computation in Nature Edward Feser Pasadena City College Pasadena, CA Introduction Talk of information , algorithms, software, and other computational notions is commonplace in the work of contemporary philosophers, cognitive scientists, biologists, and physicists. These notions are regarded as essential to the description and explanation of physical, biological, and psychological phenomena. Yet, a powerful objection has been raised by John Searle, who argues that computational features are observer-relative, rather than intrinsic to natural processes. If Searle is right, then computation is not a natural kind, but rather a kind of human artifact, and is therefore unavailable for purposes of scientific explanation. In this paper, I argue that Searle’s objection has not been, and cannot be, successfully rebutted by his naturalist critics. I also argue, however, that computational descriptions do indeed track what Daniel Dennett calls “real patterns” in nature. The way to resolve this aporia is to see that the computational notions are essentially a recapitulation of the Aristotelian-Scholastic notions of formal and final causality, purportedly banished from modern science by the “mechanical philosophy” of Galileo, Descartes, Boyle, and Newton. Given this “mechanical” conception of nature, Searle’s critique of computationalism is unanswerable. If there is truth in computational approaches, then this can be made sense of, and Searle’s objection rebutted, but only if we return to a broadly Aristotelian-Scholastic philosophy of nature. 460 Edward Feser The plan of the paper is as follows. The next section (“From Scholasticism to Mechanism”) provides a brief account of the relevant Aristotelian notions and of their purported supersession in the early modern period. The third section (“The Computational Paradigm”) surveys the role computational notions play in contemporary philosophy, cognitive science, and natural science. The following section (“Searle’s Critique”) offers an exposition and qualified defense of Searle’s objection to treating computation as an intrinsic feature of the physical world—an objection that, it should be noted at the outset, is independent of and more fundamental than his famous “Chinese Room” argument. In the fifth section (“Aristotle’s Revenge”), I argue that the computational paradigm at issue essentially recapitulates certain key Aristotelian-Scholastic notions commonly assumed to have been long ago refuted and that a return to an Aristotelian philosophy of nature is the only way for the computationalist to rebut Searle’s critique. Finally, in “Theological Implications,” I explore ways in which computationalism, understood in Aristotelian terms, provides conceptual common ground between natural science, philosophy, and theology. From Scholasticism to Mechanism Scholastic thinkers, building on Aristotle, developed a complex network of interrelated concepts they regarded as essential to understanding the natural order. These include the distinctions between actuality and potentiality, substance and accidents, substantial form and prime matter, efficient and final causes, and so on. Contrary to a very common misconception, these notions are not in competition with scientific explanations as we now understand the notion of a scientific explanation. Rather, they are part of a metaphysical framework that, the Scholastic maintains, any possible scientific explanation must presuppose, and in light of which the results of scientific investigation must be interpreted. I happen to think this framework is correct, and I have presented a thorough exposition and defense of it in my book Scholastic Metaphysics.1 For present purposes, three Aristotelian-Scholastic notions are especially important: substantial form, immanent teleology, and proportionate causality. Let’s consider each one in turn. A “substantial form” 1 Edward Feser, Scholastic Metaphysics: A Contemporary Introduction (Heusenstamm; Piscataway, NJ: Editiones Scholasticae; Transaction Publishers, 2014). For another recent book-length defense, see David S. Oderberg, Real Essentialism (London: Routledge, 2007). Formal Causes, Teleology, and Computation in Nature 461 is contrasted with an “accidental form,” and the difference can be illustrated with a simple example. Consider a liana vine, which is the sort of vine Tarzan uses to swing around the jungle. Like any natural object, a liana vine has certain characteristic properties and operations. It takes in water and nutrients from the soil through its roots, exhibits distinctive growth patterns, and so forth. Suppose Tarzan makes a hammock using several living liana vines. The resulting object will also have certain distinctive features, such as being strong enough to support a grown man, being comfortable enough to take a nap in, and so on. Now there is a clear difference between these two sets of features. The tendencies to take in water and nutrients, to exhibit certain growth patterns, and the like are intrinsic to or “built into” the liana vines. That is just what healthy vines will do when left to themselves. Functioning like a hammock, however, is not intrinsic to the vines, but extrinsic or imposed from outside. The vines not only have no “built in” tendency to function like a hammock, but over time will no doubt lose their suitability so to function unless Tarzan occasionally prunes and reties them. Taking in nutrients, growing in certain patterns, and the like, are natural to liana vines, but functioning as a hammock is not. The Scholastic would express this difference by saying that to be a liana vine is to have a certain substantial form, whereas to be a hammock is to have only a certain accidental form. Artifacts are the stock examples of objects having only accidental forms, but it is important to emphasize that the distinction between accidental forms and substantial forms does not correspond exactly to the distinction between man-made objects and objects that exist “in the wild.” Breeds of dog are in a sense man-made, but dogs still have substantial forms rather than accidental forms. A pile of stones that has formed randomly at the bottom of a hill is not man-made but still has only an accidental form rather than a substantial form, since the rocks have no intrinsic tendency to form a pile. It is not the fact of occurring “in the wild” rather than being man-made, but rather the having of an intrinsic rather than extrinsic tendency to manifest certain characteristic properties and activities that is the mark of the presence of a substantial rather than accidental form. A “natural” tendency, in the technical Scholastic sense, is one that follows from the having of a substantial rather than accidental form. Hence something man-made (such as children, new breeds of dog, or water synthesized in a lab) can be “natural” in the relevant sense, whereas some objects that occur “in the wild” (such as random piles of stones) are not “natural” in the relevant sense. 462 Edward Feser An intrinsic tendency of the sort in question confers a unity on the object that has it which makes of it a true substance. Objects having tendencies of only the extrinsic sort are, in the Scholastic view, not true substances, but rather accidental features of components which are themselves true substances. Hence a stone has a substantial form and is thus a true substance, but a pile of stones is not, the form of a pile being only an accidental form that several stones have taken on. A liana vine has a substantial form and is thus a true substance, whereas a hammock made out of liana vines is not, the form of a hammock being only an accidental form that several liana vines have taken on. As Eleonore Stump has suggested, an indicator of the presence of a true substance, and thus of something having a substantial rather than merely accidental form, is the possession of irreducible causal powers.2 A liana vine has causal powers that are irreducible to those of the cells that make it up, whereas the causal powers of a hammock are nothing over and above the aggregate of the causal powers of its component vines. Stone has causal powers that are irreducible to those of the molecules that make up the stone, whereas the causal powers of a pile of stones are nothing over and above the aggregate of the causal powers of the individual stones in the pile, and so forth. A difference of substantial forms thus entails a difference of substances, each with its distinctive causal powers. There is an obvious way in which the notion of immanent teleology is implicit in what has been said so far. For something to exhibit teleology is for it to point to or be directed toward some end or outcome. For it to exhibit immanent teleology is for this directedness to be intrinsic to it, rather than imposed from outside. Liana vines are directed toward outcomes—drawing in nutrients and water, growing in certain patterns, and so forth—intrinsically, just by virtue of being the kind of thing they are. That is to say, they are directed toward those outcomes by virtue of having a certain substantial form. Liana vines are directed toward functioning as a hammock only extrinsically, by virtue of some end or outcome imposed on them from outside. That is to say, they are directed toward that end only by virtue of having a certain accidental form. As this indicates, while writers like William Paley famously emphasize the similarity between organisms and artifacts, Aristotle and the 2 Eleonore Stump, “Emergence, Causal Powers, and Aristotelianism in Metaphysics,” in Powers and Capacities in Philosophy: The New Aristotelianism, ed. Ruth Groff and John Greco (London: Routledge, 2013). Formal Causes, Teleology, and Computation in Nature 463 Scholastic writers who build on his work instead contrast organisms with artifacts. For the Aristotelian, organisms are not like artifacts precisely insofar as they have substantial forms and immanent teleology, while artifacts have only accidental forms and extrinsic teleology.3 Paley and his followers also put a heavy emphasis on biological function, but for the Scholastic, biological function is just a special and more complex instance of a wider and usually much simpler phenomenon. Immanent teleology exists wherever there is causation. If a cause A regularly generates a certain specific effect or range of effects B, rather than C or D, or no effect at all, that can only be because generating B is the end or outcome toward which A intrinsically points or is directed. Hence, the phosphorus in the head of a match will, as long as the match has not been damaged, generate flame and heat when the match is struck rather than frost and cold, or rather than turning the match into a bouquet of flowers or a piece of spaghetti. Ice submerged in room-temperature water will cool it down rather than cause it to boil or to change it into oil, and so forth. Unless we suppose that the causes in question are inherently or of their nature directed toward those effects, then in the Scholastic view, we have no way of making intelligible why it is those specific effects that the causes in question in fact reliably produce. In this way, what Aristotelians traditionally call efficient causality presupposes final causality. This Scholastic theme has been recapitulated in recent analytic philosophy among writers who argue for the reality of causal powers or dispositions. At least some such writers argue that dispositions are “directed toward” their manifestations. Hence, brittleness is directed toward shattering as its characteristic manifestation, solubility is directed toward dissolving as its characteristic manifestation, and so forth. Since this directedness is somewhat like the directedness of thoughts toward their objects, but in a way that involves no conscious awareness or mental content, and since it is taken by these theorists to be an intrinsic feature of the physical or natural world, George Molnar has labeled it “physical intentionality,” and John Heil calls it “natural intentionality.”4 But it is essentially what the Scholastics had in mind in affirming final causality or teleology as immanent to the natural order. 3 4 See Edward Feser, “Teleology: A Shopper’s Guide,” Philosophia Christi 12 (2010): 142–159. George Molnar, Powers: A Study in Metaphysics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), chapter 3; and John Heil, From an Ontological Point of View (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2003), 221–222. 464 Edward Feser Now, if efficient causes point forward toward their characteristic effects, effects also point backward toward their causes. This brings us to what Scholastic writers sometimes call the principle of proportionate causality, according to which whatever is in an effect must in some way or another be in its total cause, whether “formally,” “virtually,” or “eminently” (to use the traditional jargon). Suppose you need twenty dollars and I give it to you. The effect is your having a twenty-dollar bill. It might be that the way I was able to bring this about is by virtue of actually having a twenty-dollar bill with me. That would be a case where what is in the effect was in the cause “formally”; that is to say, you have the “form” or fit the pattern of possessing a twenty-dollar bill because I actually had that very same form or fit that pattern myself. It could instead be, though, that I did not initially have twenty dollars on me, but I did have at least that much in my bank account and could go retrieve it on demand. In that case, what is in the effect was in the total cause (namely me and my bank account) “virtually.” The twenty-dollar bill was not actually or formally present, but it could be generated at will. Or, to take a more exotic case, suppose I did not have even twenty dollars in the bank, but did have access to a U.S. Treasury printing press and ran off a brand new twenty-dollar note to give to you. In that case, although I did not have twenty dollars “formally” or “virtually,” I did have it “eminently,” in the sense that I had something even more fundamental, the power to generate a new twenty-dollar bill. A lot more could be said, but that suffices to give us a sense of the relevant Scholastic ideas. Now, the early modern philosophers replaced this Aristotelian-Scholastic conception of nature with what is sometimes called a “mechanistic” conception. Much of what was originally associated with mechanism (such as the idea that all physical causation could be understood on a simple push-pull model) has been long abandoned, but the core idea that has persisted to the present day is that there is no irreducible teleology or final causality immanent to nature. A corollary is that there are no substantial forms (since, as we have seen, to have a substantial form entails having an intrinsic tendency toward the manifestation of certain characteristic properties and activities). The way this mechanistic alternative view was initially spelled out was in theological terms. Natural objects were reconceived by thinkers like Newton and Paley as divine artifacts. Just as Tarzan’s hammock in our earlier example has only an accidental form and its function is an instance of extrinsic or externally imposed teleology, so too natural Formal Causes, Teleology, and Computation in Nature 465 objects themselves were to be understood as machines on which a kind of accidental form and extrinsic teleology or function has been imposed by God. “Laws of nature” were, in effect, descriptions of the patterns of operation the divine artificer had put into his artifacts. Later thinkers would, of course, remove God from the picture, but though that step is commonly treated as if it were a move away from obscurantism, in fact it only made the overall metaphysical situation murkier. For the Scholastics, there was a tight intrinsic metaphysical connection between the substances that make up the natural order and the events into which they enter. For, by virtue of a thing’s substantial form, its causal powers inherently point toward certain effects as toward a final cause, and nothing in any effect could have gotten there unless it were in some way in its cause. The early, theologically-oriented “mechanical philosophers” replaced these intrinsic connections between objects and events with a set of extrinsic connections directly established by God—in effect, with divinely imposed accidental forms and extrinsic teleology. But if we abandon both the Aristotelian apparatus of immanent formal and final causes and the early modern conception of God as artificer, it seems we are left with neither an intrinsic nor an extrinsic source of the order in the world, and thus with no source of order at all. That is, of course, exactly what we find in Hume, for whom all events are inherently “loose and separate.” In Hume’s view, and contrary to the Scholastic doctrines of substantial form and immanent teleology, any effect or none may follow upon any cause. Contrary to the Scholastic principle of proportionate causality, anything might, in principle, come into being with no cause whatsoever. Contrary to early modern “mechanical philosophers” like Descartes, Newton, and Paley, we cannot appeal to God either as the source of order in the world. Many contemporary philosophers would, of course, appeal to a non-theological version of “laws of nature” as an explanation, but that just raises the question of what a law of nature is if it is neither a shorthand description of the way a thing will operate given its substantial form (which is what the Scholastic would say) nor a direct divine decree (which is what Descartes, Newton, and company would say). The standard Humean view is that a “law of nature” is a statement of the regularities that happen as a matter of fact to exist in nature. The trouble is that, if that is what a law is, then it is really just a re-description in novel jargon of the order that exists in the world. And in that case, it cannot explain that order. 466 Edward Feser That the modern “mechanistic” conception of nature has left the status of the “laws of nature” so puzzling is, as we will see, arguably part of the reason for the appeal of the computational paradigm. Let us now turn to that. The Computational Paradigm Fundamental to the notion that natural processes are computational is the idea of information. The term “information” has become something of a buzzword in contemporary pop-science writing, and unfortunately it is not always used with precision. It is generally acknowledged, however, that the sense of the term operative in computer science, and thus in arguments to the effect that computational processes literally exist in nature, is not the everyday sense of the term, but rather a technical sense. The technical sense in question is essentially the one associated with mathematician Claude Shannon’s celebrated theory of information.5 Shannon was concerned with information in a syntactic rather than semantic sense. Consider the bit, the basic unit of information, which has one of two possible values, usually represented as either 0 or 1. To consider a bit or string of bits (e.g., “11010001”) in terms of some interpretation or meaning we have attributed to it would be to consider it semantically. Semantic information is the sort of thing we have in mind when we speak of “information” in the ordinary sense. To consider the properties a bit or string of bits has merely as an uninterpreted symbol or string of symbols is to consider it syntactically. This is “information” in the technical sense. When instantiated physically, a bit corresponds to one of two physical states, such as either of two positions of a switch, two distinct voltage levels, or what have you. As David Chalmers points out, when physically instantiated, information in this technical sense essentially involves a causal correlation between a physical state of the sort in question and some effect at the end of a causal pathway leading from that state.6 Think, for example, of the correlation between a switch’s being either up or down and the light to which it is connected being either on or off. The position of the switch carries a single bit of information, and any physical 5 6 Claude E. Shannon and Warren Weaver, The Mathematical Theory of Communication (Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press, 1949). David J. Chalmers, The Conscious Mind (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 281. Formal Causes, Teleology, and Computation in Nature 467 state that has the same effect down the causal pathway will carry the same information. Several switches (or, again, several distinct voltage levels or whatever) taken together will, naturally, carry more information. Following Chalmers, we can describe a combination of possible physical states (such as a combination of possible sets of positions of a number of switches) as an “information space.” The structure of any information space will correspond to the structure of the set of possible effects down the causal pathway from the physical states that make up the information space. Since it will be useful later on in our discussion, let me quote at length from Chalmers’s example of the information carried by a compact disc. He writes: A disk [sic] has an infinite number of possible physical states, but when its effects on a compact-disk player are considered, it realizes only a finite number of possible information states. Many changes in the disk—a microscopic alteration below the level of resolution of the optical reading device, or a small scratch on the disk, or a large mark on the reverse side—make no difference to the functioning of the system. The only differences relevant to the disk’s information state are those that are reflected in the output of the optical reading device. These are the differences in the presence of pits and lands on the disk, which correspond to what we think of as “bits.” . . . The physical states of different pressings of the same recording will be associated with the same information state, if all goes well. Pressings of different recordings, or indeed imperfect pressings of the same recording, will be associated with different information states, due to their different effects. . . . Each “bit” on the compact disk has an independent effect on the compact disk player, so that each location on the disk can be seen to realize a two-state subspace of its own. Putting all these independent effects together, we find a combinatorial structure in the space of total effects of a compact disk, and so we can find the same combinatorial structure in the information space that the compact disk realizes.7 7 Ibid., 282. 468 Edward Feser As this example indicates, the amount of “information,” in the sense in question, that might be transmitted along a causal pathway is quantifiable, and that is what Shannon’s theory of information is concerned with. That what comes out of the compact disc player when the disc is played counts as music—that the lyrics have a certain meaning and so forth—is completely irrelevant to how much information is transmitted. Again, “information” is being used here in a syntactic rather than semantic sense. What is at issue is what effects a bit or string of bits has considered merely as an uninterpreted symbol or string of symbols and entirely apart from what meaning or interpretation we assign to them. Now, computers are said to process information. This is what happens when (to stick with Chalmers’s compact disc example) you place a CD-ROM into your computer and the text file you have saved on it appears onscreen as a document written in English. Of course, you will not find anything that looks like English words on the CD-ROM. What happens is that the electrical states of the computer serve as a causal pathway by which the information state embodied in the CD-ROM generates the images on the screen. The information on the CD-ROM is the input, the images on the screen are the output, and the computer moves from the former to the latter because it is running an appropriate algorithm or set of instructions. But of course, you also will not find anything in the computer that looks like a set of instructions. The algorithm is itself embodied as information in the relevant sense—that is to say, as a certain configuration of electrical states. As biologist John Mayfield writes: “A computer can be seen as a device in which one state (the input) interacts with another state (the current machine configuration) to produce a final state (the output).”8 Computation is just this transition from states that can be characterized as embodying an informational input via states that can be characterized as the embodiment of an algorithm into states that can be characterized as the output of the algorithm. A key property of computations is that you will not get more information out of them than went into them. As Mayfield puts it: “Algorithmic information shares with Shannon information the property that it cannot be created during a deterministic computation. The information content of the output can be less than that of the input, but not greater. Thus, algorithmic information conforms with our intuitive notion that information cannot be created out of thin air.”9 8 9 John E. Mayfield, The Engine of Complexity: Evolution as Computation (New York: Columbia University Press, 2013), 45. Ibid., 50. Formal Causes, Teleology, and Computation in Nature 469 Now, many contemporary philosophers and scientists hold that computation can be found not only in the machines we design for that purpose, but also in the natural world. In particular, the notions of information, algorithms, and the like have been claimed to have application to the understanding of phenomena studied in physics, biology, and neuroscience.10 Consider physicist John Wheeler’s famous “It from Bit” thesis.11 The idea here is that, rather than physical states being metaphysically fundamental and information derivative, it is information (the “bit”) that is metaphysically fundamental and the physical universe (the “it”) that derives from information. Physicist Seth Lloyd and others have developed the theme into the suggestion that the universe just is a gigantic computer.12 What exactly does all this mean, and why would anyone think it true? Chalmers and physicist Paul Davies suggest illuminating interpretations. Following Bertrand Russell, Chalmers notes that physics does not tell us the intrinsic nature of the fundamental entities it posits: “Physics tells us nothing about what mass is, or what charge is: it simply tells us the range of different values that these features can take on, and it tells us their effects on other features.”13 Having mass or charge, like carrying syntactic information, is simply a matter of being in one of several states in a space of different possible states that might generate various outcomes at the end of causal pathways leading from those states. Now, if the fundamental entities of physics are essentially characterized in terms of their effects, and if to be information in the syntactical sense is just to have certain characteristic effects, then what physics gives us (Chalmers proposes) is essentially an informational conception of its fundamental entities. Davies, noting that the idea of “laws of nature” is metaphysically problematic when removed from the theological context in terms of which Descartes and Newton understood it, proposes grounding laws instead in information considered as the “ontological basement” 10 11 12 13 For a useful collection of papers on the subject, see Information and the Nature of Reality: From Physics to Metaphysics, ed. Paul Davies and Niels Henrik Gregersen (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2010). John Archibald Wheeler, with Kenneth Ford, Geons, Black Holes, and Quantum Foam: A Life in Physics (New York: W.W. Norton and Company, 1998), chapter 15. Seth Lloyd, Programming the Universe (New York: Vintage Books, 2006); see also Lloyd, “The Computational Universe,” in Davies and Gregersen, Information and the Nature of Reality. Chalmers, The Conscious Mind, 302. 470 Edward Feser level of physical reality.14 Physicist Rolf Landauer had put forward the thesis that the laws of physics are the algorithms according to which the universe computes.15 Expounding Landauer’s position, Davies notes that it opens up the possibility of seeing “the laws of physics [as] inherent in and emergent with the universe, not transcendent of it.”16 When combined, Chalmers’s and Davies’s views suggest that the notion of the universe as a kind of computer provides a way of bringing the laws of physics “down to earth,” as it were, and unifying them with the entities they govern. As we saw above, syntactic information is embodied in physical states correlated with some effect at the end of a causal pathway, and the algorithms by which this information is processed are themselves embodied as information and, thus, embodied in such physical states. If the universe is a kind of computer, then it is governed by the laws of nature in the same way a computer runs an algorithm, and the laws relate to the entities they govern the same way an algorithm is related to the physical states of a computer whose causal relations it describes. The puzzle about the status of the laws of nature that Hume left us with is thereby solved, or so it might seem. The notions of information, algorithms, and the like have, if anything, played an even bigger role in biology. That genes carry syntactic or Shannon information about phenotypes is fairly uncontroversial, since this simply involves causal correlations between genetic factors and aspects of a phenotype. More controversial is whether there is semantic information to be found in biological phenomena—information with something comparable to the meaning or intentional content characteristic of thoughts and linguistic representations. Certainly biologists often describe the phenomena they study in ways that imply that there is such information. As philosopher of biology Alex Rosenberg notes: Molecular biology is . . . riddled with intentional expressions: we attribute properties such as being a messenger (“second messenger”) or a recognition site; we ascribe proofreading and editing capabilities; and we say that enzymes can discriminate among substrates. . . . Even more tellingly . . . molecular developmental biology describes cells as having “positional information,” 14 15 16 Paul Davies, “Universe from bit,” in Davies and Gregersen, Information and the Nature of Reality, 82. Paul Davies, The Mind of God (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1992), 146–147. Davies, “Universe from bit,” 83. Formal Causes, Teleology, and Computation in Nature 471 meaning that they know where they are relative to other cells and gradients. The naturalness of the intentional idiom in molecular biology presents a problem. All these expressions and ascriptions involve the representation, in one thing, of the way things are in another thing. . . . The naturalness of this idiom in molecular biology is so compelling that merely writing it off as a metaphor seems implausible. Be that as it may, when it comes to information in the genome, the claim manifestly cannot be merely metaphorical, not, at any rate, if the special role of the gene is to turn on its information content. But to have a real informational role, the genome must have intentional states.17 Now, whether intentionality or semantic content can be given a materialist explanation is itself controversial. Like other critics of materialism, I think it cannot be. Rosenberg also thinks it cannot be, but since he is a materialist, his solution is to take the eliminativist line, according to which intentionality and semantic content are illusions. Accordingly, he denies that there really is intentionality or semantic information to be found in biological phenomena. However, he also holds that “the crucial question is not intentionality but programming.”18 In particular, in Rosenberg’s view, a genome still “programs the embryo” and runs “software,” even if its doing so does not involve processing information of a semantic sort.19 (Rosenberg happens to agree with the upshot of Searle’s “Chinese Room” argument, according to which running a program is not sufficient for intentionality or semantics.)20 Others would go further. For example, philosopher of biology Peter Godfrey-Smith thinks that “genes ‘code for’ the amino acid sequence of protein molecules” in a sense that is appropriately regarded as semantic, though he adds that this “does not vindicate the idea that genes code for whole-organism phenotypes, let alone provide a basis for the wholesale use of informational or semantic language in biology.”21 Insofar as genes carry information vis-à-vis phenotypes, 17 18 19 20 21 Alex Rosenberg, Darwinian Reductionism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 99–100. Ibid., 108. Ibid., 107–108. Ibid., 103–105. Peter Godfrey-Smith, “Information in Biology,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Philosophy of Biology, ed. David L. Hull and Michael Ruse (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 109–110. 472 Edward Feser Godfrey-Smith thinks it only information of the syntactic or Shannon sort. Like Rosenberg, he also thinks there is at least a limited role for talk of “programs,” in particular when describing the operation of gene regulation networks.22 Biologist Richard Dawkins is particularly eloquent on the subject of programs in nature. In The Blind Watchmaker, he writes: It is raining DNA outside. On the bank of the Oxford canal at the bottom of my garden is a large willow tree, and it is pumping downy seeds into the air. . . . The cotton wool is mostly made of cellulose, and it dwarfs the tiny capsule that contains the DNA, the genetic information. The DNA content must be a small proportion of the total, so why did I say that it was raining DNA rather than cellulose? The answer is that it is the DNA that matters . . . DNA whose coded characters spell out specific instructions for building willow trees. . . . It is raining instructions out there; it’s raining programs; it’s raining tree-growing, fluff spreading, algorithms. That is not a metaphor, it is the plain truth. It couldn’t be any plainer if it were raining floppy discs.23 Others would go even farther in applying the notion of semantic information within biology.24 For present purposes, however, we can simply note that at least the core computational notions of syntactic information and algorithms are widely applied within biology. Natural selection itself has been claimed by philosopher Daniel Dennett and biologist John Mayfield to amount to a kind of algorithm, and the evolutionary process to constitute a kind of computation or information processing.25 The ubiquity within biology of the syntactic notion of information suffices for the purposes of the present paper, and what I will have to say about syntactic information will, if correct, be even more obviously true of semantic information. But before moving on to a critical evaluation of the use of computational notions in physics and biology, let us briefly note one further area in which they are thought to have application, namely, in the 22 23 24 25 Ibid., 111–112. Richard Dawkins, The Blind Watchmaker (New York: W.W. Norton and Company, 1987), 111. See, e.g., the essays by John Maynard Smith, Terrence Deacon, Bernd-Olaf Küppers, and Jesper Hoffmeyer in Davies and Gregersen, Information and the Nature of Reality. Daniel C. Dennett, Darwin’s Dangerous Idea (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1995), and Mayfield, The Engine of Complexity. Formal Causes, Teleology, and Computation in Nature 473 study of the mind. The best-known instance of this approach is the idea that the mind is a kind of software and the brain a kind of computer hardware that runs the software. The former thesis, that the mind is a kind of software, is one that Searle labels “strong artificial intelligence” (or “strong AI”), and it also goes by the name “Turing machine functionalism.” The latter thesis, that the brain is a kind of digital computer, is one that Searle labels “cognitivism.” Obviously the theses are related, but they are distinct, and Searle has presented distinct arguments against each. His famous “Chinese Room” argument is directed against the first, the “strong AI” thesis. I will have nothing to say about that argument here because I think Searle is simply and without qualification correct to hold that the mind is not a kind of computer program or software, though my reasons go beyond (even if they include) the ones he gives in that argument.26 For present purposes, I want to focus instead on the “cognitivist” claim that the brain is a kind of computer, such that computation must be at least part of the story in a scientific account of human cognition, even if it is not the whole story. In the work of philosophers like Paul Churchland, you will often find claims like the following: The brain represents the world by means of very high-dimensional activation vectors, that is, by a pattern of activation levels across a very large population of neurons. And the brain performs computations on those representations by effecting various complex vector-to-vector transformations from one neural population to another. This happens when an activation vector from one neural population is projected through a large matrix of synaptic connections to produce a new activation vector across a second population of nonlinear neurons.27 This approach to studying the brain is developed in great detail in works of computational neuroscience.28 26 27 28 Edward Feser, “Kripke, Ross, and the Immaterial Aspects of Thought,” American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly 87 (2013): 1–32. Paul M. Churchland, “Activation Vectors vs. Propositional Attitudes: How the Brain Represents Reality,” in Paul M. Churchland and Patricia S. Churchland, On the Contrary: Critical Essays, 1987–1997 (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1998), 41. See, e.g., Patricia S. Churchland and Terrence J. Sejnowski, The Computational Brain (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1992). 474 Edward Feser Now, if by “representations” such writers had in mind something like thoughts with conceptual content, then I think these sorts of claims would be false. In my view, the conceptual content of our thoughts cannot be explained in causal terms, or in any other terms acceptable to the materialist.29 However, if what is meant is merely that there is information in the brain of the syntactic, Shannon sort, then the computationalist approach is certainly no less plausible here than it is in the case of physics or biology. Indeed, there can hardly be any doubt that the neural properties and processes described in such detail in books of computational neuroscience are real and important. But is the specifically computationalist conceptual apparatus, here or in the other contexts we have considered, necessary to a correct description of the phenomena? Or is it just a dispensable and, indeed, misleading set of metaphors? This brings us at last to Searle’s argument against cognitivism. Searle’s Critique Again, the argument in question is not to be confused with Searle’s famous “Chinese Room” argument.30 In that argument, Searle’s claim was that running a program does not entail having intentional content or meaning; as he famously summed it up: “syntax is not sufficient for semantics.” Even if the brain could be said to process information in the syntactic sense Shannon was interested in, the “Chinese Room” argument entails that that would never by itself amount to the having of semantic information of the sort characteristic of thought. But the argument leaves open the question of whether the brain really does process information in at least the syntactic sense. Searle’s later argument against what he calls cognitivism is intended to show that it does not.31 It aims to show that computation is not only not the whole story about what the brain does; it is not even part of the story. The basic idea of the argument is very simple. Whatever 29 30 31 Edward Feser, “Hayek, Popper, and the Causal Theory of the Mind,” in Hayek in Mind: Hayek’s Philosophical Psychology, ed. Leslie Marsh (Bingley: Emerald Group Publishing Limited, 2011); see also Feser, “Kripke, Ross, and the Immaterial Aspects of Thought.” John R. Searle, “Minds, Brains, and Programs,” Behavioral and Brain Sciences 3 (1980): 417–424; see also Searle, Minds, Brains, and Science (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1984). John R. Searle, The Rediscovery of the Mind (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1992), chapter 9; see also Searle, “Is the Brain a Digital Computer?” in Philosophy in a New Century: Selected Essays (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2008). Formal Causes, Teleology, and Computation in Nature 475 else computation in the sense we are discussing might involve, at the very least it involves the physical instantiation of symbols or strings of symbols, whether 0s and 1s or some other kind of symbol. If left uninterpreted, the symbols will not carry semantic information. They will still constitute syntactic information, but only insofar as we do think of them as symbols, even if uninterpreted ones. The syntactical rules that make up the algorithm according to which the inputted symbols generate a certain output are rules that govern physical states precisely qua symbols. For example, they will be rules according to which the computer will give a 0 as output when it gets a 1 as input, or whatever. And that the computer instantiates a certain algorithm will, as we have seen, itself amount to there being certain further physical states that count as instances of certain symbols or bits of syntactic information. So, computation boils down to the instantiation of symbols. The problem is this. The status of being a “symbol,” Searle argues, is simply not an objective or intrinsic feature of the physical world. It is purely conventional or observer-relative. And thus the status of being something that is running an “algorithm,” or “processing information,” or “computing,” is also conventional or observer-relative, rather than an intrinsic and objective feature of any physical system. This is obviously true where the computers of everyday experience are concerned. What they do constitutes the “processing” of “symbols,” or “bits” of “information,” according to an “algorithm” only because human designers and users of the machine count the electrical states as symbols, the transitions between states as the implementation of an algorithm, and so on. But the same thing is true of anything else we might think of as a computer—a brain, a genome, or the universe as a whole. Its status as a “computer” would be observer-relative because a computer is simply not a “natural kind,” but rather a sort of artifact. Searle draws an analogy: We might discover in nature objects which had the same sort of shape as chairs and which could therefore be used as chairs; but we could not discover objects in nature which were functioning as chairs, except relative to some agents who regarded them or used them as chairs. Similarly, he says: We could no doubt discover a pattern of events in my brain that was isomorphic to the implementation of the vi program on this 476 Edward Feser computer. But to say that something is functioning as a computational process is to say something more than that a pattern of physical events is occurring. It requires the assignment of a computational interpretation by some agent.32 So, if a brain is a kind of computer, then that can, in Searle’s view, be true only in the trivial sense that we can interpret various brain states as symbols and various neural processes as computations if we like. But in that sense all sorts of other things are “computers” too. Searle writes: For any program there is some sufficiently complex object such that there is some description of the object under which it is implementing the program. Thus for example the wall behind my back is right now implementing the Wordstar program, because there is some pattern of molecule movements which is isomorphic with the formal structure of Wordstar. But if the wall is implementing Wordstar then if it is a big enough wall it is implementing any program, including any program implemented in the brain.33 But if the brain or any other natural system (such as the genome or the universe as a whole) is computing only in the trivial and uninteresting sense in which a wall is “computing,” then it is not computing in any sense that might be explanatorily useful in science or philosophy. In short, Searle says, “computational states are not discovered within the physics, they are assigned to the physics.”34 They are no more a part of the furniture of the natural order of things than chairs are. Hence, just as no physicist, biologist, or neuroscientist would dream of making use of the concept of a chair in explaining the natural phenomena with which they deal, neither should they make use of the notion of computation. Now, an objection frequently raised against Searle is that more is required of something if it is to count as a computer than merely that we could interpret some isolated set of its states as a computation. It also has to have the right kind of causal organization.35 It is not 32 33 34 35 Searle, “Is the Brain a Digital Computer?” 95. Ibid., 93. Searle, The Rediscovery of the Mind, 210. Ned Block, “Searle’s Arguments against Cognitive Science,” in Views into the Chinese Room: New Essays on Searle and Artificial Intelligence, ed. John Preston and Mark Bishop (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002), 76–78; Chalm- Formal Causes, Teleology, and Computation in Nature 477 enough, for example, for a system plausibly to count as implementing the computation “1 + 2 = 3” that it has states corresponding to “1” and “+” and “2” and “=” that are followed by a state corresponding to “3.” For what it does genuinely to count as addition, it must also be true that, had the input been states corresponding to “2” and “+” and “3” and “=,” the output would have been a state corresponding to “5,” that had the input been states corresponding to “3” and “-” and “2” and “=,” the output would have been a state corresponding to “1,” and so on for other counterfactual inputs and outputs. We need an isomorphism not just between this or that particular computation and this or that particular state of the system, but between, on the one hand, the structure of a program as a whole, and on the other, the causal structure of the entire physical system over time. And this will rule out cases like Searle’s example of his wall implementing Wordstar. But this, it seems to me, is not a serious objection to Searle. Searle acknowledges that a system’s having an appropriate causal structure is a necessary condition for its implementing a program.36 His point is that it is not a sufficient condition. To recall his parallel example, having an appropriate causal structure is also a necessary condition for something’s being a chair. Wood and steel have such a structure, but shaving cream, cigarette smoke, and liquid water do not, since they lack the solidity and stability to hold someone up. But whether some wooden or steel object counts as a chair is still observer-relative, a matter of convention. Similarly, even though a system has to have the requisite causal structure in order to count as a computer, Searle’s point is that it still will not count as one unless some observer assigns a syntactical interpretation to its physical states.37 That a physical system’s having the appropriate causal structure can only ever be a necessary, and not a sufficient, condition for its implementing a program is given further support by an anti-computationalist argument from Saul Kripke that is related to but distinct from 36 37 ers, The Conscious Mind, 219–220; Ronald P. Endicott, “Searle, Syntax, and Observer Relativity,” Canadian Journal of Philosophy 26 (1996):101–122, at 103–107; Josef Moural, “The Chinese Room Argument,” in John Searle, ed. Barry Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 234–235; and Georges Rey, “Searle’s Misunderstandings of Functionalism and Strong AI,” in Preston and Bishop, Views into the Chinese Room, 215–217. Searle, The Rediscovery of the Mind, 209. Edward Feser, Philosophy of Mind: A Beginner’s Guide (Oxford: Oneworld Publications, 2006), 163. 478 Edward Feser Searle’s.38 Consider Kripke’s example of the “quus” function, which he defines as follows: x quus y = x + y, if x, y < 57; = 5 otherwise. The primary use Kripke makes of this odd example is, of course, to generate his famous skeptical paradox about meaning. A person’s linguistic utterances and other behavior and the words and images he calls before his mind might all seem to show that he is adding when he says “1 + 2 = 3” and the like. But Kripke imagines a bizarre skeptic suggesting that for all we know, the person might really be carrying out “quaddition” rather than addition. If the person has never computed numbers higher than 57, then although we expect that, when he computes “68 + 57,” his answer will be “125,” it may be that he is quadding rather than adding, so that the answer will actually be “5.” Nor would it matter if he had computed numbers higher than 57. For there is always some number, even if an extremely large one, equal to or higher than which he has never calculated, and the skeptic can always run the argument using that number instead. Nor would it matter if the person in question said, “I am adding and not quadding!”—because just as we might be misinterpreting his use of words like “plus” and “adding,” so too might he be misinterpreting his own use of those terms. Now, one reason Kripke’s paradox is philosophically interesting is that it might be claimed to show that there is no fact of the matter about what we mean by our utterances. I do not think it really does show this, for reasons I have explained elsewhere.39 But Kripke thinks it also has application as an argument against computationalism, and this seems to me correct. For, whatever we say about what we mean when we use terms like “plus,” “addition,” and so on, there are no physical features of a computer that can determine whether it is carrying out addition or quaddition, no matter how far we extend its outputs. No matter what the past behavior of a machine has been, we can always suppose that its next output—“5,” say, when calculating numbers larger than any it has calculated before—might show that 38 39 Saul A. Kripke, Wittgenstein on Rules and Private Language (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982), 35–37; Jeff Buechner, “Not Even Computing Machines Can Follow Rules: Kripke’s Critique of Functionalism,” in Saul Kripke, ed. Alan Berger (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2011). Feser, “Kripke, Ross, and the Immaterial Aspects of Thought.” Formal Causes, Teleology, and Computation in Nature 479 it is carrying out something like quaddition rather than addition. Of course, it might be said in response that, if this happens, that would just show that the machine was malfunctioning rather than performing quaddition. But Kripke points out that whether some output counts as a malfunction itself depends on what program the machine is running, and whether the machine is running the program for addition rather than quaddition is precisely what is in question. Obviously Kripke’s argument raises questions of its own.40 It suffices for present purposes to note how it bolsters Searle’s point. Even if a physical system’s having a certain causal organization is a necessary condition for its implementing a program for addition, it cannot be a sufficient condition because that causal organization will also be consistent with its implementing quaddition rather than addition. And the point is completely general. There will be parallel quaddition-like counterexamples for any claim to the effect that a physical system’s having a certain causal structure is sufficient for its implementing some specific program. An objection raised against Searle by John Haugeland is that the claim that syntactical features are observer-relative is falsified by the fact that there are empirical tests based on stringent specifications for whether something possesses such features.41 A related objection is raised by Jeff Coulter and Wes Sharrock when they write that it is odd for Searle to suggest that “computation is merely an ‘observer-relative’ feature of a computer.”42 The point of these objections seems to be that, given how syntax and computation are defined, whether or not something has syntactical features or is a computer is just a straightforward factual matter. But this just misses Searle’s point. He is not denying that there might be rigorously specifiable empirical criteria for whether something has syntactical features or is a computer. He is saying that, whether there are or not, that something fitting those criteria counts as a computer is ultimately a matter of convention, rather than observer-independent facts. Even if we had rigorously articulated empirical criteria for whether something is a chair, that anything counts as a chair in the first place would still be a matter of 40 41 42 For a detailed exposition and defense, see Buechner, “Not Even Computing Machines Can Follow Rules.” John Haugeland, “Syntax, Semantics, Physics,” in Preston and Bishop, Views into the Chinese Room, 391. Jeff Coulter and Wes Sharrock, “The Hinterland of the Chinese Room,” in Preston and Bishop, Views into the Chinese Room, 196. 480 Edward Feser convention, and thus observer-relative. Searle is saying that the same thing is true of whether something possesses syntactical or computational features.43 Ronald Endicott objects that the claim that the symbols posited by the computationalist are observer-relative rests on a false analogy with the symbols of natural languages.44 True, the symbols of English, German, and the like have the meanings they do only because they are assigned meanings as a matter of convention. But the symbols posited by the computationalist, says Endicott, are not like that. The computationalist takes them to get their meaning, instead, in a way described by some naturalistic theory of meaning, such as a causal covariation theory. And the biologist’s talk of DNA codes and the like shows, in Endicott’s view, that it is possible for there to be symbols in nature apart from interpreters. But this line of objection both begs the question and misses the point. It begs the question in two ways. First, Searle has argued that causal covariation and other naturalistic theories of meaning all fail, so a critic can hardly take such a theory for granted when criticizing Searle.45 Second, whether DNA and related biological phenomena literally can be said to have computational features is, at least implicitly, precisely part of what is at issue between Searle and his critics. That computational notions are useful to the biologist would presumably be regarded by Searle as comparable to the fact that there are naturally occurring objects that we find it comfortable to sit on. The latter fact does not entail that it is not a matter of convention whether something is a chair, and the former fact (Searle would presumably say) does not entail that it is not a matter of convention whether DNA, the brain, or anything else counts as a computer. Endicott misses the point when he speaks as if the issue has to do with whether the symbols posited by the computationalist get their meaning in something like the way the symbols of natural languages do, or instead in the way naturalistic theories of meaning say they do. Semantics was the topic of Searle’s Chinese Room argument, but not 43 44 45 See Jeff Buechner, Gödel, Putnam, and Functionalism: A New Reading of Representation and Reality (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2008), 158–159. Endicott, “Searle, Syntax, and Observer Relativity,” 111. Searle, The Rediscovery of the Mind, 49–52. I think Searle is correct to reject such theories, for reasons set out in Feser, “Hayek, Popper, and the Causal Theory of the Mind,” and Feser, “Kripke, Ross, and the Immaterial Aspects of Thought.” Formal Causes, Teleology, and Computation in Nature 481 of his argument against what he calls cognitivism. Here the issue is not how the symbols posited by the computationalist get their meaning, but rather whether it even makes sense in the first place to speak of symbols—even uninterpreted symbols—existing apart from human convention and apart from any observer. Jeff Buechner raises several further objections against Searle.46 First of all, Buechner notes that computations, like the objects of mathematical discourse, are abstract objects. Now, since conventionalist theories of mathematics are highly problematic, it is no less problematic to treat computation as if it were merely conventional or observer-relative.47 It seems to me that the obvious retort to this is that it just misunderstands what Searle is saying. Searle is not saying that computations considered as abstract objects are conventional or observer-relative; he is saying that whether such-and-such a physical system implements a computation is conventional or observer-relative. Buechner considers this possible reply.48 He concedes that, in a physical system built by an engineer, there is a sense in which the fact that it implements a computation is observer-relative. But he suggests that such a system could instead be “assembled through evolutionary pressures” and implies that, if Searle were to insist that an intelligent designer would be necessary for such a system to count as implementing a computation, he would be committing himself to an untestable “Intelligent Design” theory. But the problem with Buechner’s response can be seen by once again considering Searle’s parallel example of a chair. Something that just happened to be the sort of thing we would find it comfortable to sit on could, in principle, come about by evolutionary processes. All the same, it would not count as a chair unless some observer decided so to count it, for chairs are not natural kinds, but products of convention. Similarly, Searle need in no way deny that something as complicated as the computers that human engineers construct could come about via evolutionary processes. He would deny only that this would, apart from an observer who assigns a computational interpretation to it, count as a computer. This no more commits him to “Intelligent Design” theory than does denying that a chair-like object that arose via evolutionary processes would, in the strict sense, really be a chair commit one to “Intelligent Design” theory. And if Buechner 46 47 48 Buechner, Gödel, Putnam, and Functionalism, chapter 5. Ibid., 160–165. Ibid., 166–168 and 324n.11. Edward Feser 482 digs in his heels and insists that such a product of evolution must really be a computer and not merely something to which we might assign a computation interpretation—that is to say, if he says that it meets conditions sufficient, and not merely necessary, for being a computer— then he is just begging the question against Searle. Buechner also concedes that there is a degree of convention or observer-relativity in symbols and syntax, just as there is in the system of numerals we use to do mathematics, but he thinks this does not suffice to establish Searle’s position.49 With any system of numerals, “the laws of arithmetic must be respected and human limitations must be respected.”50 What Buechner has in mind by the first constraint, it seems, is that if a system of numerals allowed us to count as true a statement like “2 + 2 = 5” (for example), then it would obviously be deficient for the purposes of doing arithmetic. What he has in mind by the second constraint is that certain symbols would not be useful for us for the purposes of doing mathematics given, for example, our perceptual limitations. For instance, we just find it harder to read “||||||||” than “8” (and so on for other numbers), and thus it would be practically impossible for us to do arithmetic via a stroke notation instead of a decimal notation. Now, since it is not within our power to change these constraints, the choice of which numerals to use is not entirely observer-relative, even if it is to some degree. But the same point can be made about the choice of syntax and symbols. The problem with this as a reply to Searle is that, once again, all that has been shown is something Searle has already conceded, which is that having a certain physical structure is a necessary condition for a system’s carrying out a certain computation. Searle’s point, though, is that it is nevertheless not a sufficient condition. To be sure, Buechner adds a further point that, whereas in the case of computers made by us, human designers choose which symbols to use within the constraints in question, in the case of a natural computer like a brain, it is evolution that “chooses” among the various possible symbols fulfilling the constraints in question. He adds that these symbols could still be there even if we do not recognize them as such. Once again, though, Buechner’s appeal to evolution either is a non sequitur or begs the question. If evolution produced something that was chair-like, it would not follow that it had produced a chair, and if evolution produced something symbol-like, it would not follow that it had produced 49 50 Ibid., 169–172. Ibid., 170. Formal Causes, Teleology, and Computation in Nature 483 symbols. And if Buechner simply insists that this would follow, then he is assuming precisely what is at issue, since Searle’s whole point is that no natural processes—including evolution—could of themselves produce something that was literally a computer. Aristotle’s Revenge So, Searle’s critics have failed to rebut his argument against cognitivism successfully. That is not to say, however, that they have not a leg to stand on. For Searle’s critique to be decisive, he needs not only to give an argument against the claim that computation is intrinsic to the natural world, but also to show that there are no good positive arguments for the claim that it is intrinsic to the natural world. Are there any good positive arguments for that claim? It seems to me that there are. We have already seen why at least some physicists, biologists, and neuroscientists would characterize the phenomena they study in terms of notions like information, algorithms, and the like. Searle would have to say that these are at best merely useful fictions and that everything that has been put in these computational terms could be said without recourse to them. But that does not seem to be the case. To see why, first consider once again Kripke’s “quus” example. Kripke’s skeptic claims that there is no fact of the matter about whether any of us is ever doing addition rather than “quaddition.” The common-sense view, of course, is that there is a fact of the matter and that the fact is that we are doing addition and not “quaddition.” Hence, if we came across someone whose arithmetical behavior seemed perfectly normal except that, when he calculated “68 + 57,” his answer was “5” instead of “125,” we would not conclude that he really was “quadding” after all. We would conclude, instead, that he was doing addition but, in this case, doing it badly. We would regard his answer as the result of a typographical error or momentary confusion, or perhaps even delirium, temporary insanity, dementia, brain damage, or what have you. We would not think of him as a properly functioning system carrying out “quaddition,” but as a malfunctioning system carrying out addition. We need not worry for present purposes about what would rationally justify our taking this view, since meaning skepticism is not our topic.51 What I want to consider here is the following sort of parallel case. Recall some of the computationalist claims I cited earlier. 51 Again, see Feser, “Kripke, Ross, and the Immaterial Aspects of Thought,” for further discussion of Kripke’s paradox. 484 Edward Feser Rosenberg says that the genome “programs the embryo.” Churchland says that “the brain represents the world by means of very high-dimensional activation vectors” and “performs computations on those representations.” Now, for the program Rosenberg says the genome is running, for the program Churchland says the brain is running, and for any other program someone wants to attribute to a natural process, we can construct a quaddition-like paradox. For instance, we can imagine what we might call a “quembryo” program that, when the genome runs it, produces the same results that the embryo program does except that the embryo does not develop eyes. Now, consider a human embryo that never develops eyes. Should we say that the genome that built this embryo was running what Rosenberg would call the embryo program but that there was a malfunction in the system? Or should we say instead that the genome was actually running the “quembryo” program and that there was no malfunction at all and things were going perfectly smoothly? A Kripke-like skeptic would, of course, say that there is no fact of the matter. But notice that Searle, since he holds that there are no programs at all really running here in the first place, would also have to say that there is no fact of the matter. But that simply does not seem plausible. If there really is such a thing as a difference between a properly functioning organism and a malfunctioning one, then it seems to follow that Rosenberg’s postulated embryo program captures something about the facts of the situation that our imagined “quembryo” program does not. Using computer jargon, our hypothetical “quembryo” skeptic might say of the embryo’s lack of eyes: “Maybe that’s not a bug, but a feature!” But he would be wrong. The lack of eyes is a bug, and not a feature. Unless we are skeptics about the very distinction between properly functioning and malfunctioning organisms—and it is hard to see how biology would be possible given such skepticism—then it seems we have to agree that there really is something to the claim that what we have here is a malfunctioning system running the embryo program, as opposed to a properly functioning system running the “quembryo” program. If the computer scientist’s distinction between “bugs” and “features” has application to natural phenomena, so too does the distinction between “software” and “hardware.” For (to stick with the embryo example) the lack of eyes is as dysfunctional in one human embryo as it is in another. A natural way of putting this is that all human embryos are running the same program, that the very same software is, as it were, Formal Causes, Teleology, and Computation in Nature 485 being implemented in different pieces of hardware. That is why what is a “bug” or “feature” for one embryo is also a “bug” or “feature” for the others. Searle’s view seems to be that there is nothing true in the computationalist’s description of a natural physical system that cannot be captured by a description of the causal processes taking place in the system. But that does not seem to be correct. For there is a distinction to be made between normal and aberrant causal processes, and there is a distinction to be made between a general type of normative causal process and specific token instances of that type. The computationalist’s language captures these distinctions in a way that a mere description of which causal processes happen to be taking place does not. To borrow some jargon from Daniel Dennett, Searle supposes, in effect, that everything that is true of a natural object or process can be captured by taking the “physical stance” toward it, but in fact there are aspects that can be captured only by taking the “design stance,” and these are precisely the ones captured by the computationalist description.52 The computationalist description captures what Dennett calls “real patterns” in nature, patterns irreducible to the purely causal description to which the “physical stance” confines itself.53 For it is only by taking the “design stance,” which is defined by consideration of proper function—where regarding the genome as running embryo software rather than “quembryo” software is at least one way of doing this—that we can make sense of the facts that the lack of eyes is an aberration and that this is true of human embryos as such, not just of this or that particular embryo. Now, if all of this is correct, then we seem to have what Aristotle calls an aporia, a puzzle arising from the existence of apparently equally strong arguments for two or more inconsistent claims—in this case, equally strong arguments both against and for the claim that there is computation in nature. And the way to resolve it, I suggest, is to see that, while Searle’s position is unavoidable if we take for granted the essentially “mechanistic” conception of nature to which he and his naturalist critics are both committed, the computationalist approach can be made sense of if we adopt instead a broadly Aristotelian-Scholastic conception of nature. (Or perhaps it would be more precise to say that, given an Aristotelian-Scholastic metaphysics, we can make 52 53 Daniel C. Dennett, “Intentional Systems,” in Brainstorms: Philosophical Essays on Mind and Psychology (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1981). Daniel C. Dennett, “Real Patterns,” in Brainchildren: Essays on Designing Minds (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1998). 486 Edward Feser sense of the idea that there is, in nature, something analogous to computation, in the technical Thomistic sense of analogy.)54 In their use of computational notions, contemporary naturalists have unwittingly recapitulated the formal and final causality that they, like their early modern “mechanical philosophy” forebears, thought had been banished for good. Recall that “information” in the technical, syntactic sense essentially involves a causal correlation between a physical state and some effect at the end of a causal pathway leading from that state. Now, any physical state has any number of effects along a causal pathway. For instance, the physical states of the compact disc in the example from Chalmers cited earlier have, among their effects, the sounds that come out of the CD player when the disc is played. But those physical states have many other effects as well. For example, there is the electrical activity that occurs in the circuitry of the CD player, which in turn causes the sounds to emerge from the speakers, and there is the shaking of the nearby walls that might take place if the volume is turned up too loud. Now, we say that the physical states of the compact disc carry “information” specifically about the sounds they cause, rather than about the electrical activity in the CD player or the shaking of the walls. The reason for that, of course, is that the designers of compact discs made them for the purpose of allowing us to play back the sounds in question, rather than for the purpose of generating electrical activity or causing walls to shake. It is the existence of that purpose that allows us to identify the sounds as the specific effect down the causal pathway about which the physical states of the compact disc carry information. But no such observer-relative purposes can be appealed to in the case of the information the computationalist attributes to physical states occurring in nature. That is, of course, why Searle says there is no information to be found in such states. But if we suppose that Aristotelian teleology is a real feature of nature, after all, then we can make sense of such naturally occurring information. In particular, if we suppose that a physical state of type S inherently “points to” or is “directed at” some particular type of effect E down the causal pathway—rather than to some earlier effect D or some later effect F—then 54 I owe the suggestion that computational descriptions be understood as analogical to Steven W. Horst, Symbols, Computation, and Intentionality: A Critique of the Computational Theory of Mind (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1996), 6–7. For an overview of the Thomistic doctrine of analogy, see Feser, Scholastic Metaphysics, 256–263. Formal Causes, Teleology, and Computation in Nature 487 we have a way of making intelligible how S carries information about E rather than about D or F. Without such teleology, though, it is hard to see why there would be anything special about E by virtue of which it would be the effect about which S carries information.55 Consider also that, when we speak of a pocket calculator running a program or algorithm for addition rather than “quaddition,” it is easy to make sense of this, given that the designers of the calculator designed it for the purpose of doing addition rather than quaddition. But how do we make sense of the genome running the embryo program rather than the “quembryo” program, given that there is no human observer who assigns this purpose to it? If we suppose that there are such things as Aristotelian substantial forms after all, then we have a way of making this intelligible. For there to be a fact of the matter that the genome is running the embryo program rather than the “quembryo” program is for the genome to have the sort of intrinsic tendency toward certain characteristic operations that distinguishes a substantial form from a merely accidental form.56 Moreover, as John Mayfield notes, “an important requirement for an algorithm is that it must have an outcome,”57 and “instructions” of the sort represented by an algorithm are “goal-oriented.”58 The genome algorithm, for example, has as its “goals” or “outcomes” the sorts that are characteristic of the embryo program, rather than the “quembryo” program. It is hard to make sense of this except as an instance of Aristotelian immanent teleology. Other aspects of the computationalist conception of nature also echo the Aristotelian-Scholastic conception. For instance, when Mayfield notes (as we saw earlier that he does) that “the information content of the output [of a computation] can be less than that of the input, but not greater,” he is essentially recapitulating the principle of proportionate causality, according to which whatever is in an effect must in some way or other be in its total cause. Some of the moves made by Searle’s critics also at least gesture, inadvertently, in a broadly Aristotelian direction. For example, in 55 56 57 58 See Feser, “Hayek, Popper, and the Causal Theory of the Mind.” See James F. Ross, “The Fate of the Analysts: Aristotle’s Revenge,” Proceedings of the American Catholic Philosophical Association 64 (1990): 51–74; see also James Ross, Thought and World: The Hidden Necessities (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2008), chapter 7. Mayfield, The Engine of Complexity, 44. Ibid., 13. 488 Edward Feser response to Searle’s claim that his wall is running Wordstar, Endicott objects that, before we can plausibly attribute a program to some physical system, we have to consider “non-gerrymandered physical units” and “a physical system whose parts have the disposition to causally interact in the way specified by the program.”59 But a “non-gerrymandered” physical unit occurring in nature arguably suggests one marked-off from others by virtue of having a substantial form, and a part having a “disposition” causally to act in certain specific ways arguably suggests one that is “directed toward” a certain kind of manifestation as toward a final cause. Other writers have explicitly noted the Aristotelian implications of computational descriptions of natural phenomena. The neuroscientist Valentino Braitenberg has said that “the concept of information . . . is Aristotle redivivus, the concept of matter and form united in every object of this world.”60 Philosopher of science John Wilkins calls information “the new Aristotelianism” and the “New Hylomorphism,” though unlike Braitenberg, he does so disapprovingly, considering the notions in question to entail a regress to an outmoded conception of nature.61 I imagine that Searle would share Wilkins’s attitude, perhaps allowing that Aristotelian and computationalist arguments mutually reinforce one another, but concluding that they should simply all be thrown out together. Indeed, Searle explicitly maintains that not only computation, but also function and teleology more generally, are all observer-relative. Of biological phenomena, he writes: Darwin’s account shows that the apparent teleology of biological processes is an illusion. It is a simple extension of this insight to point out that notions such as “purpose” are never intrinsic to biological organisms. . . . And even notions like “biological function” are always made relative to an observer who assigns a normative value to the causal processes. . . . In short, the Darwinian mechanisms and even biological functions themselves 59 60 61 Endicott, “Searle, Syntax, and Observer Relativity,” 105. Quoted in Luciano Floridi, ed., Philosophy of Computing and Information: 5 Questions (Copenhagen: Automatic Press, 2008), 16. John Wilkins, “Information is the new Aristotelianism (and Dawkins is a hylomorphist),” Scientia Salon, May 1, 2014, at http://scientiasalon.wordpress.com/2014/05/01/information-is-the-new-aristotelianism-and-dawkins-is-a-hylomorphist. Formal Causes, Teleology, and Computation in Nature 489 are entirely devoid of purpose or teleology. All of the teleological features are entirely in the mind of the observer.62 Searle would also deny that there is any level of physical reality that can be described accurately only from the functional point of view represented by Dennett’s “design stance,” as opposed to the purely causal level represented by the “physical stance.” Searle writes: Where functional explanations are concerned, the metaphor of levels is somewhat misleading, because it suggests that there is a separate functional level different from the causal levels. That is not true. The so called “functional level” is not a separate level at all, but simply one of the causal levels described in terms of our interests. . . . When we speak of . . . functions, we are talking about those . . . causal relations to which we attach some normative importance. . . . [But] the normative component . . . [is in] the eye of the beholder of the mechanism.63 Now, there are several problems with this. For one thing, there are different respects in which biological phenomena might seem to exhibit teleology. The adaptation of an organism to its environment is one apparent instance of biological teleology. Developmental processes, and in particular the fact that some growth patterns are normal and others aberrant, are another. As several writers have pointed out, while Darwinism might explain away the first sort of example, it does not follow (contra Searle) that it explains away the second.64 For another thing, the Scholastic would argue that it is a confusion to suppose that one can entirely replace teleological explanations with causal ones because even the simplest causal regularity will itself presuppose teleology. Again, if A regularly generates B rather than C or D or no effect 62 63 64 Searle, The Rediscovery of the Mind, 51–52. Ibid., 237–238. Andre Ariew, “Platonic and Aristotelian Roots of Teleological Arguments,” in Functions: New Essays in the Philosophy of Psychology and Biology, ed. Andre Ariew, Robert Cummins, and Mark Perlman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002); Ariew, “Teleology,” in Hull and Ruse, The Cambridge Companion to the Philosophy of Biology, 160–181; Marjorie Grene, “Biology and Teleology,” in The Understanding of Nature: Essays in the Philosophy of Biology (Dordrecht: D. Reidel, 1974); and J. Scott Turner, The Tinkerer’s Accomplice: How Design Emerges from Life Itself (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007). 490 Edward Feser at all, that can, according to the Scholastic, be only because generating B is the outcome toward which A is inherently directed as toward a final cause. If we do not recognize such rudimentary teleology, we will be stuck with Humean skepticism about causality. These are large issues that cannot be settled here, and I have, in any case, argued for the reality of Aristotelian immanent teleology at length elsewhere.65 It suffices for present purposes to note another problem with Searle’s position. If we say that there is no teleology inherent in mind-independent reality, we are pretty clearly left with two options. We could, on the one hand, say that there is no teleology at all, anywhere, not even in the mind. That would be an eliminativist position, and it would be difficult at best to make such a position coherent. For, if there is no teleology or “directedness” of any sort, then there would be no “directedness” of the kind associated with the intentionality of thought. And it is notoriously difficult to deny the existence of intentionality coherently, since the very denial is itself a manifestation of intentionality. Certainly Searle is no eliminativist about intentionality,66 nor, it seems, about teleology or “directedness” in general. His view would seem to be the second alternative, according to which there is teleology in the mind even if there is none in mind-independent reality. But this would seem to entail either Cartesian dualism or property dualism, with all their associated problems—the interaction problem, epiphenomenalism, and so forth. To be sure, Searle claims not to be a dualist,67 but like other critics, I find it hard to see how his view differs from dualism except verbally. Consider what Searle says about the sort of “directedness” associated with the intentionality of the mental: Intentional notions are inherently normative. They set standards of truth, rationality, consistency, etc., and there is no way that these standards can be intrinsic to a system consisting entirely of brute, blind, nonintentional causal relations. There is no normative component to billiard ball causation.68 65 66 67 68 Edward Feser, “Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way,” Nova et Vetera (English) 11 (2013): 707–749; see also Feser, Scholastic Metaphysics, chapter 2. Searle, The Rediscovery of the Mind, 6. John R. Searle, “Why I Am Not a Property Dualist,” in Philosophy in a New Century, 152–160. Searle, The Rediscovery of the Mind, 51. Formal Causes, Teleology, and Computation in Nature 491 This is said in the context of his remarks about the absence of teleology from biological phenomena. The clear implication is that the human body and brain consist “entirely of brute, blind, nonintentional causal relations” of the “billiard ball” type, whereas the mind is the seat of the intentionality, rationality, normativity, and so on that cannot be “intrinsic” to the body and brain thus understood. That sounds pretty close to the Cartesian dichotomy between matter conceived of as pure mechanism devoid of thought and mind conceived of as pure thought irreducible to mechanism. It is true that Searle regards the mental as caused by the physical, but then Cartesian substance dualists and property dualists also often affirm a causal relation between the physical and the mental. And while these dualists have famously had difficulty in explaining exactly how this causal relation works, Searle too admits that: We don’t have anything like a clear idea of how brain processes, which are publicly observable, objective phenomena, could cause anything as peculiar as inner, qualitative states of awareness or sentience, states which are in some sense “private” to the possessor of the state.69 I discuss Searle’s relationship to property dualism at greater length elsewhere,70 and in any case, these are issues that obviously cannot be settled here. Suffice it to say that, from the Aristotelian-Scholastic point of view, the intractability of the debate between materialism and Cartesian forms of dualism is a consequence of what they have in common, namely, the “mechanistic” conception of nature that supplanted the Aristotelian-Scholastic conception—a conception that leaves no place for the teleological, and thus no place for the intentional. Like the Aristotelian, Searle has been critical of both materialism and Cartesianism, but from the Aristotelian point of view, Searle’s own position is unstable, threatening to collapse back into one or the other of these alternatives precisely because he is also committed to the same “mechanistic” picture that they are. The key is to reject that picture and return to the one it supplanted. Contemporary computationalism, for all the flaws in it rightly identified by Searle, has the 69 70 John R. Searle, The Mystery of Consciousness (New York: The New York Review of Books, 1997), 8. Edward Feser, “Why Searle Is a Property Dualist,” in Neo-Scholastic Essays (South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press, forthcoming). 492 Edward Feser merit of gesturing precisely in the direction of such a return, however inadvertently. Theological Implications Let me close with some brief remarks on the theological implications of the position I have been defending. The first thing to note is a theological lesson I think should not be drawn from what I have been saying. Someone attracted to “Intelligent Design” theory might suppose that a good way to split the difference between Searle and the computationalist would be to agree with the computationalist that there really is computation in nature, but to agree also with Searle that all computation is observer-relative or conventional, rather than intrinsic, and then suggest that God is the observer who assigns a computational interpretation to natural objects so as to make of them computers. This would essentially be an updating of the conception of God’s relationship to the world introduced by Descartes, Newton, and Paley, according to which the world is a kind of machine and God a kind of machinist. Or to go back to my Tarzan analogy, God, on this view, is like Tarzan and the world like the hammock he makes out of liana vines. On this view, the distinctions between substantial forms and accidental forms and between intrinsic and extrinsic teleology are dissolved. Even natural objects like liana vines would have merely accidental forms and extrinsic teleology imposed on them by God, and algorithms and software in nature would also be conceived of as accidental forms and instances of extrinsic teleology. Now, from an Aristotelian-Scholastic point of view, though this sort of approach has been very common since Paley and others developed the modern “design argument,” it is, metaphysically and theologically speaking, just a complete muddle. Natural objects are not a kind of artifact, and hence God’s relationship to them is not that of an artificer. For it makes no sense to suggest that natural objects have only accidental forms and extrinsic teleology, since having an accidental form presupposes materials already having substantial forms and extrinsic teleology presupposes intrinsic teleology. Again, the hammock in our example has the externally imposed form and function it does only because the liana vines out of which it is made have the intrinsic tendencies they do just by virtue of being liana vines. So, hammock-making, watchmaking, and other kinds of artifice are simply not good models for understanding God’s creation of the natural world, and thus thinking of God as a kind of electrical engineer or computer programmer is not a good model either. Formal Causes, Teleology, and Computation in Nature 493 Then there is the fact that making computation extrinsic to natural phenomena would entail a kind of occasionalism. Just as it is not a pocket calculator that really does arithmetic, but rather the user who does arithmetic by means of the calculator, so too it would not be the brain that processes information, but God who processes it using the brain the way you use your laptop. It would not be the genome that causes the embryo to develop the way it does, but rather God who does it using the genome the way an engineer might run a computer simulation, and so forth. What the Scholastic calls “secondary causality” would disappear from nature, and only God alone would be doing anything, as in the occasionalist theology of Malebranche. That is not to say, however, that intrinsic teleology of the Aristotelian sort has no theological relevance. Far from it. Aquinas’s “Fifth Way” of proving the existence of God begins with an argument for intrinsic teleology. Where Paley’s “design argument,” “Intelligent Design” theory, and the like go wrong is not by appealing to teleology, but rather in supposing that natural objects have teleology in the way that artifacts do, in supposing that reasoning from natural teleology to God has to do with weighing the probability that a complex natural structure could have come about via impersonal processes, in looking for gaps in current naturalistic explanations, and so forth. Aquinas’s Fifth Way has nothing to do with any of that. This is not the place to get into that subject, and I have defended the Fifth Way and explained how it differs from the “design argument” at length elsewhere.71 It suffices for present purposes to note that, given its implicit Aristotelianism, the computationalist approach provides Thomists and other Aristotelians and Scholastics with conceptual and terminological resources by which contemporary naturalists might be made to understand and see the power of Thomistic, Scholastic, and Aristotelian arguments in natural theology. It might help them to explain both how the conception of nature on which traditional Scholastic natural theology was built is no pre-modern relic but is still defensible today, and how radically it differs from the conception of Paley and “Intelligent Design” theorists, whose arguments naturalists understandably regard as weak. The computationalist approach may also help to make traditional natural law theory intelligible to contemporary naturalists. Traditional natural law arguments presuppose an Aristotelian metaphysics 71 Edward Feser, Aquinas: A Beginner’s Guide (Oxford: Oneworld Publications, 2009), 110–120; see also Feser, “Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way.” 494 Edward Feser of formal and final causality, as they presuppose that our faculties are of their nature directed toward certain ends. Goodness as an objective feature of the world is defined in terms of the realization of the ends toward which a thing is by nature directed, and badness in terms of the frustration of those ends. Moral goodness or badness enters the picture when a rational animal freely chooses to act in a way that either facilitates or frustrates the realization of the ends inherent in its nature.72 Now, these sorts of arguments become unintelligible on a mechanistic conception of nature because, on such a conception, the natural world is, as Searle puts it, “a system consisting entirely of brute, blind, nonintentional causal relations,” and as he rightly notes, teleology and normativity cannot be intrinsic to such a system. But computational notions are normative. If a system is running a certain program, then there is a distinction to be made between “bugs” and “features” of the program, of the system functioning properly or malfunctioning, and so forth. Hence, if a naturalist regards some natural system as inherently computational, then he has at least implicitly affirmed that there is teleology and normativity in nature, after all, and thus he has conceded the basic metaphysical presupposition of traditional natural law theory. All of this cries out for further development, of course. However that goes, what Searle and the Aristotelian can agree on is that the computationalist conception of nature is far more metaphysically N&V loaded than most of its defenders realize. 72 See Feser, Aquinas, chapter 5; see also Feser “Being, the Good, and the Guise of the Good,” in Neo-Aristotelian Perspectives in Metaphysics, ed. Daniel D. Novotny and Lukas Novak (London: Routledge, 2014), 84–103. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 2 (2016): 495–501 495 God Is an Artificer: A Response to Edward Feser Simon Francis Gaine, O.P. Blackfriars Oxford, England Professor Feser’s contribution to the philosophical conversation he presents is particularly congenial to any theologian working in the tradition of Thomas Aquinas, where Aristotelian notions of causality and teleology serve extensively, and so it is from the perspective of Aquinas’s theology that I am going to reply to one of Professor Feser’s points about the theological implications of his philosophical position. Taking an Aristotelian rather than Paleyite position, Professor Feser emphasizes the difference between organisms and artifacts. His problem with Paleyism is that natural objects are treated as artifacts, as without substantial form and intrinsic teleology, and with their teleology imposed on them from without, such that any forms are merely accidental. Having confused natural objects with artifacts, Paleyism approaches God through the wrong sort of teleology, extrinsic rather than intrinsic. But where his Aristotelianism leads Feser in regard to God is an example of a seemingly apophatic, rather than analogical, theology: God cannot be called an “artificer.” Feser says, “Natural objects are not a kind of artifact, and hence God’s relationship to them is not that of an artificer.”1 I reply, however, that the Christian theologian has reason to speak by way of analogy of the Trinitarian God as an artificer and creatures as divine artifacts, and that theological reflection on this analogy can suggest to Professor Feser reasons, 1 See Edward Feser, “From Aristotle to John Searle and Back Again: Formal Causes, Teleology, and Computation in Nature,” Nova et Vetera (English) 14.2 (2016): 459–494, at 492. 496 Simon Francis Gaine, O.P. even philosophical reasons, to modify, or rather clarify, his seemingly apophatic conclusion. I suggest that we ordinarily think of an artificer as one who devises and produces some object, doing so through his skill or art. The artificer is a skilled or wise craftsman, and the artifact is the product of this art of his. And when the Christian theologian as such looks to the authority of the Scriptures, he finds the Creator God portrayed in just this kind of way. The Letter to the Hebrews 11:10 names God as a “τεχνίτης”—in this case, the artificer of the city for which Abraham hoped. But God is portrayed in the Bible not only as eschatological artificer, but as the protological artificer of creation, for example, in the opening chapters of Genesis, where in 2:7 God forms a man of dust from the ground, and so on. Scripture, moreover, speaks not only of God creating by his word—John 1:3 says that through the Word was everything made that was made—but speaks also in this connection of divine wisdom. “By wisdom the Lord founded the earth,” says Proverbs 3:19. Then in 8:30, “Wisdom” is presented as a figure alongside God at the creation, putting things together, harmonizing them, so to speak. Then in the Wisdom of Solomon 7:22, Wisdom is named a “τεχνίτης,” where the author confesses: “Wisdom, the artificer of all things, taught me.” And in 8:5–6, we find: “What is richer than Wisdom who effects all things? And if understanding is effective, who more than she is artificer of what exists?” So, at least for those theologians for whom the Wisdom of Solomon is canonical Scripture, Catholics and others, there is biblical authority for reflecting theologically on the Creator in terms of wise artifice. Not that these passages have been without their difficulties in interpretation. For example, it is not easy to see on which side of the Creator-creature divide the biblical figure of Wisdom belongs. When the early Church was full of debate over whether the Word of God was true God or perfect creature, where God’s Word and Wisdom were both identified with God the Son on the basis of 1 Corinthians 1:24 and other texts, varied positions were adopted on the Old Testament passages concerning Wisdom. The triumph of Christian orthodoxy in the wider debate is, of course, represented by the Creed of Nicaea, where the Son is confessed in relation to the Father as “true God from true God, begotten not made.” This placed God’s Word and Wisdom firmly on the divine side of the Creator-creature divide, and by use of the familiar distinction between the natural begetting of offspring from oneself and the artificial making of what is made out of something else, the Word is said to be begotten by the Father, in Response to Edward Feser 497 contrast to all that is made, which is made by the Father through him, the Word. This, of course, raises the question of where the Holy Spirit stands in all this, but we have no time to address that question here. What I do want to note is that this also raises the question of how, more precisely, the Word of God is to be understood in relation to the Father and to creatures, and to mention very briefly in the remaining time allowed how Aquinas took up here the saying of Augustine in the De trinitate that the Father’s Word is “the art of the almighty and wise God, full of the living patterns of all things.”2 Apart from the suggestion to those of us who have heard Professor Feser’s paper that the real patterns in nature that computational notions track themselves exist eminently in the divine Word,3 Augustine’s implication is that God is an artificer, the Father making all things through his own Art, who is his Word and Son. In contrast to the words of Professor Feser’s conclusion, Aquinas never denied that the Creator is an artificer.4 Instead, he declared: “God, who is the first principle of all things, is compared to creatures as artificer to artifacts (ut artifex ad artificiata).”5 This analogy, which he could trace in both patristic and philosophical sources,6 he deployed to great theological advantage, both opposing false views of creation with it and using it to illumine the nexus between creation and redemption. He opposed a false view of creation that would see God creating by natural necessity the doctrine of a Trinitarian God as an intelligent and voluntary artificer creating a multitude of creatures by wisdom and love. What is crucial for Aquinas here is that a human artificer thoughtfully employs his art to produce artifacts—what he produces, he produces by way of intellect and will, and not by natural necessity; and the same is true for God.7 Thus, Aquinas can say: “The knowledge 2 3 4 5 6 7 Augustine, De trinitate 6.10 [11], in Corpus Christianorum Series Latina 50, ed. W. J. Mountain (Turnhout: Brepols, 1968), 241. Feser, “Aristotle to John Searle,” 459–494. For a comprehensive overview of Aquinas on divine art and human art in its various forms, see Francis J. Kovach, “Divine Art in Saint Thomas Aquinas,” in Arts libéraux et philosophie au moyen âge (Montreal: Institut d’études médiévales; Paris: Vrin, 1969), 663–671. Summa theologiae (hereafter, ST) I, q. 27, a. 1, ad 3. For the Latin text, see Summa Theologiae, ed. by T. Gilby, 61 vols. (London: Eyre and Spottiswoode, 1964–1981). For an indication of sources, see Kovach, “Divine Art in Saint Thomas Aquinas,” 663–665. For Aquinas on divine artifice and creation, including the diversity of crea- 498 Simon Francis Gaine, O.P. of God is to all creatures what the knowledge of the artificer is to his artifacts”;8 and again: “God is the cause of things through his intellect and will, just as is an artificer of his artifacts.”9 This approach enables Aquinas to apply here his wider integration of Platonic exemplarism with Aristotelian causation within his metaphysics, whereby an efficient cause requires an exemplary form in order to produce an effect of a determinate form.10 He says, “An artificer produces a determinate form in matter on account of the exemplar before him, whether it be an exemplar viewed externally or an exemplar conceived interiorly in the mind.”11 He concludes that God is the first exemplary cause of all things, where the exemplar forms or ideas exist unitedly in the divine mind, where the patterns of all things exist in the divine wisdom.12 We should note that the resulting participation of all creatures in the divine exemplar of the divine artificer’s mind arguably underwrites, in part, the very possibility of speaking of God by analogy, on which both Thomist philosophers and theologians rely.13 In all of this, Aquinas’s analogy of the artificer is manifesting his Trinitarian doctrine.14 He holds that the Father speaks his Word by way of an intellectual procession internal to God, and that in this Word he expresses all created things. This helps Aquinas to explain John 1:3’s teaching that all things were made through the Word. He further writes: “An artificer operates through a word conceived in the intellect and through love in his will regarding some object. Hence also God the Father worked creation through his Word, the Son, and through his Love, the Holy Spirit.”15 This helps Aquinas show how the processions of the divine persons are the patterns of the production of creatures. The Word’s role is further manifested by the 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 tures, see Rudi A. te Velde, Participation and Substantiality in Thomas Aquinas (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 102–108. ST I, q. 14, a. 8. ST I, q. 45, a. 6. For divine artifice in the context of the divine ideas, see Vivian Boland, Ideas in God according to Saint Thomas Aquinas (Leiden: Brill, 1996), and Gregory T. Doolan, Aquinas on the Divine Ideas as Exemplar Causes (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2008). ST I, q. 44, a. 3. Ibid., q. 15, and De veritate, q. 3. See ST I, q. 13. See Gilles Emery, The Trinitarian Theology of St Thomas Aquinas (Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 2007), 192–200 and 338–359. ST I, q. 45, a. 6. Response to Edward Feser 499 appropriation to him of divine Wisdom and Art.16 The appropriation of wisdom, through which an agent acts intelligently, helps Aquinas explain the Creed’s “through him all things were made.”17 And when treating of John’s teaching that God makes nothing except through his Word, Aquinas explicitly follows Augustine in describing the Word as the divine Art, full of the patterns of all things.18 God thus creates through the Word as an artificer works through his art.19 This analogy of the artificer also helps Aquinas to appreciate the unity of the Scriptural narrative of creation and redemption by drawing on the patristic teaching that it is the same Word who becomes incarnate to restore us as was the Word through whom all things were made.20 Aquinas writes: “The person of the Son, who is the Word of God, has a common relationship to every creature. For the word of the artificer, that is, his concept, is an exemplary likeness of those things which exist through his artifice. Hence the Word of God, which is his eternal concept, is the exemplary likeness of every creature. And therefore, just as creatures were constituted in their proper species, though changeably, through participation in that likeness, so it was fitting that the creature be restored through a personal, not participative, union of the Word with a creature. For the artificer restores an artifact, if it be damaged, through the same form of art as he conceived it when he made it.”21 Thus, Aquinas’s use of the notion of artificer for God has a particular power in bringing out the theological connection between our creation and our recreation.22 Moreover, in his commentary on Hebrews 11:10, he says that God is the artificer of the heavenly city, which is arranged according to divine wisdom at its most splendid.23 Not that the Creator is an artificer in precisely the same way that humans can be artificers.24 For example, while the human artificer’s concept is no more than an intelligible form in the mind, the Word of 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 Ibid., q. 39, a. 8. Ibid., q. 45, a. 6, ad 2. Super Ioan. 1, lec. 2. ST I, q. 39, a. 8. For example, Athanasius, De Incarnatione 1. ST III, q. 3, a. 8, resp. See Summa contra gentiles (hereafter, SCG) IV, ch. 42. For Aquinas’s use of the analogy in his doctrine of providence, see Boland, Ideas in God, 264, 268–70. Super Heb. 11, lec. 3. On the differences between divine and human art, see Kovach, “Divine Art in Saint Thomas Aquinas,” 665–670, and Doolan, Aquinas on the Divine Ideas, 223–228. 500 Simon Francis Gaine, O.P. God is itself subsistent, allowing for Scripture to speak of him as Artificer and not simply as Art.25 More pertinently, in contrast to human artificers, who do their making out of pre-existing material, God creates the whole being of something out of nothing, with nothing else presupposed. However, this in no way undermines the force of the analogy for Aquinas. He says, “Just as the created artificer makes something from matter, so God makes from nothing.”26 It is not that the two makings are entirely unrelated, but rather that God’s artifice is responsible for more than the created artificer is capable of, not just for giving accidental form, but for imparting substantial form and being in its entirety. He says: “God does not only move things to operate as though applying their forms and powers to operation just as an artificer applies his axe to cutting, while nevertheless at times not giving the axe its form, but he also gives created agents their forms and holds them in being.”27 Here we have a true artificer who can give substantial as well accidental form, imparting intrinsic as well as extrinsic teleology. And so Aquinas can truly say: “All natural things have been produced by divine art, such that they are in a certain way the artifacts of God himself.”28 Divine artifice is powerful enough to produce natural objects precisely as divine artifacts, just as God can signify meaning not only by words, as we do, but by his creatures themselves.29 However, if one were to adopt Aquinas’s analogical position on the divine artificer, would one thereby be committed to Paley’s mechanical argument from artifact to artificer? No more, I think, than is the theologian committed to such an argument by Wisdom 13:1b: “They did not recognize the artificer, while paying heed to his works.” Acknowledging God as a divine artificer need not mean confusing natural objects with human artifacts. Rather, as extrinsic teleology in human artifacts can lead us to their human artificers, so intrinsic teleology in divine artifacts can lead us to the divine artificer. Thus, while Professor Feser must doubtless continue to exclude from his natural theology what elsewhere in his paper he calls the “early modern conception of God as artificer,”30 he is perhaps able to incorporate some insights from a theological approach that predates that 25 26 27 28 29 30 See SCG IV, ch. 13. ST I, q. 41, a. 3. See also ibid., q. 45, a. 2. Ibid., q. 105, a. 5. Ibid., q. 91, a. 3. See ibid., q. 1, a. 10. Feser, “From Aristotle to John Searle and Back Again,” at 465. Response to Edward Feser 501 of Paley. For, while Aquinas’s doctrine of the divine artificer belongs to a robustly Trinitarian theology, and the doctrine of the Trinity is, according to Aquinas, not accessible to philosophical reason,31 there is surely much in the doctrine of creation, including the divine artifice, that is open to philosophical investigation. In short, my theological reply to Professor Feser, who has already written on arguments for God’s existence and the divine attributes,32 is to ask him now to apply N&V his philosophical art to questions of divine creation. 31 32 ST I, q. 32, a. 1. Edward Feser, Aquinas: A Beginner’s Guide (Oxford, UK: Oneworld Publications, 2009), 62–130. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 2 (2016): 503–525 503 “Of All the Gin Joints . . .” Causality, Science, Chance, and God Michael J. Dodds, O.P. Dominican School of Philosophy & Theology Berkeley, California Introduction In one of the classic lines from the film Casablanca, Humphrey Bogart muses: “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world . . . she walks into mine.” If the implied question is “why?,” the answer is “chance.” The world is rife with chance. You find it everywhere—from the star crossed lovers in Casablanca to the probabilistic particles of quantum mechanics.1 Sometimes it is just the good luck of getting a parking place or the bad luck of missing a traffic light. We talk about chance all the time, but when we try to say exactly what it is, it eludes us. Statistician David Hand says: “Be warned! Chance is a slippery concept. It can wriggle and twist even when we think we have a sound grasp of it.”2 In this article, we will try to grab hold of chance and see how it is related to science and God. We will start with the way people 1 2 Toby Handfield, A Philosophical Guide to Chance (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 126: “Chance claims are part and parcel of our ordinary dealings with the world. Doctors recommend surgical procedures or medications on the basis of their estimates of the chances. Professional gamblers get rich or poor to the extent that they are able to choose to play games where the chances of winning are greater than are those of losing. Quantum physicists build exquisitely sensitive experimental apparatus to test chance hypotheses, and often find that their theories are well confirmed.” David J. Hand, The Improbability Principle: Why Coincidences, Miracles, and Rare Events Happen Every Day (New York: Scientific American, 2014), 56. 504 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. talk about chance. Then we will look at how the notion has been employed in science—especially the way its “job description” changed in the transition from Newtonian to contemporary science. Finally, we will see how the understanding of chance in science has influenced the discussion of divine action and how the philosophy of Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas can help us in that discussion. How We Talk about Chance Chance As Cause and Chance As Probability In ordinary talk, we often treat chance as a cause: chance makes things happen.3 A gambler chalks up his winning streak to “Lady Luck”— chance. The police try to decide whether an apparently accidental death was due to foul play or just to chance. In other contexts, however, chance is not treated as a cause—especially when it is associated with notions like “probability,” “propensity,” or “risk.” If a weather report predicts a forty-percent “chance” of rain, for instance, no one thinks the “chance” given in the report actually causes the rain.4 Chance As Objective and Chance As Subjective Chance can also be treated as objective or subjective. Objectively, chance is considered a real part of nature. It makes things happen. Subjectively, chance is thought of as just a name for our ignorance. When we do not know the real causes behind an event, we attribute it to chance.5 3 4 5 “‘Chance’ is not a technical term, but is rather an ordinary concept deployed in fairly familiar situations (games of chance, complicated and unpredictable scenarios, large ensembles of similar events, etc.). There is widespread agreement amongst native speakers of English over when ‘chance’ applies to a particular case, and this agreement at least indicates that there is a considerable body of ordinary belief about chance. One needn’t take the deliverances of folk intuition as sacrosanct to recognize that this ordinary belief provides the starting point for philosophical accounts of chance” (“Chance versus Randomness,” in Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, at http://plato.stanford. edu/entries/chance-randomness). See Hand, The Improbability Principle, 45–46. Ibid., 45 and 56–60; Michael Heller, Philosophy of Chance: A Cosmic Fugue with a Prelude and a Coda (Krakow. PL: Copernicus Center Press, 2013), 114–118 and 147–151; and Toby Hanfield, Philosophical Guide, vii, 2, and 127. Causality, Science, Chance, and God 505 Chance and Science Philosophical discussions of chance go back to Greek thinkers like Democritus. Aristotle gave the first extensive, philosophical account of chance, and Aquinas followed his views.6 Both saw chance as a real feature of the natural world.7 With the coming of modern Newtonian science, however, the reality of chance was denied. Chance and Modern Newtonian Science Chance dropped out because the mathematical method of modern science left no room for it. Gerd Gigerenzer explains: “Natural philosophers like Galileo assumed that if nature spoke the language of mathematics, this was because nature was fully determined: . . . the glue that connected causes and effects must be as strong as that which connected premises and conclusions in a mathematical argument. Determinism thus became a precondition for the mathematical description of nature.”8 Even as science shut the door on chance as a real feature of the natural world, it also (rather paradoxically) opened the way for a science of chance as such. Certain mathematicians (especially some with a penchant for gambling) began to think that, just as science had quantified nature, so it might also quantify chance.9 Gigerenzer 6 7 8 9 John Dudley, Aristotle’s Concept of Chance: Accidents, Cause, Necessity, and Determinism (Albany: SUNY Press, 2012), 5n13: “Aristotle (with the possible exception of Democritus) . . . was the first thinker to give a philosophical account of chance.” Aristotle, Physics 2.5.196b14: “It is plain that there is such a thing as chance”; ibid. 2.4.195b310: “Many things are said both to be and to come to be as a result of chance and spontaneity”; see The Basic Works of Aristotle, trans. Richard McKeon (New York: Random House, 1941; unless otherwise noted, all quotations from the works of Aristotle will be from this edition). Thomas Aquinas, Summa contra gentiles (hereafter, SCG ) III, ch. 74, no. 2: “It would be contrary to the character of divine providence if nothing were to be fortuitous and a matter of chance in things”; see On the Truth of the Catholic Faith: Summa Contra Gentiles, 4 vols., trans. Anton Pegis et al. (Garden City, NY: Image Books, 1955–1957; all quotations of SCG are from this edition). Gerd Gigerenzer, Zeno Swijtink, Theodore Porter, Lorraine Daston, John Beatty, and Lorenz Krüger, The Empire of Chance: How Probability Changed Science and Everyday Life (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 11. Hand, The Improbability Principle, 48–49: “It is notable that the idea that chance could be quantified arose at the same time as the view that the universe was intrinsically deterministic. . . . The period just after the middle of the seventeenth century represents a turning point in the understanding of probability. 506 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. explains how the determinism of modern science paved the way for a science of chance: Classical probability theory arrived when luck was banished; it required a climate of determinism. . . . Determinism made a “geometry of chance” conceivable by anchoring variable events to constant probabilities, . . . so that even fortuitous events met what were then the standards for applying mathematics to experience. Those standards were not compatible with older notions of chance as real, or with what we might call genuine randomness in the world.10 Events in the natural world were seen as the effects of absolutely deterministic causes, and chance was simply a name for our ignorance of those causes. Scientists discovered, however, that, although they could not calculate all the causes, they could still predict certain outcomes statistically by using probability theory. In the kinetic theory of gasses, for instance, the macroscopic properties of a gas, such as temperature and pressure, could be described and predicted statistically, despite our ignorance of the precise movements of the microscopic molecules of the gas.11 In this way, as Gigerenzer points out, “Probability, understood as a measure of ignorance, harmonized with the most uncompromising form of determinism.”12 Chance and Contemporary Science The fortunes of chance changed with the advent of contemporary science. New scientific theories and philosophical interpretations of them established chance, once again, as an ontological feature of the natural world.13 Max Born has said: “We . . . admit chance into the realm of exact science.”14 Among contemporary sciences that have 10 11 12 13 14 It was around this time that the earliest books on the subject appeared, often motivated by gambling.” Max Born, Natural Philosophy of Cause and Chance (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1949), 46: “The theory of probability itself, which expresses these laws, is much older; it sprang not from the needs of natural science but from gambling and other, more or less disreputable, human activities.” Gigerenzer, et al., The Empire of Chance, 12. On the development of statistical mechanics, see Heller, Philosophy of Chance, 96–100. Gigerenzer, et al., The Empire of Chance, 276. See Hand, The Improbability Principle, 40. Born, Natural Philosophy, 3. Causality, Science, Chance, and God 507 made a place for chance, we will look especially at biology and quantum mechanics.15 Biology In biology, Charles Darwin suggested that chance might be the source of spontaneous variations among offspring that could then, through natural selection, result in the evolution of new species. He remained ambiguous, however, as to how large a role might be attributed to chance in this process and saw chance fundamentally as a name for our ignorance of actual causes.16 In view of Darwin’s work, the philosopher Charles Sanders Peirce declared that chance was a real aspect of nature and not just a name for our ignorance.17 Today, biologists continue to attribute spontaneous genetic mutations simply to chance.18 Quantum Mechanics If chance has now found a home in biology, it is even more firmly ensconced in quantum mechanics. As David Hand says: “The shift from the clockwork universe to the probabilistic universe began a century ago and is now virtually complete. We live in a universe dominated by chance and uncertainty.”19 15 16 17 18 19 In addition, one might also consider chaos theory and cosmology, with its “anthropic principle.” Hand, The Improbability Principle, 72–73: “A chaotic system appears to move between its states completely at random—and yet it is not random in the sense that its next state is unpredictable, because an explicit deterministic equation can be given to link successive states. It is just that the starting point can never be exactly known, and slight differences in that starting point can lead to vast differences further down the line.” Charles Darwin, The Origin of Species (New York: Modern Library, 1998), 172: “I have hitherto sometimes spoken as if the variations . . . were due to chance. This, of course, is a wholly incorrect expression, but it serves to acknowledge plainly our ignorance of the cause of each particular variation.” See Gigerenzer, et al, The Empire of Chance, 67–68 and 152. See Charles Birch, “Chance, Necessity and Purpose,” in Studies in the Philosophy of Biology: Reduction and Related Problems, ed. Francisco Jose Ayala and Theodosius Grigorievich Dobzhansky (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1974), 225–226; Stephen Barr, “Chance by Design,” First Things 228 (December, 2012): 28; and Manfred Eigen and Ruthild Winkler, Laws of the Game: How the Principles of Nature Govern Chance (New York: Knopf, 1981). More recent developments in biology, however, may leave less room for chance in the process of evolution. See C. H. Waddington, “How Much Is Evolution Affected by Chance and Necessity?” in Beyond Chance and Necessity: A Critical Inquiry into Professor Jacques Monod’s Chance and Necessity, ed. John Lewis (London: Garnstone Press, 1974), 98. David J. Hand, The Improbability Principle, 74; Karl R Popper, The Open 508 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. In Newtonian science, chance was merely a name for our ignorance. In contemporary physics, it seems to have a secure, ontological niche.20 Its security, however, depends on the interpretation of the science. The two most famous interpreters of that science were Neils Bohr and Albert Einstein.21 Bohr saw indeterminism as a real aspect of nature in what has been called the “Copenhagen interpretation” of quantum mechanics.22 Einstein, however, considered indeterminism as simply a name for our ignorance. In a famous letter to Max Born, Einstein says: “You believe in the God who plays dice, and I in complete law and order in a world that objectively exists. . . . Even the great initial success of the quantum theory does not make me believe in the fundamental dice-game.”23 20 21 22 23 Universe: an Argument for Indeterminism (Totowa, NJ: Rowman and Littlefield, 1982), 41, 124: “I personally believe that the doctrine of indeterminism is true, and that determinism is completely baseless. . . . The new indeterminism was introduced by quantum mechanics, which assumes the possibility of elementary chance events that are causally irreducible.” See also Ian Stewart, Does God Play Dice? The Mathematics of Chaos (Cambridge, MA: Blackwell, 1989), xi; Handfield, Philosophical Guide, 2; Charles Ruhla, The Physics of Chance: From Blaise Pascal to Niels Bohr (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), 213. See Gigerenzer, et al., The Empire of Chance, 276. See Manjit Kumar, Quantum: Einstein, Bohr, and the Great Debate about the Nature of Reality (New York: W. W. Norton, 2009). On Bohr’s position, see Ruhla, The Physics of Chance, 2–3 and 189–90. Following Bohr’s interpretation, Popper maintains that quantum mechanics has introduced a new kind of chance in the natural world: “There are, it appears, two kinds of chance events. One kind is due to the independence of two causal chains which happen, accidentally, to interfere at some place and time, and so combine in bringing about the chance event. A typical example consists of two causal chains, one of which loosens a brick while the other independent causal chain makes a man take up a position where he will be hit by the brick. This kind of chance event (whose theory was developed by Laplace himself, in his work on probability) is perfectly compatible with Laplacean determinism: anybody furnished in advance with sufficiently full information about the relevant events could have predicted what was bound to happen. It was only the incompleteness of our knowledge which gave rise to this kind of chance. Quantum mechanics, however, introduced chance events of a second, and much more radical kind: absolute chance. According to quantum mechanics, there are elementary physical processes which are not further analyzable in terms of causal chains, but which consist of so-called ‘quantum jumps’; and a quantum jump is supposed to be an absolutely unpredictable event which is controlled neither by causal laws nor by the coincidence of causal laws, but by probabilistic laws alone” (Open Universe, 125). Albert Einstein, “Letter to Max Born, November 7, 1944,” as translated in Causality, Science, Chance, and God 509 On whether Einstein or Bohr is correct, it seems the jury is still out. Ian Stewart argues for Einstein: It must be admitted at the outset that the vast majority of physicists see no reason to make changes to the current framework of quantum mechanics, in which quantum events have an irreducibly probabilistic character. Their view is: “If it ain’t broke, do not fix it.” However, hardly any philosophers of science are at ease with the conventional interpretation of quantum mechanics, on the grounds that it is philosophically incoherent. . . . Moreover, some of the world’s foremost physicists agree with the philosophers. They think that something is broke, and therefore needs fixing.24 Charles Ruhla, on the other hand, argues for Bohr’s position: Is it not time . . . at long last, to accept chance as fundamentally characteristic of Nature? On this last point the physics community remains divided. . . . It would of course be very difficult to demonstrate conclusively that . . . Nature is basically deterministic, or basically random: philosophers have tried it and have failed. But, today, physics is progressing much faster by the use of random than of deterministic models: so much so that chance is bound to become more and more part of the language and eventually of the paradigms of physics.25 Science, Chance, and Divine Action Now that we have traced the fortunes of chance in empirical science, we can consider its influence on the discussion of divine action.26 24 25 26 Stewart, Does God Play Dice? xi. See Max Born, Natural Philosophy, 122. Stewart, Does God Play Dice? 330. See also Mario Bunge, Causality and Modern Science (New York: Dover, 1979), 14–17 and 326–330. Ruhla, The Physics of Chance, 214. Born agrees: “Though I am very much aware of the shortcomings of quantum mechanics, I think that its indeterministic foundations will be permanent” (Natural Philosophy, 109). Given the limits of its method, science as such, of course, has nothing to say about divine action. Here, I am using the term “science” in a broad sense to include certain philosophical and theological positions that often accompany it but are not part of science itself. Such positions might prove valid if properly grounded philosophically or theologically. Often, however, they remain ungrounded, though they sometimes attempt to claim the authority of science as such for their foundation. In such cases, we should be careful to see them 510 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. Divine Action and Newtonian Science Deterministic Newtonian science gave rise to two inferences. The first was that determinism excludes any possibility of chance events in the natural world. The second was that determinism excludes all divine action in the world, since such action would violate the deterministic laws of science. Determinism Excludes Chance Regarding the first inference, the scientific elimination of chance from the natural world coincided conveniently with a theology of divine omnipotence that was equally eager to eliminate chance and to view all events as necessary parts of the immutable plan of divine providence.27 Any whiff of chance seemed to imply “an absence of divine planning and control.”28 Both science and theology saw chance as opposed to determinism. For science, chance was opposed to 27 28 not as tenets of science, but as an essentially unfounded ideology that is better labeled “scientism.” So, when I speak here of a conflict between “theology and science,” we should recognize that the true conflict is between theology and scientism, not between theology and science as such. Similarly, I am using the term “theology” in a broad sense for which the phrase “certain theologians” would be more precise. Hand, The Improbability Principle, 27, 60: “If we believe there is a single intelligence directing the universe, we ascribe events to chance only because we do not know their cause. Chance is then a matter of ignorance of fundamental cause rather than a fundamental cause in itself. This shift leads us to the notion of a deterministic universe, which is following the steps of a master plan, as set up by the one God. . . . So epistemological probability fits in well with the heavily monotheistic religious context in which the foundations of probability were laid in the mid-seventeenth century, where a chance event was regarded merely as one for which we didn’t understand how God caused it to happen.” See also Gigerenzer, et al., The Empire of Chance, 12–13: “[In the eighteenth century] the natural theologians and their probabilist allies like De Moivre made much [of] the opposition of chance and purpose, particularly divine purpose. . . . Almost any symmetry or stability unlikely to have come about by ‘mere chance’—the intricate construction of the human eye, the regular mortality rate, etc.—became an argument ‘from design’ for the existence of an intelligent and beneficent deity. . . . [T]he natural theologians persisted until Darwin in seeing chance refuted everywhere by the traces of divine handiwork. . . . [F]or the classical probabilists ‘chance’ and ‘luck’ that stood outside the causal order were superstitions. If we could see the world as it really was, penetrating to the ‘hidden springs’ and principles of things, we would discover only necessary causes. Probabilities were merely provisional, a figment of human ignorance and therefore subjective.” Gigerenzer, et al., The Empire of Chance, 60. Causality, Science, Chance, and God 511 deterministic natural causes. For theology, chance was opposed divine providence, which was considered deterministic, omniscient, and unchanging. For both, chance was simply a name for our ignorance: for scientists, an ignorance of the real, natural, and deterministic causes at work in the world; for theologians, an ignorance of the determined and immutable, but unknowable, plan of divine providence.29 Determinism Excludes Divine Action If science and theology could agree on the first inference, the second—that the deterministic laws of science left no room for God to act in the world—held the seeds of conflict. Some theologians avoided the conflict by adapting their theology to the determinism of science. Deists, for instance, affirmed God’s act of creation, but posited no further action of God in the world. If God’s providential plans were perfectly expressed in the original design of nature, now discovered and described by the laws of science, any further intervention on God’s part would contradict not only science, but the very wisdom of the original plan of providence. Other theologians, while subscribing to the premise that the laws of science left no room for God’s action in nature, still allowed that God might act within the subjectivity of human experience, where his action would not interfere with the laws of science. They accordingly reinterpreted biblical miracles as metaphors for subjective human experiences.30 To theologians who 29 30 Heller, Philosophy of Chance, 76: “Random events, understood as breaches in rationality, can exist only from the human vantage point by virtue of his imperfect understanding (or rather boundless ignorance) of God’s intentions.” Thomas F. Tracy, “Creation, Providence, and Quantum Chance,” in Quantum Mechanics: Scientific Perspectives on Divine Action, ed. Robert John Russell, Philip Clayton, Kirk Wegter-Mcnelly, and John C. Polkinghorne (Vatican City: Vatican Observatory; Berkeley, CA: Center for Theology and the Natural Sciences, 2001), 237: “It is a mistake to conclude that modern human beings have adopted, in general, a ‘scientific way of knowing’ and/or a ‘scientific worldview’ that rules out talk of divine agency developed within a theological interpretation of the world. The theologians who have made these claims, and used them as the basis for far-reaching theological revision, have almost always uncritically presupposed a deterministic picture of the natural world. We can see this in a long line of religious thinkers, from deists in the eighteenth century to Schleiermacher at the founding of liberal Protestant theology in the early nineteenth century to contemporary theologians like Rudolph Bultmann and Gordon Kaufman. For these thinkers, a general metaphysical picture of the world as a closed causal continuum came to be invested with the authority of science by being treated either as a methodological given of scientific inquiry or as a well-established empirical result.” 512 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. considered divine action, including miracles, to be an essential element of Christian faith, however, the exclusion of miracles by deterministic science constituted a fundamental ground for conflict between science and religion. Divine Action and Contemporary Science Both evolutionary biology and quantum mechanics now assign a role to chance in their account of the natural world. The presence of chance in these two branches of science, however, has elicited quite different theological responses. While the presence of chance in quantum mechanics has precipitated a fruitful dialogue with theology, its presence in biological evolution has been an occasion for conflict. Divine Action, Chance, and Evolutionary Biology Theological reactions to the presence of chance in contemporary biology hearken back to the first inference that arose from the determinism of Newtonian science—namely, the opposition between chance and divine providence. It is remarkable how many theologians and atheistic biologists alike share the premise that there is a fundamental opposition between chance and providence. Sharing that premise, they reach the same conclusion: that the presence of chance in evolution must exclude the providential influence of God. Faced with such an either/or proposition, the atheists accordingly reject God, while the theologians either reject evolution or limit God’s power to preserve the presence of chance in evolution. For atheistic biologists, there is no place for divine providence in evolution, particularly in the instantiation of human life. All is the result of blind chance. As Jacques Monod says: “[M]an knows at last that he is alone in the universe’s unfeeling immensity, out of which he emerged only by chance.”31 Creationist theologians also think that the presence of chance in evolution excludes divine providence, and they accordingly reject the theory of evolution.32 Other theologians, 31 32 Jacques Monod, Chance and Necessity: an Essay on the Natural Philosophy of Modern Biology (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1972), 180. Heller, Philosophy of Chance, 25, 168: “[There is] an even today widespread belief that the biological theory of evolution cannot be reconciled with religious faith because the theory of evolution attributes a crucial role in the genealogy of life to chance, and chance constitutes a breach in the rationality of the plan of creation. . . . The supporters of creation science quite often contrast God with ‘pure chance.’ Was the Universe created by God or did it emerge on the strength of pure chance?” Causality, Science, Chance, and God 513 however, while subscribing to the same premise that chance and providence are incompatible, are still unwilling to reject evolution. Instead, they simply set limits on providence. They do this by limiting God’s knowledge or power or both. When God’s knowledge is diminished, God’s plan for the world becomes a bit vague and so is better able to accommodate the vagaries of chance. God might have a general plan for creation, but must leave the specifics to chance. God might, for instance, know that the process of evolution may lead to intelligent life, but must leave the details to evolutionary chance.33 When God’s power is diminished, God is seen as “stepping back” or limiting himself in some way in order to make room for chance and contingency in the world.34 Again, the details of the chance outcomes of nature lie beyond the reach of divine providence. Divine Action, Chance, and Quantum Mechanics In contrast to the conflicts occasioned by the presence of chance in biology, broad avenues for dialogue between theology and science have been opened by the introduction of chance into quantum 33 34 This seems to reflect Darwin’s own views on the subject: “I am inclined to look at everything as resulting from designed laws, with the details, whether good or bad, left to the working out of what we may call chance. Not that this notion at all satisfies me. I feel most deeply that the whole subject is too profound for the human intellect”; see Charles Darwin, “Letter to Asa Gray, May 22, 1860”; in The Life and Letters of Charles Darwin, ed. Francis Darwin (New York: D. Appleton and Co., 1897), 2:104. David Bartholomew seems to agree: “So we return to my opening question: ‘Is God a risk taker?’ In the light of my discussion, this question has to be worded more carefully because we have to distinguish between ultimate goals and short-term deviations. We have seen that determinate ends may be achieved as the result of averaging many random effects or by the interactions within the process. This means that the end of the process may be virtually certain, even though the path to that end is not determined. Is it sufficient to preserve our understanding of God’s greatness that he, as it were, gets there in the end—or that he must never put a foot wrong? It seems to me that it is the end that matters and if deviations toward that end deliver side benefits, the net result may be gain”; see his God, Chance and Purpose (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 235–236. Nancey Murphy argues that God limits himself in order “to respect the innate characteristics with which he has endowed his creatures”; see her “Divine Action in the Natural Order: Buridan’s Ass and Schrödinger’s Cat,” in Chaos and Complexity: Scientific Perspectives on Divine Action, ed. Robert John Russell et al.(Vatican City: Vatican Observatory; Berkeley, CA: Center for Theology and the Natural Sciences, 1995), 355. 514 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. mechanics.35 The openness of quantum indeterminacy is seen as a new and welcome locus for God to act in the world. It is curious, however, that the very welcomeness of the new locus hearkens back to the second inference that seemed to follow from Newtonian science—that the deterministic laws of science exclude divine action. On that supposition, the new locus of quantum indeterminacy is especially welcome, since it provides a place for God to act in the world without intervening in, interfering with, or violating the established laws of science.36 For some theologians, such as Thomas Tracy and Robert Russell, quantum indeterminacy is simply a newly discovered feature of the world in and through which God might act.37 For others such as Nancey Murphy, however, quantum indeterminacy is viewed as the only place for God to act, since the laws of science exclude God’s action in the natural world at any other level.38 35 36 37 38 One might consider, for instance, the many years of fruitful conversations between scientists and theologians resulting in the series of distinguished volumes published by the Vatican Observatory and the Center for Theology and the Natural Sciences at the Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley. See the summary volume Scientific Perspectives on Divine Action: Twenty Years of Challenge and Progress, ed. Robert John Russell, Nancey Murphy, and William R. Stoeger (Vatican City: Vatican Observatory; Berkeley, CA: Center for Theology and the Natural Sciences, 2008). Ian Barbour, Nature, Human Nature, and God (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2002), 104–105: “Several recent authors have said that their accounts of divine action do not involve violations of the laws of nature or divine intervention in gaps in the scientific account. . . . Instead they have tried to show how new scientific concepts either permit divine action or suggest analogies for it. . . . In all these cases God is seen as working subtly in cooperation with the structures of nature rather than by intervening discontinuously.” For other examples, see Michael J. Dodds, Unlocking Divine Action: Contemporary Science and Thomas Aquinas (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2012), 153–155. See Thomas F. Tracy, “Theologies of Divine Action,” in The Oxford Handbook of Religion and Science, ed. Philip Clayton and Zachary Simpson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 609. Robert Russell argues that “we can view God as acting in particular quantum events to produce, indirectly, a specific event at the macroscopic level, one which we call an event of special providence. . . . [Q]uantum mechanics allows us to think of special divine action without God overriding or intervening in the structures of nature”; see his “Does the ‘God Who Acts’ Really Act in Nature?” in Science and Theology: The New Consonance, ed. Ted Peters (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1998), 89 and 94. Like Thomas Tracy, he sees quantum indeterminacy not as the exclusive theater of divine action, but as “one location or domain where that action may have an effect on the course of nature” (ibid., 92). “My proposal is that God’s governance at the quantum level consists in acti- Causality, Science, Chance, and God 515 Implications of the Diverse Consequences for Divine Action Arising from the Presence of Chance in Evolutionary Biology and Quantum Mechanics The presence of chance in contemporary science seems to pose a challenge to divine action in evolutionary biology, while opening an opportunity for it in quantum mechanics. This puzzling situation is compounded when we consider that both the new challenge and the new opportunity appear to be founded on inferences that followed from the now antiquated world view that accompanied Newtonian science, according to which chance was contrary to divine providence and the established laws of science excluded divine action. The question then arises: if the supposed oppositions between chance and divine providence and between the laws of science and divine action are no longer imposed by the deterministic world view of Newtonian science, why does that supposed opposition continue to influence theological accounts of divine action? Perhaps the source of the supposed oppositions between chance and providence and between the laws of science and divine action lies deeper than the now obsolete determinism of Newtonian science. Perhaps it is grounded (and has always been grounded) more fundamentally in the way that the causality of God has been conceived in relation to the causality of creatures. Since contemporary science views chance as a kind of ontological cause, it may be helpful to consider the nature of the causality of chance as such before considering the relationship between the causality of chance and the causality of God. As a resource for these considerations, we turn to the philosophy of Aristotle and Aquinas. Retrieving the Philosophy of Chance in Aristotle and Aquinas Aristotle’s reason for treating chance as a cause is, as he says, because that is the way people talk. They treat it as a cause, but a special kind of cause.39 It causes some things, but not others. Necessary things that 39 vating or actualizing one or another of the quantum entity’s innate powers at particular instants, and that these events are not possible without God’s action. This is the manner and extent of God’s government at this level of reality” (Murphy, “Divine Action in the Natural Order,” 342). Physics 2.4.195b31–32: “But chance also and spontaneity are reckoned among causes: many things are said both to be and to come to be as a result of chance and spontaneity.” Dudley, Aristotle’s Concept of Chance, 19: “Chance must be examined in a treatise on causality, since people speak of things happening ‘by chance,’ as if chance were a cause.” 516 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. always happen in just the same way (like taxes) are not attributed to chance. Nor are contingent things that happen the same way most of the time, but not always (like goose bumps). Only things that happen rarely are chalked up to chance.40 Even rare events are attributed to chance only when they look like they were planned or intended but, in reality, were not.41 Some things, like birthday parties, are planned by human beings and do not happen by chance. Other things, like acorns growing into oak trees, are intended by nature, and so are not by chance. Such planned or intended outcomes have the nature of an end. They have some intrinsic quality of goodness that makes them desirable, either consciously by human beings or unconsciously as built-in tendencies of nature. Aristotle thinks that goodness is really present in nature and that every natural agent (whether consciously or not) acts to attain some good. He calls this quest for goodness “final causality” and sees it as an intrinsic aspect of nature. Goodness and the quest for it are not things that humans impose on nature, but that they simply find there.42 40 41 42 Physics 2.5.196b 10–15. Even things that Aristotle calls “necessary” are not exceptionless, as Richard Sorabji observes: “In connexion with other events, Aristotle sometimes recognises two kinds of necessity: necessity in accordance with and necessity contrary to nature. In neither case does it occur to him to suggest that there must be an exceptionless law at work. Necessity in accordance with nature is illustrated by the case of a stone’s falling down. The downward motion is in accordance with its nature, and Aristotle thinks of nature as something which may produce its results either invariably or only for the most part. Thus a stone does not invariably fall through the air: it may get thrown upwards. There is no attempt to argue that, in the cases where natural necessity is in play, nature behaves invariably. . . . For the idea that absolutely everything happens in conformity with regularity, we have to wait till the Stoics. Their innovation was to associate exceptionless regularity with cause. Since every event, in their view, had a cause, this linked every event with exceptionless regularity”; see his Necessity, Cause, and Blame: Perspectives on Aristotle’s Theory (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1980), 61 and 64. Sorabji, Necessity, Cause, and Blame, 175n1: “Aristotle insists that we do not talk of chance or spontaneity . . . unless we are talking of something which might well have been brought about on purpose or by nature, and hence for the sake of an end (196b22, b34, 197a35, 198a6). At the same time, he insists that chance events are not in fact brought about for the sake of an end (197a35, b18–19, 198b29). And so he treats chance as opposed to final cause (e.g. 199a3–5).” Dudley, Aristotle’s Concept of Chance, 25–26: “For Aristotle [human] intellect is not a prerequisite of purpose, but subsequent to it. The outcome of thought is not merely parallel to the working of Nature, but posterior to it.” Lindsay Causality, Science, Chance, and God 517 Chance events can also have an intrinsic quality of goodness and, so, appear to be something that would be intended or aimed at, either by human choice or by some intrinsic tendency of nature.43 In this way, they have the character of an end or a goal.44 What is peculiar about them is that they occur apart from any direct human choice or intrinsic tendency of nature. 43 44 Judson, “Chance and ‘Always or for the Most Part’ in Aristotle,” in Aristotle’s Physics: A Collection of Essays, ed. Lindsay Judson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 73–100, at 92: “What marks out chance outcomes is that they are beneficial events which are not reliably connected with the natural workings or the choices of the subject who benefits from them.” See Vincenzo Cioffari, Fortune and Fate from Democritus to St. Thomas Aquinas (New York: [s.n.], 1935), 17–18: “[The finding of gold by a farmer who is ploughing] will be a fortunate result in that gold is such that it would have been sought after, had its existence been known (Physics II. v [196b35]). That is: this rare occurrence, in order to be the effect of Fortune, must also be finalistic; its object must have value—positive or negative. Of course it is not purposed; but without being intended, it must be capable of being desired.” Of course, not all chance outcomes are good. There is “bad luck” as well as “good luck,” as Aristotle recognized in Physics 2.5.197a25–30: “Chance or fortune is called ‘good’ when the result is good, ‘evil’ when it is evil. The terms ‘good fortune’ and ‘ill fortune’ are used when either result is of considerable magnitude. Thus one who comes within an ace of some great evil or great good is said to be fortunate or unfortunate.” Dudley explains how “bad luck” can be understood under the rubric of that which has the character of an end or belongs to the realm of purpose (even through it is itself undesirable): “[T]he inclusion of purpose or meaningfulness in the definition of chance has nothing to do with the choice of the outcome by the person who undergoes bad luck (or indeed good luck), but rather with the fact that the outcome strikes the human mind, because it is the kind of thing that recalls purpose (i.e., it belongs to the area of purpose), regardless of whether it is lucky or unlucky” (Aristotle’s Concept of Chance, 43–44). The good outcome would have been purposefully chosen; the bad outcome would have been purposefully avoided. Cioffari, Fortune and Fate, 5–6: “This relation, however, of Chance to finality, cannot be described as a negation but rather as a privation. For the chance result indeed came about without being intended by Nature or Will. But it must yet be such as to constitute a possible object of natural or volitional purposiveness—it must have value for some one. Moreover the chance effect (of Aristotle) cannot merely be styled as what does not proceed from a purposeful action . . . for we must add the limitations which Aristotle so carefully introduces (Physics II, v), that it must be of those things that have teleological significance. . . . The chance effect is unintended, to be sure, but it must be such as to be worthy to be sought after. It is, therefore, a privation rather than a negation, and Aristotle looks upon Chance not merely as the absence of purposiveness, but as a conditioned privation of it.” 518 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. Their intrinsic goodness suggests that they should be chosen or naturally intended. Yet no human chooses them, and no natural thing intends them. But if they are neither chosen nor intended, what makes them happen? The answer is “chance.” Since the events are real, and since their intrinsic goodness is real, chance, as their source or cause, must also somehow be real. But how? Chance involves an interplay of causes that results in some good effect that none of the causes directly intends. A classic example of chance is the man who, busy digging a grave, happens to find a treasure.45 He certainly intends to produce a hole in the ground. And the one who first buried the treasure certainly intended to stash his loot. Yet no human agency or impulse of nature intended that the man find the treasure. Still, the event, because of its very goodness, looks like something that would be intended. The digger intended only to make a hole, and finding the treasure is incidental to his action. The one who buried the treasure intended only to hide it—and not that it be found by another. Each is in some way incidentally, but not directly, the cause of the event. For this reason, Aristotle says that chance involves incidental causality—it entails an effect that is incidentally connected to a certain cause.46 It is clear that the event would not have happened without the action of such incidental causes. But we are still left with a question: Why did the grave digger happen to make his hole just there, where the treasure happened to be buried? And why did the one who buried the treasure leave it just there, where the grave digger would be working? What brings the two together? What unites these two happenstances, without which uniting the event itself would not have happened? For this, there is no proper cause.47 In this sense, Aqui45 46 47 Thomas Aquinas, Commentary on Aristotle’s Physics, trans. Richard J. Blackwell, et al. (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1963), II, lect. 8, no. 214: “In this sense fortune is said to be a per accidens cause when something is accidentally joined to the effect, for example, if the discovery of a treasure is accidentally joined to the digging of a grave.” Physics 2.5.197a 5–13: “It is clear then that chance is an incidental cause in the sphere of those actions for the sake of something which involves purpose. . . . Things do, in a way, occur by chance, for they occur incidentally and chance is an incidental cause.” SCG III, ch. 92, no. 12: “In fact, an event does not lose its fortuitous character unless it may be referred back to a direct cause. . . . Now, it is proper for a nature to tend to one objective. So, if an effect is not simply one result, then its direct cause cannot be a natural power. But, when two things are combined with each other accidentally, they are not truly one, but only acci- Causality, Science, Chance, and God 519 nas says that the chance event has no cause,48 and Aristotle says that “chance is not the cause, without qualification, of anything.”49 Yet the outcome (in view of its very goodness) seems to demand a cause, and so we attribute it to the causality of chance—a peculiar kind of causality that is also in some ways a “non-causality.”50 How can we say that chance is both a cause and not a cause?51 Perhaps we might say that chance is our name for that complex structure of nature in which a proper cause can, in the midst of pursuing its 48 49 50 51 dentally so. Hence, there can be no direct, natural cause for this union. . . . Now, the grave and the location of the treasure are one only accidentally, for they have no relation to each other.” Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae (hereafter, ST) II-II, q. 95, a. 5, resp.: “An accidental being has no cause [non habet causam], least of all a natural cause . . . because what occurs accidentally, neither is a being properly speaking, nor is one. For instance, that an earthquake occur when a stone falls, or that a treasure be discovered when a man digs a grave—for these and like occurrences are not one thing, but are simply several things. Whereas the operation of nature has always some one thing for its term, just as it proceeds from some one principle, which is the form of the natural thing.” Unless otherwise noted, all citations of ST come from St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica, trans. Fathers of the English Dominican Province (New York: Benziger Brothers, 1947). For other texts from Aquinas, see Dodds, Unlocking Divine Action, 39n84. Physics 2.5.197a14: “But strictly it [chance] is not the cause—without qualification—of anything.” Aristotle, Metaphysics 12.3.1070a6–9: “For things come into being either by art or by nature or by luck or by spontaneity. Now art is a principle of movement in something other than the thing moved, nature is a principle in the thing itself (for man begets man), and the other causes are privations of these two.” Cioffari explains this quotation: “That is: hazard (automaton) is a privation of Nature, and Fortune (Tyche) is a privation of techne (of Mind). It is a privation which is a result of indeterminateness, for, as Aristotle tells us (Physics 201b26): ‘the principles . . . are regarded as indefinite because of their privative character. . . . Now as Mind and Nature are surely efficient causes, a privation of them is a lack of causality’” (Cioffari, Fortune and Fate, 21). See also Pascal Massie, “The Irony of Chance: On Aristotle’s Physics B, 4–6,” International Philosophical Quarterly 43 (2003): 25 and 28; and Bunge, Causality and Modern Science, 99–100. Judson, “Chance and ‘Always or for the Most Part’ in Aristotle,” 75: “[Aristotle’s] main purpose is the characteristic one of seeking a middle way which will show how most of the endoxa are partially true. In effect, his aim is to do justice to the idea that chance is something and to the idea that it is nothing. He does this by denying that chance is a causal force in its own right (or a fifth type of cause coordinate with the other four), while maintaining that there is nonetheless a sense in which events do happen by chance.” 520 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. proper effect, also produce some good effect beyond its intentionality and outside the whole intentionality of nature. The very goodness of the effect demands a cause, but it has no proper cause. We attribute it to the causality of chance. Chance is therefore mysterious. We cannot fathom why or when an individual chance event might happen.52 But if chance is mysterious, it is a natural mystery—a part of the very structure of the natural world.53 As such, chance is not just a product of human ignorance or wishful thinking. It is, rather, a real feature of the very complexity of the structure of the natural world that humans simply recognize.54 Chance and Divine Action How should we understand the causality of God in relation to the peculiar causality of chance? The first thing to notice is that chance cannot be opposed to divine causality. If chance is an ontological feature of the natural world and the world is the product of divine creation, then chance can hardly be viewed as contrary to God’s creative and sustaining action in the world. If chance is a mode of creaturely causality, and if there can be no contradiction between the causality of creatures and the causality of God, then chance cannot be contrary to divine providence. So, we lay to rest the first troublesome inference that seemed to arise from the determinism of Newtonian science and the theology that accompanied it, that chance is contrary to divine providence. Far from contradicting divine providence, chance should rather be seen as one of its instruments. In considering the causality of God in relation to creatures, Aquinas uses the analogy of instrumental and secondary causality.55 In instrumental causality, a principal cause employs an instrument to produce 52 53 54 55 Hand, The Improbability Principle, 48–49: “[C]hance events can’t be predicted. . . . [I]t’s completely unknown which of heads or tails will come up on any individual toss of a coin.” For Aristotle’s summation of chance as an aspect of nature, see Physics 2.6.198a1–13. Physics 2.5.196b14: “It is plain that there is such a thing as chance and spontaneity; for we know that things of this kind are due to chance and that things due to chance are of this kind.” SCG III, ch. 74, no. 2: “[I]t would be contrary to the character of divine providence if nothing were to be fortuitous and a matter of chance in things.” On the distinction between these modes of causality, see Dodds, Unlocking Divine Action, 29–30. Causality, Science, Chance, and God 521 an effect that is beyond the capacity of the instrument. So a writer might use a pen to make intelligible marks on a page, an act that is beyond the capacity of the pen by itself.56 Yet, the effect belongs entirely to both causes. There is no mark that the pen did not produce and none that the writer did not cause. In secondary causality, a primary cause uses a secondary cause to produce an effect that is proportionate to the nature of the secondary cause, but which it can produce only under the influence of the primary cause.57 So, the musicians in an orchestra, as secondary causes, might each produce a quality of music that is entirely proportionate to his or her skill and training, but they could not produce the sounds of the symphony without the influence of the conductor, acting as primary cause. Again, the effect is attributed entirely to both the primary and the secondary cause. Only in cases where one cause in some way transcends the other can the effect belong wholly to both. If the causes belong to the same order or are of the same type, the effect will simply be divided between them. If, for instance, a writer uses two pencils to make marks on the page, some marks will be due to one pencil and some to the other. They cannot all belong equally to both. Similarly, if two people push a car, the movement of the car will belong to both but be divided between them, and the more strongly one pushes, the less there will be for the other to do. Since the two causes belong to the same order, the effect cannot belong wholly to both. Because they belong to the same order, they are called univocal causes. Since God utterly transcends the realm of creaturely causality, creatures are always secondary or instrumental causes with respect to God. For this reason, their effects—to the extent that they have being and actuality—must be attributed wholly to God and wholly to creatures.58 56 57 58 See Thomas Aquinas, Truth [Quaestiones disputatae de veritate], trans. R. Mulligan et al. (Chicago: Regnery, 1952–1954), q. 27, a. 4, resp. David Burrell, Freedom and Creation in Three Traditions (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1993), 97: “The terms ‘primary’ and ‘secondary’ come into play when we are faced with the situation where one thing is what it is by virtue of the other. So each can be said properly to be a cause, yet what makes one secondary is its intrinsic dependence on the one which is primary. This stipulation clearly distinguishes a secondary cause from an instrument, which is not a cause in its own right: it is not the hammer which drives the nails but the carpenter using it.” Since evil is a privation of being and actuality, to the extent that creaturely actions are evil, they are not to be traced back to the divine cause as the principle of being and actuality. 522 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. There can be no competition between divine action and creaturely action (or between divine action and the laws of science that describe creaturely action). So, we lay to rest the second troublesome inference apparently proceeding from Newtonian science, that the deterministic laws of science leave no room for God’s action in the world. It is only when God and creatures are mistaken for univocal causes that any competition can be posited between them. Only then can their mutual causality be viewed as a kind of zero sum game in which the more the effect is attributed to God, the less it can be attributed to the creature. If chance is a mode of creaturely causality, it must also be a secondary or instrumental cause in relation to divine causality. We therefore cannot say that chance is beyond the reach of divine providence, nor that it requires any diminishment of God’s knowledge or power.59 We should rather say that God acts through chance, just as God acts through any secondary creaturely cause.60 In this sense, there can be 59 60 SCG III, ch. 92, no. 6: “The power of the human soul, or also of an angel, is particularized in comparison with divine power which, in fact, is universal in regard to all beings. Thus, then, some good thing may happen to a man which is apart from his own intention, and apart from the inclination given by celestial bodies, and apart from the enlightenment coming from the angels—but not apart from divine providence, which is regulative, just as it is productive, of being as such, and, consequently, which must include all things under it. Thus, some good or evil may happen to man that is fortuitous in relation to himself, and in relation to the celestial bodies, and in relation to the angels, but not in relation to God. Indeed, in relation to Him, nothing can be a matter of chance and unforeseen, either in the sphere of human affairs or in any matter.” God is not himself subject to chance, so “in relation to him, nothing is a matter of chance.” Rather, God is the ultimate cause of chance events, not depriving them of their character of chance and contingency, but rather being the very source of it. Thomas Aquinas, Commentary on Aristotle’s On Interpretation I, lect 14, no. 22: “There is a difference to be noted on the part of the divine will, for the divine will must be understood as existing outside of the order of beings, as a cause producing the whole of being and all its differences. Now the possible and the necessary are differences of being, and therefore necessity and contingency in things and the distinction of each according to the nature of their proximate causes originate from the divine will itself, for he disposes necessary causes for the effects that he wills to be necessary, and he ordains causes acting contingently (i.e., able to fail) for the effects that he wills to be contingent. And according to the condition of these causes, effects are called either necessary or contingent, although all depend on the divine will as on a first cause, which transcends the order of necessity and contingency. This, however, cannot be said of the human will, nor of any other cause, for every Causality, Science, Chance, and God 523 no competition or opposition between the causality of chance and the causality of God. Even God’s miraculous action in the natural world cannot be viewed as a violation of nature or of the natural tendencies of creatures (or even of the laws of science that describe those tendencies), since the most fundamental tendency of nature and of all creatures is toward the transcendent goodness of God.61 In this context, we can say that God acts through chance both in biological evolution and in quantum events. Elizabeth Johnson explains how secondary causality, as Aquinas understands it, can be applied to evolution: [God, the] Absolute Holy Mystery dwells within, encompasses, empowers the evolutionary process, making the world through the process of things being themselves, thus making the world through chance and its genuinely irregular character. If God works through chance, then the natural creativity of chance itself can be thought of as a mode of divine creativity in which it participates. And the gracious mystery of God can be glimpsed as the Source not only of deep regularities in the universe, but also of novelty. The future remains genuinely open: God does not act like a bigger and better secondary cause to determine chance atomic events or initial conditions of chaotic systems. Randomness is real, for God respects the structure of creation while at the same time weaving events into providential patterns toward the realization of the whole. Divine sovereignty and creaturely freedom, of which chance is one instance, do not compete.62 61 62 other cause already falls under the order of necessity or contingency; hence, either the cause itself must be able to fail or, if not, its effect is not contingent, but necessary. The divine will, on the other hand, is unfailing; yet not all its effects are necessary, but some are contingent”; in Aristotle: On Interpretation. Commentary by St. Thomas and Cajetan, trans. Jean T. Oesterle (Milwaukee, WI: Marquette University Press, 1962). See ST I, q. 6, a. 1. See also ST III, q. 11, a. 1, resp.: “Now it must be borne in mind that in the human soul, as in every creature, there is a double passive power: one in comparison with a natural agent; the other in comparison with the first agent, which can reduce any creature to a higher act than a natural agent can reduce it, and this is usually called the obediential power of a creature.” Elizabeth Johnson, “Does God Play Dice? Divine Providence and Chance,” Theological Studies 57 (1996): 15–16. 524 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. Similarly, we can say that God acts through chance in quantum mechanics, whether we follow the interpretation of Einstein or Bohr. Should we follow Einstein’s account (where the quantum event is attributed to chance as a name for our ignorance of the as yet unknown hidden variables that are its real source), we would say that God acts through the hidden variables (as secondary causes) in the production of the effect. As with any case of secondary causality, the effect would be attributed wholly to God and wholly to the secondary causes (the hidden variables). Should we follow Bohr’s account (where the quantum event is attributed to chance as a real, ontological feature of the natural world), we would say that God acts through the causality of chance itself (as a secondary cause) in the production of the effect. Again, the effect would be attributed wholly to God as primary cause and wholly to quantum chance as secondary cause. Conclusion The moral of our musings on the fortunes of chance in empirical science and its implications for the discussion of divine action seems to be that the discussion can be rightly grounded only if, at the start, we recognize the transcendent causality of God in relation to the secondary causality of creatures. From that vantage point, there can be no contradiction between chance (conceived as a mode of creaturely causality) and God. The presence of chance in the natural world is not contrary to divine action, and God’s action in the world is neither contrary to the natural actions of creatures nor excluded by the laws of science that describe them. Stewart captures something of the compatibility of chance and divine action when he writes: Whether Einstein was right about quantum mechanics remains to be seen. But we do know that the world of classical mechanics is more mysterious than even Einstein imagined. The very distinction he was trying to emphasize between the randomness of chance and the determinism of law is called in question. Perhaps God can play dice, and create a universe of complete law and order, in the same breath.63 We can, in any case, be sure that the presence of chance in contemporary science should cause no conflict between theology and science. 63 Stewart, Does God Play Dice? xii. Causality, Science, Chance, and God 525 Rather, the presence of chance, when rightly understood, opens a new avenue for dialogue between the two disciplines. As Bogart might say: N&V “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 2 (2016): 527–541 527 Causality and Chance: Response to Michael J. Dodds Steven A. Long Ave Maria University Ave Maria, Florida Introduction It is a great honor to have the occasion to respond to the thought of Fr. Dodds, whose paper brings us back to propositions of decisive metaphysical centrality. I would like here both to appreciate those propositions and to offer a different exegesis of them, all in the hope of illuminating the question of the nature of chance and its relation to causality and to divine providence. First, I am a captive audience for Fr. Dodds’s insistence that divine and created causes are not competitive causes. It is simply not the case that either the creature or God causes, since as Thomas puts it, God is the first and principal cause of the application of every power to act.1 The 1 Summa contra gentiles (hereafter, SCG) III, ch. 67: “Sed omnis applicatio virtutis ad operationem est principaliter et primo a Deo [But every application of power to operation is principally and first from God].” Thus: “Similiter etiam omnis motus voluntatis quo applicantur aliquae virtutes ad operandum, reducitur in Deum sicut in primum appetibile et in primum volentem. Omnis igitur operatio debet attribui Deo sicut primo et principali agenti [Likewise, every motion of the will whereby powers are applied to operation, is reduced to God as the first appetible and the first willer. Thus every operation should be attributed to God as to the first and principle agent].” Thus, the motion of the will from potency to act with respect to its own self-motion is first and principally from God as first agent, as well as first object of appetite. Thus, the teaching of Summa theologiae (hereafter, ST) I-II, q. 109, a. 1, resp.: “Et ideo quantum cumque natura aliqua corporalis vel spiritualis ponatur perfecta, non potest in suum actum procedere nisi moveatur a Deo [And thus howsoever Steven A. Long 528 following lines from Fr. Dodds2 seem to me to delineate the boundaries of all sound thought on the matter: Since God utterly transcends the realm of creaturely causality, God always acts as a primary or principal cause in relation to the secondary or instrumental causality of creatures. For this reason, the effects of creaturely causality—to the extent that they have being and actuality—must be wholly attributed to creatures and wholly to God. There can be no competition between divine action and creaturely action (or between divine action and the laws of science that describe creaturely action).3 As Fr. Dodds continues: It is only when God and creatures are mistaken for univocal causes that any competition can be posited between them. Only then can their mutual causality be viewed as a kind of zero sum game in which the more the effect is attributed to God, the less it can be attributed to the creature.4 With Fr. Dodds, I would wish to concur that evil is a privation of perfection that cannot correctly be attributed to divine causality. Further, it is easy to assent to his view that there is indeterminacy in nature. The difficulties emerge as we try to find our way to understand what is meant by “chance.” Clearly chance is not merely the indeterminate. The man who digs the grave and unexpectedly finds the treasure quite determinately digs and finds. There is no proper created 2 3 4 perfect a corporeal or spiritual thing is taken to be, it is not able to proceed to its act unless it first be moved by God].” Both the rational agent who does not choose and the rational agent who does choose enjoy the natural motion of the will—aboriginally bestowed by God from creation—whereby the will is ordained to universal good and toward happiness. But no agent of whatsoever dignity can even proceed to its act unless it first be moved from God—i.e., the creature that is in potency with respect to its own free self-motion must be moved from potency to act with respect to this self-motion. The Latin text of Thomas’s texts comes from the Navarre site containing the Opera omnia Corpus Thomisticum, S. Thomae de Aquino opera omnia, made available online by the University of Navarre: http://www.unav.es/filosofia/alarcon/ amicis/ctopera.html#OM. Michael J. Dodds, O.P., “‘Of All the Gin Joints . . .’: Causality, Science, Chance, and God,” Nova et Vetera (English) 14.2 (2016): 503–525. Ibid., 521. Ibid., 522. Response to Michael J. Dodds 529 cause: but there are two—that someone deliberately and determinately buried it there, and that someone determinately dug there and determinately found it. Furthermore, all these effects are conjoined within the likewise determinate causality of divine Providence, without which there is nothing to bury, no one to dig, and no motion from potency to act in those choosing to bury and dig. This does not sound like a hymn to indeterminacy, much less the kind of indeterminacy celebrated in the famed illustration of Schrödinger’s cat, postulated by him as simultaneously alive and dead until an observer collapses the wave function. But to the contrary, there is no such real entity as a cat simultaneously alive and dead. It is true that physicists have been known to speak in this way (which means not not to speak in this way): Since before the days of Aristotle, physicists have had difficulty reconciling themselves with the principle of non-contradiction as a real principle of being.5 But there is reason to consider the words of Aristotle in Metaphysics 5.3–6 to be somewhat better founded than the musings of Schrödinger.6 What Is Chance? What, then, is chance? It is not the purely indeterminate, because indeterminacy can be and be known only in relation to something actually determinate. There are indeterminacies, potencies, of things, but these potencies can only exist or be known in relation to deter5 6 Of course, there is no real relation of being to nonbeing, since nonbeing has no real relations. But being is real and, by its very character as being, is really distinct from its negation, just as it would be true of God that the divine nature really is not a created nature even if created beings never existed. In this respect, I am myself persuaded that one of the reasons why Charles de Koninck did not refer his students to his early work Cosmos was precisely that, despite the sweeping power and beauty of this work, it was inordinately infatuated with contemporary hypothetico-deductive physics. This arrestation De Koninck’s later work The Hollow Universe definitively surmounts in its criticism of the reductionist understanding of mathematics in physical science. It is a criticism far closer to Jacques Maritain’s ThePhilosophy of Nature than one might find in De Koninck’s earlier phase, for instance, in such a work as The Philosophy of Sir Arthur Eddington, where De Koninck criticized Maritain for refusing to cede that quantity means only what a hypothetico-deductive physicist could admit within the limits of contemporary physics. But the causality of form on prime matter (yielding, in ontological but not temporal sequence: first, indeterminate dimensions; second, determinate dimensions; and third— and consequent upon both—the reciprocal causality of matter on form) is neither univocally measured nor exclusively signified by what physical instruments measure (even though it is the reason why such measure is possible to begin with). 530 Steven A. Long minate actual realities and subjects of being. It is not clear in what way a perfectly (and infinitely) indeterminate effect could differ from the non-existence of an effect. Chance is not, then, simple indeterminacy. Nor is chance simply “contingency.” St. Thomas is very clear that contingent causes are distinguished not in relation to God, but in relation to the nature of the proximate cause. A proximate cause that does not tend with natural necessity to only one thing—that does not have an operative power prefixed to one—is “contingent.”7 Thus for Thomas, the will tends toward happiness with natural necessity, and just so far it is not contingent. But since the will is a rational power ordered to the universal good and no finite good as such is universally and in every respect good, the will in choice cannot be compelled by any finite good whatsoever8—not even compelled by grace if this 7 8 ST I, q. 22, a. 2, ad 4: “Ad quartum dicendum quod in hoc quod dicitur Deum hominem sibi reliquisse, non excluditur homo a divina providentia, sed ostenditur quod non praefigitur ei virtus operativa determinata ad unum, sicut rebus naturalibus; quae aguntur tantum, quasi ab altero directae in finem, non autem seipsa agunt, quasi se dirigentia in finem, ut creaturae rationales per liberum arbitrium, quo consiliantur et eligunt. Unde signanter dicit, in manu consilii sui. Sed quia ipse actus liberi arbitrii reducitur in Deum sicut in causam, necesse est ut ea quae ex libero arbitrio fiunt, divinae providentiae subdantur, providentia enim hominis continetur sub providentia Dei, sicut causa particularis sub causa universali [When it is said that God left man to himself, this does not mean that man is exempt from divine providence; but merely that he has not a prefixed operating force determined to only the one effect; as in the case of natural things, which are only acted upon as though directed by another towards an end; and do not act of themselves, as if they directed themselves towards an end, like rational creatures, through the possession of free will, by which these are able to take counsel and make a choice. Hence it is significantly said: ‘In the hand of his own counsel.’ But since the very act of free will is traced to God as to a cause, it necessarily follows that everything happening from the exercise of free will must be subject to divine providence. For human providence is included under the providence of God, as a particular under a universal cause].” Of course, choice is free because of the nature of the proximate cause in relation to its connatural objects—as the will, ordained to universal good, cannot be fully actuated by any finite object and thus may bring forth a wide variety of effects, none of which can compel the will (ST I, q. 82, a. 2, ad 2). It is free owing to its very nature as proximate cause in relation to its connatural objects—contingency and necessity are discriminated by reference to the proximate cause, and not in relation to the First Cause. See, e.g., De malo, q. 16, a. 7, ad 15: “Et ideo necessitas et contingentia in rebus distinguuntur non per habitudinem ad voluntatem divinam, quae est causa communis, sed per comparationem ad causas creatas, quas proportionaliter divina voluntas ad effectus ordinavit; ut scilicet necessariorum effectuum sint causae intrans- Response to Michael J. Dodds 531 is taken as an object of choice, as for example when we realize that “it would be a grace to attend the conference here this evening” or “it would be a grace to attend Mass,” and so on. And so the will in choice is a contingent cause, although Thomas is also clear that, because God causes necessary things necessarily and contingent things contingently, being the first and principal cause of the application of every power to act,9 every free contingent choice lies within the universal divine motion. Thus Thomas does not blush from saying that God is the cause of the free act, a formulation he repeats in many different places and contexts.10 Chance, then, is not simply identical with contingent causality—I have freely chosen to offer these remarks, but all appearances notwithstanding, their composition is not by chance. What, then, is chance? Here is a place where I may read Thomas differently than does Fr. 9 10 mutabiles, contingentium autem transmutabiles [And therefore necessity and contingency in things are distinguished not in relation to the divine will, which is a universal cause, but in relation to created causes which the divine will has ordered proportionately to the effects, namely, in such a way that the causes of necessary effects are unchangeable, and of contingent effects changeable].” Every choice is objectively free, while nonetheless, every choice lies wholly within and not without the divine providential causality. See note 1 above. See note 1 above and De malo, q. 3, a. 2, ad 4: “Similiter cum aliquid movet se ipsum, non excluditur quin ab alio moveatur a quo habet hoc ipsum quo se ipsum movet. Et sic non repugnat libertati quod Deus est causa actus liberi arbitrii [When anything moves itself, this does not exclude its being moved by another, from which it has even this that it moves itself. Thus it is not repugnant to liberty that God is the cause of the free act of the will].” Thus the truth Thomas asserts in ST I-II, q. 6, a. 1, ad 3, is vindicated, that “omnis motus tam voluntatis quam naturae, ab eo procedit sicut a primo movente [every motion whether of the will or of nature proceeds from God as the first mover];”—every motion. And again, from ST I-II, q. 109, a. 1, resp.: “Non solum autem a Deo est omnis motio sicut a primo movente; sed etiam ab ipso est omnis formalis perfectio sicut a primo actu. Sic igitur actio intellectus, et cuiuscumque entis creati, dependet a Deo quantum ad duo, uno modo, inquantum ab ipso habet formam per quam agit; alio modo, inquantum ab ipso movetur ad agendum [But not only does every motion depend on God as first mover; but all formal perfection is from Him as the first act. Thus the act of the intellect and of any created being whatsoever, depend on God in two respects, in one way, inasmuch as from Him it has the form through which it acts; in another way, inasmuch as it is moved by Him to act” (emphasis added). Every created being whatsoever is moved to its act by God. And again, from the same q. 109, a. 1, resp.: “Sic igitur dicendum est quod ad cognitionem cuiuscumque veri, homo indiget auxilio divino ut intellectus a Deo moveatur ad suum actum [Thus it should be said that for the knowledge of any truth whatsoever, man needs divine aid that the intellect may be moved to its act].” 532 Steven A. Long Dodds. Since I take it as per se nota that it is better to listen to St. Thomas than to Long, it is perhaps fitting at long-length to quote St. Thomas. In chapter 92 of the third part of the Summa contra gentiles (SCG), St. Thomas writes the following, addressing the question “How a Person is Favored by Fortune and How Man is Assisted by Higher Causes”: In fact, we say that some good fortune has befallen a man “when something good happens to him, without his having intended it.” For example, a man digging in a field may find a treasure for which he was not looking. Now, something may happen to a certain agent which is not intended by him as he is doing his job, but which is not unintended by the superior under whom he is working. Suppose, for instance, a master orders a servant to go to a certain place to which the master has already sent another servant, unknown to the first one; the encounter with his fellow servant is not intended by the servant who has been sent, but it is not unintended by the master who sent him. And so, though the meeting is fortuitous and a matter of chance to this servant, it is not so to the master, but has been a planned event. So, since man is ordered in regard to his body under the celestial bodies, in regard to his intellect under the angels, and in regard to his will under God—it is quite possible for something apart from man’s intention to happen, which is, however, in accord with the ordering of the celestial bodies, or with the control of the angels, or even of God. For, though God alone directly works on the choice made by man, the action of an angel does have some effect on man’s choice by way of persuasion, and the action of a celestial body by way of disposition, in the sense that the corporeal impressions of celestial bodies on our bodies give a disposition to certain choices. So, when as a result of the influence of higher causes in the foregoing way a man is inclined toward certain choices that are beneficial to him, but whose benefit he does not know by his own reasoning, and when besides this his intellect is illuminated by the light of intellectual substances so that he may do these things, and when his will is inclined by divine working to choose something beneficial to him while he is ignorant of its nature, he is said to be favored by fortune. And, on the contrary, he is said to be subject to misfortune when his choice is inclined to contrary results by higher Response to Michael J. Dodds 533 causes, as is said of a certain man: “Write this man barren, a man that shall not prosper in his days” (Jer. 22:30). Thomas here identifies chance as both ontological (there are real causes) and as something existing in relation to our knowledge (“though the meeting is fortuitous and a matter of chance to this servant, it is not so to the master, but has been a planned event”). In other words, chance pertains to real events that are “unplanned” only in relation to our limited knowledge. The servant does not know what the master has ordained, and for this reason, views it to be chance. This does not deny accidental causality—discriminated in terms of what is not essential to the end or natural terminus of the agency—nor does it mean that there are no contingent causes. But accidental causality is, nonetheless, causality, and it also lies within the universal providential causality of God. As Thomas says, in the chapter 39 of the second book of the Summa contra gentiles, “it is things outside the scope of the agent’s intention that we say are fortuitous.” But as Thomas instructs us: We must say, however, that all things are subject to divine providence, not only in general, but even in their own individual selves. This is made evident thus. For since every agent acts for an end, the ordering of effects towards that end extends as far as the causality of the first agent extends. Whence it happens that in the effects of an agent something takes place which has no reference towards the end, because the effect comes from a cause other than, and outside the intention of the agent. But the causality of God, Who is the first agent, extends to all being, not only as to constituent principles of species, but also as to the individualizing principles; not only of things incorruptible, but also of things corruptible. Hence all things that exist in whatsoever manner are necessarily directed by God towards some end.11 11 ST I, q. 22, a. 2: “Sed necesse est dicere omnia divinae providentiae subiacere, non in universali tantum, sed etiam in singulari. Quod sic patet. Cum enim omne agens agat propter finem, tantum se extendit ordinatio effectuum in finem, quantum se extendit causalitas primi agentis. Ex hoc enim contingit in operibus alicuius agentis aliquid provenire non ad finem ordinatum, quia effectus ille consequitur ex aliqua alia causa, praeter intentionem agentis. Causalitas autem Dei, qui est primum agens, se extendit usque ad omnia entia, non solum quantum ad principia speciei, sed etiam quantum ad individualia principia, non solum incorruptibilium, sed etiam corruptibilium. Unde 534 Steven A. Long Thus, St. Thomas writes in the chapter 92 of the third book of the Summa contra gentiles: Again: the power of the human soul, or also of an angel, is particularized in comparison with divine power which, in fact, is universal in regard to all beings. Thus, then, some good thing may happen to a man which is apart from his own intention, and apart from the inclination given by celestial bodies, and apart from the enlightenment coming from the angels—but not apart from divine providence, which is regulative, just as it is productive, of being as such, and, consequently, which must include all things under it. Thus, some good or evil may happen to man that is fortuitous in relation to himself, and in relation to the celestial bodies, and in relation to the angels, but not in relation to God. Indeed, in relation to Him, nothing can be a matter of chance and unforeseen, either in the sphere of human affairs or in any matter.12 If we say that chance involves per accidens causality functioning within divine providence and yielding effects novel to us (owing to our ignorance), this seems a more adequate way of referring to chance than as a mystery of indeterminacy conjuring up determinate effects without any determinate causes. What we call chance seems principally to concern accidental causes that presuppose the prior divine motion for their being and agency, causes of which we are ignorant and that, so, strike us as remarkable (after all, if the man digging had known that there had been treasure buried there, he would expect to find it). That is to say, it is one thing to say that there is no proximate, singular, and proper cause for some effect, and quite a different thing to suppose this 12 necesse est omnia quae habent quocumque modo esse, ordinata esse a Deo in finem.” SCG III, ch. 92: “Rursumque, virtus humanae animae, vel etiam Angeli, est particularis in comparatione ad virtutem divinam, quae quidem est universalis respectu omnium entium. Sic igitur aliquod bonum accidere potest homini et praeter propriam intentionem; et praeter inclinationem caelestium corporum; et praeter Angelorum illuminationem; non autem praeter divinam providentiam, quae est gubernativa sicut et factiva entis inquantum est ens, unde oportet quod omnia sub se contineat. Sic ergo aliquid fortuitum bonum vel malum potest contingere homini et per comparationem ad ipsum; et per comparationem ad caelestia corpora; et per comparationem ad Angelos; non autem per comparationem ad Deum. Nam per comparationem ad ipsum, non solum in rebus humanis, sed nec in aliqua re potest esse aliquid casuale et improvisum.” Response to Michael J. Dodds 535 implies that there are not fully determinate accidental causes that are determinately knitted together by the divine causal providence. For example, who will win the lottery certainly is a chance event. Yet, whatever the determinate procedure for determining the winning number may be, that procedure, together with the ensemble of possible winning numbers, does effectuate one winning number or set of numbers. If a number is pulled out of a container, the hand must have been inserted in just such a way as to grab the requisite numbered item, and the item grabbed must have been there and not in another place. Thus, the surprising novelty of chance exists in relation to the creature’s limited knowledge and is not to be found in God. Speaking of chance advantage and disadvantage, Thomas states: “Now, this advantage, or disadvantage, is fortuitous in regard to man’s choice; in regard to God, it loses the character of the fortuitous.”13 And he states this again expressly: “So, in this way, fortuitous events of this kind, when referred to their divine cause, lose their fortuitous character.” But Thomas does not say that things that are three-sided are, to God, not three-sided; or that fire is not, to God, fire; or that things that are blue are not, to God, blue.14 God knows these things and causes them as such. But while God is the cause of the fortuitous in its being, it is not fortuitous to him because, while he is the cause of its being, it is our ignorance that is the cause of fortuity as fortuity—whereas God is not ignorant, and so nothing is fortuitous to him. Thus allow me to turn once more to a significant passage of St. Thomas: We must therefore say that what happens here by accident, both in natural things and in human affairs, is reduced to a preordaining cause, which is Divine Providence. For nothing hinders that which happens by accident being considered as one by an intellect: otherwise the intellect could not form this proposition: “The digger of a grave found a treasure.” And just as an intellect can apprehend this so can it effect it; for instance, someone who knows a place where a treasure is hidden, might instigate a rustic, ignorant of this, to dig a grave there. Consequently, nothing hinders what happens here by accident, by luck or by 13 14 Ibid. III: “Sic ergo huiusmodi fortuiti eventus, reducti in causam divinam, amittunt rationem fortuiti.” I offer no apology here whatsoever for simply rejecting the groundless Enlightenment assertion of the unreality of “secondary characteristics” such as qualities. 536 Steven A. Long chance, being reduced to some ordering cause which acts by the intellect, especially the Divine intellect. For God alone can change the will, as shown above (q. 105, a. 4). Consequently the ordering of human actions, the principle of which is the will, must be ascribed to God alone. So therefore inasmuch as all that happens here below is subject to Divine Providence, as being pre-ordained, and as it were “fore-spoken,” we can admit the existence of fate: although the holy doctors avoided the use of this word, on account of those who twisted its application to a certain force in the position of the stars.15 The very datum that nothing is fortuitous to God indicates that fortuity exists only relative to the knowledge of creatures, and not absolutely as a pure function of being. Let us put the matter another way. We may say that we do not know what is in a Christmas package, but that God does know. But we can only say this inasmuch as something is truly in the package. We may hold that we do not know, and that God does know, what is in an as yet unwrapped Christmas gift, but it makes no sense to say that there is nothing in the package but that God nonetheless mysteriously knows that something is in it, for this would be simply to predicate falsity of the divine knowledge, which is absurd. Thus, it is not sufficient to say that there is pure indeterminacy in being but, by a mysterious supernatural property, God knows such indeterminate things as determinate anyway. Of course, God can know 15 ST I, q. 116, a. 1, resp.: “Et ideo dicendum est quod ea quae hic per accidens aguntur, sive in rebus naturalibus sive in rebus humanis, reducuntur in aliquam causam praeordinantem, quae est providentia divina. Quia nihil prohibet id quod est per accidens, accipi ut unum ab aliquo intellectu, alioquin intellectus formare non posset hanc propositionem, fodiens sepulcrum invenit thesaurum. Et sicut hoc potest intellectus apprehendere, ita potest efficere, sicut si aliquis sciens in quo loco sit thesaurus absconditus, instiget aliquem rusticum hoc ignorantem, ut ibi fodiat sepulcrum. Et sic nihil prohibet ea quae hic per accidens aguntur, ut fortuita vel casualia, reduci in aliquam causam ordinantem, quae per intellectum agat; et praecipue intellectum divinum. Nam solus Deus potest voluntatem immutare, ut supra habitum est. Et per consequens ordinatio humanorum actuum, quorum principium est voluntas, soli Deo attribui debet. Sic igitur inquantum omnia quae hic aguntur, divinae providentiae subduntur, tanquam per eam praeordinata et quasi praelocuta, fatum ponere possumus, licet hoc nomine sancti doctores uti recusaverint, propter eos qui ad vim positionis siderum hoc nomen retorquebant.” Response to Michael J. Dodds 537 indeterminate things as determinate in the sense in which God knows that there will be brought forth from some limited potency (pertaining to a determinate being) a determinate act (but an act to which the being has not yet been actually determined in act). However, we are referring to the divine knowledge of something in itself as actually existing, and in this way, indeterminacy always presupposes determinacy. While it may be tempting to think that we could say that such events are in their being “naturally” indeterminate but that by divine mystery God knows them, it must be observed first that the conclusion that God does know them as determinate is a proposition of natural theology and metaphysics (such things only are because they are first determinately caused). But secondly (and crucially), just as, by divine mystery, God cannot know “2” to be “3,” so by divine mystery, God cannot know the indeterminate as such to be determinate as such. To the contrary, the effects of chance determinately exist and are determinately caused to exist, even if by natural agents that do not essentially or naturally tend toward these effects, but only accidentally or by concatenation. That which is the effect of a per accidens conjunction of causes is only such an effect inasmuch as the divine providence determinately ordains that conjunction. And did we know such a conjunction and understand what it implied, the effect in question would not be to us fortuitous. But such effects are fortuitous because our knowledge and understanding do not extend so far. Problems Attending the Love Affair with Chance There are thus both theological and metaphysical problems with the love affair of contemporary science and contemporary philosophers of science with chance. St. Thomas instructs us in the first part of the Summa theologiae (q. 28, a. 2, ad 1) that “nothing that exists in God can have any relation to that wherein it exists or of whom it is spoken, except the relation of identity; and this by reason of God’s supreme simplicity.” This is one of those keystone premises about which I am sure I concur with Fr. Dodds. Creation is ad extra, as God naturally and directly wills His own eternal perfection, and undergoes no process, nor is subject to any mutation, in willing the created effect. The only difference between God willing X and God not willing X is the being of X. Nor can God bring about something purely indeterminate, inasmuch as this is not distinct from God bringing about nothing whatsoever—that is to say, all indeterminacy can only exist or be known relative to actual determinate realities. Because there is no change in God, divine “causing” designates 538 Steven A. Long only the bringing about of something which thus is not nothing—and so, divine causality implies determinate effect.16 To be something, to have some nature, is just so far to be actually determinate. Thus, the indeterminate and potential in creation can exist only in relation to the actually determinate. God Himself can cause indeterminacy only in relation to the actually determinate. Because causing does not signify a change in God, but only the being of the effect, the postulation of a wholly indeterminate effect is not essentially different from the postulation of no effect whatsoever, rendering any reference to divine causality nugatory. Potency is an indeterminacy only in a specific respect, inasmuch as it exists only relative to prior act and as specified by its proper act. Thus potency can neither exist nor be known save in relation to act: it is capacity for act.17 In sum, there is indeterminacy in nature, but only in relation to actual determinacy. When the indeterminate is taken as an infinite divisible or as awaiting further actuation—taken as a function of potency as such—then the determinate and the indeterminate are opposed. The unlimited perfection of God is not “indeterminate” like a potency awaiting division or further actuation, but as unlimited perfection is “indeterminate” in extension, which is a function of the formal determinacy of the divine perfection in intension. God is “indeterminate” only in the sense that there is no potency in God, and so, no finite limitation on the actually determinate divine perfection. Determinacy refers to actual nature and only accidentally refers to limit of perfection owing to potency. This is why perfections (including essence, which signifies limit in creatures, 16 17 All causes distinct from God, whether necessary or contingent, receive being, form, natural motion and powers, and the application of their natural motion and powers to act first and principally from God. The conditions for God to cause can be present with no divine causation whatsoever because God is not essentially ordered to an end outside Himself as a finality, whereas created causes, ordained to ends other than themselves, are such as to be susceptible of motion from potency to act. It is interesting that persons who are persuaded that cats can simultaneously exist and not exist would themselves not accept a description of an experiment in which the experimental conditions both did and did not obtain, nor accept as an experiment something that both was and was not performed. I should not ask, “why and why not?” but only “why not?” Whether we speak of subjective potency (the potency of a thing that already exists) or we speak of objective potency (the pure possibility of something in relation to the divine power) this is true. The first type of potency presupposes its actual subject, while the second, as a real possibility, exists only relative to the actual divine omnipotence and, further, is conceivable only in relation to the proportionate act whose possibility is alleged. Response to Michael J. Dodds 539 but whose ratio is the determinate mode and degree of actuality—in God this determinate degree of actuality is the ordinal supreme perfection, ipsum esse subsistens per se) may be properly said of God (while yet all perfections are predicated of God as not comprehending God and as exceeded in perfection by God18). Whereas, when and as said of creatures, transcendental and pure perfections imply limitation of potency. The infinite God is not vague or inchoate or awaiting further perfection. Further, any claim that the universe is fundamentally indeterminate would be contrary to the requirements of agency as such. With St. Thomas Aquinas of the Summa contra gentiles, one may judge it to be true that, without an end, action would either never begin (because there would be nothing for the sake of which it could occur), or else never come to any fulfillment or termination (because no such fulfillment or termination would exist), and thus action would need to pass through an actual infinitude, which is impossible.19 As Thomas notes, were an agent not more ordered to one thing than to another, action would simply be impossible.20 But even for an inveterate procrastinator like myself, the world does not seem like this. It is only because quantum indeterminacy is not the metaphysical key to the universe that there actually can be physicists of the Copenhagen school, who must exist if it is to be true for anyone to observe 18 19 20 See ST I, q. 13, a. 5. SCG III, ch. 2: “Sed in actione cuiuslibet agentis est invenire aliquid ultra quod agens non quaerit aliquid: alias enim actiones in infinitum tenderent; quod quidem est impossibile, quia, cum infinita non sit pertransire, agens agere non inciperet; nihil enim movetur ad id ad quod impossibile est pervenire. Omne igitur agens agit propter finem [But, in the action of all agents, one may find something beyond which the agent seeks nothing further. Otherwise, actions would tend to infinity, which is impossible: since it is impossible to proceed to infinity, the agent could not begin to act, because nothing is moved toward what cannot be reached. Therefore every agent acts for an end].” SCG III, ch. 2: “Item. Si agens non tenderet ad aliquem effectum determinatum, omnes effectus essent ei indifferentes. Quod autem indifferenter se habet ad multa, non magis unum eorum operatur quam aliud: unde a contingente ad utrumque non sequitur aliquis effectus nisi per aliquid determinetur ad unum. Impossibile igitur esset quod ageret [Besides, if an agent did not incline toward some definite effect, all results would be a matter of indifference for him. Now, he who looks upon a manifold number of things with indifference no more succeeds in doing one of them than another. Hence, from an agent contingently indifferent to alternatives no effect follows, unless he be determined to one effect by something].” 540 Steven A. Long that they exist. Nor is there any moment when a Copenhagen theorist both is and is not a Copenhagen theorist, awaiting determination solely through being observed by another (arguably it is because they are Copenhagen theorists—and not because somehow simultaneously they are and are not Copenhagen theorists—that they are confused). What is wrong with this theory at the “meta” level is, in this case, proportionately wrong with it at every level. Which is to say, it is a bad and untrue theory. Conclusion Allow me to close by pointing out that St. Thomas strongly propounded not precisely a universal doctrine of causality—because God has no cause—but a universal doctrine of analogical reason for being according to which God is His own reason for being, and created things are not. Such an account may be denominated as a principle of sufficient reason (as Pius XII did in Humani Generis21), if we understand this to be an analogical and metaphysical doctrine, rather than a purely analytic and logical doctrine as in the teaching of Leibnitz. Such is the teaching of Aquinas, for whom causal analysis is part of an analogical doctrine of reason for being, affirming the causal intelligibility of being as such and the causal dependence of all finite beings on one uncaused being that is, by reason of its supreme perfection, its own reason for being: “Everything which is in any way at all must then derive its being from that whose being has no cause. But we have already shown that God is this being whose existence has no cause. Everything which is in any mode whatever, therefore, is from Him.”22 That the principal name 21 22 Humani Generis (1950) §29: “But reason can perform these functions safely and well only when properly trained, that is, when imbued with that sound philosophy which has long been, as it were, a patrimony handed down by earlier Christian ages, and which moreover possesses an authority of an even higher order, since the Teaching Authority of the Church, in the light of divine revelation itself, has weighed its fundamental tenets, which have been elaborated and defined little by little by men of great genius. For this philosophy, acknowledged and accepted by the Church, safeguards the genuine validity of human knowledge, the unshakable metaphysical principles of sufficient reason, causality, and finality, and finally the mind’s ability to attain certain and unchangeable truth.” SCG II, ch. 15: “Oportet igitur quod ab illo cui nihil est causa essendi, sit omne illud quod quocumque modo est. Deum autem supra ostendimus huiusmodi ens esse cui nihil sit causa essendi. Ab eo igitur est omne quod quocumque modo est.” Response to Michael J. Dodds 541 of all names applied to God is “qui est sit”23 is not accidental to the conclusion that that alone that contains all perfection contains its own reason for being. This view is far better grounded in evidence and reason than, for example, the famed assertion of Stephen Hawking, in his book comically titled The Grand Design, that “spontaneous creation is the reason there is something rather than nothing, why the universe exists, why we exist. It is not necessary to invoke God to light the blue touch paper and set the universe going.”24 The world in which things change or come into being without causes—whether these are per se or per accidens causes—or in which accidental causes are not reduced to one preordaining cause, seems to me to be a purely imaginary world. While I believe Einstein was wrong in his rationalism, I do not believe he was wrong to think that absolutely speaking—in relation to God, although for Einstein this was perhaps only a figure—no change or motion lies simply outside causal order. And in this, again, it is a pleasure to agree with Fr. Dodds. Because, no matter what chance is, it is impossible that chance constiN&V tute a cause outside of the divine causal governance. 23 24 ST I, q. 13, a. 11. Stephen Hawking and Leonard Mlodinow, The Grand Design (New York: Bantam Books, Random House Publishing Group, 2010), 180. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 2 (2016): 543–558 543 The Future of Philosophy John R. Searle University of California Berkeley, California The situation of philosophy today is somewhat analogous to the situation of the Greeks at the time of the transition from Socrates and Plato to Aristotle. Socrates and Plato took skepticism very seriously and struggled with piecemeal issues. Aristotle did not regard the skeptical paradoxes as a serious threat to his overall enterprise of attempting to do systematic, constructive, theoretical philosophy. I think we now have the tools to move into a twenty-first century version of an Aristotelian phase. Because of the nature of the subject, I do not believe it is possible to project a future course of philosophy with anything like the confidence that one can project the future course of the sciences—though, of course, that is not at all an easy thing to do in itself. What I will do here, therefore, is take three areas of philosophical investigation that are very much alive at the present moment and discuss their present status and future prospects. These are (1) the traditional mind-body problem, (2) the philosophy of mind and cognitive science, and (3) the philosophy of science. While my reflections may include some guesses about what I think will happen in these areas, they will also contain critical remarks and expressions of hope for future research in the coming decades. Introduction I will begin by explaining some of the similarities and differences between science and philosophy. There is no sharp dividing line between the two. Both, in principle, are universal in subject matter, 544 John R. Searle and both aim at the truth. However, though there is no sharp dividing line, there are important differences in method, style, and presuppositions. Philosophical problems tend to have three related features that scientific problems do not have. First, philosophy is in large part concerned with questions that we have not yet found a satisfactory and systematic way to answer. Second, philosophical questions tend to be what I will call “framework” questions; that is, they tend to deal with large frameworks of phenomena, rather than with specific individual questions. And third, philosophical questions are typically about conceptual issues; they are often questions about our concepts and the relation between our concepts and the world they represent. These differences will become clearer if we consider actual examples. The question “What is the cause of cancer?” is a scientific question, not a philosophical one. The question “What is the nature of causation?” is philosophical, not scientific. Similarly, “How many neurotransmitters are there?” is a scientific question, not a philosophical one; but the question “What is the relationship between mind and body?” is still, in large part, a philosophical question. In each case the philosophical questions cannot be settled by the simple application of either experimental or mathematical methods because they are about large frameworks involve conceptual issues. Sometimes major scientific advances are contributions to both science and philosophy because they involve changes in frameworks and revision of concepts. Einstein’s relativity theory is an obvious twentieth century example. Because philosophy deals with framework questions and with questions that we do not know how to answer systematically, it tends to stand in a peculiar relation to the natural sciences. As soon as we can revise and formulate a philosophical question to the point that we can find a systematic way to answer it, it ceases to be philosophical and becomes scientific. Something very much like this happened to the problem of life. How “inert” matter could become “alive” was once considered a philosophical problem. As we came to understand the molecular biological mechanisms of life, this ceased to be a philosophical question and became a matter of established scientific fact. It is hard for us today to recover the intensity with which this issue was once debated. The point is not so much that the mechanists won and the vitalists lost, but that we came to have a much richer concept of the biological mechanisms of life and heredity. I hope a similar thing will happen to the problem of consciousness and its relation to brain processes. As I write this, it is still regarded by many as a philosophical question, but I believe with recent progress in neurobiology and with The Future of Philosophy 545 a philosophical critique of the traditional categories of the mental and the physical, we are getting closer to being able to find a systematic scientific way to answer this question. In which case it will, like the problem of life, cease to be “philosophical” and will become “scientific.” These features of philosophical questions, that they tend to be framework questions and tend not to lend themselves to systematic empirical research, explains why science is always “right,” and philosophy is always “wrong.” As soon as we find a systematic way to answer a question and get an answer that all competent investigators in the field can agree is the correct answer, we stop calling it “philosophical” and start calling it “scientific.” These differences do not have the result that, in philosophy, anything goes, that one can say anything and make any speculation that one likes. On the contrary, precisely because we lack established, empirical or mathematical methods for investigating philosophical problems, we have to be all the more rigorous and precise in our philosophical analyses. It might seem, from what I have said, that eventually philosophy will cease to exist as a discipline as we find a systematic scientific way to answer all philosophical questions. This has been the dream of philosophers, I believe, since the time of the ancient Greeks, but in fact, we have not had much success in getting rid of philosophy by solving all philosophical problems. A generation ago it was widely believed that we had at last discovered, through the efforts of Wittgenstein, Austin, and other “linguistic philosophers,” systematic methods for solving philosophical questions, and it seemed to some philosophers that we might be able to solve all the questions within a few lifetimes. Austin, for example, believed that there were about a thousand philosophical questions left and that, with systematic research, we should be able to solve all of them. I do not think anyone believes that today. Only a small number of the philosophical problems left us by the preceding centuries, going back to the Greek philosophers, have been amenable to scientific, mathematical, and linguistic solutions. The question as to the nature of life, I believe, has been finally resolved and is no longer a philosophical question. I hope something like this will happen to the so-called mind-body problem in the twenty-first century. However, a very large number of other questions left us by the ancient Greeks such as “What is the nature of justice?” “What is a good society?” “What is the proper aim and goal of human life?” “What is the nature of language and meaning?” “What is the nature of truth?” are still very much with us as philosophical questions. I would estimate that about ninety percent of the philosophical problems left us by the Greeks are 546 John R. Searle still with us and that we have not yet found a scientific, linguistic, or mathematical way to answer them. Furthermore, new philosophical problems are constantly being thrown up and whole new areas of philosophy invented. The Greeks could not possibly have had the sort of philosophical problems we have had in getting a correct philosophical interpretation of the results of quantum mechanics, Godel’s theorem, or the set theoretical paradoxes. Nor did they have such subjects as the philosophy of language or the philosophy of mind as we think of them. It seems that, even at the end of the twenty-first century, we shall still have a very large number of philosophical problems left. Future Prospects Because of the nature of the subject, I do not believe it is possible to project a future course of philosophy with anything like the confidence that one can project the future course of the sciences—though, of course, that is not at all an easy thing to do in itself. What I will do here, therefore, is take two areas of philosophical investigation that are very much alive at the present moment and discuss their present status and future prospects. These are (1) the traditional mind-body problem and (2) the philosophy of science. While my reflections may include some guesses about what I think will happen in these areas, they will also contain critical remarks and expressions of hope for future research in the coming decades. I have a specific intellectual objective in proposing that we should abandon skepticism and reductionism. I believe we cannot get a satisfactory constructive analysis of language, mind, society, rationality, political justice, and so on until we abandon our obsession with the idea that the presupposition of all investigation is first to provide a justification for the very possibility of knowledge and that real advances in philosophical knowledge in general require the reduction of higher level phenomena to more epistemically fundamental phenomena. The way to deal with skepticism is not to try to refute it on its own terms, but to overcome it in such a way that we can go on to deal with the problems at hand. This is certainly is where I am in my own intellectual development. On my interpretation of the contemporary philosophical scene, skepticism has finally ceased to be a primary concern of philosophers and reductionism has in general failed. The situation we are in is somewhat analogous to the situation of the Greeks at the time of the transition from Socrates and Plato to Aristotle. Socrates and Plato took skepticism very seriously and struggled with piecemeal issues. Aristotle did not regard the skeptical The Future of Philosophy 547 paradoxes as a serious threat to his overall enterprise of attempting to do systematic, constructive, theoretical philosophy. I think we now have the tools to move into a twenty-first century version of an Aristotelian phase. The Traditional Mind-Body Problem I begin with the traditional mind-body problem because I believe it is the contemporary philosophical problem most amenable to scientific solution: What exactly are the relations between consciousness and the brain? It seems to me that the neurosciences have now progressed to the point that we can address this as a straight neurobiological problem, and indeed several neurobiologists are doing precisely that. In its simplest form, the questions are how exactly neurobiological processes in the brain cause conscious states and processes and how exactly those conscious states and processes are realized in the brain? So stated, this looks like an empirical scientific problem. It looks similar to such problems as “How exactly do biochemical processes at the level of cells cause cancer?” and “How exactly does the genetic structure of a zygote produce the phenotypical traits of a mature organism?” However, there are a number of purely philosophical obstacles to getting a satisfactory neurobiological solution to the problem of consciousness, and I have to devote some space at least to trying to remove some of the worst of these obstacles. The single most important obstacle to getting a solution to the traditional mind-brain problem is the persistence of a set of traditional but obsolete categories: mind and body, matter and spirit, mental and physical. As long as we continue to talk and think as if the mental and the physical were separate metaphysical realms, the relation of the brain to consciousness will forever seem mysterious and we will not have a satisfactory explanation of the relation of neuron firings to consciousness. The first step on the road to philosophical and scientific progress in these areas is to forget about the tradition of Cartesian dualism and just remind ourselves that mental phenomena are ordinary biological phenomena in the same sense as photosynthesis or digestion. We must stop worrying about how the brain could cause consciousness and begin with the plain fact that it does. The notions of both mental and physical as they are traditionally defined need to be abandoned as we reconcile ourselves to the fact that we live in one world, and all the features of the world, from quarks and electrons to nation states and balance of payments problems, are, in their different ways, part of 548 John R. Searle that one world. I find it truly amazing that the obsolete categories of mind and matter continue to impede progress. Many scientists feel that they can only investigate the “physical” realm and are reluctant to face consciousness on its own terms because it seems not to be “physical” but to be “mental,” and several prominent philosophers think it is impossible for us to understand the relations of mind to brain. Just as Einstein made a conceptual change to break the distinction between space and time, so we need a similar conceptual change to break the bifurcation of mental and physical. Related to the difficulty brought about by accepting the traditional categories is a straight logical fallacy that I need to expose. Consciousness is, by definition, subjective, in the sense that for a conscious state to exist, it has to be experienced by some conscious subject. Consciousness in this sense has a first-person ontology in that it only exists from the point of view of a human or animal subject, an “I,” who has the conscious experience. Science is not used to dealing with phenomena that have a first-person ontology. By tradition, science deals with phenomena that are “objective” and avoids anything that is “subjective.” Indeed, many philosophers and scientists feel that, because science is by definition objective, there can be no such thing as a science of consciousness because consciousness is subjective. This whole argument rests on a massive confusion, which is one of the most persistent confusions in our intellectual civilization. There are two quite distinct senses of the distinction between objective and subjective. In one sense, which I will call the epistemological sense, there is a distinction between objective knowledge and subjective matters of opinion. If I say, for example, “Rembrandt was born in 1606,” that statement is epistemologically objective in the sense that it can be established as true or false independently of the attitudes, feelings, opinions, or prejudices of the agents investigating the question. If I say, “Rembrandt was a better painter than Rubens,” that claim is not a matter of objective knowledge, but is a matter of subjective opinion. But in addition to the distinction between epistemologically objective and subjective claims, there is a distinction between entities in the world that have an objective existence, such as mountains and molecules, and entities that have a subjective existence, such as pains and tickles. I call this distinction in modes of existence the ontological sense of the objective/subjective distinction. Science is indeed epistemologically objective in the sense that scientists attempt to establish truths that can be verified independently of the attitudes and prejudices of the scientists. But epistemic objectivity The Future of Philosophy 549 of method does not preclude ontological subjectivity of subject matter. Thus there is no objection in principle to having an epistemologically objective science of an ontologically subjective domain, such as human consciousness. Another difficulty encountered by a science of subjectivity is the difficulty in verifying claims about human and animal consciousness. In the case of humans, unless we perform experiments on ourselves individually, our only conclusive evidence for the presence and nature of consciousness is what the subject says and does, and subjects are notoriously unreliable. In the case of animals, we are in an even worse situation, because we have to rely on just the animal’s behavior in response to stimuli. We cannot get any statements from the animal about its conscious states. I think this is a real difficulty, but I would point out that it is no more an obstacle in principle than the difficulties encountered in other forms of scientific investigation where we have to rely on indirect means of verifying our claims. We have no way of observing black holes, and indeed, strictly speaking, we have no way of directly observing atomic and subatomic particles. Nonetheless, we have quite well established scientific accounts of these domains, and the difficulties in verifying hypotheses in these areas should give us a model for verifying hypotheses in the area of the study of human and animal subjectivity. The “privacy” of human and animal consciousness does not make a science of consciousness impossible. As far as “methodology” is concerned, in real sciences, methodological questions always have the same answer: in order to find out how the world works, you have to use any weapon that you can lay your hands on and stick with any weapon that seems to work. Assuming, then, that we are not worried about the problem of objectivity and subjectivity and that we are prepared to seek indirect methods of verification of hypotheses concerning consciousness, how should we proceed? Most scientific research today into the problem of consciousness seems to me to be based on a mistake. The scientists in question characteristically adopt what I will call the “building block theory” of consciousness, and they conduct their investigation accordingly. On the building block theory, we should think of our conscious field as made up of various building blocks, such as visual experience, auditory experience, tactile experience, the stream of thought, etc. The task of a scientific theory of consciousness would be to find the neurobiological correlate of consciousness (nowadays called the NCC), and, on the building block theory, if we could find the NCC for even one 550 John R. Searle building block, such as the NCC for color vision, that would, in all likelihood, give us a clue to the building blocks for the other sensory modalities and for the stream of thought. This research program may turn out to be right in the end. Nonetheless, it seems to me doubtful as a way to proceed in the present situation for the following reason. I said above that the essence of consciousness was subjectivity. There is a certain subjective qualitative feel to every conscious state. One aspect of this subjectivity, and it is a necessary aspect, is that conscious states always come to us in a unified form. We do not perceive just the color, the shape, or the sound of an object; we perceive all of these at once simultaneously in a unified conscious experience. The subjectivity of consciousness implies unity. They are not two separate features, but two aspects of the same feature. Now, that being the case, it seems to me that the NCC we are looking for is not the NCC for the various building blocks of color, taste, sound, and so on, but rather what I will call the basal, or background, conscious field, which is the presupposition of having any conscious experience in the first place. We should think of my present conscious field not as made up of various building blocks, but rather as a unified field that is modified in specific ways by the various stimuli that I and other human beings receive. Because we have pretty good evidence from lesion studies that consciousness is not distributed over the entire brain, and because we also have good evidence that consciousness exists in both hemispheres, I think what we should look for now is the kind of neurobiological processes that will produce a unified field of consciousness. These, as far as I can tell, are likely to be, for the most part, in the thalamocortical system. My hypothesis, then, is that looking for the NCC’s of building blocks is barking up the wrong tree, and that we should instead look for the correlate of the unified field of consciousness in massive synchronized patterns of neuron firing. The Philosophy of Mind and Cognitive Science The mind-body problem is one part of a much broader set of issues, known collectively as the philosophy of mind. This includes not only the traditional mind-body problem, but the whole conglomeration of problems dealing with the nature of mind and consciousness, of perception and intentionality, and of intentional action and thought. A very curious thing has happened in the past two or three decades: the philosophy of mind has moved to the center of philosophy. Several other important branches of philosophy, such as epistemology, The Future of Philosophy 551 metaphysics, the philosophy of action, and even the philosophy of language, are now treated as dependent on, and in some cases even as branches of, the philosophy of mind. Whereas fifty years ago the philosophy of language was considered “first philosophy,” now it is the philosophy of mind. There are a number of reasons for this change, but two stand out. First, it has become more and more obvious to a lot of philosophers that our understanding of the issues in a lot of subjects—the nature of meaning, rationality, and language in general—presupposes an understanding of the most fundamental mental processes. For example, the way language represents reality is dependent on the more biologically fundamental ways in which the mind represents reality, and indeed, linguistic representation is a vastly more powerful extension of the more basic mental representations such as beliefs, desires, and intentions. Second, the rise of the new discipline of cognitive science has opened to philosophy whole areas of research into human cognition in all its forms. Cognitive science was invented by an interdisciplinary group consisting of philosophers who objected to the persistence of behaviorism in psychology, together with like-minded cognitive psychologists, linguists, anthropologists, and computer scientists. I believe the most active and fruitful general area of research today in philosophy is in the general cognitive science domain. The basic subject matter of cognitive science is intentionality in all of its forms. “Intentionality” is a technical term used by philosophers to refer all of those mental phenomena that refer to or are about objects and states of affairs in the world. “Intentionality” so defined has no special connection with intending in the ordinary sense in which I intend to go to the movies tonight. Intending is just one kind of intentionality among others. Intentionality so defined includes at least beliefs, desires, memories, perceptions, intentions (in the ordinary sense), intentional actions, and emotions. Paradoxically, cognitive science was founded on a mistake. There is nothing necessarily fatal about founding an academic subject on a mistake, indeed many disciplines were founded on mistakes. Chemistry, for example, was founded on alchemy. However, a persistent adherence to the mistake is at best inefficient and an obstacle to progress. In the case of cognitive science, the mistake was to suppose that the brain is a digital computer and the mind is a computer program. There are a number of ways to demonstrate that this is a mistake, but the simplest is to point out that the implemented computer 552 John R. Searle program is defined entirely in terms of symbolic or syntactical processes, independent of the physics of the hardware. Minds, on the other hand, contain more than symbolic or syntactical components. They contain actual mental states with semantic content in the form of thoughts, feelings, and so on, and these are caused by quite specific neurobiological processes in the brain. The mind could not consist in a program because the syntactical operations of the program are not sufficient by themselves to guarantee the semantic contents of actual mental processes. I demonstrated this years ago with the so-called Chinese Room Argument.1 A debate continues about this and other versions of the computational theory of the mind. Some people think that the introduction of computers that use parallel distributed processing (“PDP,” sometimes also called “connectionism”), would answer the objections I just stated. But I do not see how the introduction of the connectionist arguments makes any difference. The problem is that any computation that can be carried out on a connectionist program can also be carried out on a traditional von Neumann system. We know from mathematical results that any function that is computable at all is computable on a universal Turing machine. In that sense, no new computational capacity is added by the connectionist architecture, though the connectionist systems can be made to work faster because they have several different computational processes acting in parallel and interacting with each other. Because the computational powers of the connectionist system are no greater than the traditional von Neumann system, if we claim superiority for the connectionist system, there must be some other feature of the system that it is being appealed to. But the only other feature of the connectionist system would have to be in the hardware implementation, which operates in parallel, rather than in series. But if we claim that the connectionist architecture, rather than connectionist computations, are responsible for mental processes, we are no longer advancing the computational theory of the mind, but are engaging in neurobiological speculation. With this hypothesis, we have abandoned the computational theory of the mind in favor of speculative neurobiology. What is actually happening in cognitive science is a paradigm shift away from the computational model of the mind and toward a much more neurobiologically based conception of the mind. For reasons that 1 John R. Searle, “Minds, Brains and Programs,” Behavioral and Brain Sciences 3 (1980): 417–457. The Future of Philosophy 553 should be clear by now, I welcome this development. As we come to understand more about the operations of the brain, it seems to me that we will succeed in gradually replacing computational cognitive science with cognitive neural science. Indeed, I believe this transformation is already taking place. Advances in cognitive neuroscience are likely to create more philosophical problems than they solve. For example, to what extent will an increased understanding of brain operations force us to make conceptual revisions in our common sense vocabulary for describing mental processes as they occur in thought and action? In the simplest and easiest cases, we can simply assimilate the cognitive neuroscience discoveries to our existing conceptual apparatus. Thus, we do not make a major shift in our concept of memory when we introduce the sorts of distinctions that neurobiological investigation have made apparent to us. In popular speech, we now distinguish between short-term and long-term memory, and no doubt as our investigation proceeds, we will have further distinctions. Perhaps the concept of iconic memory is already passing into the general speech of educated people. But in some cases, it seems we are forced to make conceptual revisions. I have thought for a long time that the common sense conception of memory as a storehouse of previous experience and knowledge is both psychologically and biologically inadequate. My impression is that contemporary research bears me out on this. We have to have a conception of memory as a creative process, rather than simply a retrieval process. Some philosophers think even more radical revisions than this will be forced upon us by the neurobiological discoveries of the future. Another set of philosophical problems arises when we begin to examine the relationships between the developmental evidence regarding mental phenomena and the mental phenomena as they occur in mature adults. Very young children apparently have a different conception of the relation of belief to truth from that of adults. How seriously should we take these differences? Do we need to enrich our theory of intentionality by incorporating the developmental data? We do not yet know the answer to any of these questions, and my point in raising them here is to call attention to the fact that, once we have removed the philosophical error of supposing that the brain is a digital computer, and once we have a more mature and sophisticated cognitive neuroscience, we still have to deal with a number of philosophical questions. 554 John R. Searle The Philosophy of Science In the twentieth century, not surprisingly, the philosophy of science shared the epistemic obsession with the rest of philosophy. The chief questions in the philosophy of science, at least for the first half of the century, had to do with the nature of scientific verification, and much effort was devoted to overcoming various skeptical paradoxes, such as the traditional problem of induction. Throughout most of the twentieth century, the philosophy of science was conditioned by the belief in the distinction between analytic and synthetic propositions. The standard conception of the philosophy of science was that scientists aimed to get synthetic contingent truths in the form of universal scientific laws. These laws stated very general truths about the nature of reality, and the chief issue in the philosophy of science had to do with the nature of their testing and verification. The prevailing orthodoxy, as it developed in the middle decades of the century, was that science proceeded by something called the “hypothetico-deductive method.” The scientists formed the hypothesis, deduced logical consequences from it, and then tested those consequences in the form of experiments. This conception was articulated, I think more or less independently, by Karl Popper and Carl Gustav Hempel. Those practicing scientists who took an interest in the philosophy of science at all tended, I think, to admire Popper’s views, but much of their admiration was based on a misunderstanding. What I think they admired in Popper was the idea that science proceeds by acts of originality and imagination. The scientist has to form a hypothesis on the basis of his own imagination and guesswork. There is no “scientific method” for arriving at hypotheses. The procedure of the scientist is then to test the hypothesis by performing experiments and to reject those hypotheses that have been refuted. Most scientists do not, I think, realize how anti-scientific Popper’s views actually are. On Popper’s conception of science and the activity of scientists, science is not an accumulation of truths about nature and the scientist does not arrive at truths about nature. Rather, all that we have in the sciences are a series of so far unrefuted hypotheses. But the idea that the scientist aims after truth, as well as that, in various sciences, we actually have an accumulation of truths—which I think is the presupposition of most actual scientific research—is not something that is consistent with Popper’s conception. The comfortable orthodoxy of science as an accumulation of truths, or even as a gradual progression through the accumulation of so far unrefuted hypotheses, was challenged by the publication of Thomas The Future of Philosophy 555 Kuhn’s Structure of Scientific Revolutions in 1962.2 It is puzzling that Kuhn’s book should have had the dramatic effect that it did, since it is not, strictly speaking, about the philosophy of science, but about the history of science. Kuhn argues that, if you look at the actual history of science, you discover that it is not a gradual progressive accumulation of knowledge about the world, but that science is subject to periodic massive revolutions in which entire world views are overthrown when an existing paradigm is overthrown by a new scientific paradigm. It is characteristic of Kuhn’s book that he implies, though as far as I know he does not state explicitly, that the scientist does not give us truths about the world, but gives us a series of ways of solving puzzles, a series of ways of dealing with puzzling problems within a paradigm. And when the paradigm reaches puzzles that it cannot solve, it is overthrown and a new paradigm is erected in its place, which again sets off a new round of puzzle-solving activity. From the point of view of this discussion, the interesting thing about Kuhn’s book is that he seems to imply that we are not getting progressively closer to the truth about nature in the natural sciences; we are just getting a series of puzzle-solving mechanisms. The scientist essentially moves from one paradigm to another for reasons that have nothing to do with giving an accurate description of an independently existing natural reality, but rather for reasons that are in greater or lesser degree irrational. Kuhn’s book was not much welcomed by practicing scientists, but it had an enormous effect in several humanities disciplines, especially those connected with the study of literature, because it seemed to argue that science gives us no more truth about the real world than do works of literary fiction or works of literary criticism, that science is essentially an irrational operation where groups of scientists form theories that are social constructs and then abandon these in favor of other theories that are likewise arbitrary social constructs. Whatever Kuhn’s intentions, I believe that his effect on general culture, though not on the practices of real scientists, has been unfortunate, for it has served to “demythologize” science, to “debunk” it, to prove that it is not what ordinary people have supposed it to be. Kuhn paved the way for an even more radical skeptical view of Paul Feyerabend, who argued that, as far as giving us truths about the world, science is no better than witchcraft. My own view is that these issues are entirely peripheral to what we ought to be worried about in the philosophy of science, and what I 2 Thomas S. Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1962). 556 John R. Searle hope we will dedicate our efforts to in the twenty-first century. I think the essential problem is this: twentieth-century science has radically challenged a set of very pervasive, powerful philosophical and common sense assumptions about nature, and we simply have not digested the results of these scientific advances. I am thinking especially of quantum mechanics. I think that we can absorb relativity theory more or less comfortably because it can be construed as an extension of our traditional Newtonian conception of the world. We simply have to revise our ideas of space and time and their relation to such fundamental physical constants as the speed of light. But quantum mechanics really does provide a basic challenge to our world view, and we simply have not yet digested it. I regard it as a scandal that philosophers of science, including physicists with an interest in the philosophy of science, have not so far given us a coherent account of how quantum mechanics fits into our overall conception of the universe, particularly as regards to causation and determinacy. Most philosophers, like most educated people today, have a conception of causation that is a mixture of common sense and Newtonian mechanics. Philosophers tend to suppose that causal relations are always instances of strict deterministic causal laws and that cause and effect relations stand to each other in the kind of simple mechanical relations of gear wheels moving other gear wheels and other such Newtonian phenomena. We know at some abstract level that that is not right, but we still have not replaced our common sense conception with a more sophisticated scientific conception. I think that it is the most exciting task of the twenty-first-century philosophy of science, and this is something that would be done both by scientists and philosophers, to give an account of results of quantum mechanics that will enable us to assimilate quantum mechanics to a coherent overall worldview. I think that, in the course of this project, we are going to have to revise certain crucial notions, such as the notion of causation, and that this revision is going to have very important effects on other questions, such as the questions concerning determinism and free will. This work has already begun, and I hope it will continue successfully in the twenty-first century. Conclusion The history of philosophy, as it is described in the standard textbooks, is largely a history of the works of a number of towering geniuses. From Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, to Wittgenstein and Russell, the chief results of philosophy are in the works of its great figures. In The Future of Philosophy 557 that sense, there simply are no towering geniuses alive today. This, I believe, is not because we have less talent than our predecessors. On the contrary, I believe that, paradoxically, the reason there are no recognized geniuses today is simply that there are more good philosophers alive now than there were in the past. Because there is so much talent and so much good work is being done, it is impossible for a single figure or a few figures to dominate the field in a way that was possible up until the early part of the twentieth century. I think that there are probably a number of other fields like philosophy in this respect—the apparent shortage of geniuses is the result of a surplus, rather than a deficit, of talent. But whether or not the phenomenon is general, I am quite confident that this is true of philosophy: the sheer number of hard working, able, talented figures in the field makes it impossible that any small number of people should be recognized as standing head and shoulders above all of the others. One of the many advantages in having a field that is not dominated by a tiny number of overpowering figures is that philosophy as a cooperative enterprise seems to be more possible than it has typically been in the past. It is quite possible for people working on a common set of problems to see their enterprise as one of advancing theoretical understanding in a given domain. In my view, the biggest single obstacle to progress of a systematic theoretical kind has been the obsession with epistemology. I believe that epistemic problems such as “How is it possible that we can have knowledge at all in the light of the various skeptical paradoxes?” should be regarded in the same way as other such paradoxes have been regarded in the history of philosophy. Zeno’s paradoxes about space and time, for example, pose interesting puzzles, but no one supposes that we cannot seriously attempt to cross a room until we have first answers Zeno’s skepticism about the possibility of moving through space. Analogously, I believe, we should have the same attitude toward the paradoxes about the possibility of knowledge that were advanced by skeptical philosophers. That is, these are interesting puzzles, and they provide good five-finger exercises for training young philosophers, but we should not suppose that the possibility of knowledge and understanding rests on our first being able to refute Hume’s skepticism. I cannot, of course, predict what is going to happen in the twenty-first century, but I can express the hope—and I think at this stage in our intellectual history it is a well-founded hope—that, with the abandonment of the epistemic bias in the philosophy of language, the philosophy of mind, ethics, political philosophy, and the philoso- 558 John R. Searle phy of science, we may achieve greater theoretical understanding and more constructive theoretical accounts than we have had at any time N&V in the past history of the subject. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 2 (2016): 559–564 559 Response to John R. Searle’s “The Future of Philosophy” Michael J. Dodds, O.P. Dominican School of Philosophy and Theology Berkeley, California In his illuminating article on the future of philosophy, Professor Searle touched on a number of issues. I will consider just two of them here: the mind-body problem and the philosophy of science. The Mind-Body Problem One thing that struck me in the way that Professor Searle frames the mind-body problem was his emphasis on wholeness. He admonishes us to remember “the fact that we live in one world, and all the features of the world from quarks and electrons to nation states and balance of payments problems are, in their different ways, part of that one world.” The world is one, and each human being is also one, particularly in the experience of consciousness. Given this oneness, Searle criticizes neuroscientists who pursue what he calls a “building block theory of consciousness”—which views “our conscious field as made up of various building blocks, such as visual experience, auditory experience, tactile experience,” and so on, and then seeks to put the blocks together. As he says: “conscious states always come to us in a unified form. We do not perceive just the color, the shape, or the sound of an object; we perceive all of these at once simultaneously in a unified conscious experience. The subjectivity of consciousness implies unity.” If the world is one and human consciousness is one, it might seem appropriate in our account of these to begin with unity rather than plurality. Rather than start with the part and construct the whole, it seems fitting to begin with the whole and then, from that vantage point, to consider the part. 560 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. To begin with unity, we have to overcome the dualism that still seems to haunt our thinking. As Searle rightly notes, “the first step on the road to philosophical and scientific progress in these areas is to forget about the tradition of Cartesian dualism. . . . Just as Einstein made a conceptual change to break the distinction between space and time, so we need a similar conceptual change to break the bifurcation of mental and physical.” I think that to break the Cartesian bifurcation, we must see all aspects of the human being within the context of the whole. Despite his desire for wholeness, however, Searle still seems inclined to start with the part. We see this in the fundamental question he poses for science: “How exactly [do] neurobiological processes in the brain cause conscious states and processes and how exactly [are] those conscious states and processes realized in the brain?” It is assumed that the part (the neurobiological processes) are causing the whole (human consciousness). Even in his rejection of the building block approach to consciousness, Searle still seems inclined to put the part before the whole. As he says, “My hypothesis, then, is that looking for . . . building blocks is barking up the wrong tree, and that we should instead look for the correlate of the unified field of consciousness in massive synchronized patterns of neuron firing.” Of course, the patterns of neuron firings are again parts, in terms of which the whole of consciousness is to be understood and explained. How do we get to wholeness? The dialogue with theology might be useful at this point to help us get a handle on wholeness. While we would not want to import theology as such into science or philosophy, its insights into wholeness might be helpful. Genesis tells us that “in the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.” We begin with the oneness, the unity, the wholeness of God, but immediately we proceed to distinction. God creates a world that is other than God. There is distinction, but no disruption or bifurcation. There is distinction, but also unity, between the goodness of God and the world that God finds to be “very good” (Gen 1:31). The world has many parts, but these are, again, one in the harmony of their interrelationships, reflecting the oneness of the wisdom of the Creator. So, wholeness need not imply sameness; even within unity, there is room for distinction. Genesis also recounts the creation of humankind, made “in the image” of God (Gen 1: 26–27). As God is one, so the human person is one—although the unity of the human being again involves a multiplicity of parts. As God is wisdom and love, so the human person is Response to John R. Searle 561 capable of knowing and loving. As the one God, in the fullness of revelation, is manifested as triune, a unity of three distinct persons essentially related to one another, so the human person is no solipsistic individual, but a being whose very nature is communal. As God himself observes: “It is not good for the man to be alone” (Gen 2:18). Perhaps the philosophical lesson here is that wholeness does not mean sameness and need not imply lack of distinction or absence of relationship. In fact, if relationship is an essential aspect of the human person, we might be suspicious of a philosophy that begins its account of human nature with an isolated, individual consciousness: “I think therefore I am.” History has shown that this leads to the dualism and bifurcations that Searle rightly rejects: “The single most important obstacle to getting a solution to the traditional mind-brain problem is the persistence of a set of traditional but obsolete categories of mind and body, matter and spirit, mental and physical.” I think that the way to overcome such apparent metaphysical dualisms is not simply to choose one pole over the other. This is unfortunately what Searle seems to do, reducing the mental ontologically to the physical: “The first step on the road to philosophical and scientific progress in these areas is . . . to remind ourselves that mental phenomena are ordinary biological phenomena in the same sense as photosynthesis or digestion.” I think that such dualisms are better overcome when we begin with the wholeness of the human person and develop a philosophy or, more specifically, a philosophy of nature, that can recognize the different aspects of the human being (including the material and the spiritual) and incorporate the established findings of empirical science—all without forgetting the fundamental vision of human wholeness. For this task, I would suggest that the hylomorphism of Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas might prove a promising starting point. The Philosophy of Science On the philosophy of science, Professor Searle’s fundamental concern is the philosophical challenge posed by quantum mechanics: “I regard it as a scandal that philosophers of science, including physicists with an interest in the philosophy of science, have not so far given us a coherent account of how quantum mechanics fits into our overall conception of the universe, particularly with regard to causation and determinacy.” He sets this as a task for philosophy today: “I think that it is the most exciting task of the twenty-first-century philosophy of science . . . to give an account of results of quantum mechanics that 562 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. will enable us to assimilate quantum mechanics to a coherent overall world view.” Having paged through many popularizations of quantum mechanics and seen how they often mystify rather than clarify that science, my theological response to Searle’s philosophical proposal is simply a resounding, “Amen!” Searle also critiques Thomas Kuhn’s view of science. I agree with his critique and believe that it can give us an opportunity for a brief review of Aquinas’s account of the methods of science and theology. Searle says: It is characteristic of Kuhn’s book (The Structure of Scientific Revolutions) that he implies . . . that the scientist does not give us truths about the world, but gives us a series of ways of solving puzzles. . . . He seems to imply that we are not getting progressively closer to the truth about nature in the natural sciences; we are just getting a series of puzzle-solving mechanisms. The scientist essentially moves from one paradigm to another for reasons that have nothing to do with giving an accurate description of an independently existing natural reality.1 The basis for Kuhn’s views is not hard to find. He must maintain that science cannot be getting us any closer to the truth about nature as such, since, for him, there is no such thing as “nature” or “truth” independent of the theories of science: We may . . . have to relinquish the notion . . . that changes of paradigm carry scientists . . . closer and closer to the truth. . . . A scientific theory is usually felt to be better than its predecessors . . . because it is somehow a better representation of what nature is really like. One often hears that successive theories grow every closer to, or approximate more and more closely to, the truth. . . . There is, I think, no theory-independent way to reconstruct phrases like “really there”; the notion of a match between the ontology of a theory and its ‘real’ counterpart in nature now seems to me illusive in principle.2 1 2 John R. Searle, “The Future of Philosophy,” Nova et Vetera (English) 14.2 (2016): 555. Thomas Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1970), 170 and 206. Response to John R. Searle 563 If, unlike Kuhn, we admit the objective reality of the world that science studies and of the natures of those things that science describes through its models and paradigms, we will be able to affirm that the succession of more adequate models does indeed increase our knowledge of nature. William Wallace explains this as the tradition of Aquinas: The thesis that underlies Thomistic methodology . . . is that science is concerned with a study of the real . . . and that real entities can be the subject of true existential predication, that they have natures that can be understood, and that there can be progress in this understanding. Much of this progress comes about through the continued application of modeling techniques, which make new existential claims possible and enable scientists to preserve their generalizations, while modifying them and interpreting them in terms of an ever-deepening understanding.3 It is rather remarkable that Aquinas himself recognized the role of models in our account of nature and saw how one model might replace another. He noticed that none of the models fully captures the reality that it is intended to represent. Still, the succession of models can lead us toward a greater understanding of that reality, though never fully grasping it. Even more remarkably, Aquinas believed that this was not only the situation of science with respect to the reality of nature, but also of theology regarding the reality of divine revelation. Theologians also employ models to try to grasp the depth of the intelligibility of revelation, but none of the models can wholly encompass what is revealed. In his usual style, he says this quite succinctly, using the example of astronomy: Reason is employed in another way, not as furnishing a sufficient proof of a principle, but as confirming an already established principle, by showing the congruity of its results, as in astronomy the theory of eccentrics and epicycles is considered as established, because thereby the sensible appearances of the 3 William Wallace, “Causality, Analogy, and the Growth of Scientific Knowledge,” in Il cosmo e la scienza, Atti del congresso internazionale Tommaso d’Aquino del suo settimo centenario 9 (Naples, IT: Edizioni Domenicane Italiane, 1975), 40. 564 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. heavenly movements can be explained; not, however, as if this proof were sufficient, forasmuch as some other theory might explain them. . . . [In this way] reasons avail to prove the Trinity; as, when assumed to be true, such reasons confirm it.4 To speak syllogistically, we might say that, in this account of the method of science, we begin with a conclusion: the actually observed motion of the heavens. We then reason backwards to construct premises for that conclusion. But the premises involve a freely invented model (for example, eccentrics and epicycles). The model may not (and probably never will) provide the proper reason for the conclusion, but it can contribute to our understanding. Ptolemy, for instance, did not discover the way that the heavens really move, but he did provide a model that allowed astronomers to better understand and predict such motions. Like scientists, theologians also use models—not to penetrate the truth of nature, but to better understand the truth of revelation. Their models, of course, are utterly inadequate—something like holding up a candle to get a better look at the sun. Truths of revelation, such as the mystery of the Trinity, infinitely exceed our human understanding. We accept them on faith—and yet faith can seek understanding through reasoning, and reasoning employs models. The models of human reasoning that theology employs are far richer than the epicycles and eccentrics of Ptolemy. Augustine, for instance, employs the model of human knowledge and love to penetrate the mystery of the Trinity. And we might say that, beyond that model, he is also employing the broader model of Platonic philosophy to formulate his account of human knowledge and love. Similarly, Aquinas will employ the model of Aristotle’s philosophy of immanent motion in his theology of the Trinity. Meantime, St. Patrick will simply hold up a shamrock as a model to elucidate the Trinitarian mystery for the people of Ireland. None of the models gives us the proper reason why God is one and three, any more than Ptolemy’s model provided the proper reason for the motion of the heavens. Yet each does in some way illumine the truth of revelation, even as it leaves the depth of the N&V unfathomable mystery unknown. 4 Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae I, q. 32, a. 1, ad 2 (New York: Benziger Brothers, 1947). Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 2 (2016): 565–584 565 The Vindication of St. Thomas: Thomism and Contemporary Anglo-American Philosophy (Dedicated to Ralph McInerny and James Ross—Requiescant in Pace) Alfred J. Freddoso University of Notre Dame Notre Dame, Indiana Introduction Fifty years after the overthrow of St. Thomas and Thomistic Scholasticism in Catholic intellectual life in general and in Catholic philosophy and theology in particular, we are now witnessing a revival of Aristotelianism and Thomism in a place where one would have least anticipated it, mainstream Anglo-American analytic philosophy. This phenomenon has been relatively well-documented in the case of moral theory, but is less well known in two areas that, from a Thomistic standpoint, are more fundamental than moral theory—philosophy of nature and philosophical anthropology. In my presentation, after highlighting certain consequences of the overthrow of Thomism, I will discuss this revival, along with some cognate developments within recent Catholic theology, with an eye toward giving some direction to the new generation of Catholic philosophers and theologians. The Overthrow: Fifty Years Later First of all, I want to thank the Dominicans of the province of the Most Holy Name of Jesus and, more specifically, those associated with the Dominican School of Philosophy and Theology in Berkeley for inviting me to speak at this Dialogue between Philosophy and Theology. Indeed, while others are welcome to listen in, the intended audience for my presentation is precisely Catholic philosophers and 566 Alfred J. Freddoso theologians—and especially the younger ones, including graduate students. I know what you are thinking: “Oh, no, not one of those dreary talks by an old guy imparting ‘wisdom’ to us supposedly benighted young people.” I am sorry, but all I can say in my defense is that I hope it is not too dreary, and I hope you are not too benighted. The truth is that I am desperate to find a receptive audience, given that nowadays at Notre Dame there are only a handful of graduate students in either theology or (especially) philosophy who are interested in St. Thomas or the other great Scholastic thinkers. And therein lies a tale: the tale of the overthrow of St. Thomas and Thomistic Aristotelianism in Catholic higher education and, more generally, in Catholic intellectual life throughout the 1960s and into the early 1970s. I begin my presentation with this tale mainly in order to discuss its lasting consequences, rather than to dwell on its causes. As for the latter, there is more than enough blame to go around on all sides, as is evident from Philip Gleason’s detailed and even-handed re-telling of the history of Catholic higher education in the 1950s and 1960s.1 By contrast, my main purpose in this paper is to talk about the past only in order to shed some light on the present and the short-term future. So, there I was in the mid-1960s, a student in a diocesan seminary filled to the brim with idealistic aspiring clerics, studying philosophy and theology. In addition to various figures in the history of philosophy, we were reading the likes of Henri De Lubac, Karl Rahner, Bernard Lonergan, Edward Schillebeeckx, Yves Congar, and even the very early Joseph Ratzinger. Some of our teachers were just back from studying in Rome, where they had drunk deeply of so-called Transcendental Thomism—which, upon later scrutiny, I found to be in some significant ways an inversion of Thomism, rather than a version of it. In any case, those were heady days. We who had hardly read a page of St. Thomas himself or of his most important commentators considered ourselves experts on the shortcomings of Thomism. When, years later, I read Ralph McInerny’s vivid description, near the beginning of Thomism in an Age of Renewal,2 of a mindless and baseless tirade by a young priest in a seminary common room against Thomism and prominent Thomists, I was embarrassed to recall that I myself 1 2 Philip Gleason, Contending With Modernity: Catholic Higher Education in the Twentieth Century (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), esp. 287–304. Ralph McInerny, Thomism in an Age of Renewal (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1966). Thomism and Contemporary Anglo-American Philosophy 567 had participated just as mindlessly and just as baselessly in many such conversations. (I had read my de Lubac, after all.) And it was not merely we neophytes. Our elders, many of whom knew little of the actual documents of Vatican II but had nonetheless imbibed what they called “the spirit of Vatican II,” decided that this spirit dictated the overthrow of Thomism and Scholasticism in general on every front: radical changes in undergraduate and graduate curricula at Catholic universities, colleges, and even seminaries; radical changes in faculty composition and interests at these same institutions; radical changes in the composition and interests of graduate student populations; etc. After decades of inhabiting a philosophical “ghetto,” as they termed it, we were finally to come of age and to join the “real” philosophical world, even though, truth be told, we did not have any very clear vision of what that meant—outside of banishing the Thomists—or of how to separate the wheat from the chaff in mainstream academic philosophy. The changes were, in retrospect, breathtaking. Let me give two examples from the institution with which I am most familiar. At Notre Dame, the standard four-course university requirement in Thomistic philosophy for undergraduates—including one course each in (a) philosophy of nature, (b) philosophical anthropology, (c) metaphysics, and (d) moral and political philosophy—devolved in the late 1960s into a two-course university requirement in philosophy with no prescribed content for either the introductory course or the second-level course.3 In addition, the so-called “core curriculum” in the humanities outside of philosophy became little more than a distribution requirement with no university-mandated content. As a result, it is today a common occurrence for a student to graduate from Notre Dame with literally no decent exposure at all to the thought of Aristotle or Plato, not to mention St. Augustine or St. Thomas. More tellingly, only a small percentage of our graduates has ever encountered in any depth the sane Thomistic understanding of the relation between faith and reason or of that between faith and natural science. 3 There is one exception as far as content is concerned. While chatting with a student on an airline flight in the early 1980s, Fr. Hesburgh learned, to his dismay, that as many as half of Notre Dame’s undergraduates were using a course in formal logic (propositional calculus with a smidgen of first-order predicate logic) to satisfy the second university philosophy requirement. He demanded that the department no longer allow formal logic to count as fulfilling that requirement, but that it provide something more philosophically substantive instead. 568 Alfred J. Freddoso If, before the overthrow, one of the accusations was that Notre Dame undergraduates were being indoctrinated with Thomism and Catholic philosophy, nowadays the typical Notre Dame graduate leaves campus without ever having heard that there is such a thing as Thomism or a Catholic philosophical tradition. And it is not just the undergraduates. In 2003, when the philosophy department was conducting a search for a Thomist, it turned out that some of my younger colleagues, cradle Catholics among them, had never even heard of a Thomist. Again, the graduate program in philosophy, once predominately Thomistic, was, by the late 1960s, being touted as “pluralistic,” which meant, in practice, that, in the forty-five years between 1968 and 2013, exactly four Thomistic-leaning philosophers were hired at Notre Dame—normally under the rubric of medieval philosophy—and this despite the fact that the department doubled in size to forty faculty members during that same period. Only two of the four are left on the faculty now. What is more, as noted above, the number of graduate students working on St. Thomas or on major Scholastic figures has dwindled over the years. Something similar, though not quite as drastic, has occurred in the theology department. Unfortunately, the overthrow ran much deeper even than this. Here are two of its more disturbing general consequences. In his perceptive review of Fergus Kerr, O.P.’s Twentieth-Century Catholic Theologians: From Chenu to Ratzinger,4 R.R. Reno notes that the twentieth century giants in Catholic theology are now barely intelligible to the new generations of Catholic theologians, in large measure because the younger people have not been provided with a solid grounding in the standard Scholastic philosophy and theology in which the great theologians had been trained, within which they had formulated their problematics, and against which they had in various ways reacted. In the absence of this background, younger Catholic theologians are in danger of being cut off not only from the twentieth-century giants, but from the very tradition that they aspire (or should aspire) to serve and contribute to. Even those who (laudably) immerse themselves in the Fathers and Doctors of the Church may fail to understand that a large part of the task that St. Thomas had set for himself was precisely 4 R.R. Reno, “Theology after the Revolution,” review of Twentieth-Century Catholic Theologians: From Chenu to Ratzinger by Fergus Kerr, O.P., First Things, May, 2007(http://www.firstthings.com/article/2007/05/100-theology-after-the-revolution). See Fergus Kerr, O.P., Twentieth-Century Catholic Theologians: From Chenu to Ratzinger (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2006). Thomism and Contemporary Anglo-American Philosophy 569 to provide the writings of the Fathers and Doctors with a sound metaphysical framework in light of which we can understand and learn from those writings—in much the same way that, from a Thomistic perspective, the findings of the natural sciences demand the sort of metaphysical context of interpretation and appropriation provided by a sound philosophy of nature.5 In addition, many of the Fathers, as well as the Church herself in council, drew heavily from the Gentile philosophers and cannot be properly understood by those who do not have the right sort of philosophical training. Perhaps more importantly, theological creativity of the best and most lasting sort can be exercised only against the background of some such metaphysical framework—in the way, for instance, that Karol Wojtyla’s theology of the body self-consciously presupposes but goes beyond standard Thomistic philosophical anthropology. This is clear from the example of almost all the most creative of the “new” Catholic theologians of the twentieth century. In this respect, I think in particular of Lonergan, Rahner, and one of my favorites who is not featured in Kerr’s book, Romano Guardini. The second point is that, as Gleason emphasized in his work on Catholic higher education, the rejection of Thomistic Scholasticism— and of the so-called “Thomistic synthesis” along with it—was a major factor in the loss of vision that helped transform Catholic colleges and universities into what I have elsewhere called “public schools in Catholic neighborhoods.”6 In short, when you combined this lack of an intellectual and moral compass with the aspiration to be great even as Harvard and Princeton and Berkeley are great, you could easily have anticipated what we have now: institutions that claim to be “Catholic,” but also “intellectually excellent,” where that very un-Thomistic “but also” tells you all you need to know about the lack of confidence 5 6 I realize that much more needs to be said here. But those pre-conciliar theologians who complained that Scholastic manuals omitted the Fathers of the Church had a legitimate complaint in their demand for ressourcement. This is why the manuals and textbooks cannot claim to duplicate everything St. Thomas had in mind, and also why the preparation of theologians should include reading St. Thomas’s own texts in addition to secondary material. But this point goes in both directions. The idea that the writings of the Fathers need no interpretive philosophical framework is just as misguided as the idea that St. Thomas can be fully understood without adverting to his relationship to the Fathers. Charles E. Rice, What Happened to Notre Dame? (South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press, 2009), xiii–xxxi (Introduction). It should be added that many of the Catholic “neighborhoods” are themselves highly dysfunctional. 570 Alfred J. Freddoso Catholic university administrators have in their own distinctive intellectual traditions. This is no surprise, given that, nowadays, many of these administrators are themselves the product of the sort of deficient Catholic education described above. When we apply this last point to the particular case of philosophy as a profession, we come to the specific topic on which I want to concentrate for the remainder of my paper. In particular, in the 1960s and 1970s, it was felt that Thomistic philosophy was out of touch with, and could never be in touch with, the best of contemporary philosophy as practiced at the best secular universities. The so-called “ghetto-ization” of Thomism was, to be sure, in some measure the fault of Thomists themselves, but it would be unfair to make this observation without noting that, in the middle decades of the twentieth century, mainstream Anglo-American philosophy was dominated by logical positivism, pragmatism, and ordinary language philosophy, three of the most virulently anti-metaphysical movements in the history of philosophy. Despite the fact that none of these movements is dominant today, their effects have lingered for a very long time. So until recently, a certain amount of decorum and propriety and, as it were, indirection has been necessary on the part of Thomists and their sympathizers when they put forward Thomistic theses, as has in fact happened across a wide number of areas in analytic philosophy over the last twenty-five or thirty years. Allow me a personal anecdote here. In 1997, a former student of mine, call him “Geno,” then a Rhodes Scholar doing a B.Phil. at Oxford, called me in desperation one afternoon. He had come across a passage in the Nichomachean Ethics that had him completely baffled three days before he was scheduled to make a presentation on it to his tutor. My advice to him was to sneak into a library, furtively glance at a copy of St. Thomas’s commentary on that part of the Ethics and see if it might be of some help. He was, of course, not to mention St. Thomas to his tutor—or to anyone else, for that matter. Well, to make a long story short, a week later I received another call from a now ebullient Geno. When he had laid out St. Thomas’s interpretation of the problematic passage (without, of course, mentioning St. Thomas by name), the tutor stroked his chin, volunteered that he had never thought of the relevant text in that way, and pronounced the interpretation “interesting, perhaps even brilliant.” The moral of the story is that there was, even at that time, an openness to St. Thomas among some of the most hardened secular philosophers; you just had to be subtle about it, and very patient. Thomism and Contemporary Anglo-American Philosophy 571 Well, patience may still be in order, but, as I will indicate below, a lot less subtlety is required these days. For, we seem finally to have reached a point in the narrative of English-speaking philosophy at which there is a new and increasingly explicit openness to Aristotelian-Thomistic Scholasticism. In other words, the stone that Catholic higher education rejected in the 1960s and 1970s in order to become “relevant” is itself becoming the cornerstone of a new movement within mainstream philosophy some fifty years later. To mark this delicious irony, which gets even more savory toward the end of my paper, I have entitled the last two sections “God Has a Sense of Humor: Part One” and “God Has a Sense of Humor: Part Two.” “Part One” deals with systematic matters, while “Part Two” singles out four recent books, two by younger Catholic philosophers and two by younger Catholic theologians, that exhibit what the shortterm future of Thomism will look like at its best within Catholic thought and within the wider philosophical and theological culture. God Has a Sense of Humor: Part One In 1990, James Ross published one of his typical papers, both zany and perspicacious, entitled “The Fate of the Analysts: Aristotle’s Revenge.”7 The paper contains a powerful argument for the claim that the advance of natural science in the twentieth century has exposed as woefully inadequate the substitutes for an Aristotelian philosophy of nature and philosophical anthropology that were invented by seventeenth- and eighteenth-century philosophers, the champions of the so-called “new science” and of the so-called “new way of ideas.” These new ways had technological advancement more than integrated theoretical truth as their main goal, and their immediate technological success served to avert the glance of most philosophers from their grave theoretical deficiencies.8 Since the various strands of Anglo-American analytic 7 8 James Ross, “The Fate of the Analysts: Aristotle’s Revenge,” Proceedings of the American Catholic Philosophical Association 64 (1990): 51–74. For a careful and extended argument in support of Ross’s idea that there is “software everywhere” in the natural world and that this points to the conclusion that Aristotelian forms and teleology are the best explanation for it, see Edward Feser, “From Aristotle to John Searle and Back Again: Formal Causes, Teleology, and Computation in Nature,” Nova et Vetera (English) 14.2 (2016): 459–494. Even one who thinks that Malebranche, Berkeley, and Leibniz are exceptions here must admit that their proposed cures were almost as bad as the disease. At the very least, I know of no mainstream philosopher who today espouses any of their alternative philosophies of nature. 572 Alfred J. Freddoso philosophy are embedded within the main philosophical problematics generated by the seventeenth-century overthrow of Aristotelianism, the result, according to Ross, is that, despite the brilliance of many of its practitioners and the number of genuinely important arguments and insights it has generated, Anglo-American analytic philosophy has failed as a whole. Indeed, it has failed spectacularly, since one main drift of recent analytic metaphysics and epistemology has been toward the very sort of idealism against which the original founders of analytic philosophy were rebelling at the beginning of the twentieth century. And this drift toward idealism has been generated, in part, by the dissonance between ordinary and (now, according to Ross) scientific images of the world, on the one hand, and the defective conceptions of matter and mind that emerged from the seventeenth century and still dominate analytic philosophy. In other words, while the mainstream view is that there is a deep conflict between our ordinary “human” image of the world and the scientific image of the world, Ross argues, to the contrary, that there seems to be a conflict here only if one is under the spell of an inadequate philosophy of nature, and thus of a distorted understanding of matter and mind. Ross’s paper, which predictably fell on deaf ears in 1990, was, I believe, published about twenty-five years too early—though this is not to underplay the resolve it gave Thomists and other Aristotelians to persevere in the conviction that many of the main problematics in analytic metaphysics, philosophy of mind, and philosophy of science had been skewed in such a way as to rule out promising Aristotelian positions a priori. A similar sort of critique had already been initiated in moral theory with the publication in 1981 of Alasdair MacIntyre’s After Virtue.9 MacIntyre’s trenchant criticism of the problematic itself of analytic moral philosophy had drawn upon and supplied a dazzling historical narrative for Elizabeth Anscombe’s seminal article “Modern Moral Philosophy.”10 MacIntyre, like Anscombe before him, urged philosophers to escape from prevailing forms of emotivism, consequentialism, and deontology by renewing their interest in classical virtue theory, especially as expounded by Aristotle. And this indeed happened, though in the sort of half-hearted way that has generally characterized 9 10 Alasdair MacIntyre, After Virtue, 3rd ed. (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2007). G. E. M. Anscombe, “Modern Moral Philosophy,” Philosophy 33 (1958): 1–19. Thomism and Contemporary Anglo-American Philosophy 573 the slow but steady Aristotelian revival of the last twenty-five years. In the first edition of After Virtue, even MacIntyre himself eschewed what he dismissively called “Aristotle’s metaphysical biology” as a groundwork for virtue theory. A similar disdain for metaphysics and for the connection between philosophical anthropology and moral theory has characterized the so-called “New Natural Law” movement. Others have attempted to fashion “virtue theories” as an alternative to the dominant forms of consequentialism and deontology, but have remained reluctant to tie their theories to any thick and substantive account of the good for beings that are both animals and rational. Here the problem lies as much in philosophical anthropology as in moral theory itself. MacIntyre later retracted his rejection of “metaphysical biology” as he became more sensitized, mainly at the urging of Thomists, to the deep connections between our biological nature as dependent rational animals and the foundations in that nature of normative standards for action, culture, and social organization. But others attracted to virtue theory have persisted in the post-Humean separation of metaphysics from moral theory. Similar, but lesser known, stories of reluctant and piecemeal acceptance of Aristotelian theses can be told in areas that I will characterize broadly, in Aristotelian terms, as philosophy of nature and philosophical anthropology. I can only scratch the philosophical surface here, but I hope to say enough to give you a general sense of the state of things. Philosophy of Nature The first set of examples I want to talk about is, from an Aristotelian perspective, broadly included under the rubric of philosophy of nature. More specifically, I will be highlighting issues such as causality, agency, and scientific laws of nature. In analytic “action theory,” some had made the concession along the way that rational beings are real agents (read: genuine Aristotelian efficient causes), even if agency cannot be attributed to anything else in the natural world. After all, according to the standard way of thinking, Aristotle’s claim that there is genuine power and agency in all of nature had simply been an anthropomorphic projection of human agency onto unthinking nature, perhaps encouraged by ordinary ways of talking, and so this claim had been rightly discarded when the world was, as they say, “disenchanted” by seventeenth-century thinkers. Still, according to this line of thought, Aristotle’s starting point was sound: 574 Alfred J. Freddoso there are reasons for thinking that rational beings are genuine agents. So, the conclusion was drawn by some that there are two fundamentally different types of causality: Aristotelian “agent causality,” where a rational agent causes an event, and Humean “event causality,” where events are causes of other events. Now, as many have come to understand, this is a messy and untenable position. From an Aristotelian perspective, human agency is merely a higher-order manifestation of the ubiquitous natural agency that is, in fact, epistemically prior to—or, at the very least, epistemically simultaneous with—human agency in our experience. From a Humean perspective, on the other hand, there is a similar epistemic symmetry: the very same considerations that lead one to deny (or to adopt agnosticism with respect to) agency in unthinking nature should likewise lead one to deny peculiarly human agency. The moral of the story, once again, is that a fragmentary and half-hearted Aristotelianism is not only no Aristotelianism at all, but also a philosophically unsatisfactory compromise. Something curious was occurring simultaneously in the parallel literature about causality that was being generated by analytic metaphysicians. Here the problematic of characterizing causality was set up in such a way that the only two possible solutions stemmed from two different characterizations of causality found in the work of— who else?—David Hume—namely, the so-called regularity theory of causality and the so-called counterfactual theory of causality—and each was then associated with its own take on what scientific laws of nature are. By the time the battle was over, neither account emerged victorious, and even the most sophisticated versions of the two theories were subject to debilitating counterexamples.11 Needless to say, Hume himself had, almost unknowingly, inherited both ways of “defining” causality from Scholastic thinkers who had thought of regularity and counterfactual dependence as defeasible signs of genuine efficient causality, but not as definitive of it. But what of genuine efficient causality itself? Was it anywhere to be seen in the philosophical literature? Well, yes it was, but this occurred in the almost wholly independent literature on causality that was being 11 For more on this debate from an Aristotelian perspective, see part 4 of my “Suarez on Metaphysical Inquiry, Efficient Causality, and Divine Action,” in Francisco Suarez, On Creation, Conservation, and Concurrence: Metaphysical Disputations 20–22, trans. Alfred J. Freddoso with notes and introduction (South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press, 2002). Thomism and Contemporary Anglo-American Philosophy 575 generated by analytic philosophers of science. Here, in accord with Ross’s fundamental insight, the force of actual scientific practice and discourse was being felt, so that a few philosophers of science (Rom Harré and Edward Madden, in their book Causal Powers, and Nancy Cartwright, in How the Laws of Physics Lie and later in Nature’s Capacities and Their Measurements) had begun to urge that the problems besetting philosophers about causality and about the character and modality of scientific laws of nature could best be solved by attributing to natural entities causal powers and tendencies and resultant causal actions.12 The suggestion was then made that scientific laws of nature be thought of as reflecting the inherent causal powers and tendencies of natural agents.13 All of these positions are, of course, standard fare within Aristotelian-Thomistic philosophy of nature. Again, the progress was fragmentary and piecemeal, but its direction was unmistakable. Philosophical Anthropology Perhaps the best example of all comes from contemporary philosophy of mind, or what I prefer to call “philosophical anthropology” because of its importance for our own self-understanding. In this section I will refer more explicitly to the “Thomistic” account of the human being in order to bypass difficulties about the interpretation of Aristotle’s De anima. To my mind, it is clear that Aristotle should have meant what St. Thomas took him to mean, and that St. Thomas’s own philosophical anthropology is precisely what is needed to heal, or at least ameliorate, the pathological condition of contemporary analytic philosophy of mind.14 12 13 14 Rom Harré and Edward H. Madden, Causal Powers: Theory of Natural Necessity (Oxford, UK: Blackwell, 1975); Nancy Cartwright, How the Laws of Physics Lie (Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 1983); and Cartwright, Nature’s Capacities and Their Measurements (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994). Notice, by the way, that the very notion of scientific “laws” of nature, when hardly any of the philosophers involved in the contemporary discussion believe in a lawgiver for these laws, is itself a bit anomalous. This is not unlike Anscombe’s pointing to a similar anomaly with the use of terms like “moral law,” “moral obligation,” and “moral prohibition” by philosophers who no longer believe in a divine lawgiver. Edward Feser has written perhaps the most illuminating overview of contemporary analytic philosophy of mind, Philosophy of Mind: A Beginner’s Guide (Oxford, UK: Oneworld Publications, 2006). Feser ends this book with an argument for the Thomistic position, which he calls “hylemorphic dualism.” I do not approve of the use of the term “dualism” for St. Thomas’s position primarily because he himself articulated his own position mainly in oppo- 576 Alfred J. Freddoso According to the Thomistic view, the human intellective soul is the subsistent and immaterial form of the human organism—that is, the principle by which a certain matter is constituted as a particular sort of animal organism. Its peculiarly intellective operations do not directly involve sentient operations, but they nonetheless depend on sentient operations for their content and causal origins. So, on this view, human beings are unified animal organisms, but also distinctive in the animal kingdom because of their intellective powers and operations, and it is precisely the intellective powers and operations that entail the subsistence and immateriality of the form that makes these corporeal organisms to be what they are. By contrast, sentience by itself does not entail either the subsistence or immateriality of the forms of lower animals. So, on this view, sentient cognition and feeling do not by themselves require an immaterial subject. It is just an amazing fact about the world that certain corporeal substances that are potentially decomposable without material remainder into their elemental constituents are, nonetheless, conscious beings capable of sensing and remembering and imagining and feeling. These sentient operations have as their matter (or material cause) certain physiological operations, and as their form (or formal cause) cognitive and appetitive movements directed toward objects of sensation,of imagination, of love, or of fear, etc. All of this makes perfectly good sense and comports well with our ordinary ways of thinking about ourselves and about other animals, but it obviously entails a conception of the potentialities of matter that does not fit the seventeenth-century model. To make a long story short, the contemporary problematic in analytic philosophy of mind is still haunted by something resembling Descartes’s reductionist portrait of the corporeal world: mindless and wholly passive elemental entities subject to externally imposed laws of change and movement entering incidentally into macro-configurations that have no non-quantifiable characteristics and no higher-level powers, tendencies, or activities peculiar to them as such. In other words, there is nothing in the corporeal world like Aristotle’s higher-level natures or the forms that constitute them. As Ross points out, this does not seem to be the sort sition to a version of Platonic dualism and also because the use of the term “dualism” signals, to my mind, too easy an accommodation to the skewed contemporary problematic in analytic philosophy of mind. However, this is a disagreement about words (though they can be important, too) and not a disagreement about the realities themselves. Thomism and Contemporary Anglo-American Philosophy 577 of corporeal world that present-day natural science is actually delivering up to us, but, be that as it may, it is the sort of corporeal world that largely dominates the thinking of current mainstream philosophers of mind. As is well known, Descartes posited a separate non-corporeal receptacle—namely, the human soul—for the sensings and imaginings and rememberings and feelings (and, oh yes, abstract thinking and reasoning) that had thus been excluded from the corporeal world. Later generations of philosophers have, of course, by and large abandoned the soul as an immaterial substance ontologically independent of the body it is associated with, where that body is itself an incidental macro-configuration of matter. And so, these philosophers are saddled with the problem of explaining how the “incidental configurations of matter” popularly known as animals and human beings can have inner cognitive and appetitive lives. Some materialists, following Descartes himself, have simply denied to the corporeal world altogether the reality of cognition and appetition as we conceive of them in ordinary life. These are the so-called “eliminative materialists,” who claim that our normal ways of thinking about ourselves and our inner lives constitute a mistaken proto-scientific theory that needs to be replaced by something scientifically more respectable. (For homework, you can try to imagine what Shakespeare or the Bible or a love song would sound like in the language of perfected neurophysiology.) Other materialists have tried to fit sentient and intellective cognition and appetition somehow into what is philosophically equivalent to the corporeal world bequeathed to them by Descartes. On the surface—and below the surface, too—this seems like an impossible task. It is curious, from a Thomistic perspective, that the contemporary mainstream debate between materialists and dualists has centered almost entirely around sentient cognition and appetition—that is, around sensings and feelings—and not around higher intellective powers and operations.15 As hinted above, no Thomist would ever try to fashion an argument for the subsistence or immateriality of the human soul from sentience alone, and yet, in contemporary philosophy of mind, an argument for the irreducibility of sentient cognitions 15 This is despite some very powerful arguments by one of the participants in our conference, John Searle, for the claim that intellective understanding cannot be—at least, cannot easily be—reduced to computational operations. See Feser, Philosophy of Mind, 155–170, for a detailed discussion of Searle’s arguments and for references. 578 Alfred J. Freddoso and feelings, of so-called qualia, to the physiological is taken to be an argument for some form of dualism. More tellingly, both sides in the contemporary dispute seem to have a problem with non-human animals. In my classes, I train my students to think “No animal pain!” whenever they hear the name “Descartes,” in order to impress upon them the sheer implausibility of the Cartesian philosophy of nature. But it is just as ludicrous from a Thomistic perspective to believe, as all materialists except perhaps for the crassest “identity theorists” do, that qualia as such lie beyond the reach of scientific explanation properly understood and that this is what makes them so problematic in the first place. As Ross remarks: [I want] to emphasize Aristotle’s and Aquinas’s conviction that [animals] do have feeling and cognition that it is the business of science to explain. Returning to the forms requires returning to notions of cognition that were trashed with the forms. . . . The proper ambit of “epistemology naturalized” is the whole of the animal kingdom. That creates a demand on science: “Never mind man and thought, for now; deliver your promises with the worms.”16 Here, too, there is a halfway house with Aristotelian-Thomistic overtones, namely, so-called “property dualism,” a position according to which, while sentient cognition and affection have no immaterial subject, they do involve psychological properties that are not identical with or reducible to physiological properties, but which are nonetheless correlated with them “in the right way”—whatever that right way turns out to be. So, one finds a standard property dualist claiming that sensings and feelings are not identical with or in any way reducible to the physiological processes that properly fall under the purview of the natural sciences, but that they nonetheless supervene upon such processes. The promise, almost surely misguided given the terms of the problem, is that somehow a way will be found to integrate the psychological and the physiological so conceived into a coherent causal picture.17 16 17 Ross, “The Fate of the Analysts,” 66–67. The best exposition and defense of this position occurs in David Chalmers, The Conscious Mind: In Search of a Fundamental Theory (Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 1997). Interestingly, property dualists seem to think that it is only sentience, and not intellection, that undermines straightforward materialism. For a sympathetic but tough-minded discussion of property dualism, see Thomism and Contemporary Anglo-American Philosophy 579 If we tried to force Thomism into the current problematic in philosophy of mind, then, on the surface, it might seem that the Thomistic account of non-human animals is a version of property dualism. However, this appearance is misleading. For, what St. Thomas says about sentience in non-human animals is already embedded within a full-blown philosophy of nature that (a) includes a well-ordered general account of the powers peculiar to the form of sentient beings and is thus already capable of accommodating new findings about the physiology involved in sensing and feeling, and that (b) is at home with talk of causal connections between the psychological and the physiological in which, by “causal connections,” the Thomist means a full array of formal, material, efficient, and final causes. Why settle for a dubious substitute when you can have the real thing? So, the story is this: In general, neither contemporary materialists nor contemporary dualists are able to fashion an acceptable philosophical anthropology that preserves our understanding of ourselves as both unified animals and very special animals in which the arguments for our distinctiveness turn on our higher (that is, intellective, cognitive and appetitive) abilities.18 And, once again, there are signs of an openness to new ways of thinking that are not hemmed in by a Cartesian philosophy of nature. This is, in part, the message of Thomas Nagel’s recent controversial book, Mind and Cosmos: Why the Materialist Neo-Darwinian Conception of Nature Is Almost Certainly False.19 Nagel does not espouse any version of Aristotelianism, but he is insistent that philosophers must begin to think outside the Cartesian box and, more specifically, outside the conceptions of matter and mind that Descartes has bequeathed to them. I am not, to be sure, suggesting that there is anything like a groundswell of rebellion against the contemporary problematic. In fact, challenging that problematic can take some courage in the 18 19 Feser, Philosophy of Mind, esp. 108-114. In particular, Feser argues that, in the end, there is no integrated causal picture, but that, instead, property-dualism ends up treating psychological properties as epiphenomenal. The most interesting recent argument for the immateriality of intellective cognition is found in James Ross, “Immaterial Aspects of Thought,” The Journal of Philosophy 89 (1992): 136–150. Feser sharpens this argument and defends it in “Kripke, Ross, and the Immaterial Aspects of Thought,” American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly 87 (2013): 1–32. Thomas Nagel, Mind and Cosmos: Why the Materialist Neo-Darwinian Conception of Nature Is Almost Certainly False (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012). 580 Alfred J. Freddoso current philosophical environment, especially if you are a card-carrying member of the philosophical establishment—as witness the many hysterical (in both senses) reactions to Nagel’s book. Still, the very fact that the book has garnered so much attention is itself an indication of a movement in the right direction. What is more, this right direction no longer seems to require indirection. In the past few years, we have seen a call by younger philosophers and theologians to recover a confident Thomism not watered down by the pusillanimous worry that there might be no sympathy for Thomistic positions among secular thinkers, or even among other Catholic thinkers. To this phenomenon I now turn. God Has a Sense of Humor: Part Two St. Luke tells us that, in reprimanding the crowds who flocked to him as a prophet, John the Baptist uttered these memorable words: “Do not begin to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our ancestor’; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham” (Luke 3:8). Even given the philosophical and theological devastation to Catholic higher education wrought, in large measure, by the overthrow of Thomism, a trickle of Thomists has continued to emerge in the intervening years. However, perhaps in order to make a point, God has of late been raising up exceptional Thomists from the very stones, as it were. I will briefly mention four recent books, two by younger theologians and two by younger philosophers, that exhibit Thomism at its intellectual best in the world of contemporary philosophy and theology. It is worth noting that none of the authors are in possession of either a faculty position at, or so much as a degree from, any of the establishment Catholic universities that jettisoned Thomism in the 1960s and 1970s. The two philosophers are former atheists. One of the theologians is a convert from Judaism, and the other, my commentator today, is a convert from what we might call Jewish Presbyterianism, with a bit of post-modern “agnosticism” thrown in for good measure. I will begin with the philosophers. As I have already noted, Aristotelian and Thomistic incursions into contemporary mainstream metaphysics, philosophy of mind, and moral theory have tended to be piecemeal and fragmentary, and this very spottiness itself sometimes distorts both the intentions and the teachings of St. Thomas and other Scholastic authors. The two books I am about to mention reject this piecemeal approach and, in open dialogue with mainstream analytic Thomism and Contemporary Anglo-American Philosophy 581 philosophers, argue unabashedly and very effectively for a full-scale and systematic adoption of Aristotelian-Thomistic metaphysics as a cure for what ails contemporary analytic metaphysics and philosophy of mind. The first book is David Oderberg’s Real Essentialism,20 which contains a brilliant and extended defense of undiluted Aristotelian-Thomistic metaphysics, along with a critique of a wide array of alternative positions on various metaphysical issues proposed in the current literature in analytic metaphysics. In particular, Oderberg discusses, in painstaking detail, essentialism itself, the nature and structure of material substance, accidental being, identity, definition and scientific taxonomy, and the nature of the human being and of human personhood. I especially recommend the chapter on the interface between biological species and metaphysical species, where Oderberg puts to rest decisively the idea that Aristotelian essentialism and taxonomical theory are dead within contemporary scientific practice.21 Next I turn to Edward Feser’s Scholastic Metaphysics: A Contemporary Introduction, hot off the press and currently a philosophical bestseller.22 Feser covers some of same ground as Oderberg, but spends more time on causality from a Thomistic perspective. Another interesting difference between the two books is this: In addition to the contemporary analytic literature on metaphysics, Feser engages and draws upon the very same twentieth-century Thomistic textbooks that the repudiators of Thomism in the 1960s considered an embarrassment. For me it is quite exhilarating to see the likes of Henry Koren, George Klubertanz, Charles Hart, and (of course) Reginald Garrigou-Lagrange drawn into dialogue with analytic philosophers such as Anthony Kenny, David Armstrong, and David Lewis. This book is just the latest of Feser’s accomplishments, which include several other books and many articles—I especially recommend his stellar work on Thomistic arguments 20 21 22 David Oderberg, Real Essentialism (New York and London: Routledge, 2007). I should note in passing that Oderberg has also done, and continues to do, stellar work in moral theory. See, e.g., David Oderberg, Moral Theory: A Non-Consequentialist Approach (Oxford, UK, and Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2000). Edward Feser, Scholastic Metaphysics: A Contemporary Introduction (Heusenstamm: Editiones Scholasticae, 2014). Its status as a “bestseller” is no exaggeration. The last time I checked, it had a rating for sales on Amazon.com almost unheard of for books in philosophy and was second on the metaphysics textbook list only to Sartre’s Being and Nothingness! 582 Alfred J. Freddoso for the existence of God. When you throw in his excellent blog, Feser has done as much as anyone in the past ten years to promote and defend Thomism within mainstream philosophical circles.23 When Averroes penned his reply to al-Ghazali’s The Incoherence of the Philosophers, he entitled it The Incoherence of the Incoherence. In view of the repudiation of Thomism by Catholic institutions of higher learning, we might entitle the project now being engaged in by Oderberg and Feser “The Repudiation of the Repudiation.” In the past, especially in conversations with Evangelical philosophers of religion, I have often heard the excuse that, while they would like to learn more about Thomism, the time investment would be too great, given teaching demands and the pressure to publish. First, they would have to become familiar with the texts themselves, and then they would have to figure out how Thomism might interact with contemporary analytic philosophy. Well, there is no excuse any longer. Just read these two books carefully a couple of times each, and you will be well on your way. I would extend the same invitation to systematic theologians as well. The third book I want to mention is Wisdom in the Face of Modernity: A Study in Thomistic Natural Theology by Thomas Joseph White, O.P.24 This is a very ambitious book in which the author attempts to clarify just what the project of Thomistic natural theology is and how that project is immune to the objections of Kant and Heidegger against so-called “onto-theology.” As I understand Fr. White’s project, it is meant to be a sort of introduction to St. Thomas’s Summa contra gentiles for anyone under the sway of those objections. Fr. White also spends time rescuing St. Thomas from what he takes to be some subtle but important deviations from his thought by Jacques Maritain, Etienne Gilson, and Karl Rahner. Whereas Oderberg and Feser are mainly concerned with presenting Thomism as a viable alternative to certain positions in analytic philosophy, Fr. White’s argument engages strands of so-called continental philosophy. In any case, the results are similar: a full-scale, unembarrassed, and effective argument for the superiority of Thomistic thought on a particular topic, over against the contemporary alternatives. 23 24 http://edwardfeser.blogspot.com. Thomas Joseph White, Wisdom in the Face of Modernity: A Study in Thomistic Natural Theology, Faith and Reason: Studies in Catholic Theology and Philosophy (Ave Maria, FL: Sapientia Press, 2009). I myself have commented on the book at http://www3.nd.edu/~afreddos/papers/Rahner-and-Fr-Thomas-Joseph.pdf. It was Alasdair MacIntyre who first drew my attention to this book. Thomism and Contemporary Anglo-American Philosophy 583 The last book I want to mention is different from the others in that it is not an attempt to defend Thomism in dialogue with contemporary thinkers. However, it does illustrate the ability of Thomistic scholasticism to illuminate an important and controversial, but convoluted, theological discussion. Lawrence Feingold’s The Natural Desire to See God According to St. Thomas Aquinas and His Interpreters25 brings a wealth of historical depth and, especially, analytical acumen to bear upon one of the most heated intellectual debates of mid-twentieth-century Catholic theology—the debate over Henri de Lubac’s cluster of positions on nature and grace. Do not get me wrong here. I sympathize with de Lubac’s motivations and with certain key elements of his approach to the relation between nature and grace. As proof of this, I cite the fact that I have sometimes been called an “Augustinian” by Thomist friends—and I do not think they meant it as a compliment. Still, I have always felt that de Lubac’s articulation of his position contained some unfair criticisms of his scholastic opponents, some misinterpretations of St. Thomas, and, in general, a goodly amount of conceptual sloppiness. Feingold has straightened all of this out in what I take to be a magisterial work with which all future discussions of nature and grace within Catholic theology will have to come to terms. Not many books can claim that status. Concomitantly and not coincidentally, the book sets a standard for clarity and precision that should be mandatory for any future theological discussions of nature and grace. I know from experience that there are many delicate questions here that require care and subtlety. It is impossible to plumb the depths without clarity and precision. These four books, then, serve as models of what an intellectually vibrant and “relevant” Thomism will look like within the academic disciplines of philosophy and theology. I like to describe myself as pessimistic by temperament, but optimistic by conviction. To see these books emerge in the years leading up to my own retirement makes me brim with the hope-filled conviction that the short-term future of Thomistic philosophy and theology is very bright indeed. Conclusion: Acceptance or Grudging Respect? As I said above, it was not my intent to engage in now useless recriminations about the twentieth-century overthrow of Thomism in 25 Lawrence Feingold, The Natural Desire to See God According to St. Thomas Aquinas and His Interpreters, Faith and Reason: Studies in Catholic Theology and Philosophy (Ave Maria, FL: Sapientia Press, 2010). 584 Alfred J. Freddoso Catholic higher education and intellectual life. However, I have noted some of the intellectual desolation that has resulted, especially for the last several generations of Catholic college students. There are many fervent and smart young Catholics out there who are not interested in re-fighting the old battles of pre- and post-conciliar Catholicism. More than anything else, these young people want and need light to illumine their way in a very difficult world. Pope after pope has advised us to go to St. Thomas for this light. Perhaps it is time that we started once again to pay attention to them. The fact is that, love him or hate him, St. Thomas provides contemporary Catholic philosophers and theologians, even those who choose in the end to deviate from him in one way or another, with the philosophically most plausible starting points in philosophy of nature, natural theology, metaphysics, moral theory, and philosophical anthropology, along with the deepest and most thoroughly worked out account of the relation between faith and reason. If it is fear of not being respected in the secular philosophical world that is holding us back, then, as I have indicated, this fear is ungrounded. In any case, there is not now—and never has been—any reason at all for Catholics to be in doubt about the sterling intellectual credentials of our own philosophical and theological traditions. We may not be able to get general acceptance of our positions within secular philosophical circles, but we can expect at least grudging respect if we live up to the high intellectual standards that we have inherited. (Of course, it is possible for someone both to respect you and to hate you at the same time, but as I recall from the Gospels, that comes with the territory.) Pope Francis wants the Church to serve as a field hospital on the battleground of modern life. Well, that field hospital has an intellectual wing among others, and there are many spiritual works of mercy that need tending to by Catholic philosophers and theologians. Thomism N&V has much to offer on this score—or so, at least, I have argued. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 2 (2016): 585–590 585 What Has Analytic Philosophy to Do with Thomism? Response to Alfred J. Freddoso Thomas Joseph White, O.P. Dominican House of Studies Washington, DC No one can rightly deny that there are important strengths of modern analytic philosophy. It places emphasis on clarity of definitions, rigor of argumentation and its logical forms, the centrality of empirical features of our experience, ordinary language as a key to thinking about reality, and a strong attentiveness to the modern sciences and their discoveries. In addition, at least some analytic philosophers in recent years have been busy rehabilitating a series of important classical themes that are of a metaphysical character, for example: the consideration of essences or natures, the reality of causality, and the notion of capacities inherent in larger substantial wholes (which is another way of speaking of potencies inherent in things). And we could even say that a whole branch of religious thought has opened up within analytic circles, attentive to issues such as reasoned argument for the existence of God, divine eternity and divine knowledge, the problem of evil, the metaphysics of the soul, religious experience, and the question of the truth of Christianity. This is all quite valuable. However, we might consider here briefly at least three significant weaknesses that also should be named. First, analytic philosophy, at least in its early twenty-first-century instantiation has had difficulty assuring the centrality of philosophy in the life of the contemporary university. Arguably, this is because it has not succeeded in providing a unifying theory for the diverse forms of learning that are pursued in the university. Take for example your standard undergraduate course 586 Thomas Joseph White, O.P. schedule: Introduction to Medieval Chinese Literature, Calculus II, the History of Early Islam, Evolutionary Theory, Readings in Feminism from de Beauvoir to Irigaray. If the student asks him- or herself, “what holds all these disciplines together, epistemologically?” or “what makes for a synthetic point of view to understand the unity of various forms of learning and rationality?” or “What allows us to adjudicate between diverse fields of learning in the contemporary university?” . . . what course should he or she take in an analytic philosophy department to find out the answer? Typically, I think we would not find one. This means that contemporary philosophy is failing to articulate to the university why the university exists, or how the universality of knowledge exists—how all the bodies of knowledge correlate within a larger whole and what for. And if philosophy cannot do this, no other discipline can. Political liberalism and post-modern semiotic theory cannot do it. So, as long as analytic philosophy continues to predominate in universities with this aforementioned absence, they (the universities) will have a multitude of exciting selling points, but one fears that they will not have a soul. The technical and scientific, economic and legal prowess may advance. The fundraising may continue. Grants for scientific research projects will be given. But the center will be lacking. The heart of a classical education is based on the search for truth about the meaning of the whole, and this search is frequently absent in contemporary education, as the modern university becomes driven primarily by concerns for professional formation and cooperation with the culture of technological efficiency. A second point can be stated more briefly, but it is related: analytic philosophy has an ambiguous relationship with the modern sciences. On the one hand, it is frequently employed to promote the discoveries of quantum physics, evolutionary theory, and neuroscience as these harbingers of progress usher us into the modern scientific age, assisted by philosophy, which has become increasingly the handmaiden of the modern sciences. On the other hand, modern philosophers can have a difficult time explaining why these scientific disciplines should not simply supplant philosophy entirely as an explanatory discipline. Extreme versions of eliminative physicalism provide a noteworthy case. Philosophers exert great mental effort to explain, in effect, how their discipline can be supplanted by being reduced to neurobiology and chemistry and, in seeking to do so, fail in truth to succeed (because modern scientific studies of physical phenomena can never be invoked to explain comprehensively distinctively human modes of conceptual thought). And thus, they illustrate negatively and inadvertently Response to Alfred J. Freddoso 587 the irreducibility of philosophical human experience to the limited competencies of modern science. And yet they view this failure with regret or hope of eventual success. Ironically, it is as if someone were in perpetual frustration that he failed to attain to a stable form of life because he could not successfully commit suicide! But what about the classical alternative? What if there is a deepest level of reality that is attained to by the mind only philosophically and metaphysically? In this case, then maybe the modern sciences, irreplaceable as they are, do not get to the deepest issues about reality. Just as the soul of the university stems from the pursuit of a unified form of knowledge, so metaphysical realism provides the deepest ground for the unity of all forms of learning. Third, although there are exceptions to the rule, it has to be said that analytic philosophers seem to have problems asking the big questions, such as “Why does human existence seem meaningful, or seems problematically to lack meaning when it ought to?” Why is almost no religious tradition taken seriously by modern analytic departments, generally speaking? Merely utilitarian theories about morality may be fashionable, but they are pretty profoundly counter-intuitive in the face of real human injustice and political evil. Without sufficient gravitas, a philosophical tradition will become unimportant in the end because it lacks human depth, even if it can create ornate charts of symbolic logic and quixotic imaginative scenarios about possible worlds. Let us just presuppose, for the sake of argument, that my list of pros and cons, caricatural as it may be, is not entirely inaccurate. The brief question I would pose is the following: what does Thomism have to contribute to the future of analytic philosophy? This is not the question of whether non-religious philosophers pay any attention to Thomist thinkers. That is a strategic question. My question is a question of diagnosis and response. And here one might simply say the following: modern philosophy in general, and contemporary analytic philosophy in particular, have not been particularly successful at promoting a classical idea one finds in Aquinas that is of some importance. This is the idea that there are principles—not in the mind only, but first and foremost, in the things themselves. Reality has an intelligibility because it has a structure, and this structure can be studied and understood. Such principles include form and matter, substance and accidents, act and potency, essence and existence, the hylomorphic composition of the living body, the virtues and vices, the eleven passions, the twelve aspects of the voluntary act, and we could prolong the list. The point is this: Thomism as a tradition of thinking is not just a method of 588 Thomas Joseph White, O.P. doing philosophy. It does promote certain methods of dialectical argumentation, dialogical interest in new opinions, reflective use of sound logical argumentation, and so forth. More fundamentally, however, it has an intellectual content based on key claims about the structure of reality. This is what the principles of Thomism contend with. And this content is quite helpful, even potent, in thinking about the situation we find ourselves intellectually today. Take our three previous examples of difficulties: the unity and diversity of kinds of learning, the relationship of science to philosophy, and the centrality to philosophy of inquiry into the big questions. Regarding the first, Aquinas distinguishes between the speculative and practical sciences. Among the former are the mathematical, the natural philosophical, and the metaphysical. Among the latter are the ethical and political versus the artistic, such as poetics or architecture. Many sciences are blends, involving the subordination or subalteration of various sciences to one another. The modern sciences employ both mathematics and technical methods of observation to unveil regular features of material causation in physical bodies at descending levels of scale. History employs both a mixture of probabilistic analysis of past events and philosophy about the human condition. The larger point, however, is that we can make a catalogue or map of the diverse forms of knowledge and show how they rightly interrelate and complement each other within a realistic epistemology. At the center is metaphysics, much as ultimate meaning claims about the nature of reality is at the center of philosophy and at the center of the university. As concerns the question of the sciences, Thomism speaks of the key distinction of form and matter. The former distinction allows us to articulate a concept of substantial form. There are not only aggregates of things, but there are simples—substances, properly basic realities. And these have properties (“accidents,” in the Scholastic terminology). To be honest, it does not really matter at what level we admit this: the atomic, the chemical, the organic, or that of the ordinary medium-sized dry goods that we encounter and that we are. There is good reason to think we might want to talk about substantial wholes at each of these levels in non-reductionary ways. But the main point is this: reality is really, literally unthinkable without the distinction of form and matter, or of substantial whole and material part. Once we see this, not only can the natural sciences not ever have the last word about the meaning of reality ontologically, but also a whole lot of other notions can readily come into play and have an important role in helping us understand the nature of things: actuality and potentiality, substance Response to Alfred J. Freddoso 589 and accidents, final causality, goodness and qualities, and the ontology of beauty. Scientific realism about wholes and parts leads to metaphysical realism about the irreducibility of philosophy to the modern sciences and shows the folly of reductionist empiricism. Finally, regarding the big questions and their unavoidability, I will give just one example, but a significant one: the real distinction that Aquinas posits between essence and existence. Etienne Gilson underemphasized the role of the philosophy of nature in Aquinas. But he did rightly sense that this distinction (between esse and essentia) was key to a modern approach to the empirical sciences in at least one way. If nothing we experience is the cause of its own existence, then it is inevitably the case that we can ask a dual question: what is the origin of the existences of things, indeed, of existence that all things participate in? And what kind of unique animal are we, as intellectual beings, who can ask the question of our radical metaphysical origins? I am suggesting, then, that paying attention to the “real distinction” does point us back to the fundamental question of the existence of God as the origin of being, and to the issue of the intellectual soul as a principle of reason which in its horizon of reflection transcends material phenomena. And yet, as Gilson noted, even if God is the transcendent giver of all that exists, the realties given being by him, in their vast and intricate web of mutually interdependent causality, are also each beings with a given internal content or essence and with various capacities and activities that they effectuate themselves, as true secondary causes, even to uphold in being and transmit substantial being to one another. The affirmation of a primary cause, God, does not obviate or obscure in any way the reality of authentic secondary causes with their respective integrity and scientific intelligibility. Why does this matter? Because, if we understand the point rightly, it means that asking the big questions—even religious ones—obliges us in no way to disrespect the more intra-mundane world of the sciences and the philosophy of ordinary experience and ontology in creatures. On the contrary, for Aquinas, the affirmation of God as Creator would oblige us to take these secondary causes especially seriously, as reflecting the structure of reality and, therefore, divine wisdom preceding all human understanding, and serving as the authentic measure of the latter. My goal in making these generic comments has not been to suggest that analytic philosophy needs somehow to be saved by Thomistic philosophy. The point has been to propose something realistic and practicable. Within the contemporary terrain of contemporary analytic philosophy and the modern sciences, what should Thomist philoso- 590 Thomas Joseph White, O.P. phers seek to do? They should seek to promote understanding of the principles of Thomistic philosophy and to explain the depth of insight these principles afford in the face of competing accounts of reality that are currently on offer: act and potency, the transcendentals, the categories, the four causes, the agent intellect, and all the rest of it. Why should we not—because there is some other omni-competent influential form of thought out there usurping any place for completing claims? No. The hegemony of Kantianism is dead, as is the presumed competency of logical positivism, or the presumption of Humean notions of causality. Instead, the epistemological landscape is largely fragmented and divided. We should certainly have courage, then, because there is truly nothing with more cogency and depth in the contemporary philosophical market than Thomism. But why should we promote it—because of mere historical inertia, or community pride or ideological party positions? No, certainly not. We should do so for one reason only: because its principles are sound and their explanatory value is unique. In short, because central claims of Aquinas are true. This is the only reason to believe anything. And it is a reason that should give us the courage to stand above convention. For, although it was said by someone else in a very different context, the mission of those who serve the truth remains, in a certain respect, always the same: to liberate the mind for the truth. That is to say, “You will know N&V the truth and the truth will set you free” (John 8:32). Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 2 (2016): 591–608 591 Analogical Synthesis: An Impossible Project? Michał Paluch, O.P. The Pontifical Faculty of Theology Warsaw, Poland In the effort of bringing together Athens and Jerusalem, philosophy and theology, the doctrine of analogy has played a decisive role for centuries, at least in the Catholic tradition.1 If we agree that both— philosophy and theology—have something to say about the ultimate reality of that we call God, it is crucial to formulate some rules for their respective languages. Analogy has been used to convey such rules. Yet, its importance has been much more far-reaching. The search for a via media between the univocal and the equivocal in language describing the relationship of man to God helped to avoid bringing Him down to the level of our understanding, on one hand, and placing Him absolutely beyond the reach of our intellect, on the other. Analogy assisted in this way by staying on the narrow path between various sorts of pantheistic deification of the world that deny God of His existence, on the one side, and attempts at an absolutization of God that would deprive the world of its autonomy, on the other. Or to put it in a positive way, analogy was a means of keeping the transcendence of God without divesting creation of its autonomous meaning.2 A philosopher should stop here. But for a theologian, the most important step remains. If the above description of the role of analogy 1 2 I want to express my deep gratitude to Gillian Lenoir, Bryan Kromholtz, O.P., Matthew Levering, Anselm Ramelow, O.P., and David Tracy for their valuable comments on this paper and linguistic help. See Thomas Joseph White, “Introduction: The Analogia entis Controversy and Its Contemporary Significance,” in The Analogy of Being: Invention of the Antichrist or the Wisdom of God? ed. Thomas Joseph White (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2011), 1–31, esp. 6–7. 592 Michał Paluch, O.P. is correct, the doctrine explaining how human words may help us to discover the created and human similarities to God without compromising His always greater dissimilarity must lead us to His last and definitive Word—Christ. It is in Christ, whose humanity became the tool of divinity, that the logic of analogy reaches its ultimate confirmation and completion.3 It is therefore no wonder that some theologians consider the teaching on analogy as one of the most important consequences of the tenets proclaimed solemnly at the Church Councils4 and that, for some of them, this doctrine has become the most pithy synthesis of the Catholic identity: a tenet upon which the Catholic understanding of God and the world stands or falls.5 Unfortunately, the last century was not so kind to such projects. Various kinds of scientism promoted univocal discourse as the only possible mode of reliable cognition. If there was some openness to other ways of acquiring knowledge (as in the work of Heidegger or Jaspers), analogy was rejected in favor of equivocation, purportedly to suitably safeguard the apophatic dimension of our approach to the ultimate reality, but in fact accommodating the latent agnosticism of contemporary culture. Finally, the fashion for deconstruction in the second half of the twentieth century did not privilege any synthetic attempts. Yet, if we agree that the doctrine of analogy has (or even might have) its role to play according to the lines mentioned above in spite of all the difficulties, we should consider it as a theme of philosophical and theological research that cannot be abandoned or marginalized. In this paper, I want to assess the necessary conditions for such a consideration. At the beginning, I will present the classical doctrine on analogy as concisely as I can, taking into account the essential 3 4 5 Erich Przywara, Analogia entis: Metaphysics: Original Structure and Universal Rhythm, trans. John R. Betz and David Bentley Hart (Grand Rapids, MI: W. B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2014), 299–302 and 304–5. David Bentley Hart connects analogy to the Council of Nicea (325) in his “The Destiny of Christian Metaphysics: Reflections on the Analogia Entis,” in White, The Analogy of Being, 395–410, esp. 406–410. Przywara (Analogia entis, 231–237) connects it to the teaching of the Council of the Fourth Lateran Council (1215). See Erich Przywara, “The Scope of Analogy as a Fundamental Catholic Form,” in Analogia entis, 348–399. In the context of Thomistic discussion, a similarly ardent conviction about the relevance of the topic can be seen in Steven A. Long, Analogia Entis: On the Analogy of Being, Metaphysics and the Act of Faith (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2011). Analogical Synthesis: An Impossible Project? 593 differences in its interpretation (first through third sections). I will focus on the classical doctrine, with Aquinas as the key point of reference because Thomas attempted to use analogy as the main tool in the discourse on the divine names.6 After this presentation, I will focus on a selection of contemporary criticisms (fourth section) in order to formulate the main desiderata concerning future research on analogy (fifth section). What is Analogy About? Analogy is a doctrine that emerged to express two separate although sometimes overlapping phenomena: (1) nongeneric likeness of things and (2) the neither univocal nor equivocal association in meaning. The example of the first may be the similarity we find between the feathers of a bird and the scales of a reptile. Without a doubt, there is something similar between them. But we have neither a word nor a concept to express it. To spell out this similarity, we need to describe their functions and internal relationships according to the model “as the feathers are to a bird, the scales are to a reptile.” This phenomenon leads us from reality to language. In the case of the second phenom6 The bibliography of the topic is vast. The most significant works during the last decades are the following ones (in the case of the authors who wrote several books on the topic I mention only the most recent or the most directly connected to it): Eric Lionel Mascall, Existence and Analogy: A Sequel to “He Who Is” (London: Longmans, Green, 1949), 92–121; Hampus Lyttkens, The Analogy between God and the World: An Investigation of Its Background and Interpretation of Its Use by Thomas of Aquino, trans. A. Poignant (Uppsala, SE: Almqvist & Wiksells, 1952); Mieczysław Albert Krąpiec, Teoria analogii bytu (Lublin, PL: Towarzysto Naukowe KUL, 1959); George P. Klubertanz, St. Thomas Aquinas on Analogy: A Textual Analysis and Systematic Synthesis (Chicago: Loyola University Press, 1960); Bernard Montagnes, The Doctrine of the Analogy of Being according to Thomas Aquinas, trans. E. M. Macierowski (Milwaukee, WI: Marquette University Press, 2004); James F. Anderson, Reflections on the Analogy of Being (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1967); David B. Burrell, Analogy and Philosophical Language (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press), 1973; Ralph McInerny, Aquinas and Analogy (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1996); Gregory P. Rocca, Speaking the Incomprehensible God: Thomas Aquinas on the Interplay of Positive and Negative Theology (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2004), 77–195; Long, Analogia Entis; Reinhard Hütter, “Attending to the Wisdom of God—from Effect to Cause, from Creation to God: A Relecture of the Analogy of Being according to Thomas Aquinas,” in White, The Analogy of Being, 209–245; Bruce D. Marshall, “Christ and the End of Analogy,” in White, The Analogy of Being, 280–313. Michał Paluch, O.P. 594 enon we move in the opposite direction. Let us consider the two following sentences: 1. Mark is healthy. 2. Mark’s food is healthy. The word “healthy” used in either context cannot be qualified as a univocal term. In the case of a univocal term, the definition should be absolutely the same in the both cases. For example, we could use the term “filthy” in both sentences in such a univocal way. Neither is it a case of equivocation. In equivocation, there is a radical divergence of definitions: the term “healthy” is not used as the word “sap” can be used to describe a liquid in a plant or for someone who is naïve. With these two uses of “healthy,” there is a clear connection between two meanings founded in a real relationship: healthy food is one of the reasons for Mark’s good health. So, the meaning in the second sentence is derived from the meaning in the first sentence, or putting it in a more formal way, the description of the meaning of “healthy” in the second sentence should contain a reference to the meaning of the word in the first sentence according to the following model: “healthy said of food means that it is one of the reasons for the healthy being of Mark/man/animal.”7 These two phenomena were noticed already by Aristotle.8 The reflection on them was undertaken over the next centuries by the Neoplatonic and Arabic commentators.9 But it was Aquinas whose work created the main basis for the interpretations and quarrels about analogy over the last centuries. Aquinas did not try to formulate a developed doctrine on analogy.10 Rather, he treated analogy as a quite necessary presupposition, 7 8 9 10 In this introductory part, I am indebted to Joshua P. Hochschild, The Semantics of Analogy: Rereading Cajetan’s De Nominum Analogia (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2010), 1–4. See, for example, Posterior Analytics 2.14.98a20 ff., Metaphysics 5.6.1016b30 ff., and Nichomachean Ethics 1.4.1096b27–29. See also Joseph Owens, The Doctrine of Being in the Aristotelian “Metaphysics”: A Study in the Greek Background of Medieval Thought (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 1978), 116–125; Marie-Dominique Philippe, “Analogon and Analogia in the Philosophy of Aristotle,” The Thomist 33 (1969): 1–74. See Alain de Libera, “Les sources gréco-arabes de la théorie médiévale de l’analogie de l’être,” Les Études Philosophiques 3.4 (1989): 319–345, and Joël Lonfat, “Archéologie de la notion d’analogie d’Aristote à saint Thomas d’Aquin,” Archives Doctrinale et Littéraire du Moyen Age 71 (2004): 35–107. The most important texts on analogy written by Aquinas are the following Analogical Synthesis: An Impossible Project? 595 although he did not interpret it always in the same way. What is, however, the most important is that his interest in analogy was very precisely focused: he needed it to provide a background for the usage of our terms for God. It is therefore relevant to understand the conclusion of Aquinas’s interpretation to be able to grasp the pattern and internal dynamic of his doctrine. In the Prima Pars of the Summa theologiae, one can see the conclusion of Thomas’s doctrine very clearly. In the discussion with Moses Maimonides and Pseudo-Dionysius, Thomas says that the names expressing the perfections, like wisdom, are predicated on God not only in a causle way (causaliter), but in a substantial (substantialiter) or essential (essentialiter) way.11 In other words, Aquinas does not agree that when we use the names of perfections to refer to God this usage means only that God is the primary cause of the perfection that we find in the created world. His position is much stronger: we mean not only that God is the first cause of the perfection, but also that there is a similarity between the “content” (substantia, essentia) of the perfection that we know in the created world and the perfection existing in God. Yet this inexorably positive claim is at once balanced with a counterweight: although our perfections applied to God really point to the “content” of the perfection in God, we must not forget that the way of signifying (modus significandi) of our words remains, and will remain forever, created, and thus limited. Because of that, we will never be able to grasp a perfection as divine, that is, as realized in the uncreated way. In short: our words, like “wisdom,” point to the divine essence, and we know that there is some similarity between created and uncreated wisdom on the essential level; nevertheless, because of the abyss between the created and the uncreated, we will never be able to comprehend the nature of this similarity or, consequently, the nature of the perfection in God.12 It is with this doctrine as the setting that Thomas develops his 11 12 ones: In I sent. d. 35, q. 1, a. 4; De veritate, q. 2, a. 11; Summa contra gentiles (hereafter, SCG) I, ch. 34; Compendium theologiae I, ch. 27; De potentia q. 7, a. 7; Summa theologiae (hereafter, ST) I, q. 13, a. 5. The quasi-complete set of texts is presented in Klubertanz, St. Thomas Aquinas on Analogy, 163–293. See ST I, q. 13, a. 2. See ST I, q. 13, a. 3 and 6. For the commentary, see Rocca, Speaking the Incomprehensible God, 304–305; Thierry-Dominique Humbrecht, Théologie négative et noms divins chez saint Thomas d’Aquin (Paris: J. Vrin, 2005), 279–281 and 290–293; Rudi te Velde, Aquinas on God: The “Divine Science” of the Summa Theologiae (Aldershot, UK, and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2006), 106–107. 596 Michał Paluch, O.P. understanding of analogy. This context having been clarified, we may turn to the different types of analogy used by Aquinas. There are different classifications. I will present only the three types that are necessary to construe the framework of his interpretation:13 1. Analogy of proportionality (analogia plurium ad pluria, analogia proportionalitatis). 2. Analogy of attribution of two to one (analogia duarum ad tertium). 3. Analogy of attribution of one to another (analogia unum ad alterum). The analogy of proportionality is well illustrated in the aforementioned example: “as the feathers are to a bird, the scales are to a reptile,” although its classical example has been for centuries: “as understanding exhibits a thing to the soul, so seeing exhibits a thing to an animated body.”14 This kind of analogy has four elements and the structure of the mathematical proportion A:B::C:D. It is worth mentioning that this structure underlies many metaphors. Saying that the lion is a king of animals, we spell out the figure of thinking “as a king is to a human community, so is a lion to a community of animals.” The analogy of two to one has its most traditional example in the use of the term “healthy”: we can predicate this word of a medicine, urine, and an animal.15 But we understand that predicating “healthy” of a medicine or of urine depends on the predicating “healthy” of an animal. It is only an animal that may be named “healthy” in a way that is proper or intrinsic, that is, concerning its internal characteristics. A medicine or food may be called “healthy” only because of different extrinsic relationships to the health of an animal—a medicine is a cause of it and urine is a sign. The analogy of one to another is a subtype of the previous analogy, but in its case, we limit the scope of our attention to only two elements. Although one may use the previous example of health limiting it to two elements so as to illustrate this kind of analogy (a healthy animal and healthy urine or a healthy animal and a healthy medicament), the classic example of this analogy became the relationship between the being of substance and the being of accident. 13 14 15 And I will use the terminology most commonly used in the Thomistic tradition. See, for example, Thomas de Vio Cardinal Cajetan, De nominum analogia, c. 3 and 23, and Cajetan, Scripta philosophica, ed. Paul N. Zammit (Rome: Angelicum, 1934), 24. See Aristotle, Metaphysics 2.2.1003a33–b4. Analogical Synthesis: An Impossible Project? 597 One may wonder whether it was necessary to introduce the last subtype as a separate category. However, in fact, it is very instructive to grasp the reason for doing so. In the analogy duarum ad tertium, there are two elements referred to the third. Because of this, a precipitous analysis may conclude that there is some common third term (tertium quid) applied to the other two terms: we forge a common content of meaning on the basis of the health of an animal and we apply it later to urine and medicines. Yet, such an interpretation would dangerously approach the reduction of analogy to univocation. Limiting the analysis to two elements helps bring to light that requiring a third term as a common base for analogy must be actually excluded.16 There is yet still more to it. I mentioned that the classic example of this type of analogy is the relationship between the being of the substance and the being of the accident. This example was not chosen by chance. Let us notice the obvious dependence of the latter on the former: it is only thanks to the substance that the accidents have their being. This causal dependence is crucial. It makes it unnecessary to look for some other element “responsible” for some similarity between them. What is equally important to note—although this aspect might also be illustrated by the example of health—is that the relationship between the substance and the accidents helps us to understand that the analogy unum ad alterum is not symmetrical. It is the substance that has the fullness of being, while an accident only takes part in the being of the substance. In the words of the scholastics, being should be predicated of the substance and accidents per prius et posterius—primarily of the substance, secondarily of the accidents. This description of the three kinds of analogy, as presented above, provokes three observations. Firstly, it must be stressed that the reflection on analogy is not a purely linguistic doctrine. In the light of what has been said, it is obvious that the metaphysical background is at least equally important, if not more important, in providing its decisive elements. Secondly, a careful examination of the different types of analogy will quickly make us construe that the distinction between them is not disjunctive. If we focus on the first and third types, we can see that they do not exclude each other. The relationship “being of the substance—being of an accident” may be translated into a relationship of two proportions according to the A:B::C:D model: “as being is to the substance, being is to an accident.” One can perhaps object that, in the example given above, A and C became equal (we speak 16 See SCG I, ch. 34, and Montagnes, Doctrine of the Analogy of Being, 71. 598 Michał Paluch, O.P. about “being” twice). But the truth is that we are speaking here about two profoundly different natures: the being of a substance cannot be equaled with the being of an accident. So, even though we shifted from A:B::C:D to A:B::A’:D, it is still the proportional pattern we use. Obviously, the recognition that neither pattern excludes the other does not mean that they stress the same aspects or that one of them may be easily reduced to the other.17 Thirdly, we should understand that a reflection on the relationship between substance and accidents was vital to medieval thinkers, since it allowed them to prepare the necessary tools to approach the relationship between the Creator and His creatures. These two kinds of relationship are, without a doubt, not the same. The first (substance—accidents) is horizontal, allowing us to remain in the categorical order. Hence it is called predicamental. The second is vertical, obliging us to leave the predicamental order. Hence it is called transcendental. Yet they have a similar structure.18 The Background of the Differences This quite neutral, if not serene, doctrine has provoked many (sometimes very emotional) disagreements through the centuries. What is the reason for this? As we can see, there are two different kinds of analogy that are used to describe the God––creation relationship: the analogy of proportionality and the analogy of attribution in its version unum ad alterum (from now I shall refer to the second one just as “analogy of attribution”). The obvious question that may be raised in such a situation concerns the choice between them: which of them is the right one to describe the relationship between the Creator and His creatures? Unfortunately, the reference to the work of Aquinas does not bring an unambiguous answer. Thomas seems to have changed his mind on this issue. In the text of the De veritate, written between 1256 and 1259, he consistently supports the use of the analogy of proportionality in this context.19 But in the posterior works, with the famous 17 18 19 See Hochschild, The Semantics of Analogy, 112–113. Albert the Great spelled out these differences as the differences between the analogy of the philosopher (substance and accidents) and the analogy of the theologian (Creature and creatures). See, for example, St. Albert, In I Sent. d. 8, a. 7; see Super I Sententiarum, in Opera omnia, vol. 25 (Paris: Borgnet, 1893), 228–229. See also ibid., d. 46, a. 17 (Borgnet ed., 26:456–259). More details and references on the position of Albert may be found in Montagnes, Doctrine of the Analogy of Being, 94–95n20. De veritate, q. 2, a. 11. Montagnes saw only one later text, in which Thomas Analogical Synthesis: An Impossible Project? 599 texts from the Summa theologiae (1267–1273) at the summit, he will be equally firmly inclined to use the analogy of attribution as his main tool.20 He does not explain his motives. Fortunately, thanks to the historical studies undertaken at the turn of the 1950s and 1960s, we have now a very probable reconstruction of Aquinas’s thought process. The change was due to his increasing understanding of causality and being. At the beginning, Thomas put the accent in his description of causality on formal/exemplar causality. Because of that, the idea of likeness expressed by the adage omne agens agit sibi simile (“every agent makes something similar to itself”) becomes crucial. The effect must first of all be in some way similar to its cause. But with time, writing his Summa contra gentiles (1259–64), Aquinas became more and more convinced that causality—that is, the communication of being—should be understood much more as the communication of actuality than the communication of likeness. A cause should be seen much more as bringing about being real (in actu) than as imprinting similarity. Because of that new insight Thomas shifted his position to prioritizing efficient causality in his metaphysical description of causes. This change of emphasis from formal/exemplar causality to efficient causality was decisive for the understanding of analogy. In the De veritate, Thomas looks for a type of analogy that may defend the divine transcendence and that will not suggest that creatures share in the same form, or even in a similar form, with God: between God’s essence and created essences there is an abyss, a difference of kind and not merely a difference of degree of perfection, as if God were merely the first (although most perfect) being in a hierarchy of forms that is common to God and His creatures. The analogy of proportionality according to which one establishes only a similarity of proportions seemed to Aquinas much more appropriate to rule out a possible misunderstanding of this kind. Nevertheless, when his metaphysical description of causality changed and the danger of an overestimation of likeness in the analysis of causality diminished significantly, Thomas moved to the analogy of attribution. He preferred the analogy 20 seems to prefer the analogy of proportionality, and which is his commentary on Nichomachaen Ethics, 1096b26–30 (I, 7; Leonine edition, 47:26–27), but he interprets it as a presentation of Aristotle’s opinion (Doctrine of the Analogy of Being, 52–54n36). The turning point in the interpretation of analogy was probably De veritate, q. 23, a. 7, ad 9. See also Rocca, Speaking the Incomprehensible God, 121–123. ST I, q. 13, a. 5; SCG I, ch. 34; De potentia, q. 7, a. 5 and a. 7, resp. 600 Michał Paluch, O.P. of attribution in his later works because it articulates more clearly the unity between the two analogical elements and it establishes clearly the hierarchy between them.21 Such is the current state of our understanding of the evolution in Aquinas’s thought. However, we must not forget that the studies on the evolution of the divus Thomas are mainly an invention of the last century. Before that, authors were not unaware of the changes in his positions, but it was not an issue directly and systematically addressed. In such circumstances, the two different kinds of analogy easily gave the background for two competing interpretations. Cajetan became an emblematic figure favoring the analogy of proportionality, whereas the analogy of attribution found its main patron in Suarez.22 Yet, it was especially the Cajetanian interpretation, expressed in the most systematic and comprehensive way in the De nominum analogia, that influenced the history of studies on analogy. Hailed as the best commentator of Aquinas, Cajetan was, in this area, either blindly followed or, more recently, truculently scourged for his unfaithfulness to the Master. To tell the truth, his project was, in its purpose, different from the one undertaken by Aquinas. In the confrontation with the rising cult of univocation provoked by Duns Scotus’s interpretation, Cajetan wanted to prove, in possibly the most rigorous manner, that an analogical concept of being may be a reasonable and reliable via media between univocation and equivocation.23 The Reasons for the Disparate Interpretations It is not my goal to enter into the complex history of the classical doctrine of analogy. I would prefer to focus on the main reasons that kept the different options alive. It is still instructive to understand what was at stake. Let us begin with the analogy of proportionality. I have already 21 22 23 This is the interpretation given by Montagnes (Doctrine of the Analogy of Being, 37–43 and 75–79). The first precise and extensive historical investigation that noticed such an evolution was Klubertanz, St. Thomas Aquinas on Analogy, 94–100. A new perspective was opened by Santiago M. [Jacobus] Ramirez, “En torno a un famoso texto de santo Tomás sobre la analogía,” Sapientia 8 (1953): 166–192. The interpretation proposed by Klubertanz and Montagnes (especially) is contested by Steven A. Long, Analogia Entis, 2. See the concise introduction to this issue in Klubertanz, St. Thomas Aquinas on Analogy, 7–12. See Hochschild, The Semantics of Analogy, 39–44. On the different interpretations of the relationship of Cajetan’s work to Aquinas’s work, see ibid., 17–32. Analogical Synthesis: An Impossible Project? 601 mentioned that it was chosen by Thomas in the De veritate because of its capacity to defend the divine transcendence. In fact, if we analyze the example “as man’s being is to a man, God’s being is to God” or “as human wisdom is to a man, divine wisdom is to God,” we will immediately notice that, according to this pattern, we avoid putting into a direct relationship the aspects chosen to characterize God and man. What we relate are two different structures: the relationship “being to man,” on the one side, and the relationship “being to God,” on the other. Such a pattern safeguards far better the divine otherness than if we put the mentioned aspects into a direct relationship: “divine being versus human being.” Equally importantly, a relationship between two structures opens the way for attempts at a formal description of analogy as isomorphic relationship.24 And if the chosen aspects belong to the internal characteristics of the related elements, as in the examples given, the fruit of reasoning is the establishing of their intrinsic characteristics. In other words, the analogy of proportionality seems to teach us about God in a humble, precise, but intrinsic way. However, the analogy of proportionality also has important limits. In the first place, just as in the case of mathematical proportion, in the case of analogy of proportionality we need to know three terms to be able to know the fourth. Are we really able to know one of the terms concerning God? There are various strategies for answering this difficulty.25 The most obvious is just to waive the limits of the perfection analogically compared (being or wisdom) and make them infinite in our understanding.26 Because they are not, as such, necessarily limited by a created frame of reference (as for example the perfection of being a skillful driver would be), such a step seems to be possible and coherent. Unfortunately, even if we admit a possibility of a solution for this difficulty—the one that, in my opinion, is conditioned by the endorsement of Aquinas’s metaphysics—we then have to face the other and even more important problem. The analogy of proportionality proposes an interpretative pattern to relate two compared elements, but it does not give us a reason for relating them to each other, and 24 25 26 See I. M. Bocheński, “On Analogy,” in Inquiries into Medieval Philosophy: A Collection in Honor of Francis P. Clarke, ed. James F. Ross (Westport, CT: Greenwood, 1971), 99–122, esp. 116–117. On this approach, see also Burrell, Analogy and Philosophical Language, 15–17 (critical), and Hochschild, The Semantics of Analogy, 150–151, 176 (positive). On this issue see, e.g., Mascall, Existence and Analogy, 109–12, and Hochschild, The Semantics of Analogy, 129–31. Long, Analogia Entis, 80. 602 Michał Paluch, O.P. what is more, it is unable to explain the character of this connection.27 In other terms, it gives us the explanation of how to use analogy, but it does not answer the question why it is possible. The analogy of attribution provides quite the opposite. Applied to the case of God and His creatures (for example, “divine being-human being” or “divine wisdom-human wisdom”), it is understood as an articulation of the causal relationship between them. In this way, it allows one to offer a very solid and self-evident answer to the question of why the analogical connection between the elements referred to each other is possible. Alas, it is a much less perfect tool if we want to use it to convey the explanation how to make use of the above-mentioned relationship to understand something about God. Because of the simplicity of the explanatory structure, there are, in its case, several shortages and a constant risk of misunderstanding. Firstly, using this kind of analogy, one may be tempted to reduce God to the same order as creatures. Without a doubt, Aquinas’s metaphysics, because it holds God to be ipsum esse subsistens and holds the relationship between God and creatures to be asymmetrical, provides the necessary background for avoiding such an error. But the proper use of the analogy of attribution is directly dependent on the awareness of this metaphysical framework. Secondly, in the case of the cause that does not produce effects generically the same with its nature—as for example the sun giving growth to the plants—it is impossible to predicate on the basis of the effect something that intrinsically belongs to the cause. Were such predication possible, it would mean, according to a famous argument by Aquinas, that God, in his nature, is corporeal because he is the first cause of the body.28 However it has been contested and discussed over the last centuries,29 the analogy of attribution, understood in its proper sense as articulating only the causal relationship, can provide, in my opinion, only an extrinsic characteristic of God. Now, if we apply the analogy of attribution to one of the transcendentals (for example: “the divine being-the created being”), and if we take into account the background of Aquinas’s metaphysics, our understanding of the perfec- 27 28 29 This difficulty is presented as a problem of infinite regress in Mascall, Existence and Analogy, 104–108, and as a vicious circle in Hochschild, The Semantics of Analogy, 131–134. ST I, q. 13, a. 2, resp. For the short presentation of this discussion starting with the position of Suarez and for the references to his work, see Hochschild, The Semantics of Analogy, 115–117 with the footnotes. Analogical Synthesis: An Impossible Project? 603 tions will become intrinsic. But in such a case, our understanding is not intrinsic on behalf of the internal logic of the analogy of attribution, but on the basis of the metaphysical context in which we use the analogy of attribution. Thirdly, we should remember that the structure of this analogy is unsymmetrical—that is, one of the elements has the referred perfection in the complete way (per prius), and the second one only by derivation (per posterius), like in the case of “healthy” referred to an animal and a medicine or urine, or “being” predicated about a substance and its accidents. If we apply such a structure to the relationship between God and the creatures, we must recognize that, according to the logic of the analogy of attribution, the perfections we want to refer both to God and to creatures have their complete meaning only in God. Pushed to its conclusion, it might lead to ontologism: God would become a mediatory ratio in our understanding of created perfections; that is, in order to use meaningfully our terms that express created perfections, we would need to have a previous understanding of divine perfections. Obviously, such a conclusion may be avoided if we remember the difference between the ontological and epistemological order: what is the first in the former may be the last in the latter. An ontological priority does not entail necessarily the epistemological one. Nevertheless, it must be noticed that, in this case, we need, once again, the explicit intervention of a broader metaphysical doctrine to avoid some serious—at least in the eyes of a Thomist—consequences of the usage of attribution as the key for understanding analogy. What has already been said will probably be sufficient to help us understand that each of these doctrines is in some way incomplete and that they need each other. The analogy of attribution allows us to understand why we can refer the elements to each other, while the analogy of proportionality conveys the method of how to proceed in such a way that we may reach some valuable conclusion. Putting it in a different way, the analogy of attribution expresses the background for some similarity between God and creatures, and the analogy of proportionality gives us a safe method to explore the nature of this similarity.30 If they are combined, they enable us to spell out the created similarity to God (the analogy of attribution) without compromising the even bigger dissimilarity due to the divine transcendence (the analogy of proportionality).31 30 31 See Mascall, Existence and Analogy, 113–15. See Przywara, Analogia entis, 234–237, and J. Betz, “Translator’s Introduction,” in ibid., 1–115, esp. 73–74. 604 Michał Paluch, O.P. I have to confess that such a conciliatory solution satisfies me because I think that the most difficult problems we have to face in the description of the relationship between God and the world in many cases may be solved with a two-sided analysis. Just as we have two eyes to perceive reality, we need sometimes to accept that only two complementary approaches may lead us to solve a difficult philosophical or theological problem.32 But I have to mention that a conciliatory position is impossible for some disciples of Aquinas. Some Thomists consider the two types of analogies as the expressions of two disparate and divergent metaphysical projects, and a choice between them as a radical, far-reaching decision that means either saving or compromising Thomistic thought. In the eyes of the supporters of the analogy of proportionality as the main tool for discourse about God, the choice of such a tool allows us to establish, in the center of our metaphysical analysis, the Aristotelian distinction between act and potency, prototype of all the proportions we can try to put together in an analogical analysis. Such an option is a confirmation of the solution that allowed the harmonization of the Parmenidean world (finding its expression in the rule of contradiction) with our experience of change: the metaphysical discovery of “potency” showed that there must be another basis for diversity than form and that act does not limit itself. If we adapt such a perspective in our understanding of reality, we keep the existential interpretation of Thomism—namely, that the unlimited esse is the absolute perfection— with its various consequences, including, among others, its priority of the analysis of being before the reflection on being created, and consequently its place as a preambula fidei that excludes any form of fideism.33 On the other hand, in the eyes of the supporters of the analogy of attribution, it is only the causal relationship between the Creator and creatures that guarantees the necessary unity for the analogical analysis. Putting it differently and closer to the intentions of the proponents of this position, only the analogy of attribution that is described in terms of causality, or participation understood as communication of act, may be the proper means to articulate the foundational bond between God 32 33 On the case of the divine will see Michał Paluch, La profondeur de l’amour. Évolution de la doctrine de la predestination dans l’oeuvre de saint Thomas d’Aquin (Paris: Vrin, 2004), 285–290 and 315. Long, Analogia Entis, 15–17, 26, 102, and 117–119. Long’s position is convergent with a position shared by the majority of Thomists before 1960, among them J. F. Anderson, R. Garrigou-Lagrange, M. A. Kr ąpiec, and J. Maritain. Analogical Synthesis: An Impossible Project? 605 and creatures. Such a perspective articulates the metaphysics of the degrees of being, which is different from existential Thomism. The difference especially concerns the role of essence. According to the metaphysics of the degrees of being, the role of essence should not be understood as solely negative, as if the essence were only limiting the esse. The essence should rather be seen as a formal measure of being that has its perfection and a positive role of specifying esse. Such an interpretation attributing more value to the order of essence should help us to refrain from drawing the conclusion that God, described by the famous formula ipsum esse subsistens, does not have essence.34 But it seems also to take into account more completely, in its metaphysical description, the variety of the created world. A Place in the Contemporary Debate? In spite of the subtleties of this metaphysical discussion, it may be not easy to convince a contemporary philosopher interested in philosophy of religion, or even a contemporary theologian, that the presented solutions remain of relevance today. As you may have noticed, my presentation of the classical theory of analogy was constructed in the “top-down” order. Presenting Aquinas, I started with the conclusion of his doctrine in order to help us understand what was at stake and to make my explanation clear. I am convinced that such a strategy is not unfair. As I have mentioned before, Aquinas was mainly interested in applying analogy to explain the relationship between God and creatures; he did not focus on a systematic elaboration of the philosophical background. And yet I have to confess that such a choice covers an important lacuna. As far as I know, there is not a comprehensive “bottom-up” presentation of the Thomistic theory of analogy that is related to the contemporary semantic discussion. The scholars interested in Thomism have always been so interested in the complexities of the Thomistic tradition that they have not had time and energy for reformulating the classical theory in the light of contemporary debates. The sole exception—an experimental presentation of the classical teaching in interaction with the Wittgensteinian project—concluded in the refusal to build up a 34 See Montagnes, La doctrine de l’analogie de l’être d’après Saint Thomas d’Aquin, 38, 81, 87–88, 109n76, 137–141, and 158–62. The similar accents, although without so radical and far-reaching conclusions, may be found in Hütter, “Attending to the Wisdom of God,” 228–240, and te Velde, Aquinas on God, 109–118. 606 Michał Paluch, O.P. systematic theory.35 In other words, it became more Wittgensteinian than Thomist. An attempt to propose an explanation of the classical theory that is comprehensive and relevant for the contemporary debate would need to address at least two quite obvious criticisms arising in the contemporary context. Firstly, the classical theory seems to be interested in analyzing separate terms or concepts. Now, even if we put aside the temptation to understand in a quasi-Cartesian way what is inadequate in the case of Aquinas,36 we seem to be very far from the prevailing assumption that it is only a whole sentence that should be the point of departure for a fruitful semantic analysis.37 Secondly, the classical theory seems to vacillate between semantics and metaphysics in such a way that it must be classified by an impartial observer who has no time to become an expert on Thomas as uncritical, to say the least, even if not naïve. To put it more positively, the relationship between language and reality became more complicated for us than Aquinas’s texts on analogy seem to take into account. In my opinion, the Thomistic tradition has the resources to face both criticisms. In the first case, it was noticed a long time ago that the shift toward the interpretation of analogy on a conceptual level was a move made by Cajetan in the confrontation with the thought of Duns Scotus. The perspective adapted by Thomas was broader: he situated analogical thinking on the level of the “second act” of our mind— composition and division (compositio et divisio)—and thus on the level of judgment expressed in a sentence. If we see this larger context of his thought, we understand that, although the analysis of singular terms 35 36 37 Burrell, Analogy and Philosophical Language, 170: “Aquinas offers no theory of analogy. He does not provide a method whereby one can be sure to speak responsibly of God. He offers strategies based on what he knows of the structure inherent in our language and in certain of its expressions. For the rest, he issues invitations to a quality of self-awareness achieved only in the practice of it.” See a critical analysis of Burrell’s work, taking into account multiple positive aspects of the project, in Philip A. Rolnick, Analogical Possibilities: How Words Refer to God (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1993), 97–187. See, for example, McInerny, Aquinas and Analogy, 66–70, and John O’Callaghan, Thomistic Realism and the Linguistic Turn: Toward a More Perfect Form of Existence (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2003), 167–171. James F. Ross, Portaying Analogy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), ix, 19–27 (I am choosing what is, in my opinion, the crucial element, but Ross’s criticism is more developed); and E. J. Ashworth, “Signification and Modes of Signifying in Thirteenth-Century Logic: A Preface to Aquinas on Analogy,” Medieval Philosophy and Theology 1 (1991): 39–67, esp. 67. Analogical Synthesis: An Impossible Project? 607 is an aspect of the classical doctrine that is emphasized, it should be inscribed in a much more “organic” approach carried by the principles of Thomas’s semantics.38 In the second case, it is worth remembering that we can find in Aquinas’s heritage semantic resources that provoked some scholars to try to present his doctrine on analogy as a semantic project.39 I do not think that such an interpretation captures properly the hallmark of Aquinas’s thought, but it is significant that it was possible. Metaphysics does not replace semantics in Thomas’s thought. Aquinas was aware of the different levels of analysis. Yet, it is true that Aquinas was a thinker of his time, of a “metaphysical” era. What he takes for granted needs for us today some additional reflection and justification. It does not mean though that it is wrong or naïve. The strong metaphysical framework of the classical doctrine may become, to say the least, a valuable—intriguing and inspiring— challenge in our “post-metaphysical” era for everybody who wants to investigate how far the language on God may lead. An Impossible Project? As one can see, analogy is a powerful means of synthesis. It invites us to articulate the connection between creature and God, logic and metaphysics, and philosophy and theology. Discussions on its different aspects have provoked scholars to reflect on the key philosophical problems for centuries. Nevertheless, if analogy is to play its synthetic role in philosophical and theological reflection today, it needs some reformulation. Now, if such a reformulation is to be convincing and successful, it must be undertaken on many different levels. It is not sufficient today just to present thoroughly the historical record of the discussion, although it is absolutely necessary to be well informed on the history of the past debates. It is not enough just to keep repeating Aquinas’s teaching, even though it is most helpful to take advantage of his lucid metaphysical insights. It is not satisfying to embrace the consequences of the linguistic turn by concentrating solely on semiotic problems, although it would be foolish not to take it into account. 38 39 Étienne Gilson, Jean Duns Scot: Introduction à ses positions fondamentales (Paris: J. Vrin, 1952), 101–102; Gilson, The Christian Philosophy of St. Thomas Aquinas, trans. L. K. Shook (New York: Random House, 1956), 106–109; Burrell, Analogy and Philosophical Language, 153–154; Rocca, Speaking the Incomprehensible God, 154–195; and Hochschild, The Semantics of Analogy, 51–56, 63, and 117. See McInerny, Aquinas and Analogy, 162–163, and a similar interpretation in Burrell, Analogy and Philosophical Language. 608 Michał Paluch, O.P. Finally, it would not suffice to focus on the use of analogy in sciences, though it is necessary to take heed of it to make analogy relevant.40 The list of all the areas that should be consulted may probably be even longer than history of philosophy and theology, metaphysics, semiotics, and philosophy of sciences (also the arts?). Is it realistic to expect such a multidimensional project to happen? In the previous centuries, at least up to Hegel, we relied on outstanding individuals to wrestle with such challenges. Today we know very well that such tasks may be possible only for groups of scholars, well organized and committed to the research. Yet, if analogy is really as important as it was for many generations of Catholic philosophers and theologians before us, surely it merits such an interdisciplinary research group. Do I need to add that I would be very happy if Dominicans N&V acted at least as a catalyst for that? 40 See, for example, David H. Helman, ed., Analogical Reasoning: Perspectives of Artificial Intelligence, Cognitive Science, and Philosophy (Dordrecht, NL: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1988); and Cameron Shelley, Multiple Analogies in Science and Philosophy (Amsterdam, NL: John Benjamins Publishing Company, 2003). Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 2 (2016): 609–617 609 Response to Michał Paluch’s “Analogical Synthesis: An Impossible Project?” Matthew Levering Mundelein Seminary Mundelein, Illinois Michał Paluch’s erudite and irenic treatment of the Thomistic doctrine of analogy helps us to understand why Aquinas himself employed both the analogy of attribution and the analogy of proportionality. Paluch argues that “each of these doctrines is in some way incomplete and . . . they need each other.”1 He states that the analogy of attribution, used by Aquinas in his Summa theologiae, serves to highlight the likeness between creatures and God, namely, the likeness (however distinct) of an effect to its cause. The analogy of proportionality, used by Aquinas in his De veritate, serves to highlight God’s transcendence by arguing that God’s being is to God as created being is to creatures. In addition to their strengths, both forms of analogy also have their weaknesses. According to Paluch, the analogy of attribution does not tell us much about God except that God is a cause, since God’s causality is utterly dissimilar from the finite effects that he causes. Likewise, the analogy of proportionality has difficulty both with respect to its terms (since divine “being” is beyond finite comprehension) and with respect to the relation between God and the creature, since the analogy of proportionality does not, in itself, explain how God’s being is related to created being. Paluch therefore urges us to employ both of these two forms of analogy. At the same time, Paluch is well aware that some Thomists would disagree with his proposal for holding in critical balance the two 1 Michał Paluch, O.P., “What Has Athens to Do with Jerusalem?” Nova et Vetera (English) 14.2 (2016): 603–604. 610 Matthew Levering approaches to analogy. Over the past fifty years, not least due to the influence of Bernard Montagnes’s 1963 study The Doctrine of the Analogy of Being according to Thomas Aquinas, as well as to the general atmosphere of turning away from the Thomism of Cardinal Cajetan and Réginald Garrigou-Lagrange,2 the analogy of proportionality has not been popular. Paluch summarizes the perspective of Montagnes when he observes that, for many of those who reject the analogy of proportionality, “only the analogy of attribution that is described in terms of causality, or participation understood as communication of act, may be the proper means to articulate the foundational bond between God and creatures.”3 More recently, the analogy of proportionality has gained in defenders, among whom the most prominent is Steven A. Long. As Paluch says, advocates of the analogy of proportionality point out that it “allows us to establish in the center of our metaphysical analysis the Aristotelian distinction between act and potency.”4 In encountering actual beings, we perceive that being is not non-being and that act is not self-limiting. In reflecting upon this, we recognize (in Paluch’s words) that “unlimited esse is the absolute perfection,” and we come to appreciate the “priority of the analysis of being before the reflection on being created,” thereby grounding a natural knowledge of God “that excludes any form of fideism.”5 How, then, do advocates of the analogy of proportionality understand and account for the analogy of attribution? For his part, Steven Long argues that the analogy of attribution necessarily presupposes the analogy of proportionality, since the analogy from effect to cause 2 3 4 5 Bernard Montagnes, O.P., The Doctrine of the Analogy of Being according to Thomas Aquinas, trans. E. M. Macierowski (Milwaukee, WI: Marquette University Press, 2004); see also Montagnes, La Doctrine de l’analogie de l’être d’après Saint Thomas d’Aquinas (Paris: Béatrice-Nauwelaerts, 1963). Paluch, “What Has Athens to Do with Jerusalem?” 605. For further criticism of the analogy of proportionality, indebted to Montagnes, see John F. Wippel, The Metaphysical Thought of Thomas Aquinas: From Finite Being to Uncreated Being (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2000), chapter 13, especially 552–555. Discussing Aquinas’s defense of the analogy of proportionality in his De veritate, Wippel states, “His overriding concern throughout much of this discussion seems to be to protect divine transcendence. His theory of analogy of proportionality is not equally successful, however, in protecting him against the kind of agnosticism on our part which he associates with a theory of purely equivocal predication of the divine names” (ibid., 554). Paluch, “What Has Athens to Do with Jerusalem?” 604. Ibid. Response to Michał Paluch 611 presupposes the real being of the effect, which we discern through our contact with actual beings. Long explains, “As nonexistent beings are not attributable as real effects, the analogy of being is prior to the analogy of attribution and is in fact its necessary condition.”6 Here the “analogy of being” arises from the recognition that being (ens commune) 6 Steven A. Long, Analogia Entis: On the Analogy of Being, Metaphysics, and the Act of Faith (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2011), 3–4. In his review of Long’s book in The Thomist 77 (2013): 629–633, SergeThomas Bonino, O.P. states that “the critique addressed to B. Montagnes misses its goal to the extent that it omits any discussion of his essential thesis: the change of model for thinking about transcendental analogy comes in Thomas’s thought from a deepening in the manner of conceiving divine causality: Thomas no longer thinks of the creature’s relation to God ‘as a resemblance of the copy to the model (formal causality) but as the dependence of one being in relation to another that produces it (efficient causality)’ (Montagnes, La Doctrine, 91)” (631). Bonino differentiates philosophical and theological perspectives on analogy: “Just as it is legitimate that the philosophical approach beings by unifying the multiplicity of beings at the level of ens commune by means of the analogy of proportionality, extended then possibly to God, so the theological approach first grasps the unity of beings in light of their divine source and thinks of creatures first in terms of their relation to God by means of the analogy of intrinsic attribution” (ibid., 632). In Bonino’s view, Long’s approach exemplifies the value of the philosophical approach, so long as the value of the theological approach is not thereby negated. For an erudite argument that Aquinas did not change his view of analogy (pace Montagnes and others, most recently John Wippel and Gregory Rocca), see Joshua P. Hochschild, “Proportionality and Divine Naming: Did St. Thomas Change His Mind about Analogy?” The Thomist 77 (2013): 531–558. Hochschild shows the analogy of proportionality to be fully at work in texts such as Summa theologiae I, q. 14, a. 3, ad 2, and I-II, q. 3, a. 5, ad 1. Hochschild grants that Aquinas “abandoned, or at least de-emphasized, the explicit invocation of ‘proportionality’ . . . when making recourse to analogy to account for divine naming” (ibid., 554), and he proposes that the philosophical reason may be that “proportionality does not imply a relation of participation, but a relation of participation does entail proportionality” (ibid., 556). Thus, if Aquinas “only remained on the ‘formal’ or semantic level of analysis, he might have chosen ‘proportionality’ to characterize the kind of unity exhibited by analogical concepts. But when he discusses analogy in theological and metaphysical contexts, he cannot leave aside the ‘material’ or real level of analysis, and so he is more likely to choose ‘participation’ to describe analogical relationships between things. Proportionality is inadequate to explain the effect’s imitation of its cause, which is usually Aquinas’s concern. However, proportionality— likeness understood as isomorphy, or formal similarity between different kinds of pairs or sets—is implicit in the effect’s imitation of its cause, and does help us to understand how two things can be similar without having a ‘determinate relation’ between them” (ibid.). 612 Matthew Levering is intrinsically analogous. We discover this by encountering actual beings, “diverse rationes of act” that are like each other insofar as they are actual, but that differ from each other insofar as they are limited by potency in diverse ways.7 In Long’s view, if one does not recognize the analogy of being that is found in the principle of non-contradiction and the distinction between act and potency, one can never proceed to the analogy of attribution from effect to cause, since actual beings that exhibit diverse rationes of act are needed for an analogy from effect to cause. In response to the concern that the analogy of proportionality fails to account for its terms, since God’s being is incomprehensible, Long argues that this is not the case, since we do know that divine being must be being without any limitation of potency, even if pure act “exceeds our knowledge and indeed exceeds the whole order of proportionate being.”8 Similarly, Long argues that the analogy of proportionality is itself necessary for accounting for the relation of the creature to God. For Aquinas, Long observes, “while the esse of the creature is an effect of God, it is not itself a receptive principle but rather the act of being of the substance that grounds the relation of creature to God.”9 Long concludes, “It follows that the analogical formality of being is necessarily by nature prior to and indeed the condition of the relation of createdness, of the relation of efficient and final dependency, and so prior also to the analogy of effect to cause which is predicated upon it. God is prior to the creature, but the relation of createdness is posterior to the being of the creature.”10 Long therefore anchors the analogy of 7 8 9 10 Long, Analogia Entis, 4; see also ibid., 68. Ibid., 91. See also ibid., 66: “esse is limited in relation to essence as potency. That is to say, act is not self-limiting, but is limited only in relation to potency—finally, limited in function of the hypothetical but immutable divine intention to create that which He creates, namely, some limited type of being whose existence is caused by God as proportionate to its nature (which last is to that existence as potency is to act).” Ibid., 70. Ibid., 70–71. Long observes, in response to Montagnes’s position, “The relation of participation is of course consequent upon the creation and not prior to it, for the relation of participation is real in the creature but not in God— the constant teaching of Thomas. It is impossible, then, either epistemically or ontologically, to say that the relation of participation is prior to the composite nature of the creature, for the composite nature of the creature which is the effect of creation is presupposed by the relation of participation: if there is no created being, there is no relation of participation. Insofar as there is a created being, it is a composite of act and potency whose relation of participation Response to Michał Paluch 613 being in actual finite beings, in what he calls “the formal intelligibility of proportionate being.”11 In actual finite beings, we discover the analogicity of being, “the analogical unity of the likeness of diverse rationes of act and potency.”12 In short, the analogy of proportionality is the ground of the analogy of attribution from effect to cause. I am attracted to Long’s grounding of the analogy of being in the intrinsic analogicity of proportionate being. This approach attracts me not least because of its way of underscoring the meaningfulness of the vast array of creatures—including otherwise seemingly inexplicable beings, such as dinosaurs and the billions of stars. That the analogy of being should be rooted in the encounter with diverse rationes of act/ potency helps to make sense of the value of the extraordinary profusion and difference of beings in the universe. In other words, proportionate beings are themselves, in their concrete existence, pointers to God. For Erich Przywara, it is in Christ that we truly see both the similarity and the ever greater dissimilarity between creatures and God that the Fourth Lateran Council spoke about as characteristic of analogous discourse.13 At the outset of his essay, Paluch alludes to Przywara’s 11 12 13 is diversified hierarchically by the degree and kind of potency. Without the analogy of being as the division of being by potency and act, there is no relation of participation (nor is the creature for Thomas Aquinas a ‘subsistent relation’—language that he reserves entirely for the sui generis reality of the Trinity)” (ibid., 65–66). Ibid., 69. Long comments, “It is true enough that the unity of proportionate being is an effect of its principle, but the principle is only reached on the basis of the reality of proportionate being, and the analogical unity characterizing proportionate being . . . is the evidence on the basis of which the principle is affirmed” (ibid., 69–70). Ibid., 70. See ibid., 59–60, for Long’s explanation of the Summa theologiae’s failure to take up explicitly the analogy of proportionality. For exposition of Przywara’s position, see especially John R. Betz, “Translator’s Introduction,” in Erich Przywara, Analogia Entis: Metaphysics: Original Structure and Universal Rhythm, trans. John R. Betz and David Bentley Hart (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2014), 1–115. See also three essays in The Analogy of Being: Invention of the Antichrist or the Wisdom of God? ed. Thomas Joseph White, O.P. (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2011): John R. Betz, “After Barth: A New Introduction to Erich Przywara’s Analogia Entis,” 35–87; Kenneth Oakes, “The Cross and the Analogia Entis in Erich Przywara,” 147–171; and Richard Schenk, O.P., “Analogy as the discrimen naturae et gratiae: Thomism and Ecumenical Learning,” 172–191. Betz notes that, for Przywara, the analogy of being is “a metaphysics descriptive of actual tensions characteristic of creaturely being and thought as such, whose fundamental point is that creaturely being and thought are not self-identical but fundamentally ‘open,’ ‘suspended,’ existing in a state of ‘tension’” 614 Matthew Levering position by noting that “the doctrine explaining how human words may help us to discover the created and human similarities to God without compromising His always greater dissimilarity must lead us to His last and definitive Word—Christ. It is in Christ, whose humanity became the tool of divinity, that the logic of analogy reaches its ultimate confirmation and completion.”14 Without disagreeing with this appreciation for the instrumentality of Christ’s humanity and its implications for the doctrine of analogy, I would emphasize that the analogy of being is less a historical claim than a metaphysical claim, even if the two domains do not conflict. According to the analogy of being, all finite beings disclose Pure Act as their incomprehensible source. In making this metaphysical case, which certainly has consequences for our interpretation of historical revelation, we can perhaps benefit from beginning with the Old Testament. For example, consider the praise that, according to Psalm 148, all the beings of this world offer to God. Angels and humans, of course, should praise God, and Psalm 148 does not leave this out. But it also exhorts the sun, moon, stars, highest heavens, sea monsters, fire, hail, snow, wind, mountains, trees, beasts, insects, and birds to praise the Lord. How could these irrational things praise God? The answer is by simply existing, as actual things, in their amazing diversity—or at least the psalmist provides us with no other answer. The psalmist does say, with regard to the stars and highest heavens, that God “commanded and they were created” (Ps 148:5). Certainly God is their creator, but the praise that they offer appears to consist simply in their existing as the specific kinds of things that they are, though never in autonomy from God. This praise is joined to the praise offered by “all peoples, princes and all rulers of the earth” (Ps 148:11). All creation at the same 14 (“After Barth,” 84). Christ fulfills the metaphysics of analogy because “it is in Christ that the creature finally finds its essence” and because “it is in Christ that the ‘in-and-beyond’ of the theological analogy (of ‘God in-and-beyond creation’) is deepened and heightened in hitherto unimaginable ways” (ibid., 84). As Oakes puts it: “Przywara’s analogia entis is no simple, stable philosophical metaphysic from which one may climb an ascending scale of ever more impressive essences. Instead, the analogia entis is shorthand for a variety of moves, arguments, and concerns that cut through a whole swathe of doctrines” (“The Cross and the Analogia Entis,” 169). Paluch, “What Has Athens to Do with Jerusalem?” 592. For a Thomistic elaboration of this point, see Thomas Joseph White, O.P., “‘Through him all things were made’ (John 1:3): The Analogy of the Word Incarnate according to St. Thomas Aquinas and Its Ontological Presuppositions,” in White, The Analogy of Being, 246–279. Response to Michał Paluch 615 time offers praise to God for his glory as manifested above all in Israel (see Ps 148:14). Consider also God’s response to Job, a response that highlights particular beings, including the earth, the sea, the thunderbolt, the torrents of rain, the stars, and the dew and frost, as well as the calving of deer, the horse’s strength, and the soaring of the hawk and the eagle. In his response to Job (see Job 38–41), God seems especially proud of the strength of the hippopotamus and the crocodile. By their strength, these creatures bear witness analogically to God’s strength. The analogy of being here begins with actual beings: God reminds Job of all these creatures so as to lead Job to God from the wildness and power of actual things. God repeatedly makes clear that these creatures are God’s, and that God alone made them. But the movement of God’s response to Job is not so much from effect to cause—though such a movement is included—but rather from the actuality of these wild and powerful things to the God who transcends all such things as pure actuality, the God who can name himself “I am” when he tells Moses to say to the people of Israel, “I am has sent me to you” (Exod 3:14). Prior to God’s response to Job, Elihu instructs Job in a manner that has more of the rhythm of effect-to-cause. Each effect is said directly to point to the creative cause, God. Elihu begins with God as the reason for why non-rational things behave in an intelligible and predictable manner. As Elihu says, “Hear this, O Job; stop and consider the wondrous works of God. Do you know how God lays his commands upon them, and causes the lightning of his cloud to shine? . . . . Can you, like him, spread out the skies, hard as a molten mirror?” (Job 37:14–15, 18). The stability of the effect shows forth the power of God as cause and assures Israel that God will not fail in the history of salvation. In the prophecy of Jeremiah, in the very midst of the promise of the new covenant, God is identified as the one “who gives the sun for light by day and the fixed order of the moon and the stars for light by night, who stirs up the sea that its waves roar” (Jer 31:35). God then swears by this natural order of things that he can be counted upon equally to accomplish his historical purposes regarding Israel, despite Israel’s impending exile to Babylon due to its sins. As Jeremiah proclaims, “If this fixed order departs from before me, says the Lord, then shall the descendants of Israel cease from being a nation before me for ever” (Jer 31:36). It is not my purpose here to demonstrate the correctness of Long’s emphasis on the analogy of proportionality, according to which the 616 Matthew Levering analogy of being is grounded upon the encounter with the world as an analogical unity of diverse rationes of act/potency. I am not attempting to produce a biblical proof of the soundness of this philosophical approach. But it should be noted how the analogy of proportionality enables us to appreciate Scripture’s care for the profusion of particular things, not simply in their status as God’s effects, but in their own limited actuality—a limited actuality that involves dependence upon an unlimited source of actuality, pure act. As a last example from the Old Testament, this attention to particular beings in their integrity marks both accounts of creation found in Genesis 1–2. Certainly, these accounts begin with God as Creator; all beings are God’s effects. But “God saw that the light was good” (Gen 1:4), and this goodness reflects the actuality of the light, its own integrity as an actual thing. The hierarchical movement toward greater actuality—from water and dry land (Gen 1:9) to vegetation, to fish and birds, to animals, and finally to humans (Gen 1:26–28)—suggests attention to the distinct ways in which actual things are limited by potency, and to the fact that humans, among earthly beings, are the most actual, since humans can know, love, and rule. The second creation account (Gen 2) depicts God in a more finite mode: instead of speaking things into creation by a word that causes things to come to be, God forms man out of clay, breathes life into man, and plants a garden. God is depicted here as something like a very powerful man. Yet, it is this same God who “made the earth and the heavens” (Gen 2:4), and it seems clear that God is being described in a metaphorical manner. The key point for our purposes has to do not with the profusion of metaphorical images that characterize this chapter of Genesis, but rather with the attention given here again to the diversity of things: the ground, mist, trees, rivers, gold, bdellium, onyx, birds, and animals. None of these things has an actuality equal to that of man. Man names all the living creatures, but finds no equal among them. Only woman, made specially by God for man, is actual in the way that man is: rational. And this confirms that the analogy of being finds its highest point, among material creatures, in the human person, as we would expect from Genesis 1:27’s description of humans as created in the “image” of God. Among all humans, the one who fully and truly images the wisdom, love, holiness, and sovereignty of God is Jesus of Nazareth. In his human nature, he is the greatest creature and the one Mediator. His supreme offering of praise through his salvific Cross embodies the fully Response to Michał Paluch 617 graced actualization of human intelligence and love. Other creatures join in that praise insofar as they have actuality. The analogy of being, then, is a philosophical doctrine, but one consonant in the deepest possible way with the revelation of God’s “purpose which he set forth in Christ as a plan for the fullness of time, to unite all things in him, N&V things in heaven and things on earth” (Eph 1:9–10). Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 2 (2016): 619–644 619 Can We Demonstrate That “God Exists”? John O’Callaghan University of Notre Dame Notre Dame, Indiana “Stans autem Paulus in medio Areopagi, ait: Viri Athenienses, per omnia quasi superstitiosiores vos video. Præteriens enim, et videns simulacra vestra, inveni et aram in qua scriptum erat: Ignoto Deo. Quod ergo ignorantes colitis, hoc ego annuntio vobis”1 (“Then Paul stood up at the Areopagus and said: ‘You Athenians, I see that in every respect you are very religious. For as I walked around looking carefully at your shrines, I even discovered an altar inscribed, “To an Unknown God.” What therefore you unknowingly worship, I proclaim to you’”2) (Acts 17:22–23). Can we demonstrate that God exists? I want to begin this essay by asking you to consider three statements: 1) 2) 3) A god exists. There is only one god. God exists. My thesis is that while 1) and 2) are, for the sake of argument, philosophically demonstrable, 3) is not. First, let me say what I mean by philosophically demonstrable. By demonstration, I have in mind at least what Thomas Aquinas argues in the second question of the first part of the Summa Theologiae, which involves the ideal of Aristotelian demonstration as set out in the Posterior Analytics and as commented upon by Aquinas. At the very least, that ideal involves an ideal of 1 2 http://sacred-texts.com/bib/vul/act017.htm. http://www.usccb.org/bible/acts/17. 620 John O’Callaghan deductive validity. But demonstration adds, among other things, that the premises are true. By philosophical, again, I mean what Aquinas has in mind in the first question of the first part of the Summa when he argues that it is necessary that there be a discipline in addition to the philosophical disciplines. In making that point, he characterizes the philosophical disciplines as those that proceed by the natural light of human reason without the assistance of divine grace and revelation. And of course, by revelation I have in mind here with Aquinas the revelation made by God to the Jews and fulfilled in Jesus Christ as manifested to the Apostles. So, a demonstration is philosophical for the purposes of this discussion if it does not appeal to revealed truths with the premises it employs. Thus, my thesis is that the statement God exists is not subject to a deductively valid argument that proceeds from true premises that do not employ elements of divine revelation. Perhaps, at this point, it looks to some as though I am denying a central position that Aquinas holds in the very context of the Summa to which I am appealing for the sense of “philosophically demonstrable”—namely, that “Unde deum esse, secundum quod non est per se notum quoad nos, demonstrabile est per effectus nobis notos.”3 Aquinas clearly uses “demonstrabile” here in characterizing “deum esse.” Others, perhaps who take seriously the councils of the Church, will remind me of the pronouncement of the First Vatican Council that “Si quis dixerit, Deum unum et verum, Creatorem et Dominum nostrum, per ea, quae facta sunt, naturali rationis humanae lumine certo cognosci non posse: anathema sit,”4 where the more recent Catechism of the Catholic Church has “Etenim exsistentia Dei Creatoris potest lumine rationis humanae per eius opera certo cognosci, quamquam haec cognitio saepe obscurata et deformata est errore.”5 3 4 5 Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae (hereafter, ST) I, q. 2, a. 2, at http:// www.corpusthomisticum.org/sth1002.html#28311; my own English translation is as follows: “Hence, that a god is, which is not known to us per se, is demonstrable through effects known to us.” This translation and those in the next two notes, however, are given only provisionally because of a point I intend to argue later precisely concerning the translation of “deum.” Decreta Dogmatica Concilii Vaticani De Fide et De Ecclesia Christi, Caput IV, Canones II.1 http://www.ccel.org/ccel/schaff/creeds2.v.ii.i.html; my own English translation is as follows: “If someone says, that the one and true god, our Creator and Lord, cannot be known with certainty by the natural light of human reason from the things that have been made: let him be anathema.” Catechismus Catholicae Ecclesiae, §286, at http://www.vatican.va/archive/cate- Can We Demonstrate that “God Exists”? 621 However, I do not have time here to defend my claim in the face of either Vatican I or the recent Catechism. I will only make my case in relation to Aquinas. But let me be clear. I am not claiming that it cannot be known that God exists. I think it can be known. I just do not think it can be philosophically demonstrated. And I think Aquinas agrees with me. If correct, this point is very important for this gathering to discuss “What Has Athens to Do with Jerusalem? Dialogue between Philosophy and Theology in the 21st Century,” for it suggests that, while the theologian can know that God exists, the philosopher cannot. So what do they have to say to one another about God? Aquinas on Faith and the Name “God” To begin arguing my case, I want to point to a curious passage in Aquinas that should give pause to anyone who takes Aquinas’s thought seriously. In the discussion of the Act of Faith in the Secunda Secundae of the Summa, Aquinas asks, in article two of question two, whether faith is suitably distinguished as first “believing that God is such and such,” second “believing God,” and third “believing in God.” In the phrase “believing that God is such and such,” I am relying upon Professor Alfred Freddoso’s translation of “credere deum,” which has an ellipsis in the print where I have “such and such.” His ellipsis and my “such and such” capture the thought that the first sense of believing points to believing truths that predicate certain features of God, as for example that “God is just,” that “God is wise,” or that “God is loving.”6 This sense of believing pertains to the material object of faith, namely, certain propositional or predicational truths about God. The second sense of believing—namely, “believing God”—pertains to the formal object of faith, the means through which we know the 6 chism_lt/p1s2c1p4_lt.htm. The following English translation is provided at http://www.vatican.va/archive/ENG0015/__P19.HTM: “Human intelligence is surely already capable of finding a response to the question of origins. The existence of God the Creator can be known with certainty through his works, by the light of human reason, even if this knowledge is often obscured and disfigured by error.” Here it would be a mere dodge for me to point out that the magisterial statements do not use Aquinas’s word “demonstrabile,” but instead the phrase “certo cognosci,” for, suitably extended, I think I would go on to claim that the existence of God cannot be known “certo cognosci” by philosophical analysis. http://www.corpusthomisticum.org/sth3001.html#38852. Prof. Freddoso’s translation is to be found at http://www3.nd.edu/~afreddos/summa-translation/Part%202-2/st2-2-ques02.pdf. I have confirmed with him that he intends the ellipsis to be taken in the way I have done—namely, “that God is such and such.” 622 John O’Callaghan truths about God to be true as material objects of faith. We know these truths to be true because God has revealed them—we believe God. Presumably, one could have an opinion that these truths are true and yet this not count as knowing them to be true. One might even have a number of other propositional truths one believes, against the background of which one believes these other truths to be true, and even warranted. But in this second sense, one knows them to be true because one believes God who has revealed them to be true.7 A mundane parallel would be that, materially, I believe and know my father was William Jude O’Callaghan because it is true, and formally, I believe my mother, Mary Ann O’Callaghan who knows it to be true. You may have the opinion that my father was William Jude O’Callaghan, but unless you believe my mother or believe her by believing me, you do not know it to be true and thus do not believe it even materially.8 Here, of course, the material object of my belief is distinct from the formal object of my belief, as opposed to the case of God, where the material and formal object are the same.9 The third sense—namely, “believing in God”—expresses a relationship the will has to God, where the will is directed to God as an end insofar as he is the material and formal object of the intellect’s belief. I do not just believe that God is just, and believe it because God has said so, but I am directed to God and his justice as an end by the adherence of my will desiring and acting to adhere to him and his justice. Here we might notice the difference in ordinary language between saying that I believe that my wife loves me because it is she who tells me so, but beyond that I believe in my wife as we act to attain the goal of our marriage. You could believe that my wife loves me, and believe 7 8 9 Notice here the difference between saying that “one believes that God has revealed them to be true” and that “one believes God who has revealed them to be true.” The first statement suggests that one stands in a particular relation to proposition, while the second suggests that one stands in a particular relation to God. Indeed, it seems that one could believe that God has revealed certain propositions to be true and yet not believe that those propositions are true, since one might not believe that God always or ever speaks truly. It is less clear that one could believe God, who reveals them to be true, and not believe that they are true. For an interesting discussion in this context of the logic of knowledge by authority, see Joseph M. Bochenski, O.P., The Logic of Religion (New York: New York University Press, 1965), 121–124. Thus, for Aquinas, the proposition that “William Jude O’Callaghan is my father” is not the material object of faith, but rather makes that object of faith cognitively available to one. Can We Demonstrate that “God Exists”? 623 because it is she who tells you so; what you cannot do is believe in my wife as I do, directing your will to her as an end as I do.10 What is characteristic of all three ways of thinking of faith as distinguished into these three grammatical modalities of belief is that the term “God” is used as a proper name in all three.11 In the first, I refer to a particular being with that proper name, as I predicate some feature of it, as I might say, “I believe ‘Dave Brubeck soothes the savage breast [sic] by his piano playing.’” In the second, I presuppose reference to a particular being when I assert that it is because that very being has spoken that I believe the proposition, as I might say, “I believe Fr. Michael Sherwin that ‘Dave Brubeck’s piano playing soothes the savage breast.’” In this second sense, I think it is most clear that the term “God” is used as a proper name, for we do not believe what a god tells us. On the contrary, those of us who have faith believe what God tells us.12 In the third, I direct my will to that very particular being I directly refer to in the first, and indirectly in the second, as the object of my desire, as I might say, “I believe in Dave Brubeck to soothe my savage breast by his piano playing.” A proper name allows me to grab hold of the individual named by it, to describe it, to speak truth of it, and to direct myself to it. The truths assented to in faith and the epistemic and volitional attitudes the person of faith adopts are about God in a very direct way, and not simply about a god. In general, a proper 10 11 12 By parallel reasoning, it is an interesting question whether Aquinas thinks you can believe that God is such and such, believe it because God has revealed it, and yet not believe in God in the relevant sense. I am thinking of Aquinas’s response in ST II-II, q. 24, a. 12, ad 5, in which he argues that one mortal sin necessarily destroys charity in the sinner, while leaving untouched the presupposition of the objection that a mortal sin does not necessarily destroy faith or hope, although it leaves faith lifeless(‘informes’). Presumably, lacking charity, the will cannot be described as directed to God as an end in the sense of the question on Faith described as “believing in God.” But see ST II-II, q. 10, a. 3, resp., where Aquinas suggests that having one false opinion about God prevents one from having any knowledge about God whatsoever. Presumably, not believing in God as the end to which one should direct one’s will involves some sort of false belief that God is not one’s end. In which case, it would seem, one could not have any knowledge of God constituted by believing that God is such and such because one believes God who has revealed it. See the Epilogue to the present article, section 1, “On ‘god’ as a Proper Name.” Of course, it follows from the fact that God is a god that, in believing what God tells us, we also believe what a god tells us. But you see my point, I think. 624 John O’Callaghan name, if it successfully refers, is intentional in a very particular way.13 But having given his response to article 2 of question 2, Aquinas makes a very curious claim in response to the third objection of the article. The third objection had sought to undermine the distinction that Aquinas will defend in his response by saying that unbelievers cannot be said to have faith. And yet, unbelievers can be said to believe that “God is such and such.” So, the objector claims, believing that “God is such and such” cannot be described as involved in the act of faith. Aquinas’s reply to this objection, given the body of the response, is interesting. He says that unbelievers do not truly believe that “God is such and such.” For they do not even believe that God exists, as he goes on to write, “under the conditions which faith determines.” Finally, he adds that they do not truly believe that God is such and such because (and he cites Aristotle’s Metaphysics 9), in simple things you either grasp the thing involved or you do not.14 13 14 Again, if one were to say that ‘god’ is here used as a hidden definite description, it would be important to keep in mind that it must be understood to be used referentially if the manifestly intentional character of what Aquinas is saying is to be preserved. The ordinary analysis of, for example, “the one true god is loving” as “there exists an x (x is a true god and for any y (if y is a true god then y is identical to x) and x is loving)” is not a referential statement because there are no referring terms within it. The logic of the statement alone does not capture the referential intent. To use “the one true god” referentially, one has to intend to use it the way one uses a proper name, referentially directed to a particular being. One cannot intend to use it as one would ordinarily analyze it. The analysis loses the reference. So, one cannot capture what Aquinas is saying with “I believe in God” as directing one’s will to the one true god if one gives the ordinary analysis of “the one true god” as lacking referential force. And it will not do to say that Aquinas could not have had this problem of reference and analysis that accompanies the predicate calculus because he did not have the predicate calculus. The point is that he had reference and must be using the definite description the way he would use a proper name—referentially. The point generally is about reference and what is common to proper names and definite descriptions or any other grammatical objects that may function referentially. The use of Metaphysics 9 here is problematic, since in context, it is talking about grasping the quiddity of things, even in Aquinas’s interpretation of it, not grasping individual things. Thomas makes this point elsewhere about simple apprehension of something as opposed to judgment. A judgment can only be true or false if the subject and predicate have actually managed to grasp something. If they have not grasped anything, then one is not judging truly or falsely, as one is not speaking of anything at all. See, for example, De veritate, but particularly his commentary on Aristotle’s Peri hermeneias. See also my discussion of the two operations of intellect in this regard in Thomist Realism and the Linguistic Turn (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Can We Demonstrate that “God Exists”? 625 So, you are either talking about God or you are not. To use a proper name is to have “grasped” or latched onto its referent sufficiently to say something with a predicate of what it refers to. To assert some truth about God, indeed, even to assert some falsehood about God, you must first have latched on to God with a proper name. I want to suggest that what Aquinas writes here is a very curious thing if, in fact, one can philosophically demonstrate the existence of God. Consider Aristotle. Not only is Aristotle a pagan Greek, but he does not believe that God is just, wise, and loving because God has revealed that he is just, wise, and loving.15 He certainly does not direct his will to God’s justice, wisdom, and love as an end because of believing these things. So Aristotle would seem to be a paradigm instance of an unbeliever in the context of article 2,16 and thus also in that of Aquinas’s response to the third objection.17 But for the sake of argument, let us suppose, against the thesis of my talk, that, if anyone has a philosophical demonstration of the proposition that “God exists,” Aristotle does. Now, in one sense of what Aquinas means by belief, it could be said that Aristotle does not believe that “God exists” in the way in which the believer does, “under the conditions of faith,” because of what Aquinas thinks about the way 15 16 17 Press, 2003), esp. 253–254. See also the response in Summa Contra Gentiles (hereafter, SCG) I, ch. 12, to the objection that to demonstrate the existence of God would require that one know the essence of God, which cannot be known. There Thomas distinguishes grasping the truth of a proposition deum esse from grasping the esse by which God subsists. The former is what is demonstrated, not the latter. Thus deum esse in a philosophical demonstration does not refer to God as Deum esse does when speaking of the act by which God subsists. For a rich and engaging discussion of what Aquinas is doing in this discussion of faith as belief, against the background of George Lindbeck’s The Nature of Doctrine, see Bruce Marshall, “Aquinas as Postliberal Theologian,” The Thomist 53 (1989): 353–402; Marshall, “Thomas, Thomisms, and Truth,” The Thomist 56 (1992): 499–524; Louis Roy, “Bruce Marshall’s Reading of Aquinas,” The Thomist 56 (1992): 473–480; and Frederick J. Crosson, “Reconsidering Aquinas as Postliberal Theologian,” The Thomist 56 (1992): 481–498. See also Victor Preller, Divine Science and the Science of God (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1967). Aquinas has not yet made the distinction of ST II-II, q. 10, a.1, between unbelief as simple negation (not having faith) and unbelief as opposition to faith. So I think his point here should be taken generically and not restricted to an unbeliever who opposes faith. See the Epilogue of this article, second section, “On Whether Philosophers Prove deum esse.” 626 John O’Callaghan demonstrated knowledge surpasses belief. Belief, as we are told earlier in article 1 of question 2, is an epistemic state that falls short of demonstrated knowledge. In falling short of this standard of knowledge the intellect assents to some truth because the will causes it to assent. In that particular sense of article 1, demonstrated knowledge that p is a greater and more perfect epistemic state with regard to p than is belief. But that cannot be what Aquinas means here by asserting that the unbeliever does not believe that God exists in the way in which the believer does, since in response to the objection, Aquinas associates the epistemic state of the unbeliever with failure—a complete lack of grasping anything about God—not with excellence and perfection, as in article 1. The believer grasps God in some sense when he or she speaks of God and what he or she believes in the first sense of believing “such and such.” But according to Aquinas, the unbeliever utterly misses God and suffers a failure compared to the achievement of the believer. So, it is hard to see how the unbelieving Aristotle, even armed with his philosophical demonstrations, would be exempted from Aquinas’s general characterization of the impoverished and failed state of the unbeliever utterly missing God. However, if one can philosophically demonstrate that “God exists,” surely one has not missed God. Surely one has latched on to God sufficiently to refer to him and predicate existence of him.18 One has a proper name, “God.” That name refers to a being, namely God. If the name is being used in the same way as the believer uses it, it cannot miss God. It must refer to the same being as the believer latches onto with that proper name. To use the proper name “God” as the believer uses it is already to have latched on to its referent in preparation for saying that “God is such and such,” including that “God exists.”19 18 19 See P. T. Geach on the difference between the non-predicative use of “exists” (as, for example, in “a human being exists”) and the predicative use of “exists” (as in “Socrates exists”) in “Form and Existence,” in God and the Soul (1969; repr., South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press, 1999), 42–64. Geach distinguishes the difference between saying “God exists” and ‘something or other is God” (57). He himself attributes his account to Aquinas. In particular, he cites Aquinas on the difference between the being of a true proposition and the being (esse or actus essendi) of some object. I think he is correct in that analysis of Aquinas. I disagree with him on the thought that “God” used referentially must always be a definite description (if that is his view), even if it often is. More needs to be done here to talk about proper names and reference when the object referred to does not in fact exist. But that discussion involves familiar problems within contemporary philosophy of language. Can We Demonstrate that “God Exists”? 627 Consider a parallel. You say, “William Jude O’Callaghan taught mathematics.” I say, “William Jude O’Callaghan did not teach mathematics; he taught philosophy.” If you are using the same proper name as I am, we have a disagreement. You are wrong, because the individual being I refer to with that proper name did not teach mathematics. You cannot have missed my father with the proper name, that is, failed to refer to him, and then utter a falsehood about him. On the other hand, if you are using a different proper name with the spoken grammatical string “William Jude O’Callaghan,” then we have a misunderstanding, not a disagreement. You are talking about some other being than my father, even if you are using a spoken string that sounds identical to the one I am using. It is as if Jackie were to say to John, “I met an interesting Greek last night named Aristotle,” to which John responds, “you cannot have; Aristotle’s been dead for thousands of years.” Jackie’s proper response to John is not, “you are wrong,” but “you misunderstand me.” So, in the case of my father and your statement, for all I know you may be wrong or you may be right, since you may be talking about some other being than my father, a being I do not know and do not refer to with my use of the string “William Jude O’Callaghan.” The function of a proper name is to latch onto to some one particular being, and the particular being latched on to by the use of the same proper name will be the same for all who use it. For you to speak falsely of my father, you must minimally latch onto him with the proper name. So, you cannot be said to have utterly missed him in the way Aquinas’s appeal to Metaphysics 9 is supposed to suggest that the unbeliever misses God—does not grasp God at all, not even his existence. To summarize, if an unbeliever like Aristotle has a philosophical demonstration that “God exists” or that “God is just,” and so on, and he is using the term “God” as a proper name in the way the believer uses it, he cannot miss God in the way Aquinas suggests he does in response to objection 3. And he cannot have failed to demonstrate, and thus to know, that “God exists” in the way Aquinas suggests the unbeliever fails. Thus, by reductio ad absurdam, if Aquinas is right to insist that the unbeliever misses God, and if we want to avoid concluding that Aquinas is incoherent, it seems he must exclude the possibility that the philosopher demonstrated that “God exists” when he demonstrated that “deus est.” I think that, to make sense of what Aquinas is claiming here, we have to acknowledge that he is making a point about how the unbe- 628 John O’Callaghan liever uses the term “god,” a semantic point. The use of a proper name is the “simple thing” spoken of here, as opposed to a predication, which is of course not a “simple thing” but a complex thing.20 A proper name either hits the target or it does not. So, the unbeliever does not use the term “god” in the way that the believer uses it.21 In particular, while the believer uses the term “God” as a proper name to refer to the being about whom she believes certain things because that being has revealed those things to her in some way, and to whom the believer directs her will in virtue of what that being has revealed to her, the unbeliever qua unbeliever does not use the term “god” as a proper name. But of course, if the unbeliever does not use the term “god” as a proper name, then it is quite impossible for him to demonstrate philosophically that “God exists.” A fortiori, it is quite impossible for him to demonstrate the truth of the proposition that the believer thinks and knows to be true when the believer says, “God exists.” We could stop here with a nice “quod erat demonstrandum.” But I think there is something very interesting to be learned in thinking of how the unbeliever uses the term “god” and what it means for the dialogue between philosophy and theology. This is particularly so if we acknowledge that, when a philosopher who is also a believer engages in philosophy, he or she is not formally acting as a believer. In particular, there is something very interesting to be learned about what a philosopher does when that philosopher demonstrates that “deus est,” as Aquinas clearly thinks he or she is capable of doing. So, perhaps you will indulge me a little longer. Aquinas and the Philosophical Grammar of ‘god’ What I have said so far has been merely an ad hoc argument designed to make a larger point by means of saving Aquinas from incoher20 21 See again my discussion of the first and second operations of intellect as signified by words and as a contrast between the simple and the complex in Thomist Realism and the Linguistic Turn. This needs to be qualified. Later I will suggest that the unbeliever can intend to use it as the believer uses it. But this will be parasitic upon the community of faith’s use. The unbeliever could use the term parasitically as a contemporary atheist: “I do not believe that God exists.” For that to be a denial of what the believer believes, the atheist must intend to use “God” as the believer does. But then, of course, Aquinas’s point stands: the unbeliever does not attain even the existence of God, since the unbeliever’s unbelief consists in the denial of God’s existence. But I am interested here in the thought that an unbeliever like Aristotle, not the contemporary atheist, might demonstrate the existence of God. Can We Demonstrate that “God Exists”? 629 ence. However, if we take Aquinas seriously, as I think we should, it should not be a surprise to us that he does not think the unbeliever uses the term “god” as the believer does—that is, does not use it as a proper name. First, let me make a little grammatical point about Latin, namely, that it does not have an indefinite article. Now, a term like “homo” can be used either as a common name or a proper name, as in “homo est species,” on the one hand, “Socrates est homo,” on the other. But there is no grammatical mark in Latin texts to disambiguate the two uses, as in English we would say, “Socrates is a human being,” on the one hand, and “human being is a species,” on the other. The Latin reader must figure out the use from context alone. Used as a proper name, of course, it picks out an individual, even if in my example the individual is a species—that is, it refers. Used as a common name it has a descriptive character, making it possible for us to describe what something is or what features it has—it is predicative. A proper name refers to objects we describe with common names. This fact about Latin grammar turns out to be important for what I am going to argue here.22 So, suppose we turn back to the term “god” that proved so troublesome in the discussion of what the unbeliever does not believe, distinguishing the unbeliever from the believer. I argued that, if what Aquinas says is not incoherent, while the believer uses the term “God” as a proper name in such statements as “God is wise” and “God is just,” the unbeliever cannot be using the term “god” as a proper name in that context, at least not the same proper 22 Of course, the situation is much more complicated than this against the background of the semantic question of whether the meaning of a proper name is a hidden description that is often associated with it—as, for example, the claim that “Aristotle’” means “the best student of Plato and teacher of Alexander”—or rather, whether the description often associated with it helps to pick out the reference but does not provided the meaning of the proper name. A standard example of the problem is where we consider whether it might turn out as a matter of fact that Aristotle was not Plato’s best student. On the first account, it turns out that “Aristotle” does not refer to the person we thought it did. On the second account, “Aristotle” continues to refer to the same individual, despite the error of our histories. Aquinas seems to be aware of this problem, although not necessarily in the case of proper names, when he distinguishes “that from which a name is imposed” from “that to which a name is imposed to signify.” “Lapis” is his example. “Hurts the foot” is not the meaning of the term “lapis,” even if that is what we take the name from. Otherwise, as he points out, everything that hurts the foot would be named “lapis.” If “Aristotle” means “Plato’s best student,” then whoever was Plato’s best student will be called ‘Aristotle,’ even if not, for example, the teacher of Alexander. 630 John O’Callaghan name as the believer uses. What I want to claim now is that the unbeliever engaged in philosophical argumentation uses the term “god” as a common name; in contemporary parlance, his use of the term is predicative rather than referential. Here we do not need to make the point by saving Aquinas from incoherence. We can simply turn to him for guidance. In article 9 of question 13 of the Prima Pars of the Summa, Aquinas asks whether the term “god” is a “communicable name” (nomen communicabile). His answer is affirmative, but with a qualification. He first makes a metaphysical claim about singular things. Considering a singular existing thing, or in Latin “res,” the existing thing cannot be multiplied and is incommunicable. Now, a term can be used to signify a singular thing or res as such. When the term signifies a singular thing as a “suppositum,” the term, just like the thing it signifies, cannot be multiplied and is incommunicable. Such a term is a proper name (nomen proprium). Such a term is incommunicable both as regards the thing signified and, Aquinas adds, according to “ratio” or the intellect’s apprehension. On the other hand, the ratio of a nature does not include within it the notion of a singular, but is understood as in abstraction from the singular. So, for example, the ratio of “human nature” does not include Socrates, Xanthippe, or Fr. Thomas Joseph White. So, a term imposed to signify that nature, abstracting from any suppositum, does not include them within its ratio. It is because none of them are included within the ratio of the nature that it can be predicated of each one of them. Aquinas thinks this point is true even of a term imposed to signify the divine nature. Because a term signifying a nature does not include within its signification any particular or singular res or thing, such a term is communicable according to ratio or the intellect’s apprehension. But here we can divide such communicable terms signifying natures into two types. There may be terms that are communicable according to ratio and according to existing things. The term “homo” would be such, since it both signifies a nature abstracting from singulars and is divided among many singular things when it is predicated of them— Socrates, Xanthippe, and Fr. Thomas Joseph White, for example. Other terms, however, might be communicable according to ratio but incommunicable according to existing thing or res. Aquinas gives the example of the Latin term “sol,” or in English “sun.” It signifies the solar nature, and so is communicable according to ratio. However, for physical cosmological reasons, Aquinas believes there can be only one sun. In that case, the Latin term “sol” is communicable according Can We Demonstrate that “God Exists”? 631 to ratio but incommunicable according to res or existing thing. This notion of being communicable according to ratio but not according to res is important in one respect for Aquinas because it explains how there can be differences of opinion about the number of things there might be under a term signifying a nature. In particular in the Summa discussion, he mentions the opinions of some that there are many suns. The reason why there can be the opinion that there are many suns, even if false, is that the term is not imposed as such to signify the suppositum, the singular being that we see in the sky rising in the east and setting in the west. If “sol” were a nomen proprium, a term incommunicable according to ratio as well as according to res, then it would be quite absurd for one to enunciate the opinion that there might be many suns. It would be absurd because one would be opining that the individual suppositum referred to by that proper name, the sun, could be an individual suppositum undivided and incommunicable in itself and, at the same time, many divided individuals, as if to say, “Fred Freddoso is many.” It is nonsense to call Fred Freddoso many, even if some students back in South Bend may call him “legion.” Aquinas also thinks that terms signifying the natures of subsisting forms are communicable according to ratio but incommunicable according to res or existing thing. Recall Aquinas’s argument that, in the case of subsisting forms lacking a relation to matter, there can be only one instance of the subsisting form because, in reality, the subsisting form exhausts the species and cannot be divided among many.23 So, suppose “archangel” is a species of angel. Then it is perfectly appropriate to say that “Michael is the archangel”—an identity statement. Because of the underlying metaphysics of angels, the predicative classification “Michael is an archangel” implies the identity statement “Michael is the archangel.” But while “Michael” signifies the one indivisible suppositum, “archangel” signifies the nature of that suppositum. And while the term “Michael” is incommunicable according to ratio and according to res, “archangel” is communicable according to ratio but incommunicable according to res. For Aquinas, this point is true of any term signifying a nature that in reality can have only one instance. Notice the parallel between the term “sol” and “archangel,” given the opinion of many philosophers and theologians disagreeing with Aquinas that there may be many individual angels of any particular species. This opinion that there might be many, false according to 23 See ST I, q. 50, a. 4, resp. 632 John O’Callaghan Aquinas, is possible because the term for a species of angel is, like the term “sol,” communicable according to ratio, even if not according to res. So finally, Aquinas’s claim about “deus” or “god” amounts to the claim that it functions the way that terms signifying angelic natures signify, communicable according to ratio but incommunicable according to res, and that is because a divine nature is like an angelic nature in being a subsisting form.24 The key to all of these semantic claims is that the use of terms is mediated according to the understanding of human beings and is not a simple mirroring of things. Aquinas begins his response to the first article of question 13 by referring us to the opening passages of Aristotle’s Peri hermeneias, summarizing that famous passage by stating, “we name as we know.” Proper names signify “supposits” because that is what we intend them to do according to our understanding of things—that is, because of how we impose them in our linguistic practice, given our knowledge of the world. Similarly, common terms signify what they do because of what we intend them to signify—what we impose upon them. In response to the second objection, Aquinas writes, “for names do not follow upon the manner of being which is in things, but upon the manner of being had in our understanding of things.”25 The human manner of understanding of natures does not include within it the singulars possessing those natures, but abstracts from them, so that names that are imposed to signify those natures are not imposed to signify singulars either, not even a term like “god,” despite the fact that there can be only one god, as the reader had just learned two questions earlier, in question 11. Aquinas could not be any clearer in his position that “god” is a common name than he is when he writes that, strictly speaking, if there is a proper name of God, a nomen proprium, it is “likely” what he calls “the Tetragrammaton of the Hebrews.” Notice two points in this claim. First, Aquinas is tentative about even whether the Tetragrammaton itself is a proper name of God, when he couches the point hypothetically, and uses the term “likely.” Perhaps there is no genuinely proper name of God. Second, Aquinas himself observes the 24 25 Notice that this supports a point I have delivered elsewhere, in an as yet unpublished paper, “Aquinas and Monotheism,” that the argument that there is only one god in ST I, q. 11, a. 3 does not distinguish God from angels, since the argument in that article applies to angels as well as to God. “Nomina enim non sequuntur modum essendi qui est in rebus, sed modum essendi secundum quod in cognitione nostra est.” Can We Demonstrate that “God Exists”? 633 Jewish practice and does not write out the four letters. Presumably, the sacredness of the individual supposit is transferred to the proper name signifying it, just as the metaphysical incommunicability of the supposit is transferred to the semantic incommunicability of the name. I think we have many reasons to agree with Aquinas that the term “god” is in general imposed to signify the divine nature, and not the suppositum, and is thus not a nomen proprium. First, common terms are subject to quantification, and plural forms of them, while proper names, are not. A proper name, as Aquinas explains, being imposed to signify the singular as such is only applicable to that singular as such, and we make a kind of category mistake when we ask how many there are of the thing signified by it, as if to ask, “how many Fred Freddosos are there?” There can be only one. Common terms, on the other hand, are paradigmatically subject to quantification and plural forms of them, as in “some human being,” “a human being,” “a lot of human beings,” “twenty-three human beings,” and so on. Certainly, the terms “deus” in Latin, “theos” in Greek, and “god” in English are subject to quantification and have plural forms. By and large the ancient Greeks were what we classify as polytheists, believing in many theoi, as were the Romans, believing in many dei. The Pantheon was a temple to all the gods, even if now in Rome, those who enter it genuflect to “the one true god.” Notice, in the case of these polytheists, the parallel with the “opinion” of those who hold that there are many suns and those who hold that there are many individuals within any species of angel. They could not hold that opinion, polytheism, if “theos” and “deus” were proper names. And of course, Catholics, as monotheists, affirm in every Mass that they believe “in unum deum”26—only one god, as opposed to three, for 26 Here we have to be careful. “Polytheism” as a category is of modern vintage. There were ancient figures who would assert their belief “in the one god.” What they seemed to have meant by such a phrase was the supreme god among the gods, Zeus, for example. Or they might mean the god that governs the entire cosmos. Thus, the assertion of “the one god” by Christians has to distinguish the assertion that there is one supreme principle governing creation, which Christians and some polytheists affirm, from the assertion that there is no other god than the god of Christian worship, also a claim asserted by Christians, but one denied by polytheists. The former assertion will not distinguish Christians from pagan polytheists who may hold for a supreme governor among the gods. But see also Aquinas’s careful discussion of the analogical use of the term “god” in ST I, q. 13, aa. 9–10, namely, how it is said falsely and truly of beings that are not gods as well as of the one true god. John O’Callaghan 634 example. So, those of us who are Catholics also use it as a common term. Notice also that the statement from Vatican I, but not that from the Catechism, uses “deum unum.” Indeed, even God, in his own voice, uses the term “god” as a common name; for, consider the first commandment—“I am the lord, your god. You shall have no other gods before me.” Even God does not seem to use the term “god” as a proper name. Second, as Aquinas himself notes, one could not charge a pagan with idolatry if the term were not imposed to signify the divine nature and not the suppositum, and thus a common term and not a nomen proprium.27 To say that someone is an idolater is to say that he or she worships as a god what is in fact not a god. But suppose that the term “god” were a proper name. If it were a proper name as used by the idolater, what would the accusation of idolatry amount to? If the idolater is using the term “god” as a proper name, and in particular the proper name employed by the Christian when he or she says, “I believe God is just, I believe God, and I believe in God,” then as we saw earlier, the pagan cannot help but refer to the very being that the Christian refers to. So, if the pagan says, “Oh God, you are holy and to be worshiped—I praise you—I adore you—I worship you—I offer these gifts of the field and these fruits of the vine for your great glory,” the pagan cannot help but be worshiping the god whom the Christian worships. If so, the pagan cannot be guilty of idolatry, for he or she is worshipping the one true god, the very god that Catholic Christians claim to worship when, in reciting the Rosary, they affirm in the Apostles’ creed, “credo in Deum.” Finally, acknowledging that the term “deus” or “god” is a common term both is confirmed by Aquinas’s “Five Ways” and helps us to understand what it is that he means in claiming that “deus est” is “demonstrabile.” One objection that is raised about the Five Ways is that they do not demonstrate that there is only one god. For all we know at the end of them, there could be five gods, or even twenty-seven gods, or any number of gods you like. That claim is formally quite right, even if it not a legitimate objection, as we will see. Notice that each of the five ways ends with the assertion that a description has an instance. Then, in the first way Aquinas writes, “hoc omnes intelligunt deum,” in the second, “quam omnes deum nominant,” in the third, “quod omnes dicunt deum,” and in the fourth and fifth, “hoc dicimus deum.” Four of these five explicitly end with a semantic claim about what is meant by the term “deus,” while the other instance uses it. 27 ST I, q. 13, a. 10, ad 1–3. Can We Demonstrate that “God Exists”? 635 Now the first reason we can be confident that the term “deus” should be taken for a common noun and not a proper name in the Five Ways is that the meaning of a proper name is not given by a description, whether definite or indefinite. Suppose we say the meaning of “Aristotle” is given by the description, “Plato’s greatest student and a teacher of Alexander.” It is at least logically possible that the histories are wrong and that the person referred to by the name “Aristotle” was not in fact a teacher of Alexander. Similarly, it is at least historically possible that the person referred to by the proper name “Aristotle” was not Plato’s greatest student. In either case, if the meaning of the proper name is given by that description, it would turn out that the proper name “Aristotle” does not refer to the person it in fact refers to. It will turn out that Aristotle is not Aristotle. So we do not want to hold that, when Thomas tells us, “quod omnes dicunt deum,” he is specifying the meaning of a proper name. Better to take him to be specifying the meaning of a common name, which is given by a description. The second and perhaps most convincing reason for thinking “god” is not used as a proper name in the Five Ways is that Aquinas thinks that, after he has given them, it remains to be proven that there is only one god, which he sets out to do in article 3 of question 11. The claim that the Five Ways do not prove that there is only one god is only an objection to Aquinas if the demonstrations are supposed to prove that there is only one god. But manifestly they are not supposed to prove that. Aquinas’s effort to demonstrate that there is only one god (in q. 11, a. 3) is quite absurd if he has already shown it with any one of the Five Ways nine questions earlier (in q. 2, a. 3). I frequently tell my students the stupendous truth that, “proofs prove what they prove, and do not prove what they do not prove.” The objection is an objection from those who are not willing to read nine more questions of the Summa or, if they do, think through the implications of question 11. But the important point for us to recognize here is that, because Aquinas thinks he still has to argue that there is only one god—argue, that is, for monotheism—the term “deus” in “deus est” is not being used as a proper name, but as a common term. To put this into English, none of the Five Ways prove that “God exists.” If they are successful, they prove that there is a god. What article 3 of question 11 subsequently does, if successful, is prove that there is only one god. If, for all the aforementioned reasons, we should agree with Aquinas that “deus” is a common term, and if Aquinas’s own demonstrations that “deus est” do not prove that God exists, then that should give us 636 John O’Callaghan pause before claiming that any philosopher can demonstrate that “God exists.” Consider again the three opening propositions of this essay: 1) 2) 3) a god exists. there is only one god. God exists. It is clear that Aquinas thinks 1) is demonstrable, and the Five Ways set out to do so in article 3 of question 2. It is also clear that Aquinas thinks 2) is demonstrable, and in article 3 of question 11, he sets out to do so. What he does not think is that 3) is demonstrable. Theology Speaks to Philosophy Much more remains to be said, and I hope somewhere and someday to say it. There are important philosophical distinctions to be drawn once we introduce the semantics of demonstrative adjectives like “this” and “that,” as well as the definite article “the,” such as between the provability of “a god exists,” “one god exists,” “this god exists,” “that god exists,” “the god exists,” and “God exists.” But I was asked here to say something engaging philosophy with theology. So I should try to conclude by just making a suggestion or two. Even the simple philosophical clarification I have aimed at in the use of the term “god” should be of interest to theologians, since revelation is made to us in human language and thus presupposes how the terms employed are used in human language. But I also think there are greater philosophical issues of interest to the theologian than these simple semantic issues, issues that nonetheless presuppose the semantics. I no longer have the time to really argue these points, but I will try to summarize them briefly. First, “a god exists” is not about God. At least it is not about God in the way that “God exists” is about God. We need to distinguish what makes a proposition true, its truth condition, from whether a proposition is strictly about what makes it true. Consider “a human being is speaking.” That is true. Why is it true? Well, I, for one, am speaking. So I at least make it a true proposition in the sense that it stands in a certain relation to my speaking, a relation in virtue of which we call it true. So one might think it is about me. And yet it is not. Why? Well, on the reasonable supposition that some other human being somewhere is speaking just now, the proposition is true, that is, is made true by standing in the right relation to that other person. Can We Demonstrate that “God Exists”? 637 Now, notice that the proposition will remain true even if I stop talking and we reasonably suppose that the other human being continues to do so. So, even if my speaking makes the proposition true in some sense, how can the proposition be about me if it remains true even when I am not speaking? Compare “John O’Callaghan is speaking.” If I cease speaking, that proposition ceases to be true, where “a human being is speaking” remains true. Clearly, “a human being is speaking” is not about me in the way that “John O’Callaghan is speaking” is about me, if the latter can cease to be true while the former remains true. And for the same reason, the proposition is not about the other human being who is speaking, for he may have ceased speaking while I continue, and the proposition will remain true. It is also not about both of us, because it remains true when one of us stops speaking. How can it be about both of us, if it remains true when one of us is not speaking? P. T. Geach would say the proposition “a human being is speaking” tells us some human being or another is speaking but is not about any particular talking human being.28 He and other contemporary philosophers would say this phenomenon arises because “a human being is speaking” does not involve a referring term, a proper name, a nomen proprium, or some other sentential element acting as a proper name in context. I said above that the asserted proposition is true because it stands in the right relation to someone talking. The crucial thing is that, whatever that right relation is, it does not involve the relation of reference, since there is no referring term in the statement. To have a truth about some being, you have to refer to it. Lacking a referring term, “a human being” does not refer to any human being. 28 The semantics of these indefinites can get complicated quickly, and there is a good deal of dispute concerning Geach’s treatment of them once one goes beyond the statement itself and into contexts that involve anaphoric pronouns, as in asserting “a man is speaking, and he is loud.” There, “a man” would seem to be referring, since something subsequent and additional is said using a referring pronoun, presuming that the referring pronoun ‘”he” refers to a particular man, the one who made the first clause true; not just any man then makes the first clause true if the second is going to be true as well. Medieval commentators worried about their proper interpretation vis-à-vis quantification. Many held that, in general, they ought to be interpreted as involving universal quantification, as in “all men speak.” This interpretation might seem odd until we remember the absence of the indefinite article in Latin, which would simply have had “homo loquitur.” Aquinas disagreed, holding that, in general, they ought to be given an interpretation involving particular quantification, as in “some man speaks.” In either case, they were not interpreted as singular propositions. 638 John O’Callaghan So you can have true propositions that are not about any existing thing or res, even though existing things are the condition of their truth. I think Aquinas recognizes this distinction when, in the De ente et essentia, he distinguishes the sense of being that pertains to the truth of a proposition from the sense of being that pertains to the actus essendi of a res. What is relevant for us is that Aquinas employs this very distinction between the being of a true proposition and the being of a res with actus essendi in the discussion in the Summa contra gentiles of whether “deum esse” can be demonstrated, when he responds to an objection by noting that, in demonstrating that “deum esse” one does not attain to the being, to the esse of God. One only attains to the being of a true proposition.29 The proposition is true because God exists, and yet it does not attain to the existence of God. Not attaining to the existence of God, it cannot be about God. It is much too complicated for our purposes here to also explain why “only one god exists” is no more about God than is “a god exists,” and it does not get us where we want to go. It comes down to the fact that quantification does not introduce reference where none was present before. Typically, you only get reference out of a common name if you introduce a demonstrative adjective like “this” or “that,” as in “this god” or “that god,” or the definite article “the,” as in “the god.”30 But of course, according to Aquinas, we cannot introduce 29 30 SCG I, ch. 12, no.7. Both here and in ST I, q.2, a.2, ad 2, Aquinas grants the objection that we do not know the essence of God and, so, cannot demonstrate God’s existence. But in ST, the response is different because the objection there had been the lack of a middle for demonstration if one did not know the essence. So, Thomas responds that “deum esse” is demonstrated through effects serving as the middle, and thus “demonstrando deum esse per effectum, accipere possumus pro medio quid significet hoc nomen deus”—that is what the word “god” means, its nominal definition or descriptive content. This is not quite true. One can simply use, for whatever reason, a common noun as a proper name of some individual. Consider a lion named Leo. One might respond to the question “who is the lion in the zoo? Samson?” by responding, “Leo is the lion.” In Latin that might be “Leo est leo,” although “Leo est” would be simpler. But in the Latin, the “Leo” there would be functioning as a proper name, not a definite description, even though “leo” is, in general, a common name in Latin; think also of the pope Leo the Great. An even more interesting example in this context is, “Adeodatus,” the name Augustine gave to his son. It is, as used by Augustine, a proper name, and it refers just like any other proper name refers, in no need of descriptive content to do so. And yet, it is a general description meaning “given by God.” Presumably Augustine would say that, as a general description, it applies to every human child. And yet it is made by him to function as a proper Can We Demonstrate that “God Exists”? 639 demonstrative adjectives like “this” and “that” in the case of God. To do so requires direct epistemic engagement with the being one refers to with the demonstrative, and that is not philosophically available to us concerning God in this valley of tears. We have to argue for the existence of a god from such a being’s effects.31 Well, why not “the god” then? First, notice that “a god exists” is semantically different from “the god exists.” If “a god” was already referential, it is difficult to see how the substitution of the definite article for the indefinite article in “the god” could make a difference to its content. Now, if I am a mathematician I can demonstrate that “there is a cube root of the number 27.” That existential statement is not referential. I can go on to demonstrate that “there is only one cube root of 27.” That is still not referential. But I can, having done these things, then engage in a referring act by introducing the definite article “the” in the description “the cube root of 27” and then assert that “the cube root of 27 is a prime number.” Because there is only one cube root of the number 27, my referring act is guaranteed of success—it will hit the target. Epistemically, I am justified in introducing the reference by the prior uniqueness proof. But the proof does not itself constitute the reference.32 The mistake is to think that I could then go on to demonstrate the existence of the cube root of 27. On the contrary, that there is a single cube root of 27 was presupposed to my referring act in introducing “the,” even if not referred to when I demonstrated that there is only one. By parity of reasoning, I have not demonstrated the existence of anything when I introduce “the god” as a referring phrase and say, 31 32 name. In that case, it loses its descriptive content as its meaning, although it may remain associated with that descriptive content. One could insist, by a parity of reasoning with the claim made about “god” above, that because it is a general description, “adeodatus” could only be used as a hidden definite description as applied to Augustine’s son. But then one would have to say that every use of “adeodatus” in the Confessions has to be understood as Augustine saying “the one given by god,” as if, unbelievably, he never gave his son a proper name. And yet, Augustine could say without triviality, “Adeodatus a deo datus.” See the Epilogue of this article, second 1, “On Whether Philosophers Prove deum esse, in which I respond to Fr. Sherwin’s example of the guide dog and his presupposition of direct acquaintance in the example. Although I do not know whether they would agree with the way I put it here, I am grateful to my colleagues Paddy Blanchette and Jeff Speaks for helping me think about the relationship between uniqueness proofs and the referential character of definite descriptions. 640 John O’Callaghan “the god exists,” even having first argued that there is only one god. I have presupposed that a god exists and that only one god exists in order to introduce the definite description “the god.” In such arguments, “the” introduces nothing new vis-à-vis the notion of existence at play within them. Now, let me be clear. Once the philosopher has introduced this referential act to “the god,” or better, “the one god,” he can then proceed to make statements that are about that one god. And because, in fact, that one god is identical to God, whatever the philosopher says about the one god is being said about God. However, the philosopher is speaking ignorantly about God when he says these things about the one god. Consider the parallel of an astronomer who does not know that Vesper is Lucifer. And yet he says many true things of Vesper. Well, because Vesper is Lucifer, whatever true thing he says about Vesper is truly said of Lucifer. However, he does not speak knowingly of Lucifer; he speaks knowingly of Vesper and ignorantly of Lucifer until he comes to understand that Lucifer is Vesper. Finally, what about “God exists,” using “god” now as a proper name? First, we have to address whether that use is not utterly incoherent, having argued above that “god” is not generally a proper name. I think it is clear that Aquinas thinks that the use of the term “deus” as a proper name is in some sense improper. Not faulty, but improper. Properly, like the term “sol,” it is a common term that is incommunicable according to res. But consider another grammatical phenomenon in Latin. How does a Latin speaker assert, “the sun rises in the east?” That English statement involves “the sun” acting referentially in place of a proper name, and to do so it modifies “sun” with the definite article “the.” But, not only does the Latin speaker not have an indefinite article like the English article “a,” he lacks a definite article like the English “the.” So, the Latin speaker, in order to say what the English speaker says with “the sun rises in the east,” will say, “Sol oritur in oriente.” Considered apart from context, that Latin sentence could be translated either as “a sun rises in the east” or as “the sun rises in the east.” Context makes it clear to the Latin speaker which statement is made. And, of course, the truth conditions for the two possible translations are different. The first requires that some sun or other rise in the east. The second has that truth condition, but adds the truth condition that there is only one sun. So, we know that the two statements are not equivalent. Similarly, “a god exists” has different truth conditions from “the god exists.” And as we have seen, both have different truth conditions from “God exists.” Can We Demonstrate that “God Exists”? 641 What the example of “sol” in “Sol oritur in oriente” shows is that the common term “sol,” which is not a nomen proprium, can be used as a proper name in a context, particularly in a context in which one thinks there is only one sun.33 In that respect, we might say its use is improprie, by which we do not mean faulty or incorrect, but just not ordinary. So, in a context in which one thinks there is only one god, it is also legitimate, if not ordinary, to use the term “deus” improprie, as if a nomen proprium. That is why it is not incoherent for Aquinas to use the term “deus” as a proper name in the context of the article on Faith when he speaks of believing that “God is such and such,” “believing God,” and “believing in God.” Good readers should and will pay attention to context. Now, because in English we have indefinite and definite articles, we do not ordinarily say such things as “sun rises in the east.” We say such things as “the sun rises in the east,” where the phrase “the sun” functions referentially in place of a proper name. Notice that we speak this way even though we now think Aquinas was wrong and that there are in fact many suns. But we do not speak falsely if we use “the sun,” since we think context determines the correctness of the use. Similarly, in English we may say, “God exists” even without the use of a definite article used in “the god exists.” This use is not incorrect or faulty, so long as we keep context in mind.34 And what is the context? Here a clear asymmetry between the philosopher and the theologian shows up. The theologian knows that 33 34 To insist otherwise—that is, to insist that “sol” cannot be used as a proper name—is to insist that Latin speakers could simply never use “sol” referentially on its own, lacking the definite article. In order to speak about the sun, they would always have had to use demonstrative adjectives, as in “this sun” (“hoc sol”) or “that sun” (“ipse sol”). But demonstrative adjectives function to distinguish referentially multiple instances of a kind from one another, a need no medieval Latin speaker like Aquinas would have felt. Consider again my earlier point in the footnotes about Augustine’s use of the general phrase “a deo datus” as the nomen proprie of his son, a general phrase that is strictly, speaking, no more a nomen proprie than either “sol” or “deus.” Indeed, it strikes me that this a prime instance in which an ordinary Christian would think it wrong to say that, in using the term “God,” he or she is really using a definite description. Consider the difference between saying to a friend who is close to despair, “the god loves you,” versus “God loves you,” or between saying, “the god is love,” versus “God is love.” It strikes me at least that there is a great difference between these two sets of statements in the lives of Christians. Consider a similar phenomenon appearing in the two statements “the mother loves you” and “Mother loves you.” Perhaps the latter pair is a better example for those who do not share Christian faith. 642 John O’Callaghan “God exists,” that “God is the just and merciful creator of all that exists other than himself originating all things, governing all things, redeeming all things.” She knows these things because God has revealed them and she believes God. Whether a theologian believes in God is another story. But she believes God. What her believing God allows the theologian to do is to consider what the philosopher has achieved with his demonstrations and ask, “is God the god of the philosophers?” And she can answer that question affirmatively because of what she knows of what God has revealed. We see Augustine engage in just this sort of identification when, in book VII of the Confessions, he identifies the one god of the Platonists with God whom he has come to know through revelation and in his heart.35 The philosophers argue that there is only one being that is the creator and originator of all things other than itself. The believing theologian knows that God is such because she believes God and believes that God has revealed these things. Therefore, the believing theologian concludes that “God is identical to the god of the philosophers.” But keep in mind that this conclusion is an identity statement that the theologian proves, not an existence statement. By showing that “God is identical to the god of the philosophers,” she has not shown that “God exists.” She has presupposed it. How does the philosopher fare on this same identity question, “God is identical to the god of the philosophers”? Nothing prevents the philosopher from intending to use the term “God” as the theologian uses it. In doing so, his ability to so intend is parasitical upon the referential use of the community of faith he relates himself to. Even an atheist can use the term in that fashion when he says in his heart “God does not exist,” just as someone who has never met Dave Brubeck can use the name as I do when he says, “I want to meet Dave Brubeck, because I do not believe that anyone can play the piano to soothe the savage breast,” only to be told, “that is too bad; Dave Brubeck is dead.” What the philosopher cannot do is simply attach the proper name “God,” as used by the believer, to the being he has referred to with the phrase “the one god” and then go on to assert that “the one god is God” or “God is identical to the god of the philosophers.” He needs to demonstrate that identity, just as the theologian must. That is, just like the theologian, the philosopher has to engage in an identity proof 35 I owe this point to Fred Crosson, “Reconsidering Aquinas as a Post-Liberal Theologian,” cited above. Can We Demonstrate that “God Exists”? 643 to demonstrate that “the one god is God.” But that he cannot do. Why? Because, formally, as a philosopher he does not accept as true for his arguments what has been revealed about God.36 To perform the identity demonstration, it is not sufficient just to intend to refer to the being the theologian refers to with the term “God.” For the philosopher intending to argue the identity proof, it is necessary to know to be true what the theologian holds true of God as revealed by God, at least those things the philosopher on his side of the Tiber has demonstrated of the one god. He then has to argue that those features believed by the theologian to be possessed by God are indeed identical to the features of the one god to which he is referring. But to know those things to be materially true of God, the philosopher would have to believe God—credere deum. God would have to be the formal object of his belief. In so doing, he would cease to be acting formally as a philosopher and would have taken up the cross of theology; anything he would prove from that point on would not be a philosophical demonstration. In that respect, it is worse for the philosopher than we thought. Not only can he not philosophically demonstrate the existence of God, as I claimed in the beginning. He cannot even philosophically demonstrate that what he talks about when he speaks of “the one god” is identical to God. He is like the astronomer who can do only dusk astronomy but not dawn astronomy. In addition, as I argued above about “the one god,” anything true that he says about the one god will be true of God, because God is the one god. And yet the philosopher’s saying of these things of God without knowing it will be nothing other than an expression of his ignorance of God. If you insist that he knows God because he knows the one god, at best we might credit him with an ignorant knowledge of God—an unknowing knowledge of God. As Aquinas had said, he does not even get that God exists. I’ll just stop now with the following summary statement. Philosophers prove nothing knowingly about God, and when they speak about the one god, they speak ignorantly about God. As a Thomistic philosopher, my advice to them would be to take Wittgenstein as their model—that about which they cannot speak, they ought to 36 At best, he could give a conditional proof along the lines of: “if the beliefs of the Christian are true, then . . .” But of course, that is not a demonstration in the sense enunciated at the beginning of the essay because it is precisely his not asserting the antecedent to be true that constitutes his formal unbelief as a philosopher. 644 John O’Callaghan remain silent. My advice to theologians who believe God and believe in God would be to use in their reflections whatever the philosophers ignorantly but truly say about God, but then take Augustine and his Confessions as a guide if they would knowingly lovingly speak of and N&V to God, believing in God. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 2 (2016): 645–652 645 Painted Ladies and the Witch of Endor: Response to John O’Callaghan’s “Can We Demonstrate that God Exists”? Michael S. Sherwin, O.P. University of Fribourg Fribourg, Switzerland Ralph McInerny , when he gave the Gifford Lectures in Glasgow, considered the difficulties for natural theology of recent developments in philosophy; the fruit of these lectures was his delightfully titled study, Characters in Search of Their Author.1 Essentially, that study considered attacks on the traditional proofs for the existence of God leveled by non-believers. In preparing those lectures, however, Professor McInerny was confirmed in his belief that a far more disturbing development was the rejection of Aquinas’s proofs by influential Catholic thinkers. He thus wrote his last work of philosophy, Praeambula fidei: Thomism and the God of the Philosophers, which he introduces by stating that he intended to treat “the negative attitude toward natural theology that is found among those one would have expected to be defenders of it.”2 Principal among those whom we would have expected to be defenders of it is Ralph’s dear and brilliant student and successor at the University of Notre Dame, Professor John O’Callaghan. What would Ralph say, if, like the witch of Endor, we had disturbed him from his merited rest, and brought him here to listen to Dr. O’Callaghan’s 1 2 Ralph McInerny, Characters in Search of Their Author: The Gifford Lectures, 1999–2000 (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2003). Ralph McInerny, Praeambula fidei: Thomism and the God of the Philosophers (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2006), ix. 646 Michael S. Sherwin, O.P. frightful affirmation that: “the statement God exists is not subject to a deductively valid argument that proceeds from premises that do not employ elements of divine revelation”? Would Ralph furiously revise his work, tearfully to include his wayward intellectual son among his rogues gallery of rejecters? I hesitate to say that he would, especially since Professor McInerny, as a careful listener, would invite us to ask: what exactly is being rejected? First, let us consider what Professor O’Callaghan is not rejecting. He holds that the philosopher can demonstrate that a god exists (and that this is what Aquinas does in the second question of the first part of the Summa theologiae, in his famous five ways).3 Next, he further holds that the philosopher can demonstrate that there is only one God (and that this is what Aquinas does in question 11 of the Prima pars).4 Although some will be surprised to learn that the five ways do not prove that there is only one God, but merely that a god exists, this is entirely in line with the best Thomistic scholarship. As Fr. Larry Dewan has recently written, when we seek to know whether something exists “before asking: ‘is there only one or are there many?’ we must ask: ‘is it a sort-of-thing to be found in reality?’”5 Thus, Aquinas’s five ways present “five avenues, five pathways, in humanly experienced reality that conclude to the existence of a god.”6 We might ask, therefore, if the philosophers can discover that a god exists and that this god is the only god, where is the problem? The problem arises when we ask whether we are employing the word “God” as a common term or as a proper name. Thus far in the argument, virtually all Thomists would agree that Aquinas employs the word “god” as a common term: as Aquinas himself affirms, it denotes a nature that, at least logically, could be shared by other members of that nature.7 (It was thus not logically nonsensical for the patriarch 3 4 5 6 7 Summa theologiae (henceforth, ST) I, q. 2, a. 3; see Sancti Thomae de Aquino, Summa theolgiae, ed. Petrus Caramello (Taurini, IT: Marietti, 1952). All English translations are my own, although I always consult the Benziger brothers edition, which is called the translation of “The Fathers of the English Dominican Province,” but which is actually entirely the translation Fr. Laurence Shapcote. ST I, q. 11, a. 3. Lawrence Dewan, “The Existence of God: Can It Be Demonstrated?” Nova et Vetera (English) 10 (2012): 749. Dewan, “The Existence of God,” 751. ST I, q. 13, a. 8: “hoc nomen deus . . . impositum est ad significandum divinam naturam [this name ‘God’ is imposed to signify the divine nature].” In the sed contra of this article, Aquinas quotes Ambrose as his authority: “deus est Response to John O’Callaghan 647 Jacob, in Gen 35:2–3, to tell his family to put away the foreign gods that were among them and go make sacrifice to the God that had saved him, even though later his decedents would learn from the prophets, such as Isa 37:18–20, that the gods of the heathens are not.)8 Professor O’Callaghan, therefore, is uncontroversial when he affirms that, when philosophers (including Aquinas in the early questions of the Summa theologiae) speak of a god that they recognize to be the only god, they employ the word “god” as a common term. The controversy begins when he turns to the believers’ affirmation of faith in God. Specifically, he advances that, when believers affirm that God exists, they are employing the term “god” as a proper name, and thus the non-believing philosopher (or the believer reasoning philosophically) cannot demonstrate that “God exists” because God, in this sense, is only known by means of revelation and in the act of faith. But why should this be the case? Why should we hold that the believer employs “God” as a proper name? Should we not rather hold, as Peter Geach and Elizabeth Anscombe do, that even here, the believer employs “god” as a common term? (For Geach, “god” is a “descriptive term,” or more precisely, as Miss Anscombe explains, the believer employs it as “a definite description.”)9 8 9 nomen naturae” (Ambrose, De fide 1.1. 7 [Migne, Patrologiae Cursus Completus: Series Latina, 16:530; henceforth, PL], as cited by Peter Lombard in I Sent. d. 2, q. 4, a. 1). See also Aquinas’s Roman Commentary on the Sentences, d. 2, q. 3, a. 1, resp.: “Quantum ergo ad id a quo imponitur hoc nomen ‘Deus’ est nomen operationis; quantum vero ad id ad quod significandum imponitur est nomen naturae divinae” (Therefore, concerning that from which it is applied, this name ‘God’ is the name of an operation; while concerning that toward the signifying of which it is applied, it is the name of the divine nature)”; see Lectura Romana in primum Sententiarum Petri Lombardi, edited from Oxford, Lincoln College MS Lat. 95, ed. Leonard E. Boyle and John F. Boyle (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 2006), 102. See also the Psalms, where the Lord is described as “the God of gods” (Pss 84:7 and 136:2). See Peter Geach, “On Worshipping the Right God” in God and the Soul (London: Routledge and K. Paul, 1969), 108–109, and G. E. M. Anscombe, “Faith” in Ethics, Religion and Politics: Collected Philosophical Papers, Volume III (Oxford, UK: Blackwell, 1981), 119. Anscombe’s argument is worth quoting: “God is not the god of such-and-such a worship. This is something that can be seen by an atheist too, even though he holds that there is in any case no such thing as deity. For he can see, if he thinks about it, that ‘God’ is not a proper name but is equivalent to a ‘definite description’ (in the technical sense). That is, it is equivalent to ‘the one and only true god,’ ‘the one and only real deity.’ The point of putting in ‘true’ and ‘real’ is that those who 648 Michael S. Sherwin, O.P. A full engagement with Professor O’Callaghan’s thesis (that the believer employs God as a proper name) would require tracing the full genealogy of discussions in analytic philosophy concerning descriptivist theories of naming. We would have to begin with Russell’s and Frege’s theories about proper names, look at Kripke’s and Putnam’s criticisms of them and trace our way up to thinkers such as David Chalmers.10 Mercifully, we do not have space for this. Instead, I propose to go to the heart of the question by offering an analogous example for our consideration. But first, let us look at Professor O’Callaghan’s argument more closely. To defend his view, he draws our attention to Aquinas’s analysis of Augustine’s influential formulation of the three aspects of belief 10 believe there is only one deity have so much occasion to speak of deities that they do not believe to exist. We then speak of Apollo, Shiva and Juggernaut as gods who are not gods. An atheist believes that God is among the gods who are not gods, because he believes that nothing is a deity. But he should be able to recognize the identity of ‘God’ with ‘the one and only god.’ It is because of this equivalence that God cannot be formally identified as the god of such-and-such a cult or such-and-such a people” (Anscombe, “Faith,” 119). Brian Davies attributes this view to Aquinas, underlining its importance for Trinitarian theology: “I would like to emphasize that Aquinas never thinks of ‘God’ as a proper name. Plenty of people do just that, assuming that ‘God’ is God’s name as ‘Brian’ is my name. And when doing so they inevitably end up talking as though God were a (nameable) person—a ‘person without a body’ in the words of Richard Swinburne. But Aquinas is not of their mind. For him, ‘God’ is a nomen naturae (the name of a nature). ‘The word “God” is used to signify the divine nature,’ he says (ST, I, q. 13, a. 8). In other words, Aquinas takes ‘God’ to signify whatever has the divine nature (as we might take ‘gold’ to signify whatever is gold). So Aquinas is happy to ask whether more than one thing can be described as ‘God,’ as he does in his discussions of the doctrine of the Trinity (which he does not take to assert that God is three persons in one person called ‘God’). If you think that ‘God’ is a proper name, you are going to have real problems with the doctrine of the Trinity since you will have to take it to be holding that the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit are all one thing whose proper name is God, which conflicts with orthodox Trinitarian doctrine as found in the teaching of the Council of Nicaea and in subsequent texts. But Aquinas is not involved in such conflict. For he does not, as one might put it, think of ‘God’ as the name of the Top Person around”; see Brian Davies, “Aquinas and Atheism,” in The Oxford Handbook of Atheism, ed. Stephen Bullivant and Michael Ruse (Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 2014), 122. For an overview of the principal theories concerning naming in the Anglo-American tradition of analytic philosophy, see Sam Cumming, “Names,” in The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Spring 2013), ed. Edward N. Zalta (http://plato.stanford.edu/archives/spr2013/entries/names). Response to John O’Callaghan 649 in God: credere deum, credere deo, and credere in deum (which O’Callaghan translates as: “believing that God is such and such,” “believing God,” and “believing in God”).11 He notes that, when Aquinas responds to the objection that these three acts cannot be integral to Christian faith, since infidels seem capable of “believing that God is such and such” (credere deum), Aquinas responds that infidels do not truly believe that “God is such and such,” for they do not assent to God’s existence “under the conditions which faith determines.”12 As O’Callaghan notes, Aquinas bolsters his view by drawing on Aristotle’s authority that “in simple things a defect in knowledge means you do not grasp the thing at all.”13 Surprisingly, O’Callaghan interprets this to mean that, for Aquinas, the infidel knows nothing about this God. In fact, 11 12 13 ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2. The threefold formulation is actually from Peter Lombard (III Sent. d. 23, q. 4), but is drawn from several different places where Augustine expresses the basic ideas contained in the Lombard’s reformulation. The fullest expression is found a Sermon (Augustine, Sermones 144.2; see PL, 38: 788): “it makes a great deal of difference whether someone believes that Jesus is the Christ (credat ipsum Christum), or whether he believes in Christ (credat in Christum). . . . You believe in Christ (credit in Christum), you see, when you both hope in Christ and love Christ. Because if you have faith without hope and without love, you believe that he is the Christ, but you don’t believe in Christ (Christum esse credit, non in Christum credit)”; see Augustine, Sermons III/4 (94A–147A) on the New Testament, trans. Edmund Hill with notes, ed. John E. Rotelle (Brooklyn, NY: New City Press, 1992), 431. Augustine offers a similar reflection, which also introduces the third element (of believing what God says), when commenting on Psalm 77 (Enarrationes in Ps. 77.8; see PL, 36: 988): “This is believing in God (credere in Deum), and it is a great deal more than believing what God says (credere Deo). . . . To believe in God (credere in Deum) is to cling by faith to God who effects the good works in such a way that we collaborate well with him. . . . The generation of whose example we are warned to beware . . . may have believed some of what God said, but they did not believe in god (etsi aliqua credidit Deo, non tamen credidit in Deum). They did not cleave to God by faith so as to be healed by him and become effective collaborators with the God who was at work in them”; see Augustine, Expositions of the Psalms III/18 [73–98], trans. Maria Boulding with notes, ed. John E. Rotelle (Brooklyn, NY: New City Press, 2002), 98. See also Augustine, De symbolo ad cathechumenos 1 (PL, 40: 1190). For a fuller treatment of these aspects of faith in Augustine, see Eugene TeSelle, “Faith,” in Augustine Through the Ages: An Encyclopedia, ed. Allan Fitzgerald (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, 2009), 347–350. ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3: “credere deum non convenit infidelibus sub ea ratione qua ponitur actus fidei. Non enim credunt deum esse sub his conditionibus quas fides determinat.” Ibid.: “Et ideo nec vere deum credunt, quia, ut philosophus dicit, IX metaphys. 10 (1051b30), in simplicibus defectus cognitionis est solum in non attingendo totaliter.” 650 Michael S. Sherwin, O.P. however, Aquinas’s claim is more limited: his argument simply asserts that the infidels do not have faith in God. He nowhere asserts that they do not have demonstrable knowledge of God.14 This, at least, is how I read the text, and I would like to illustrate it with a very San Franciscan example. Let us suppose that you are living in one of the beautiful Victorian houses on Alamo Square known as the “painted ladies.” Let us further suppose that, every afternoon a beautiful black labrador retriever squeezes under your neighbor’s fence and frolics in your garden for a few minutes before returning home. Now, although the dog has no nametag, over the weeks you get to know a lot about the dog by observing his behavior: he’s a black lab with white paws and a friendly disposition. There is no faith involved here: you have evident and demonstrable knowledge of him, even though, in your interactions with him, you just call him by the generic term “dog.” Let us also suppose that you have never met the dog’s owner (since he only moved in a few weeks before) and that he is, in fact, blind. Unbeknownst to you, the dog is a guide dog for the blind: a welltrained and professional working dog. With regard to that aspect of the dog, you are ignorant. Let us now consider—if you will bear with me—the neighbor on the other side of the house: she is a shut in, who has never seen either the owner or his dog, but is well informed about neighborhood business from her childhood friend who lives across the square. This lady, although she has never seen the dog, believes (from the detailed reports from her friend) that there is a guide dog for the blind next door. Let us consider the two cases: the lady has faith that there is a dog next door, a dog that she knows a lot about, a black labrador retriever with white paws that is a guide dog for the blind. You, on the other hand, have knowledge, demonstrable knowledge, about the black lab with white paws, but you have no faith or even an inkling that the dog is a guide dog. Your situation is analogous to that of Aquinas’s infidel: your faulty cognition is absolute—you do not have faith in what you do not know anything about. The 14 In his commentary on this passage, T. C. O’Brien invites the reader to “note the point implicit here that while by natural reason the truth of the proposition ‘God exists’ can be known, such knowledge does not reach God in his own being (see ST I, q. 3, a. 4, ad 2); truly to believe does mean, as ST I, q. 1 and q. 2 makes clear, an act that terminates, in its own way, in God himself; see ST I, q. 8, a. 3”; see Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae: Latin text and English translation, Introduction, Notes, Appendices and Glossaries: Faith [2a2ae. 1–7] (London: Blackfriars, 1974), 31:68n1. Response to John O’Callaghan 651 conditions that determine the lady’s faith, and thus her fuller knowledge of the dog, are not present to you. Thus, you do not believe. The dog, however, is the same in each case. Moreover, we use the word “dog” in the same way in each case: when you talk about the dog and when she talks about the dog, you are both using the word in the same way, even though her knowledge is fuller. Fr. Dewan helpfully reminds us of the Thomistic and Aristotelian principle that, concerning the meaning of words, “the usage of the multitude is to be followed.”15 This is as true for gods as it is for dogs. The pagans can arrive at demonstrable knowledge that God exists, but they do not believe he exists because they do not have intimate knowledge of his triune life or of the redemptive mission of his son; belief comes with the grace of faith. Nevertheless, even for the believer, “God” is only a common and descriptive term because our God remains a mystery.16 Aquinas quotes Paul to express this: “we speak the wisdom of God in a mystery that is hidden” (1 Cor 2:7).17 Aquinas elsewhere summarizes this beautifully when he affirms that, even though, by revelation and in the gift of faith, we know profound and beautiful things about God, things that surpass reason’s ability to discover, we are nonetheless—in this life—united to God “as to one unknown.”18 This leads me to a concluding consideration of what I believe to be the underlying insight that guides Professor O’Callaghan’s analysis, an insight that any theologian in the Thomistic tradition would celebrate. The philosopher’s discoveries can lead him to the gates of the Temple, but cannot guide him in; he stands at the threshold. The God he has discovered, he has not yet come to know; he awaits an introduction, an invitation to intimacy: “to believe, we must be drawn by the 15 16 17 18 Dewan, “The Existence of God,” 750. Summa contra gentiles I, ch. 1, no. 2: “Multitudinis usus, quem in rebus nominandis sequendum philosophus censet, communiter obtinuit ut sapientes dicantur qui res directe ordinant et eas bene gubernant (The usage of the multitude, which the Philosopher holds [Topics II, ch. 1 (109a27–29)] is to be followed in the naming of things, has commonly held that they are to be called ‘wise’ who order things rightly and govern them well”). Lectura Romana in primum Sententiarum Petri Lombardi, d. 2, q. 3, a. 1, ad 3: “licet per hoc nomen ‘Deus’ non intelligamus de Deo quid est, intelligamus de eo quid non est; et ideo ad significandum istam naturam ignotam imponimus ei istud nomen (Although by this name ‘God’ we do not understand what God is, we understand from it what he is not, and therefore we apply this name to him to signify this unknown nature)” (ed. Boyle and Boyle). ST I, q. 32, a. 1. ST I, q. 12, a. 13, ad 1: “sic ei quasi ignoto coniungamur.” 652 Michael S. Sherwin, O.P. Father.”19 Josef Pieper once observed that the vocation of the Christian philosopher is not to offer arguments based on revelation, but to help contemporary philosophers remain open in their arguments and in their reflections to the unfathomable and inexhaustible mystery of the natural world.20 This requires love. Jacques Maritain, toward the end of his life, reflected that “Unless one loves the truth, one is not a man. And to love the truth is to love it above everything, because we know that Truth is God Himself.”21 Ralph McInerny comments approvingly on this passage.22 In spite of his many disagreements with Maritain, McInerny offers a moving appreciation of him as someone with whom he would have loved to argue and to spend an evening. Indeed, Professor McInerny invites us to reflect: “How many modern or contemporary philosophers would one want to be alone with in an elevator, let alone in conversation for half an hour?”23 In Maritain, by contrast, “one encounters a person of whom one can say: How I would like to be like that! For it is a question of being as much as or more than knowing.”24 This, I suspect, is what Ralph would say to his disciple were he here to follow Professor O’Callaghan’s argument: I do not agree with you, John, but I would spend an evening in argument with N&V you anytime. 19 20 21 22 23 24 Super Ioan 6, lec. 5 (Marietti no. 940): “ad fidem necessaria est nobis attractio patris.” In his Commentary on the Gospel of John, Aquinas develops a theology of how God, through the humanity of Christ and the action of the Spirit, draws the unbeliever to faith in him. See especially his portrayal of Christ’s encounter with the Samaritan woman in Super Ioan, 4, lec. 1–5 (568–663). Josef Pieper, “Philosophy and the Sense for Mystery,” in For Love of Wisdom: Essays on the Nature of Philosophy, ed. Berthold Wald, trans. Roger Wasserman (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2006), 307–309. Jacques Maritain, The Peasant of the Garonne: An Old Layman Questions Himself about the Present Time, trans. Michael Cuddihy and Elizabeth Hughes (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1968), 85; cited in Ralph McInerny, The Very Rich Hours of Jacques Maritain: A Spiritual Life (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2003), 203. McInerny, Very Rich Hours of Jacques Maritain, 203–204. Ibid., 211. Ibid. McInerny continues: “Wasn’t this the genius of Maritain’s treatment of the question of Christian philosophy? Arguments are won or lost, critics obtuse or otherwise are constant; our grasp of truth even after a long lifetime brings the awareness of how little one knows” (ibid.). Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 2 (2016): 653–658 653 Epilogue: Reply to Michael S. Sherwin’s Response, “Painted Ladies and the Witch of Endor” John O’Callaghan University of Notre Dame Notre Dame, Indiana Having received the response of Fr. Michael Sherwin, O.P., to his paper, Prof. O’Callaghan, in the period after the Colloquium, during which he prepared his paper for publication, included two extended footnotes in reply to certain points made by Fr. Sherwin. They are reproduced below. –Fr. Bryan Kromholtz, O.P. On “god” as a Proper Name For simplicity’s sake and the flavor of the talk as presented, I have retained the claim that God is a proper name in the context of article 2 of the first question of the Prima Pars of the Summa theologiae.1 In his comments on this paper at the Dominican Colloquium in Berkeley, California, Fr. Michael Sherwin OP correctly pointed out that a number of important figures maintain that the apparent use of the term “god” as a proper name in relevant contexts of Christian belief is really a hidden definite description for something like “the one true god,” “the one and only true god,” or “the real god.” He mentioned works by Elizabeth Anscombe and Peter Geach, as well as Brian Davies.2 1 2 See my “Can We Demonstrate That ‘God Exists’?” pp. 619–644 at note 11. Peter Geach, “On Worshipping the Right God” in God and the Soul (London: Routledge and K. Paul, 1969), 108–109; G. E. M. Anscombe, “Faith” in Ethics, Religion and Politics: Collected Philosophical Papers, vol.3 (Oxford, UK: Blackwell, 1981), 119; and Brian Davies, “Aquinas and Atheism,” in 654 John O’Callaghan Anscombe and Geach are concerned with the semantics of the term “god,” that it is not a proper name but, rather, a definite description in those contexts of use they have in mind. Davies has another concern, namely, that to use “god” as a proper name inevitably leads to theological error concerning Christian Trinitarian belief. He asserts that to use it as a proper name is to use it like the name “Brian,” the name of a person, which inevitably leads to theological error concerning the Trinity. It can lead to the thought that there is some one being that is a person with the attributes of a person in conflict with the Trinitarian doctrines that there are three divine persons who are one god. A quick way to see his point is that one might think from the use of the term “god” as a proper name that there are the three persons of the Trinity, then there is another person “God,” and then the three persons of the Trinity are identical with this one person, God, with the result that three persons are identical to one person. And so he claims that Aquinas “never” uses it as a proper name. Father Sherwin’s point is well taken with regard to both Anscombe’s and Geach’s semantic point and Davies’ theological point. I hope to address it at length in a more worked-out version of this paper. For now, as to Davies’ point, Davies is making a sociological-cum-psychological point about the tendency of those who use the term “God” as a proper name. He is not making a semantic point. Semantically, a proper name need not be the proper name of a person. And so, the assimilation of “god” as a proper name to “Brian” as a proper name of a person, while it may be a theological danger, is not a semantic necessity. So, the fact that using it as a proper name may lead to theological error does not imply that it will do so, any more than calling a star “Sirius” implies that one with the appropriate astronomical knowledge will make errors about it, treating it as a person. One simply has to be careful to use the term against the background of and guided by the theological truths one affirms about the Trinity. As to the semantic point made by Anscombe and Geach, I would remark briefly that I do not think it actually undermines the point of this paper. First, it seems to be in conflict with Davies’ point. If they think it is a hidden definite description, it is functioning just as referentially as is “god” used as a proper name. Indeed, more so, since now it functions as part of a referring phrase with descriptive content, the descriptive content that whatever individual is being referred to has The Oxford Handbook of Atheism, ed. Stephen Bullivant and Michael Ruse (Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 2014), 122. Reply to Michael S. Sherwin’s Response 655 the characteristics of a god, among which would presumably be life, intelligence, and will, in short, a person. Second, it is not obvious to me that “god” is always used as a definite description, nor do I think that claim follows from what Anscombe and Geach pointed out. As I point out in my essay that begins on page 619 of this issue, it is often used simply predicatively and generally as a common noun, certainly a point Anscombe, Geach, and Davies would all grant. It cannot be used as an element of a definite description unless it has a predicative use. Third, it strikes me that whatever theological problems might attend its use as a proper name (which is Davies’ worry) from a strictly semantic point of view, speakers quite often do use it as a proper name, both in common speech and technical philosophical and theological discourse as well. Consider a believer’s statement that “God is the one true god.” Is that a trivial claim like “the one true god is the one true god?” It does not strike me as such. Does it strike Jews, Muslims, and Christians as such? Consider also “I do not believe in God.” That grammatical string means something quite different if, for instance, one is a contemporary atheist addressing a contemporary theist in either ordinary language or the philosophy of religion, in which ‘God’ looks like a proper noun, from what it means if one is an historic polytheist engaging an early Christian or Jew. After all, the polytheist using “god” as a definite description in the way the early Christian or Jew may be using it is simply denying that there is only one true god, as the Jew or Christian claims, because in fact there are many true gods. Presumably the contemporary atheist is denying something other than and quite different from that there is only one true god. The contemporary atheist is using the term to deny that the being theists—Jews, Muslims, and Christians—believe exists does, in fact, exist. He is using it referentially and as a proper name because they use it as a proper name, and his denial is different from the polytheist’s denial because their assertion is different from and more than the assertion that there is only one true god. Fourth, as for its use in Aquinas’s work, given the referential use of a definite description in which it can substitute for a proper name, it is not at all clear to me just exactly how one would go about showing that Aquinas always uses it as a definite description and never as a proper name when he is not using it as a general predicate. Just consider the question on faith I mention in my essay that begins on page 619. Is the point of the question really best understood by substituting “the one and only true god” for every instance of “god” that occurs non-pred- 656 John O’Callaghan icatively within it? I do not know. And certainly I do not know the answer to that if one considers the entirety of Aquinas’s writings. It is worth keeping in mind that while polytheism was a theoretical position for Aquinas and his theological contemporaries to consider in ordinary life and religious practice with its discourse it was not a live possibility. Finally, the point I will make in what follows does not actually hang on the notion of a proper name as such, but, rather, specifically on the referential character of proper names. So, if the definite description is used referentially it will suffer from the same problems I intend to raise on the simpler case of “god” used as a proper name. Keep in mind that a definite description need not be used referentially, since the standard formalization of it in the predicate calculus will not employ any referring terms (as for example the formalization of “the present king of France is bald” will involve no referring terms). It may be used referentially, but it need not be. On Whether Philosophers Prove “deum esse” Here in his remarks on the paper at the conference,3 Fr. Sherwin seemed to agree with me that Aristotle counts as an “unbeliever” for the purposes of ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 2. He seemed to disagree, however, with my claim that, when a philosopher like Aristotle proves deum esse, he is not proving that God exists. He distinguished between two senses of “deum esse,” the sense it has when proven by the philosopher, in which case presumably “deus” is used as a definite description consistent with his earlier point about Anscombe and Geach, and the sense “deum esse” has when used by the believer. According to Fr. Sherwin, here too “deus” appears to be a definite description, but a quite different definite description than the one Anscombe and Geach have in mind, because according to him, “deus” seems to be a definite description that involves the descriptive content “triune life and . . . redemptive mission of his son.” In fact, now for the believer, “deum esse” is not a simple existence claim, as it appeared to be in the objection. Recall that the objection grants that the unbeliever can believe “deum esse,” and the sense of the claim is that, in doing so, that is a very minimal thing to believe. But as Fr. Sherwin would have it, “deum esse” as uttered by the philosopher and as uttered by the believer mean two quite different propositions involving two quite different subject 3 See my “Can We Demonstrate That God Exists?” above, at note. 17. Reply to Michael S. Sherwin’s Response 657 phrases in the sentences that express them. “Deus” simply means something different for the unbelieving philosopher than for the believer. But then I would respond that Aquinas’s response appears to be trivial. On this construal, it is simply asserting that the unbelieving philosopher does not believe that “the god whose life is triune involving the redemptive mission of his son exists.” But what does the latter amount to? Not being a simple existence claim that a particular being exists, “deum esse” as expressed by the believer broadly means or implies “the faith is true.” And of course no one thinks the unbeliever gets that, that “the faith is true,” including the unbeliever who otherwise demonstrates “deum esse.” That is why he is called an unbeliever. And we knew that about the philosopher qua philosopher from the beginning of the Summa, where Aquinas had argued that such articles of faith as the triune character of God and the Incarnation as the presupposition of Christ’s redemptive mission are not subject to philosophical demonstration. In addition, Fr. Sherwin’s response simply begs the question by asserting that the philosopher does demonstrate that “God exists,” whether or not “God” is being used there as a proper name (me) or a definite description (Anscombe and Geach) but not the definite description of the believer (Fr. Sherwin). The charming example Fr. Sherwin employed involving a guide dog not named but known by observation to one homeowner as a dog, but not as a guide dog, and known also to another shut-in homeowner who, rather, knows it is a guide dog by testimony, is not pertinent to my argument. It is not pertinent precisely because in the example the first homeowner, who stands in for the philosopher, has knowledge of the dog by acquaintance, seeing it frolic around the backyard, which is precisely what no philosopher qua philosopher ever has of God, particularly according to Aquinas. Philosophers have knowledge of God by effects distinct from God. To address my argument, Fr. Sherwin would need to come up with an example in which the first homeowner cannot possibly have knowledge by acquaintance with the dog, but argues instead from certain effects that there is a dog and only one dog. He would then need to explain how such an argument demonstrates that the dog known by testimony to the shut-in exists. Finally, Fr. Sherwin suggested that the reason even the believer must use “god” as a definite description is that God remains a mystery to us even in belief. It is certainly true that God remains a mystery to those who have belief in this life. However, since both a proper name 658 John O’Callaghan and a definite description would be used referentially in the context we are discussing, it is rather the case that the definite description removes more mystery from its referent than the simple use of a proper name, since the definite description has descriptive content not had by the proper name. Vis-à-vis mystery, there is more mystery to “Aristotle wrote On Generation and Corruption” than there is with “the greatest student of Plato, teacher of Alexander, and author of the Physics wrote On Generation and Corruption.” In that respect, the simple use of a proper name protects the mystery of its referent rather better than a definite description used in its place. N&V Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 2 (2016): 659–673 659 Not a Miracle: Our Knowledge of God’s Signs and Wonders Anselm Ramelow, O.P. Dominican School of Philosophy & Theology Berkeley, California Perhaps more than in other religions, miracles play an essential role in the Christian faith, most particularly the Resurrection. But miracles have attracted not only the attention of believers and theologians, but also of philosophers. This is the case especially since David Hume’s objections against our ability to recognize miracles even if they occur. In this article, I wish to show that it is possible to know that miracles have taken place if we include further philosophical considerations and scientific methods. Science and historiography can recognize the occurrence of miracles on their own principles, if only they are sufficiently and properly articulated. Miracles as Intersection of Faith and Reason The phenomenon of miracles constitutes one of the most obvious intersections of faith and reason: since miracles are to provide evidence for the authenticity of revelation and therefore faith, they cannot yet rely on an appeal to faith. In fact, faith itself sends us back to reason, for it is the defined faith of the Church that we can know miracles by reason. The First Vatican Council teaches: In order that the obedience of our faith might be in harmony with reason, God willed that to the interior help of the Holy Spirit there should be joined exterior proofs of his revelation; to wit, divine facts, and especially miracles and prophecies, which, as they manifestly display the omnipotence and infinite knowl- 660 Anselm Ramelow, O.P. edge of God, are most certain proofs of his divine revelation, adapted to the intelligence of all men.1 To put it paradoxically: by faith we are not fideists. The Church herself sends us out to investigate reasons to believe. This is risky, but necessary. These reasons to believe include evidence for miracles that authenticate faith. We cannot base our belief in miracles on the authority of the Church because that authority is itself authenticated by miracles. In fact, the whole of Christianity is based on the miracles and signs that Jesus worked in his life, but most fundamentally on the miracles of the Incarnation and the Resurrection. Even while faith is a gift of grace, belief in these events must be reasonable. This is denied not only by modern fideists, but also by David Hume, who hopes “to confound those dangerous friends or disguised enemies to the Christian Religion, who have undertaken to defend it by the principles of human reason.” He continues: Our most holy religion is founded on Faith, not on reason . . . So that, upon the whole, we may conclude, that the Christian Religion not only was at first attended with miracles, but even at this day cannot be believed by any reasonable person without one. Mere reason is insufficient to convince us of its veracity: And whoever is moved by Faith to assent to it, is conscious of a continued miracle in his own person, which subverts all the principles of his understanding, and gives him a determination to believe what is most contrary to custom and experience.2 In spite of some pious rhetoric, Hume is quite conscious that he is attacking the very heart of Christianity, which is both a religion of reason and, at the same time, a religion of miracles.3 No other religion 1 2 3 First Vatican Council, Dei Filius (1870), ch. 3, “De Fide,” which continues: “Wherefore, both Moses and the Prophets, most especially, Christ our Lord himself, showed forth many and most evident miracles and prophecies; and of the Apostles we read: ‘But they going forth preached everywhere, the Lord working withal, and confirming the word with signs that followed’ (Mark 16:20).” David Hume, An Inquiry Concerning Human Understanding, Sect. X, “Of Miracles,” part II, nos. 100 f., ed. L. A. Selby-Bigge (Oxford, UK: Clarendon Press, 1975), 129–131. Hume himself reports that he had realized this in a conversation with a Jesuit at La Flèche; see John Earman, Hume’s Abject Failure (Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 2000), 6. Not a Miracle: Our Knowledge of God’s Signs and Wonders 661 claims more miracles than Christianity, which is itself based on the fact of God’s unique intervention in history. No doubt, faith will make the believer more susceptible to the acceptance of miracles. But if that faith is in turn reasonable, then this would only imply that the believer has a background knowledge that makes it easier for him to recognize a miracle. Just as a physician will be trained to recognize the symptoms of beginning diabetes and therefore recognize it more quickly than a lay person, so a believer might have a better training in recognizing miracles.4 Still, a miracle must be recognizable to unbelievers as well, and the believer can and must make available criteria for non-believers to recognize the miracle, provided they in turn are open to the evidence.5 The Church herself is extremely cautious with regard to miracle claims and requires scientific evidence provided by scientists who are not necessarily themselves believers. This is part of the regular procedures of canonization processes, as well as of the investigations of apparitions, healings and other occurrences. Hence the medical committees of places like Lourdes include atheist doctors who, by virtue of the evidence, can state that no natural explanation of a particular healing is possible.6 Hume’s Challenge Hume, on the other hand, questions the very possibility of making precisely these kinds of investigations. Hume is often taken to claim that miracles are impossible because they would constitute a violation of the laws of nature. The implied premise of such a claim would be that it is metaphysically or physically impossible that such a violation 4 5 6 Swinburne gives the example of our recognition of the existence of the greatest prime number. Without contact with Western mathematics, we would not know that there are prime numbers, yet it is true and rational nevertheless. Likewise, the Christian faith helps with the recognition of miracles, but this help does not exclude a purely rational basis of that recognition. See Richard Swinburne, The Existence of God (Oxford, UK: Clarendon Press, 2004), 291. That is, it is not required that we are able to convince unbelievers against their will. Nor does it imply that the unbeliever grants better vision to the believer. But it does in turn imply an epistemological obligation on the side of the non-believer to withhold belief only where it is reasonable, and in extreme cases to revise his background assumptions or question his own motivations for disbelief. See Winfried Corduan, “Recognizing a Miracle,” in In Defense of Miracles, ed. R. Douglas Geivett and Gary R. Habermas (Downers Grove, IL.: InterVarsity, 1997), 99–111, at 107. Craig S. Keener, Miracles: The Credibility of the New Testament Accounts, 2 vols. (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2011), 2:677. 662 Anselm Ramelow, O.P. can occur. This, however, is not the claim of David Hume, but that of Baruch Spinoza.7 And it is not this argument that I wish to engage. I will take it for granted that the universe needs a first cause and that this first cause is a person who cares enough to intervene for the sake of certain of his creatures that share with him reason and free will. Neither does Hume dispute this claim in his essay on miracles. His objection is made on purely epistemological grounds and has since then generated the most protracted debates and arguments. Hume’s argument is not that the laws of nature cannot be violated—he would not be able to make this argument, since he himself is famously skeptical about any evidence for the very fact of causality in nature. According to Hume, we only observe regularities, not causality. And we call these observed regularities “laws of nature.” These regularities, however, are enough for Hume to make it impossible for us ever to have enough evidence for a miracle. In other words, Hume does not necessarily question the possibility of miracles. What he questions is our ability to know that they have occurred, even if it were the case that they happened.8 Establishing the actuality of a miracle is, for him, just a matter of weighing the evidence, and he claims that the evidence for the factuality of a miracle will never add up to certainty or even probability. The reason is that miracles are by definition improbable. The laws of nature that they violate have been established by the repeated testimony of our senses and have the common observations of past humanity in their favor. A miracle contradicts this previous testimony. It might be attested by only one or few sightings. As an interruption of the laws and as an exception, the miracle is rare. By definition, therefore, the factuality of a miracle is always less probable than the law of nature; thus its occurrence cannot be established or be made probable.9 7 8 9 See also Peter Millican, “Twenty Questions about Hume’s ‘Of Miracles,’” Royal Institute of Philosophy Supplement 68 (2011): 151–192, at no. 10f. By contrast, Newton and Boyle appeal to miracles as an apologetic argument. There might be stronger implications, however: since God does not perform miracles for himself, but for us, miracles that cannot be recognized would be non-sense. As R. F. Holland notes, religious significance, admiratio, and a form of revelation are essential to miracles; see Holland “The Miraculous,” in Miracles, ed. Richard Swinburne (New York: Macmillan, 1989), 53–69, at 58. It would then be analytically part of being a miracle that it can be noticed. Hume, therefore, by implication, questions the very possibility of miracles as well. J. Earman, himself not a Christian and skeptical about miracle claims, argues that Hume’s contemporaries had already made better arguments than Hume Not a Miracle: Our Knowledge of God’s Signs and Wonders 663 To make matters worse, many miracle claims involve historical cases of which we know only the documents that have been handed down to us. Again, even if these documentary witnesses are trustworthy (which Hume denies), they always provide less evidence in favor of the miracles than the laws that they break. Anthony Flew reinforces Hume’s argument by pointing to the fact that scientific laws can still be tested and confirmed here and now. The miraculous event, on the other hand, cannot so be tested, and this for two reasons: a) the alleged event is in the past, and b) it is a particular, unique event that is, by definition, not repeatable. And Flew adds that the historical record itself can be a conduit of information only if we assume that the laws of nature are reliably operating, for only then can we rationally interpret the detritus of the past as evidence for such an event and construct from it our account of what actually happened.10 In other words, “our sole ground for characterizing a reported occurrence as miraculous is at the same time a sufficient reason for calling it physically impossible.”11 This is a formidable argument, but I do not think it insurmountable. In what follows, I will make a principal objection to Hume and will then attempt to turn Flew against himself. 10 11 for and against miracles. Hume is looking for a quick “knock out” argument and ends up making a bad argument, neglecting to look at the evidence in appropriate ways; see Earman, Hume’s Abject Failure, vi, 2 and 14–19. Robert Fogelin, on the other hand, thinks that Hume evaluates evidence appropriately in the second part of his essay; see Fogelin, A Defense of Hume on Miracles (Princeton, NJ, and Oxford, UK: Princeton University Press, 2003), and the review of Richard Otte in Hume Studies 31 (2005): 165–168. See also Millican, “Twenty Questions,” no. 12. But if the argument is that miracles as exceptions are by definition rare and therefore always less probable, then this would seem to be an a priori argument (from a definition). The upshot is the same in any case: the standards can never be met, whether for a priori or a posteriori reasons. And this is the claim that one has to argue against in either case. Anthony Flew, “Scientific versus Historical Evidence,” in Swinburne, Miracles, 97–102, at 101; and Flew, “Neo-Humean Arguments About the Miraculous,” in Geivett and Habermas, In Defense of Miracles, 45–57, at 49–52. Anthony Flew, “Miracles,” in Encyclopedia of Philosophy, quoted in William Lane Craig, “The Problem of Miracles: A Historical and Philosophical Perspective,” in Gospel Perspectives VI, ed. David Wenham and Craig Blomberg (Sheffield, UK: JSOT Press, 1986), 9–40, at 39. 664 Anselm Ramelow, O.P. Evidence and Paradigms It has been argued12 that Hume overstates his case when he claims that laws of nature constitute “a uniform experience against every miraculous event.” With this claim, he begs the question, because this claim presupposes what needs to be proved, namely the non-existence of miracles. In fact, the amount of experiences of miracles in all cultures might be much larger than the experience of the small group of secular Western academics of recent years that question them. And indeed, some might have come to acknowledge the assumption of the non-occurrence of miracles as an imposition of contemporary culture.13 But this is not the argument I wish to make.14 After all, it is true that, in everyone’s experience, miracles, if they are experienced at all, are experienced more rarely than the laws of nature on which we rely every day. The point, rather, is that individual experiences as such do count— especially if there is nothing in Hume’s metaphysics to rule out exceptions a priori. Precisely as an empiricist, he cannot claim more than an incomplete induction for laws of nature.15 And this is true not just for Hume, but in general.16 Now, if this is so, then there is nothing in miracles that constitutes a logical contradiction with our evidence for 12 13 14 15 16 See, e.g., Craig, “The Problem of Miracles,” 37 f.; William Paley, “Evidences of Christianity—Preparatory Considerations” (1794), reprinted in Swinburne, Miracles, 41–47, at 43 ff.; and Richard L. Purtill, “Miracles: What If They Happen?” in Swinburne, Miracles, 189–205, at 191. Keener, Miracles, 1:78, 100–105, and 185. Recently, a greater openness on the part of historians to take accounts of miracles at face value does not mean that these historians now believe in miracles (or else they would become Christians or whatever the case might be). Making this point about contemporary practice would not answer the question we are trying to address. John H. Newman makes the point that concrete experience is indeed never uniform, and that the uniformity of laws is an abstract notion to which nothing corresponds in concrete experience; see An Essay in Aid of a Grammar of Assent (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1992), 73 f. Paley made the further point that the invariability of these laws has never been demonstrated (“Evidences of Christianity,”4). Earman even claims that theoretical physics is a kind of theology: “I would turn it around and maintain that, in so far as the hypotheses of theoretical physics are subject to strong empirical underdetermination, theoretical physics is a kind of theology whose high priests should be accorded no more respect, qua scientists, than the high priests of Christianity or Buddhism”; see his “Bayes, Hume, Price, and Miracles,” Proceedings of the British Academy 113 (2002): 91–109, at 107. Not a Miracle: Our Knowledge of God’s Signs and Wonders 665 the laws of nature. Therefore, miracle claims should not be a priori and dogmatically discarded, but investigated. Nor are they discredited by the fact that they do not occur regularly. Improbable things do happen, after all. Winning in the lottery is improbable, but people do win, and there is evidence for it.17 In fact, if Hume were right, then there would be no progress in science. After all, we can falsify our current theories of what the laws of nature are. We can come across evidence that does not obey what we had so far believed to be inviolable laws of nature, which means that they are not inviolable. This is what has been called a “recalcitrant case.” To Hume, however, such evidence is to be a priori dismissed. As he indicates at one point, the Indian prince who hears for the first time of the phenomenon of frost, unknown in his own climate, should rightly dismiss such evidence. And so, perhaps we should have dismissed the first reports of black swans in Australia as superstition or as an attempt at deception. But if so, then we should never be able to falsify a current paradigm.18 Hume might answer that, if the evidence adds up, he would be willing to surrender the paradigm. Although that could, of course, never happen, if every individual case is to be dismissed. If each is dismissed, all are dismissed; zeroes do not add up to anything. Still, let us grant that it can add up. Even so, do we have to wait for evidence to add up? Hume would require us to wait for so much evidence that it would trump the cumulative evidence for our previous paradigm. But this is not in fact correct. Consider the possibility of coming across a recalcitrant case, some one piece of evidence that, all by itself, suggests to us a paradigm shift. It might not by itself be enough evidence to confirm that paradigm, indeed. But I do not think that confirmation is required. According to Popper,19 paradigms and hypotheses do not need to be confirmed in order to be acceptable scientific theories. They only need to be falsifiable—that is, it must be 17 18 19 This is the point of Robert Hambourger, “Belief in Miracles and Hume’s Essay,” Nous 14 (1980): 587–604. The first one to introduce the example of the lottery was Price (Earman, “Bayes, Hume, Price, and Miracles,” 99 f.). The very distinction between a hypothesis and the facts might collapse; in fact, the hypothesis would be a hypothesis about nothing (see Holland, “The Miraculous,”61 and 58). A bit more skeptical about facts is Richard Swinburne, The Concept of Miracle (London: Macmillan; New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1970), 49 f. See, for example, Karl Popper, Conjectures and Refutations (London: Routledge and Keagan Paul, 1963), 33–39. 666 Anselm Ramelow, O.P. possible to prove them wrong empirically. If a recalcitrant case leads us to propose a new theory, and even one that includes the supernatural, then it is not irrational to accept it. Rather, it is possible to state the conditions under which the new paradigm would be falsified, and then it is rational to proceed and investigate it empirically. In addition, it is very important to realize that, against Hume’s assumption, the recalcitrant new evidence for the new paradigm does not have to outweigh the old. The reason is that there is no contradiction between the new paradigm and the evidence for the old paradigm. It is the aim of the new paradigm to explain not only the new evidence, but also the old. The new paradigm will indeed explain the old evidence better and more comprehensively. And if it does so, then all the old evidence that Hume claims speaks against the new paradigm now speaks in fact for it. This is true for scientific theories. But is it true also for miracles? Miracles are, after all, unique and peculiar. They do not amount to evidence for a new law of nature. They are still defined by contrast with such laws. Nevertheless, there is a way in which they, too, can establish a new paradigm.20 Consider someone who is converted by witnessing a miracle. And so as to go to the heart of the matter, consider the apostles being confronted with the risen Jesus. The Gospel narratives illustrate what such a paradigm shift might look like and that it may take a bit of time to sink in—even an initial dismissal of the evidence— but then indeed constitute a new outlook. In this new outlook, all the old evidence looks different. The old evidence will not contradict the new paradigm. Rather, it is suddenly evident what the evidence had meant all along. This is true particularly for all the previous religious experience and all the evidence that could be adduced for the faith of ancient Israel. But the new paradigm will also include the evidence for the regular and ordinary behavior of nature and its laws. Having come to know God as someone who reveals himself in extraordinary events in history would not have led the apostles to disbelieve in a God who orders the ordinary course of nature according to predictable laws. In fact, it is the same care that leads God to reveal himself and to provide for us laws of nature that make our environment sufficiently predict20 Leibniz would claim that they reveal an even deeper law of the universe—see his Discours de métaphysique (1686), nos. 6 and 16—by contrast with Malebranche, for whom miracles are contrasting particular volitions in God (Leibniz, Theodicy, nos. 207f). This deeper law, we suggest, might be understood as the new heavens and the new earth, where, as a rule and law, all bodies are resurrected and all illnesses are healed. Not a Miracle: Our Knowledge of God’s Signs and Wonders 667 able and intelligible. Evidence for laws of nature are just more evidence for the same God who also works miracles.21 Contrary to Hume, nothing in this faith is irrational, and nothing in miracles requires us to dismiss any evidence. Rather, it is Hume who, to make his case, needs to dismiss the given evidence dogmatically and a priori. Miracles Second Hand: Historiography and the Testimony of Witnesses What about the historical argument of Anthony Flew? After all, we are not the apostles; we are not eye witnesses to the Resurrection. We live 2000 years later and have to rely on documents that others might call into doubt. I will not engage the specific case of the Resurrection here, although a surprisingly good case has been made for the historical evidence of this event.22 Rather, I would like to look at the case of historical miracle claims in general and in principle. First, we need to clarify a common misunderstanding arising from Ernst Troeltsch’s so-called “principle of analogy,” which states that the past is not dissimilar to our present experience.23 On this basis, the common claim is made that miracles do not happen today and that, by analogy, historians should therefore dismiss miracle claims about past events as well. The historical method would inherently be restricted to non-miraculous events. Yet what this “principle of analogy” can reasonably mean is only that we should evaluate testimony from the past in the same way as we evaluate testimony from the present. Put in this way, the analogy is not an analogy between present and past events, but an analogy of the methods to be employed in the investigation of events. After all, not just miracles are by definition unique and unrepeatable, but also history as such (as Reinhold Niebuhr has pointed out).24 If the principle of analogy in Troeltsch’s sense were 21 22 23 24 Thus, divine explanation and teleology may provide explanatory resources for the theist that are unavailable to the atheist (see Millican, “Twenty Questions,” no. 18). For example, see William Lane Craig, The Son Rises: Historical Evidence for the Resurrection of Jesus (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2000), or for a good, succinct statement of apologetics, Peter Kreeft and Ronald Tacelli, Handbook of Christian Apologetics (Wheaton, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1994), 185–210. Ernst Troeltsch, “Über historische und dogmatische Methode in der Theologie,” in Gesammelte Schriften (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1913), 2 and 729–53. Proofs in history might therefore be different from proofs in science (see Purtill, “Miracles: What If They Happen?”198), but we still need natural science to check the evidence. 668 Anselm Ramelow, O.P. applied to the events themselves, we could not have historiography. The only plausible application is an analogy of method, not of content.25 And that still allows for all the critical analysis a modern historian will be interested in: if certain conditions in the present are known to produce illusions—such as taking drugs—then we should assume that, analogously, witnesses on drugs in the past might have been deluded as well. But this analogy does not exclude the possibility that things happened in the past that do not happen today. In fact, the same methods might lead us to believe that reports about unusual things are truthful under certain circumstances. The same methods that should make us disbelieve certain accounts should also make us believe others. Dismissing dissimilar events as such risks uncritically projecting our peculiar Western contemporary prejudices and agendas onto the past.26 In the context of miracles, this dismissal might even ignore the fact that miracles are also reported today—that is, not just among “barbarous and ignorant nations” as Hume claims.27 Thus, the dismissal of miracle claims for the past might even be violating the principle of analogy in its usual form.28 Nothing in the historical method precludes the possibility of miracles in the past.29 This possibility, however, does not yet constitute actuality or probability. What are those analogous methods that allow us to establish the factuality of a miracle in history? Flew maintains that, as a unique and past event, it cannot be scientifically tested. This, however, is not true, and for the very reasons to which Flew appeals: he correctly insists that our interpretation of the detritus of the past requires us to assume that 25 26 27 28 29 A similar point is made in Francis J. Beckwith, “History and Miracles,” in Geivett and Habermas, In Defense of Miracles, 86–98, at 97. Some might consider this projection an acceptable form of historical relativism, but it is in fact a self-contradictory position, given that this position would then itself be historically relative. On this question, see Beckwith, “History and Miracles,” 89f. Hume does not name criteria for a (not-trustworthy) “barbarous and ignorant nation” or its opposite. Even the Middle Ages had very high standards (see Swinburne, The Concept of Miracle, 17). Keener, Miracles, 1:185. Keener, not a Catholic, has collected an impressive amount of contemporary evidence for miracles. Still, even ubiquitous contemporary accounts do not imply that I need to have witnessed a miracle personally: “My lack of experiencing a miracle first-hand does not serve to make the universal statement probable [i.e. ‘There are no miracles in the world’] because there is no probability that I should experience a miracle myself” (Craig, “The Problem of Miracles,” 47). Craig, “The Problem of Miracles,” 41 f. (following Pannenberg). Not a Miracle: Our Knowledge of God’s Signs and Wonders 669 the laws of nature are operative in order for us to be to extrapolate to past events. But is it true that we can therefore never access an event that is not itself an expression of these laws? Consider the Big Bang:30 the Big Bang is a unique historical event of the past that we cannot today replicate or test in the laboratory. This event certainly is far more distant in the past than any miracle ever reported. At the Big Bang, presumably neither time, nor space, nor the laws of nature existed; it is a unique event that has all the marks of a miracle,31 of a supernatural initiative by a non-physical agent.32 And yet we know about the event only by virtue of tracing things back from contemporary evidence according to the laws of nature we know. This means that we use a scientific method involving a principle of analogy, and the method leads us back precisely to a non-analogous, unique historical event. Can we apply such methods to miracles? What might help us here is something Hume did not know about: the modern methods of criminology and scientific forensic investigation. As Richard Swinburne points out, Hume did not take into account physical traces such as can be left on a crime scene (for example, cigarette ashes, bomb craters, fingerprints, or pollen).33 In addition, we have methods of Carbon-14 dating, genetic testing, dendrochronology, archaeological methods, and other tests that allow us to gather scientific evidence about historical events. The interesting point is that this evidence about the past is present evidence. The evidence is observable under the microscope and other testing devices. And as such it can be subjected to repeated testing. And indeed, the Catholic Church had such tests applied to the Shroud of Turin and the Tilma of St. Juan Diego.34 Contrary to Flew, 30 31 32 33 34 Suggested also by Norman L. Geisler, “Miracles and the Modern Mind,” in Geivett and Habermas, In Defense of Miracles, 73–85, at 82. See also Augustine, De civitate Dei 10.12: “For we cannot listen to those who maintain that the invisible God works no visible miracles; for even they believe that He made the world, which surely they will not deny to be visible. Whatever marvel happens in this world, it is certainly less marvelous than this whole world itself”; in Augustine, The City of God (New York: Modern Library; Random House, 2000), 317–318. This would have to be an agent with personal spontaneity. Mere abstract principles are causally inert and have no reason to act at one point rather than another. On this point see Swinburne, The Concept of Miracle, 33–51. While physical traces might be obliterated over time, our ability to trace things is also growing over time, with the advance of science (ibid., 36). Genetic and other tests have also been applied to Eucharistic miracles. 670 Anselm Ramelow, O.P. there are repeatable experiments that we can make about the past, and we can repeat these experiments indefinitely. In this manner, sufficient evidence can easily accumulate. However, contrary to Swinburne, I do not think that proving a miracle is a mere matter of cumulative probabilities. This would already concede too much to Hume. Rather, as has been seen above with the paradigm shifts, such a proof is not a mere matter of quantities. The testing scenario suggests something rather different than weighing or adding up of evidence. Hume says: “no testimony is sufficient to establish a miracle, unless the testimony be of such a kind, that its falsehood would be more miraculous, than the fact, which it endeavors to establish.”35 But what if these testing devices do indeed show us evidence for a miracle? Then we can dismiss the evidence only on the supposition that a miracle has occurred in the testing device! Not only the observed scenario presumably operates on the laws of nature, but the use of testing devices presupposes that these tools operate according to such laws as well. Perhaps Hume would suggest that we should, in the case of evidence for a miracle, weigh the evidence for the laws of nature being broken either in the testing device or in the observed event, and at best we get a draw between the two. But again, it is not a matter of weighing. The very fact that we have to weigh anything at all is everything we need as proof for a miracle.36 Regardless of whether the laws of nature are broken in the observed event or in the testing device, it is a miracle. Even and precisely if it is a draw, it is a miracle. This is important because this insight is applicable beyond the methods of forensic criminology. It does, for example, apply to the classic case of eye-witnesses. For what is the eye, if not a testing device? The eye, too, operates according to the laws of nature, such as the laws of 35 36 Hume, “Of Miracles,” part I, no. 91. Discussions of Hume’s argument have made much use of Bayesian mathematics of probability. If I am correct, then this might not be necessary, and it is, in any case, not the argument I wish to make here. Questions like the problem of the base rate fallacy (e.g., Millican, “Twenty Questions,” no. 19f) also would not apply in this particular scenario because it is not a matter of probabilities. Generally, the real questions are philosophical in nature and precede their mathematical formulation. See Michael P. Levine, Review of Hume’s Abject Failure by John Earman, Hume Studies 28 (2002): 161–167, at 165: “One only gets out of the Bayesian equation what one puts in, and what one puts in is a function of interpretation.” Nevertheless, a Bayesian analysis has the advantage of articulating background assumptions and prior probabilities that are easily overlooked. Not a Miracle: Our Knowledge of God’s Signs and Wonders 671 optics. And even if someone is deceived under certain, ideal conditions, then we would still have to conclude that a miracle has occurred in the eye itself. And this, too, can be and has been tested, for example in cases of apparitions. We can test repeatedly the evidence, as well as the eye. Either way, it would be a miracle. If we were to dismiss this kind of evidence, we would have to dismiss our evidence for laws of nature as well. For we test and establish the laws of nature with the same kind of devices. The ultimate devices available to us are our five senses, conveying sense experiences to us by organs like the eye. Any evidence against the witness of our own eyes can only consist in additional sense experiences and therefore rely on the same kinds of methods about which we pretend to be skeptical. This includes also eye witnesses of the historical past, of which Hume and many others tend to be dismissive. Witnesses as they are treated in court are just another sort of testing device. They might be broken devices indeed, but they nevertheless follow laws of their own that allow us to evaluate the evidence.37 Accordingly, no court dismisses eye witnesses just because they are eye witnesses. They do not dismiss them, but they evaluate their testimony. The methods of this evaluation are not unlike those that are used to establish the proper functioning of other kinds of tests and devices. For, the behavior of witnesses has its own laws and regularities that enable us to assess the claims that are made. These regularities are not in principle different from those of the laws of nature, since they are established in the same way: in both cases, such regularities provide the most simple and coherent account of a large number of observed data. To treat regularities about witnesses differently than regularities of nature would be an unwarranted ad hoc procedure for assessing evidence.38 One of the established regularities about witnesses is that it is difficult for a liar to keep his story straight.39 At a certain point, it would require an almost miraculous power of presence of mind and memory to do so. Still, it might be possible. But suppose we add the fact that 37 38 39 Hume acknowledges, yet dismisses, similar examinations in the case of miracles at the tomb of Jansenist Abbé in Paris (“Of Miracles,” part II, no. 96, with footnote). He never acknowledged his misrepresentation of this case; cf. Timothy and Lydia McGrew, “The Argument from Miracles,” in The Blackwell Companion to Natural Theology, ed. William Lane Craig and J.P. Moreland (Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009), 593–662, at 656–658. Swinburne, The Concept of Miracle, 43. John Leslie Mackie, The Miracle of Theism: Arguments for and Against the Existence of God (New York: Oxford University Press, 1982), 25 f. 672 Anselm Ramelow, O.P. multiple independent witnesses are consistent in telling a miracle story, then the assumption of a lie would constitute a coincidence more miraculous than assuming that they are speaking the truth.40 Had the miracle not occurred as reported or observed, then their agreement would itself be a miracle, just as it would be in a testing device in the previous cases. Further information to be evaluated would include whether the witnesses are of doubtful character, whether their statements are compatible, whether their agreement could have a special motivation, whether they speak with hesitation or too assertively or have vested interests, and whether they happened to uphold their testimony even under torture and threat of death. Some of the evidence thus generated might only produce probabilities, but in many cases, assuming the opposite would lead to real impossibilities. Scientists who would want to question the rigor of these criteria might do well to consider the procedures of their own disciplines and how much of their evidence relies on the testimony of other members of the scientific community.41 Consider prophecy: insofar as it includes contingencies in the remote future, it is something that principally escapes the grasp of the human mind, since it implies a knowledge of the future that only God can have. Yet, prophecies are eminently testable,42 since we can observe whether the prophecy is fulfilled or not. A prophecy, especially an unlikely one, if it comes true, is certainly good evidence for a miracle. And if many independent prophecies come true, the cumulative effect would of course be even better evidence, since their fulfillment would be unlikely to be a chance coincidence. A good example might be the miracle of the sun in Fatima: this is an event that occurred according to the prediction received by three children. It was attested by multiple witnesses, in fact, many thousands of them. And while the miracle, if not a cosmic catastrophe, must indeed have occurred in the eyes of the witnesses (and in the camera lenses of the journalists), this is itself miraculous. These witnesses were often located geographically independent from each other, precluding mass-hypnosis or hallucination. In addition, there were physical traits subject to empirical verification, 40 41 42 It is important to note that this does not depend on the moral character of the witnesses; they can be rather fallible, morally and epistemically (“ignorant and barbarous,” in Hume’s vocabulary). This has been made clear by Laplace and Babbage (see Earman, “Bayes, Hume, Price, and Miracles,” 99 f). Scientists tend to be forgetful about the ultimate rootedness of science in what Husserl would call “Lebenswelt.” Mackie, The Miracle of Theism, 22 f. Not a Miracle: Our Knowledge of God’s Signs and Wonders 673 such as that the place was dry afterwards, in spite of heavy rain—surely something that does not come about by hypnosis or hallucination. In Conclusion Whatever the merits of specific cases, all of them are open to rational and scientific investigation, such that one can arrive at conclusions that prove the existence of miracles. The points that we have made against David Hume and Anthony Flew address only some specific, albeit important, points. For a true consideration of miracles, further questions need to be taken into account that can decisively shift the evidence in favor of miracles. If, for example, we have independent philosophical reasons to believe that God exists and is omnipotent and benevolent, certain miracles would not be unlikely at all. And if it can be shown that the laws to which Hume and others appeal as evidence against miracles are indeed dependent on the existence of such a God,43 then these laws themselves cease to be evidence against miracles and instead come to support them. All of this can be known on philosophical grounds and it either allows for the use of scientific methods or is presupposed by these methods. Thus, divine revelation, as well as the faith that responds to it, is based on evidence that does not presuppose the faith that it is meant to authenticate. Because of this evidence, we can have reasonN&V able faith. 43 See Anselm Ramelow, “When Understanding Seeks Faith: Does Religion Offer Resources for the Renewal of Contemporary Rationality?” Nova et Vetera (English) 8 (2010): 647–664, at 648–655, and Ramelow, “The God of Miracles,” in God, Reason and Reality, ed. A. Ramelow (Munich: Philosophia Verlag, 2014), 303–364. Even the reliability of our faculties for science cannot be guaranteed by science itself. Based on evolution theory, we should rather doubt science as well. Many thinkers from Darwin and Nietzsche to Patricia Churchland confirm this quandary; see Alvin Plantinga, Where the Conflict Really Lies (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 311–316. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 2 (2016): 675–697 675 The Metaphysics of Meaning: Applying a Thomistic Ontology of Art to a Contemporary Hermeneutical Puzzle and the Problem of the Sensus Literalis Peter Junípero Hannah, O.P. Dominican School of Philosophy & Theology Berkeley, California The aim of this paper is to clarify the concept of the sensus literalis, an exegetical and theological concept which has been understood in (sometimes widely) varying ways through Christian history. To do this, I will use Thomistic principles to mediate a contemporary hermeneutical debate over where meaning lies in a text. Hans Georg-Gadamer’s Truth and Method (1960) and E. D. Hirsch’s Validity in Interpretation (1967) represent two sides of the debate, Gadamer focusing on the text as the site of meaning, and Hirsch on authorial intention. I will develop, using Thomistic principles, an ontology of a work of art that can be fruitfully applied to the contemporary hermeneutical question, and then reapplied to the question of the sensus literalis. The first two sections briefly set forth the problem of the literal sense and introduce my thesis that Aquinas can help mediate the debate between Gadamer and Hirsch. The third section summarizes the respective positions of Gadamer and Hirsch in closer detail. The fourth proposes a model along Thomistic lines that can clarify the parameters of the debate. In the conclusion, I summarize what has been found and reapply my findings to the question of the literal sense. 676 Peter Junípero Hannah, O.P. The Sensus Literalis: Ancient Concept, Contemporary Problem Brevard Childs has called ascertaining the “literal sense” of Scripture “one of the most difficult and profound theological questions in the entire study of the Bible.”1 Aquinas’s dictum that the literal sense is “that which the author intends” seems simple enough.2 He also asserts—and the Catechism of the Catholic Church quotes him approvingly—that the literal sense is that “on which all other senses are based” and the foundation of all theological reflection.3 Church documents of the recent past, with the Catechism, have affirmed the primacy of the literal sense, leaving open its precise parameters while affirming the difficulty of its discernment partially rooted in the inspired character of the scriptural text.4 Both Church documents and Childs are aware that the concept of this traditional sense of Scripture winds a twisting path through the history of biblical interpretation. It has been associated variously with the “external” or “carnal” versus the spiritual meaning, with the Old versus New Testament meanings, with Christological and sometimes 1 2 3 4 Brevard Childs, “The Sensus Literalis of Scripture: An Ancient and Modern Problem,” in Beiträge zur Alttestamentlichen Theologie, ed. Herbert Donner, Robert Hanhart, and Rudolf Smend (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1977), 93. Summa theologiae (hereafter, ST) I, q.1, a.10, resp. ST translations are based on Summa theologica (New York: Benzinger Brothers, 1947), with slight modifications. Catechism of the Catholic Church (1993; hereafter, CCC), §116; and ST I, q.1, a.10, resp. In Divino Afflante Spiritu (1943), Pius XII described the literal sense as the “foremost and greatest endeavor” of the exegete (§23) and distinct from the spiritual sense (§26), but also as “difficult” to ascertain (§31) and “not always obvious”(§35). The Pontifical Biblical Commission’s Interpretation of the Bible in the Church (1993) defines the literal sense as “that which has been expressed directly by the inspired human authors,” demanding both careful historical and literary analysis and an attention to the “dynamic” aspect of the text, either to that which can unfold through time (as in the meaning of the royal psalms) or in respect to the meaning inspired by the “principle author,” God (section II.B.i). The CCC formulates a marvelously ambiguous definition of the literal sense: “the meaning conveyed by the words of Scripture and discovered by exegesis, following the rules of sound interpretation [regulas rectae interpretationis]” (§116)—begging the question as to what (or who) determines the rules. Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI’s post-synodal apostolic exhortation Verbum Domini (2010) affirms the Catechism’s and Commission’s statements (§33), while accenting a certain complexity in the discovery of the literal sense due to its intimate “unity and interrelation” (unitatem et compaginem) with the spiritual sense (§37). The Metaphysics of Meaning 677 lofty theological meanings, as necessitating sophisticated philosophical reflection to discern it, with the “plain sense” of Scripture, with a “canonical” sense, with the results of critical historical research, or more generally, with the “primary,” “real,” or “basic” meaning of the biblical text.5 The concept of the “literal sense” is complicated by two factors. First, Scripture has two authors, human and divine. Determining how and in what way each author’s intention warrants exegetical 5 General surveys of the history of biblical interpretation abound: see, variously, S.L. Greenslade, G.W.H. Lampe, P. R. Ackroyd and C. F. Evans, eds., Cambridge History of the Bible, vols. 1–3 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1963–1970); Bertrand de Margerie, S.J., An Introduction to the History of Exegesis, vols. 1–3, trans. Leonard Maluf, Paul Duggan, and Pierre Fontnouvelle (Petersham, MA: St. Bede’s Publications, 1991–1995); Charles Kannengiesser, Handbook of Patristic Exegesis, vols. 1–2 (Boston: Brill, 2004); Alan J. Hauser and Duane F. Watson, eds., A History of Biblical Interpretation, vols. 1–2 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003–2009); and Hans G. Reventlow, History of Biblical Interpretation, vols. 1–4, trans. Leo G. Perdue and James O. Duke (Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2009–2010). For more specific treatment of the concept of the literal sense, Childs, “The Sensus Literalis,” provides a concise sketch. See also Henri de Lubac, S.J., Medieval Exegesis: The Four Senses of Scripture, vols. 1–3, trans. Mark Sebanc and E. M. Macierowski, (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998–2009); Beryl Smalley, The Study of the Bible in the Middle Ages (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1989); Christopher Ocker, Biblical Poetics Before Humanism and Reformation (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2002); Naomi Seidman, Faithful Renderings: Jewish-Christian Difference and the Politics of Translation (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006); Matthew Levering, Participatory Exegesis: A Theology of Biblical Interpretation (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2008); Hans Frei, The Eclipse of Biblical Narrative: A Study in Eighteenth and Nineteenth Century Hermeneutics (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1974); Frei “The ‘Literal Reading’ of Biblical Narrative in the Christian Tradition: Does It Stretch or Will It Break?” in Theology and Narrative, ed. George Hunsinger and William C. Placher (Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 1993) , 117–152; James Barr, “Literality,” Faith and Philosophy 6.4 (Oct. 1989): 412–442; Rowan Williams, “The Literal Sense of Scripture,” Modern Theology 7.2 (Jan. 1991): 121–134; Raymond Brown and Sandra Schneiders, “Hermeneutics,” in The New Jerome Biblical Commentary, ed. Raymond E., Brown, Joseph A. Fitzmyer, and Roland E. Murphy (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1990), 1146–1165; Sandra Schneiders, The Revelatory Text: Interpreting the New Testament as Sacred Scripture, 2nd ed. (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1999); Schneiders, “Faith, Hermeneutics, and the Literal Sense of Scripture,” Theological Studies 39.4 (Dec. 1978): 719–736; and Olivier-Thomas Venard, ed., Le sens littéral des Écritures (Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 2009), esp. his introductory essay, “Les deux asymptotes du sens littéral des Écritures” (9–24). 678 Peter Junípero Hannah, O.P. conclusions becomes a tremendously complex issue rivaling, and in conspicuous ways paralleling, Christological questions of how human and divine intentionality coalesce.6 Second, the rise of critical methods in the modern era and the deeper sense of historical awareness they have facilitated prevent the exegete from reading historical narratives as straightforwardly as he once did. Today the exegete must, as Hans Frei has put it, “distinguish sharply between literal sense and historical reference.”7 Olivier-Thomas Venard has captured the contemporary discussion well by comparing the sensus literalis to a curve bound by “two asymptotes,” historical and literary, that tend to frame all reflection on the issue: on one side, emphasis is placed on how historical circumstances shape meaning and, on the other, on how the literary features of the text itself generate an experience for the reader.8 The implications of 6 7 8 Underneath this, of course, is Scripture’s status as an inspired and inerrant document, two categories Joseph Ratzinger once called the “basis of the definition of the idea of ‘sacred Scripture,’” in his post-Second Vatican Council commentary on Dei Verbum, “Origin and Background,” in Commentary on the Documents of Vatican II, vol. 3, ed. Herbert Vorgrimler, trans. William Glen-Doepel et al. (New York: Crossroad, 1989), 158. After the theological work of Paul Synave, O.P., and Pierre Benoit, O.P., in their Prophecy and Inspiration: A Commentary on the Summa theologica II-II, Questions 171–178 (New York: Desclee Company, 1961), and James T. Burtchaell’s helpful historical survey in Catholic Theories of Biblical Inspiration Since 1810: A Review and Critique (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press 1969), the consideration of Scripture’s inspired status largely fell away from interest in the Catholic biblical academy. The Pontifical Biblical Commission’s recently published Inspiration and Truth of Sacred Scripture (St. Joseph, MN: Liturgical Press, 2014), however, may help to rouse the topic from its virtual slumber. Frei, Eclipse, 11. In a review of Frei’s seminal book, Cornel West cogently captured the author’s concern to describe the “radical fissure” that arose in the modern era “between Biblical words and Biblical subject matter, between Biblical realism and ‘real’ facts, between Biblical history-like stories and ‘actual’ historical events. . . . Modernity, especially modern science, accented and elevated the side of subject matter, facts and events. Thereafter, the major traditions in modern theological hermeneutics remained caught in this fissure . . . as [the biblical] writings are reduced to mere sources for moral allegories, springboards for theological apologetics or launching pads for existential myths—all against the backdrop of unverifiable historical occurrences, events, and facts”; see West’s review in Union Seminary Quarterly Review 37.4 (1983): 300. Venard, “Les deux asymptotes.” Venard’s excellent essay was presented at a 2009 conference at L’École biblique et archéologique française de Jérusalem, the specific purpose of which was to clarify the meaning of “literal sense.” The Metaphysics of Meaning 679 Venard’s image are evocative: the more one focuses on the historical “asymptote,” the further one seems to get from the textual narrative (Frei’s concern with critical methods after the Enlightenment); alternatively, centering attention on the text itself and its ostensibly referenced subject matter seems often to lead to reflective processes that prescind from historical grounding. Rowan Williams expresses simply but well the status quaestionis of this traditional “sense” of Scripture. “It has become difficult,” he writes, “to see how. . . [this] central aspect of traditional and ‘pre-critical’ hermeneutics, the belief in the primacy of the ‘literal’ sense of Scripture, can now be understood.”9 If, however, Venard is right that “the expression ‘literal sense’ . . . arises more from theological discourse than exegetical,”10 then philosophical reflection, specifically the field of hermeneutics, can potentially assist theology in clarifying the parameters of this question. This I intend to do, using Thomistic principles to mediate a contemporary debate over where “meaning” lies in a text. Aquinas and a Contemporary Hermeneutical Puzzle The theological problem of the literal sense finds a philosophical corollary in the contemporary debate between Hans-Georg Gadamer and E. D. Hirsch. Where Gadamer emphasizes the text’s primacy as a site of meaning, Hirsch points to the primacy of authorial intention discoverable by various methods of historical and literary analysis. Insofar as the question of the literal sense asks where a text’s “real,” or “primary” meaning lies, Gadamer and Hirsch stand on two sides of a kind of pole between authorial consciousness, on the one hand, and the subject matter as received and applied by later communities, on the other. Hirsch’s Validity in Interpretation (1967) is cited in the 9 10 The conference arose in response to a conundrum at the outset of the École’s project, La Bible en ses Traditions, where different scholars began to place a variety of material in the intended annotations on the “literal sense”: “depuis des hypothèses historiques sur les circonstances ou les référents du texte, jusqu’à des analyses stylistiques” (9–10). Venard also noted that a “prestigious French scholar” has admitted that, after the Pontifical Biblical Commission’s Interpretation of the Bible in the Church (1993) was published, “Au fond, nous ne savons toujours pas ce que c’est, le sens littéral” (ibid., 9). Rowan Williams, “The Literal Sense of Scripture,” Modern Theology 7.2 (Jan. 1991): 121; see also, making a similar point, Sandra Schneiders, “Faith, Hermeneutics, and the Literal Sense of Scripture,” Theological Studies 39.4 (Dec. 1978):719–736, esp. 726–729. Venard “Les deux asymptotes,” 10. 680 Peter Junípero Hannah, O.P. essay “Hermeneutics” in The New Jerome Biblical Commentary by no less an authority than Raymond Brown, in the context of defending the normativity of authorial intention for establishing the literal sense. In the same essay, Gadamer’s Truth and Method is cited by Sandra Schneiders as one of two texts behind the shift to a more language-based hermeneutic focusing on subject matter as received by the community.11 In what appears to be a concession to the complexity of the issue, however, Brown states, in his final remarks to the essay, that, while an exegete may alternatively focus on “literal” or “more-than-literal” senses in a passage, in practice, “these are not separable categories.”12 Thomas Aquinas obviously did not approach such hermeneutical questions within a modern philosophical frame. Nevertheless, I propose that a few Thomistic principles, rightly applied, can assist in mediating the contemporary debate on textual meaning, while helping clarify the question of the literal sense. Specifically, Aquinas has a number of things to say about the dynamics of human making. A Thomistic “ontology of art” can be developed along these lines, since written texts can develop features that resemble works of art—that is, exhibit an integrity with dimensions of meaning that can unfold through a tradition of interpretation. My thesis is that such principles provide a helpful framework for affirming the primary contribution of the original author in establishing meaning in a text, while in proper proportion legitimating later developments in understanding that exceed the original author’s consciousness. As indicated at the outset, I will summarize some central features in the debate between Gadamer and Hirsch and then propose a Thomistic solution. I will then revisit the question of the literal sense and see what can be clarified. Gadamer, Hirsch, and Meaning in a Text When the American literary critic E. D. Hirsch first responded to Gadamer’s 1960 magnum opus, Truth and Method, he said he found the title “somewhat ironic.”13 This comment captures the kernel of 11 12 13 See Brown and Schneiders, “Hermeneutics.” Brown co-wrote the hermeneutics article in The New Jerome Biblical Commentary with Sandra Schneiders, assigning to her the section on “The Contemporary Situation.” Brown cites Hirsch in the section on the “Literal Sense” (1148). Schneiders cites HansGeorg Gadamer’s Truth and Method, along with Paul Ricoeur’s Interpretation, in her section on “The Contemporary Situation” as the primary philosophical sources of text-centered interpretation. Ibid., 1162. E. D. Hirsch, “Truth and Method in Interpretation,” Review of Metaphysics 18.3 (March 1965):488–507, at 488. Truth and Method was originally The Metaphysics of Meaning 681 what, in limited space, can be said of the crucial distinctions between them. Obviously I cannot adequately treat here the details of their respective positions, which, especially in the case of Gadamer, open into sprawling and complex philosophical questions coming out of his critique of nineteenth-century German historicism as linked up with his own hermeneutical project. In what I might call, however, a true Gadamerian vein, I am more interested in the questions each critic’s position poses to us. The crucial differences can be stated rather straightforwardly, and I will focus on them, filling in background where necessary. Gadamer develops his hermeneutic out of a two-sided critique, on the one hand, of nineteenth-century German aesthetics and the Kantian suppositions behind it, and on the other, of the “romanticist hermeneutic” he sees as coming out of it, a type of historicism embodied in the thought of Friedrich Schleiermacher.14 Schleiermacher identified the interpreter’s central aim as “re-creating the relationship between speaker and the original audience.”15 The process, for Schleiermacher, involves a “grammatical moment” where the interpreter analyzes the language of the text in comparison to similar texts of the era and a “divinatory moment” where the interpreter infers, through a kind of psychological sympathy, how the text represents the author’s 14 15 published in German in 1960, under the title Warheit und Methode. This paper will cite Truth and Method, 2nd rev. ed., trans. by Joel Weinsheimer and Donald G. Marshall (New York: Continuum, 1994), which will henceforth be abbreviated “TM.” These two aspects of his critique comprise, respectively, the first two parts of TM. The third (final) part develops his unique hermeneutic based in an appropriation of Heidegger’s theory of understanding and language. Gadamer’s wider corpus is extensive, for which, see the bibliography compiled by Richard Palmer in Lewis Edwin Hahn, The Philosophy of Hans-Georg Gadamer, ed. L. E. Hahn (Chicago: Open Court Publishing, 1997), 555–602. Representative of the main lines of his thought are the essays and studies collected in the following: Dialogue and Dialectic: Eight Hermeneutical Studies on Plato, trans. P. Christopher Smith (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1980); Philosophical Hermeneutics, ed. and trans. David E. Linge (Berkeley, CA: University of California, Berkeley, 1976); The Relevance of the Beautiful and Other Essays, ed. Robert Bernasconi, trans. Nicholas Walker (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1986); and The Gadamer Reader: A Bouquet of the Later Writings, ed. and trans. Richard E. Palmer (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 2007). See his lecture entitled “Foundations, General Theory and Art of Interpretation,” in The Hermeneutics Reader: Texts of the German Tradition from the Enlightenment to the Present, ed. Kurt Mueller-Vollmer (New York: Continuum, 1985), 78. 682 Peter Junípero Hannah, O.P. inward consciousness as a fact within his particular historical context.16 Gadamer is not so optimistic that this is possible. Against it, he asserts in Truth and Method that “[t]he real meaning of a text, as it speaks to the interpreter, does not depend on the contingencies of the author and his original audience . . . for it is always co-determined also by the historical situation of the interpreter and hence by the totality of the objective course of history.”17 For Gadamer, human beings are always embedded in a web of particular historical circumstances, and so any understanding of a text from the past will inevitably be mediated by the perspectives and “prejudices” not only of one’s own age, but also of all those that have accumulated through the course of history.18 Hermeneutics for Gadamer, therefore, is not a matter of getting a bird’s eye and pseudo-scientific view of the original author’s consciousness—to think this possible is a “naive illusion,” in his words.19 It is naive because texts, for Gadamer, do not stand over against the observer as an object susceptible to rigorous scientific investigation, classification, and comprehension.20 They rather act more like works of art whose “meaning” evolves as a shared experience through time by successive audiences who appropriate and re-interpret this meaning for themselves. “What we are now concerned with,” he writes, “is not individuality and what it thinks, but the objective truth of what is said”; “a text is not understood as a mere expression of life, but taken seriously in its claim to truth.”21 Put more simply, the site of meaning, 16 17 18 19 20 21 For a handy summary of Schleiermacher’s hermeneutic, see Bruce Marshall, “Hermeneutics and Dogmatics in Schleiermacher’s Theology,” Journal of Religion 67.1 (Jan. 1987): 14–32. Gadamer, TM, 296. Such is his notion of the “effective history” (Wirkungsgeschichte) a text mediates to later audiences. He is keen, on this point, to rescue a positive sense of “prejudice” (Vorurteil) from what he calls the Enlightenment “prejudice against prejudices,” whose aim was to clear away such obstacles to understanding in order to recreate the original historical circumstance. Rather than an obstacle to understanding, Gadamer speaks of temporal distance from a text “no longer primarily [as] a gulf to be bridged because it separates . . . [but] the supportive ground of the course of events in which the present is rooted” (ibid., 297). Ibid., 396. The problem is rooted, Gadamer argues, in a faulty application of the methods and models of the hard sciences to the “human sciences” (Geisteswissenschaften); see ibid., 3–9. Gadamer, TM, 297. The Metaphysics of Meaning 683 on Gadamer’s model, is not authorial intention, but rather the subject matter of the text itself as it is received and engaged by later audiences. The important supposition behind Gadamer’s position is his theory that meaning is almost essentially linguistic. Words are not “tools” used as instrumental signs to denote objects, but virtually part the act of understanding itself, constituting an interpretive posture even in the act of perception.22 The honest interpreter will acknowledge the way his own historically-shaped perception comes into the interpretive process and, by a dialectical process of questioning and inquiry, continue to unfold the (potentially infinite) meanings of a text as they have emerged and gathered “sedimented” layers of meaning through time.23 The payoff for Gadamer, and indeed much of the animating spirit behind his work, is that texts no longer become relegated to the past, closed-off from contemporary experience. Rather, they present, in the words of Georgia Warnke, “a challenge to the way the audience lives its life,” raising “a claim to truth,” a truth that is dynamic and in which audiences participate in an ongoing—and potentially limitless—dialogue unfolding through time.24 Warnke aptly summa22 23 24 Ibid., 389ff. “The word,” Gadamer writes, “is not formed only after the act of knowledge has been completed—in scholastic terms, after the intellect has been informed by the species—but it is the act of knowledge itself” (424, emphasis mine). This remarkable statement—which would seem to have dramatic implications for a theory of knowledge—comes in the midst of an exposition on the way the Christian theology of the Word has (positively) influenced the development of Western thought on the philosophy of speech and language. For comparisons of Aquinas’s thought with Gadamer’s, see: John Arthos, “‘The Fullness of Understanding’?: The Career of the Inner Word in Gadamer Scholarship,” Philosophy Today 55.2 (Summer 2011): 166–183; Arthos, The Inner Word in Gadamer’s Hermeneutics (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2009), esp. 135–161 and 260–284; and Kevin E. O’Reilly, “Transcending Gadamer: Towards a Participatory Hermeneutics,” The Review of Metaphysics 65 (June 2012): 841–860. See ibid., 275–307. Gadamer’s thought is far too rich to develop here. The famous “hermeneutic circle” is integral to his schema, involving a circular, as it were, process whereby the reader brings his own “horizon” to the text and, encountering a part of it, intuits some meaning of the whole, and then, as he encounters successive parts, gradually re-shapes his sense of the whole, which he brings in turn to successive parts. The process is dialectical and can be traced directly to Heidegger’s influence, further back to Edmund Husserl, and even in nuce to Schleiermacher himself (see Schleiermacher, “Foundations,” 84). Georgia Warnke, Gadamer: Hermeneutics, Tradition and Reason (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1987), 50 and 55. 684 Peter Junípero Hannah, O.P. rizes Gadamer’s position on textual interpretation by describing it as a “break . . . with the history of modern hermeneutics itself.” For Gadamer, if modern hermeneutics “is characterized by the turn from the truth-content of a claim to the intentions behind it and thus from the question of validity to the question of method, the turn must be reversed.”25 E. D. Hirsch found the title Truth and Method ironic when he originally reviewed it because, on his read, Gadamer’s hermeneutic has no discernible method and is not particularly interested in truth. He saw Gadamer’s major work as a prominent example within a stream of hermeneutical trends in the twentieth century that increasingly isolated texts from their original authors, rendering objective interpretation impossible.26 At stake, he asserts, is “the right of any humanistic discipline to claim genuine knowledge.” “Valid interpretation,” by which Hirsch means the proposal of a hypothesis about meaning and its being weighed against available evidence for the sake of probable inference, “is crucial to the validity of all subsequent inferences in [humane] studies.”27 Thus, when Gadamer claims that “the detachment of a written text from the writer or author . . . gives it an existence of its own,” Hirsch cries foul, observing that this fatal step leaves the text in a vacuous netherworld, with no determining norms or standards to constitute its meaning.28 Though Gadamer tries to summon the concepts of “tradition” and “effective-history” to supply an objective norm for interpretation, Hirsch points out quite simply that traditions change. If the meaning of a text is centrally determined by the shifting modes of reception by communities through time, this comes to rendering the meaning precisely indeterminable, leaving us with the unhappy result that “we cannot even in principle make a valid choice between two differing interpretations, and are left with the consequence that the text means nothing in particular at all.”29 But Hirsch is also a literary critic, quite aware of the multivalence of texts and their ability to speak in diverse ways to audiences through 25 26 27 28 29 Ibid., 41. E.D. Hirsch, Validity in Interpretation (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1967), viii. Hirsch, Validity, viii–ix. Quoted in Hirsch, “Truth and Method in Interpretation,” 491; see Gadamer, TM, 392. Hirsch, “Truth and Method in Interpretation,” 494. The Metaphysics of Meaning 685 time. He makes a sharp distinction here between the “meaning in” a text, and its “significance to” later audiences. Meaning is “that which is represented by a text,” and significance “names a relationship between that meaning and a person, or a conception, or a situation, or indeed anything imaginable.” 30 The task of interpretation then becomes a matter of uncovering, as far as possible, the intentions of the original author in his historical situation.31 Hirsch is under no illusion that such an original meaning can always be unearthed with precision or certainty. He develops an extensive, though precisely formulated, set of distinctions that cannot be detailed here, but the main lines of which can be traced out. There will generally be, he says, a “range of determinacy” within which the interpreter can posit a probable interpretation.32 Such an interpretation may not be certain per se, may not be a crystalline window into the consciousness of the author, but it can usually circumscribe a range of possible meanings. Further, one can draw out “implications” of the meaning that were not perhaps immediately present to the author’s mind, but which could have been if you asked him at the time.33 One must also 30 31 32 33 Hirsch, Validity, 8. Paul Ricoeur and Umberto Eco make a similar distinction (see Venard, “Les deux asymptotes,” 17). Hirsch’s thought develops significantly over the next two decades. The Aims of Interpretation (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1976) clarifies and, in places, modifies his position. Though Hirsch claims the essays in Aims “do not represent substantive revisions to the earlier argument” (Aims, 190), a growing awareness is evident that sharply distinguishing “meaning” and “significance” is more complex than he previously imagined. In a later essay, he does shift substantially, as he concedes that authors—especially in literature, law, and religion—often enough intend their original meanings to be reinterpreted through time, thus including “later significances” in the original intention itself; see his “Meaning and Significance Reinterpreted,” Critical Inquiry 11 (1984): 205–206. This concession is most interesting, since Hirsch comes to it as a literary critic reflecting on the nature of textual meaning, while his previous position distinguishing original from later meanings more sharply seems to be an enduring, if often unarticulated, assumption of much historical-critical exegesis. For this paper, I will take Hirsch’s original position in Validity as representative of a particular hermeneutical posture useful for its contrast to Gadamer’s text-based model, and for reflecting on the “literal sense.” Hirsch, Validity, 44 ff. He gives the example of a right triangle (ibid., 65). An author may employ the term while not consciously thinking of the Pythagorean theorem, a truth intrinsic to the nature of a right triangle. One may draw out the implication of the Pythagorean theorem from the original statement, and thus construe 686 Peter Junípero Hannah, O.P. identify the literary genre by a process of textual comparison and acquire a knowledge of the standard “traits,” or features, that accompany a genre and so assist in drawing the right inferences. Most explicit, however, is Hirsch’s definition of “verbal meaning,” which he defines as “whatever someone has willed to convey by a particular sequence of linguistic signs and which can be conveyed (shared) by means of those linguistic signs.”34 The “shareability” of meaning is crucial to Hirsch’s hermeneutic, as a stable meaning must be able to be shared from speaker to receiver, then reproduced through time (this is against Gadamer, whom he sees as proposing meaning that is radically contingent on each particular moment). As Warnke observes, “nothing separates Gadamer and Hirsch so much as their views on sharing verbal meaning . . . [since] for Gadamer, if the meaning of a text is shared then such sharing involves more than either a knowledge of what an author’s intentions were or a capacity to reconstruct them; it means rather that readers share the text’s understanding of its subject-matter.”35 For Hirsch, by contrast, the shareability and reproducibility through time of a willed statement are the twin conditions for its determinacy, a determinacy governed by the “type-character” of the given statement, under which certain interpretations are possible and others are excluded.36 Much could be said in response to, or in critique of, both Gadamer and Hirsch. I have opened up any number of questions that merit further clarification, discussion, and debate. Having laid out, however, the main lines of each position on textual meaning, I proceed to a proposal along Thomistic lines that can, I will argue, mediate their respective positions. Aquinas and Human Making Aquinas obviously does not address questions of textual interpretation within the parameters of modern philosophical hermeneutics. Nor will one find any kind of “theory of art,” in the modern sense, spelled out 34 35 36 it as part of the original meaning, provided the author using it would have been aware of the theorem at the time. If the author had not been aware of such a theorem, it could not be legitimately construed as an implication of the meaning. Ibid., 31. Ibid., 47. See ibid., 46–51. “The determinacy and sharability of verbal meaning resides in its being a type. The particular type that it is resides in the author’s determining will. A verbal meaning is a willed type” (51, emphasis his). The Metaphysics of Meaning 687 in his works. I aim rather to synthesize and employ some principles he articulates concerning the process of human making in order to propose a kind of “ontology of a book.” This, in turn, can be applied to the question of where meaning lies in a text to mediate the positions of Gadamer and Hirsch.37 The dynamics of human making frequently come up in Aquinas when he discusses “exemplary ideas” in the Divine Mind.38 “All creatures,” he writes, “are in the divine mind as a cabinet is in the mind of its maker . . . because of its idea and likeness.”39 In each case (divine or human), the maker has an idea in mind that becomes, as it were, 37 38 39 The locus classicus for Aquinas’s thought on language is his Expositio libri Peryermeneias, though, of course, much else can be found scattered throughout his works. Venard has asked the question of what a “Thomistic hermeneutic” would look like, drawing parallels and distinctions between Aquinas’s metaphysics and (implied) hermeneutical assumptions, on the one hand, and modern hermeneutics and linguistic theory, on the other; see his “Is There a Thomist Hermeneutic?” in Redeeming Truth: Considering Faith and Reason, ed. Laurence P. Hemming and Susan F. Parsons (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2007), 125–153. For studies comparing and contrasting Gadamer and Aquinas, see Francis J. Ambrosio, “Gadamer and Aristotle: Hermeneutics as Participation in Tradition,” in Hermeneutics and the Tradition: Proceedings of the American Catholic Philosophical Association, vol. 72 (Washington, DC: American Catholic Philosophical Association, 1988), 174–182; Kevin E. O’Reilly, “Objective Prejudice: St. Thomas on the Elevation by Grace of the Life of Reason,” Angelicum 84 (2007): 59–95; and John Arthos, Inner-Word, esp. 135–161. For key studies in the area of “Thomistic aesthetics,” see Jacques Maritain, Creative Intuition in Art and Poetry (New York: Scribner, 1930); Maritain Art and Scholasticism (New York: Pantheon Books, 1953); Etienne Gilson, Painting and Reality (New York: Pantheon Books, 1957); Marie-Dominique Philippe, L’Activité Artistique: Philosophie du faire, vols. 1–2 (Paris: Beauchesne et ses Fils, 1969); Francis Joseph Kovach, Philosophy of Beauty (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1974); Umberto Eco, The Aesthetics of Thomas (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1988); Kevin O’Reilly, Aesthetic Perception: A Thomistic Perspective (Portland, OR: Four Courts Press, 2007); and Michael Storck, “The Meaning of the Word Art: A Neothomistic Investigation,” in Philosophy and Language: Proceedings of the American Catholic Philosophical Association, vol. 84 (Washington, DC: American Catholic Philosophical Association, 2010). Here and in much of what follows, I have benefited greatly from Eco’s helpful discussion of Aquinas’s notion of artistic form in Aesthetics of Thomas Aquinas, esp. 163–189. De veritate q. 3, a. 1, sc 7. See also ST I, q.15, a. 1, resp.; q. 44, a. 3, resp.; and De potentia q. 3, a. 4, ad 9. All Aquinas references not from the ST are my own translations from the Latin editions used on Corpus Thomisticum (http:// www.corpusthomisticum.org/reoptedi.html). 688 Peter Junípero Hannah, O.P. incarnate in a determinate shape and structure. The critical difference between divine and human making is that, where God supplies natural things with substantial forms and sustains them in being (or not), man can only take substances given in nature and impose upon them a structure that is “accidental” in the Aristotelian sense.40 Such “accidental” compositions, however, still possess a principle of unity that Aquinas calls the “figura,” a determinate shape imposed on the various materials used in production.41 One begins to see Aquinas’s hylemorphic system applied analogously to secondary matter, figura standing for the “form” of the thing, and materia for the “matter,” or “stuff” out of which something is crafted. The efficient cause is, of course, the maker himself, or more specifically, the intellectual virtue of ars (practical skill) in the maker’s mind as it conceives and carries forth a plan. The final cause, though, is most pertinent. Aquinas will say that the maker of an artifact imposes a dispositio on the thing in reference to its end. In the case of works of art, the dispositio is that it can be used effectively. “Every artist,” he says, “intends to give to his work the best disposition; not absolutely the best, but the best as regards the proposed end . . . as one who makes a saw for cutting makes it from iron, as something suitable for cutting; and he does not prefer to make it of glass, which is a more beautiful material, since such beauty would be an impediment to the end he has in view.”42 At this point, the term “work of art” needs clarification. For Aquinas, a work of art is, quite simply, any product that is the result of human artifice or technical skill. Ars, akin to the Greek technē, is the intellectual virtue that produces such a work, or opus. It is properly recta ratio factibilium (“right reason concerning things to be made”), in 40 41 42 See Sentencia libri de anima II, lec. 1, no. 8: “Ars enim operatur ex materia quam natura ministrat; forma autem quae per artem inducitur, est forma accidentalis, sicut figura vel aliquid huiusmodi. Unde corpora artificialia non sunt in genere substantiae per suam formam, sed solum per suam materiam, quae est naturalis. Habent ergo a corporibus naturalibus quod sint substantiae. Unde corpora naturalia sunt magis substantiae quam corpora artificialia: sunt enim substantiae non solum ex parte materiae, sed etiam ex parte formae.” For “figura,” see Aquinas, In III Sent., d. 16, q. 2, a. 1, ad 1; and ST I, q. 1, a. 9, ad 2; q. 51, a. 3, ad 1. See also Eco’s exposition of the concept in Aesthetics of Thomas Aquinas, 176–178. Aquinas variously uses “materia,” “materia artis,” or “exterior materia” for the physical stuff out of which the artist crafts something (see ST I-II, q. 58, a. 5, obj. 2.; or Sent. Eth. I, lec. 1, no. 13, and Sent. Eth.VI, lec. 6, no. 1154). ST I, q. 91, a. 3, resp. The Metaphysics of Meaning 689 contrast to recta ratio agibilium (“right reason concerning things to be done”), for which the governing virtue is prudence.43 A glance through Roy Deferrari’s Lexicon gives a glimpse of the breadth of application for the terms ars and opus.44 Vital for this paper is that both words— ars and opus—are used analogously by Aquinas to refer not only to physical products, but to “products” of intellectual and speculative reflection as well. Just as there is an ars of the shipbuilder, the architect, and the saw-maker, each of which fall under what Aquinas calls the servile arts (serving man in his physical needs), so there are the liberal (or “freeing” arts), the chief of which is logic, the ars artium (“art of arts”), which is capable of producing, in a descending hierarchy, syllogisms, dialectic, rhetoric, and poetry.45 So too, not only are buildings, ships, and saws deemed opera, but also works of literary and speculative reflection, whether syllogisms, dialectically developed arguments, rhetorical displays, or poems.46 43 44 45 46 ST I-II, q. 57, a. 4, resp.; see Eco, 164ff. and 184–85. Roy J. Deferrari and Sr. M. Inviolata Barry, C.D.P., A Lexicon of St. Thomas Aquinas based on the Summa theologica and selected passages of his other works (Fitzwilliam, NH: Loreto Publications, 2004), 85–87 and 777–778. See Expositio libri posteriorum analyticorum I, lec. 1, nos. 1–3 : “Si igitur ex hoc, quod ratio de actu manus ratiocinatur, adinventa est ars aedificatoria vel fabrilis, per quas homo faciliter et ordinate huiusmodi actus exercere potest; eadem ratione ars quaedam necessaria est, quae sit directiva ipsius actus rationis, per quam scilicet homo in ipso actu rationis ordinate, faciliter et sine errore procedat. Et haec ars est Logica, idest rationalis scientia. . . . Et ideo videtur esse ars artium [my emphasis], quia in actu rationis nos dirigit, a quo omnes artes procedunt.” a quo omnes artes procedunt” (http://www.corpusthomisticum.org/cpa1.html). Aquinas goes on to detail here a hierarchy of rational discourse that, according to its ability to arrive at truth or not, imitates nature in its ability to produce things well or ill. In nature, Aquinas says, things may (1) become what they ought to be, (2) become partially what they should but fail in their act from time to time, or (3) fail in principle (as monstrosities). These three possibilities correspond in the rational order to (1) syllogistic argumentation that results in scientia, (2) dialectic, rhetoric, and poetry (in that order), and (3) sophistry. That Aquinas would see analogies between the kind of rational structure products of reason evince and the natural structures of the physical world should not be surprising to those familiar with his metaphysic. Passages establishing this are numerous (see Deferrari’s enumeration for opus). A good articulation of the general point appears in ST I-II, q. 57, a. 3, ad 3: “Even in speculative matters there is something by way of work [opus]: e.g., the making of a syllogism or of a fitting speech, or the work of counting or measuring. Hence whatever habits are ordained to such like works of the speculative reason, are, by a kind of comparison, called arts indeed, but 690 Peter Junípero Hannah, O.P. Gathering together this all-too-short sketch of (what might be called) a Thomistic aesthetic, two points emerge. First, when a human maker crafts a work (physical or intellectual), the materials he uses— in the case of speculative works the concepts he has abstracted and then verbally expressed in an arranged whole—do not come from himself. As God supplies the natural substances that go into physical buildings and sustains these substances in being even after they have been arranged into an “accidental” unity, so the artist—pace the “art for art’s sake” school—does not whip ideas up out of a vacuum, but abstracts them from real experience of the world, reflects on them, and then creatively applies them to whatever product he is interested in making. Umberto Eco points out that, on Aquinas’s account, the material elements from which a work of art are arranged into an accidental unity yet still retain their “emotive and significative potential,” only now within a set of relations to the whole.47 A jeweler, for example, might have particular intentions in arranging diamonds in a necklace into a particular pattern for, let us say, his daughter. But we can imagine his daughter coming to appreciate and experience the product in ways her father did not imagine and then further passing it on to her daughter or someone else entirely, bringing forth any number of experiences of the necklace far beyond what the maker could have envisioned.48 So too, it should not come as a surprise that one could, say, get any number of insights out of a Shakespeare play that were not present to the playwright’s mind when written. Consonant with this dynamic of a work’s potential to bear meaning through time, Aquinas makes a surprising statement in De veritate, in the midst of commenting on the status of the “Book of Life”: “Moreover, to proceed from a writer is not proper to a book insofar as it is a book, but insofar as it is an artifact; thus also a house is from a builder and a knife from a cutler. 47 48 ‘liberal’ arts, in order to distinguish them from those arts that are ordained to works done by the body, which arts are, in a fashion, servile, inasmuch as the body is in servile subjection to the soul, and man, as regards his soul, is free [liber].” Eco, 178. The 1999 motion picture “The Red Violin” illustrates a similar point. In the movie, a seventeenth-century Italian craftsman amidst trying life circumstances makes a beautiful violin, which passes to a child prodigy in Vienna in the eighteenth century, then to a virtuoso performer in 1800s England, and then to a rebel music teacher in China during Mao Tse-Tung’s revolution, and ends up auctioned in Montreal in the present day. The Metaphysics of Meaning 691 But to represent things that are written in a book concerns the proper nature [ratio] of a book as such.”49 Second, it might be urged in objection to this apparently neo-Gadamerian application of Aquinas that such an open-ended construal of textual meaning or aesthetic experience has nothing to do with what the product is intrinsically, namely, a discreet object the maker crafted in a particular way at a particular point in time. I will have something to say in a moment against an open-ended Gadamerian construal. For now, if we stick with the (analogous) hylemorphic analysis, we can inquire about “final cause.” And it emerges here that what formally constitutes any work of art is the use for which the maker meant it. The saw-maker precisely intended that his saw would be used in any number of ways he could not have foreseen. Shakespeare precisely intended his plays to be performed, presumably in any number of unforeseeable contexts far into the future. When authors compose written words, the very act of writing presumes—as Aquinas says—that words “represent” things, things and experiences that might bear dimensions of meaning far beyond the originally intended act of communication.50 A Thomistic aesthetic along the lines developed here oddly seems to support a version of textual meaning close to the “death of the author” schools of recent notoriety. But Aquinas also gives resources for anchoring the “meaning” of a work of art in the original intentions of the author. First, it should be obvious that the figura and the materia of a given artifact, both its structure and the particular elements that compose it, delimit the range of experience or meaning one can receive. One cannot simply get “any experience” out of any work of art. One cannot expect, for example, a fork to have the same aesthetic and emotive impact as a roller coaster. 49 50 De veritate, q. 7, a. 2. An example here might be St. Paul’s Letter to the Romans. Though the letter betrays any number of practical concerns for the community (preparation for the apostle’s upcoming arrival, unity in the local church, etc.), he addresses a range of issues involving significant theological depth and complexity (status of the Old Covenant, nature of justification by faith, etc.). One can presume that St. Paul would not have begrudged the community if they had continued to reflect further, ponder, and explore the implications of the subject matter he set forth. This is not to downplay the importance of historical work to discover authorial intent (as will become clear in a moment in my argument). It is simply to affirm, from the Thomistic grounds I have proposed, a truth in Gadamer’s position that the subject matter of a text often reasonably elicits fruitful reflection that the original author may not have foreseen in full detail. Peter Junípero Hannah, O.P. 692 Second, Aquinas also seems to privilege the relationship a work has to its original maker: “A house is related essentially [per se],” he writes, “to the intellect of the architect, but accidentally [per accidens] to the intellect upon which it does not depend.”51 There is, in other words, an essential relation between the artistic intention of the maker and the product brought forth. Later users of the product can establish relations to it, but in an accidental way that somehow depends on the original act. Aquinas even uses the language of truth on this specific point: “A house is said to be true,” he says, “that expresses the likeness of the form in the architect’s mind; and words are said to be true so far as they are the signs of truth in the intellect.”52 “True” is used here as a transcendental, as coextensive with being, in this case analogically rooted in how things in nature reflect their respective species in the divine mind. Nevertheless, his comment would seem to privilege the intentions of the maker who crafted a product, even as other parties establish “accidental” relationships to its “truth.” I have perhaps now opened up more questions in this sketch than can possibly be resolved. Nevertheless, I will now draw some provisional conclusions about the application of this Thomistic model to contemporary hermeneutical questions. Conclusion I began by noting that both the theological question of the literal sense and the hermeneutical question over meaning in a text encounter a similar tension around the two poles of authorial intention, on the one hand, and text-centered mediation of meaning, on the other. Aquinas’s hylemorphism, as analogously applied to works of art, enables us to see, first, that such tension is no surprise. It becomes conceivable to consider the “essence” of a work of art as a locus of meaning both structured and fluid. “Essence”—as with any talk of “form” or “matter” in reference to accidental compositions—is, of course, employed analogously here. Since a work of art is an accidental composition, however, one can ask what the subject is “in which” the accidental forms inhere. If the figura is the principle of such a work’s unity and structure, and its materia comprises the physical or intellectual elements out of which it is made, then what is the, not essence strictly speaking, but—for lack of a better word—“quasi-essence” that could govern legitimate construal of meaning? And 51 52 ST I, q. 16, a. 1, resp. Ibid. The Metaphysics of Meaning 693 here the four causes help us to see how any text, any work of art, will be both dependent on natural substances gathered from nature (or, more broadly, human experiences set forth in verbal discourse) and arranged into a particular shape, and dependent on the formal intentions of the maker in bringing forth the work. Since every work of art is composed from materia (physical or not) that retains significative capacity even after put in relation to a whole, and since the artificer specifically intends the work to be used in a variety of contexts, in principle, an unlimited depth of meaning may unfold through time as each receiver or community experiences and applies the work in varying circumstances. This dynamic obviously accords well with a Gadamerian hermeneutic. On the other hand, not only will the specific figura of a work set limits regarding what can possibly be experienced through it, but, for Aquinas, there will also be a primacy to the original moment of that work’s production. Hirsch’s concerns seem addressed when Aquinas says that every artifact is related per se to the mind of the maker and per accidens to later users, and moreover that the primary reference for the “truth” of the work resides in the per se relation it has to its maker’s mind at the moment of production, on which all per accidens relations are dependent. We can imagine, in short, a community unfolding depths of meaning in a work that may not have been in the immediate consciousness of the maker, but organically arise out of the formal determinations set by him, one of which is precisely that the product will be used, experienced, and reflected on through time. Certainly the kind of use for which the work is intended is vital. Historical and literary methods that seek to uncover the genre of a text, for example, would bear directly on the parameters of meaning possible to construe. While the dispositio of the work “as regards the proposed end” is anchored in the original moment of production, what Hirsch calls drawing out legitimate “implications” of a text would seem to grant implicitly what Gadamer emphasizes more one-sidedly, to wit, a depth of meaning exceeding the original author’s consciousness that can unfold through time. I noted earlier in Aquinas’s articulation of the per se versus the per accidens relations established in reference to a work of art that the latter “somehow depend” on the former. Just how is, of course, the whole difficulty. One can imagine certain implications, or “further meanings,” legitimately and organically arising from the formal determinations set by the original author. Or contrariwise, one can ima- 694 Peter Junípero Hannah, O.P. gine certain attempted implications going beyond the original intentions. And now is an opportune time to return to the question of the literal sense. Raymond Brown’s concession that the “literal” and “more-thanliteral” senses are, in practice, “not separable categories”53 speaks to the heart of a difficulty that, in the case of Scripture, becomes not only philosophical but theological. Scripture’s inspired character, its dual authorship by God and human beings, complicates the matter in a way evident in the history of biblical interpretation. Christopher Ocker, for example, has demonstrated in detail the way later medieval biblical interpreters, in contrast to the earlier Victorine school, began to construe rather far-fetched theological implications in the literal sense.54 On the other hand, Church documents do not seem to exclude from the discernment of the literal sense the inspired character of the scriptural text, that is, meanings God might have intended through the human author. The literal and spiritual senses are distinct, though intimately and mysteriously related, as Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI and other sources have asserted.55 But how does one discern, not only what the human author may have directly intended—a task contemporary hermeneutics has shown to be problematic enough— but what God may or may not have intended “literally” through the human author? Without claiming here to totally resolve such a question, the Thomistic model I have proposed does establish, in fairly straightforward metaphysical terms, certain key parameters. The original 53 54 55 See note 12 above. Whereas the Victorine School, Ocker argues, tailored Augustine’s distinction in De doctrina christiana between “natural” and “conventional” signs to a schema that drew a cleaner line between the “literal” and “spiritual” senses, later medievals began to blur the line (Ocker, Biblical Poetics, 31ff). The Dominican Nicholas Gorran (d. 1295), for example, thought the “letter” of the episode of Abraham’s binding of Isaac included Abraham having a vision of Christ’s passion and that Moses understood the burning bush as foreshadowing the virgin birth, the birth of the Church, the Church’s welfare despite tribulation, and the suffering of a just man burning with love (ibid., 43–48). John Baconthorpe (d. 1347) believed that the “doctors” of the Old Testament chose Elohim (a plural Hebrew noun) to convey the unity of God’s essence and the plurality of his persons. Johannes Klenkok (d. 1347), Nicolau Eimeric (d.1399), and Meister Eckhart (d. ca. 1328) also display an effort to theologically explicate the literal sense in a way only tenuously connected with the text itself (ibid., 59–64). See note 4 above. The Metaphysics of Meaning 695 moment of production sets a formal determination to the meaning of the text—what I have imperfectly called its “quasi-essence”—a meaning that the original author yet intends to represent realities that can be assimilated and reflected on by later audiences. To draw out some possible implications of this model, let us consider two contemporary examples of biblical interpretation where exegesis and the theological reflection of confessional traditions seem to be at odds. Both Judaism and Christianity have traditionally held that Genesis 1:1 affirms, among other things, God’s creation of the world ex nihilo. But contemporary exegesis has largely rejected this interpretation—at least as present in the text itself—on grammatical, syntactical, contextual, and historical grounds.56 So too, the Christian tradition (Western, at least) has held since St. Augustine that Romans 5:12 affirms the doctrine of original sin, spreading “by propagation, not by imitation.”57 But exegetes point out that the original Vulgate phrase out of which Augustine developed his doctrine was misleading at best and that it is very unlikely Paul had in mind what Augustine later developed.58 The interpretive model I have proposed allows us to say without blushing that both exegetes and theologians working from confessional traditions may be legitimately construing meaning from the same text. The exegete closely analyzes the grammar, syntax, redaction history, original historical circumstances, and all that might assist in recon- 56 57 58 The absence of an article from “beginning” in verse 1, the possible circumstantial construal of the first clause (“when God created”), the fact that the Hebrew phrase often translated “formless and void” (tohu wabohu) does not indicate absolute nothingness, and comparison with creation myths from surrounding ancient Near Eastern cultures have all contributed to this conclusion. See Mark Smith, The Priestly Vision of Genesis 1 (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2010), 43–59; and Jon D. Levenson, Creation and the Persistence of Evil: The Jewish Drama of Divine Omnipotence (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1988), esp. 47ff. Council of Trent, session 5; see Ludwig Ott, Fundamentals of Catholic Dogma, ed. James Canon Bastible, 4th ed. (Rockford, IL: Tan Books and Publishers, 1974), 111. The critical issue is the translation of the Greek phrase “eph’ hō,” which the Vulgate loosely renders “in quo.” See N.T. Wright, Romans, New Interpreter’s Bible 10 (Nashville, TN: Abingdon Press, 2002), 525–527. For a more detailed grammatical analysis, see Joseph Fitzmyer, Romans, Anchor Bible Series 33 (New York: Doubleday: 1993), 411–417. For a recent historical overview of the concept of original sin with detailed critique of Augustine’s theology, see John E. Toews, The Story of Original Sin (Eugene: Wipf & Stock, 2013). 696 Peter Junípero Hannah, O.P. structing the original author’s intentions and audience. That, on these grounds, Paul did not have in mind Augustine’s doctrine of original sin, or that the Hebrew author of the first line of the book of Genesis did not have consciously in mind the idea of creatio ex nihilo, would not necessarily mitigate against either of these ideas organically arising out of the text as deeper understanding of the original affirmations is sought through time. Even if all Paul had in mind was that “all have in fact sinned” (rather than somehow inherited it), or if the Hebrew author was using the imagery of formless pre-existing matter that God shapes into creation, these primary affirmations could conceivably be pointing to metaphysical and theological realities that later confessional traditions unfold in deeper and more elaborate ways, though neither less true than nor inconsistent with the original affirmations.59 These are complex questions, and I certainly cannot here resolve what would “count” as a legitimate implication or not. The inspired character of the text necessarily implies dimensions of meaning precluding easy solutions. The point of the model is that a control for meaning is provided in the original formal intentions of the author, without denigrating or excluding as less true or unimportant possible later construals, provided they are developing the essential meaning of the original affirmation and not simply projecting any meaning whatever into it. A simpler way of putting the question might be: would one be able to present the later doctrine to the original author and he reply, “Yes, that is what I was talking about,” or at least, “Yes, that follows from what I was affirming”? It should also be clear that these issues are closely related to the theological concept of “doctrinal development.” On the one hand, it is granted that later developments 59 For example, there is certainly tension and difference between the two statements “all have actually sinned” and “all sinned in Adam,” or between “creation from nothing” and “creation from pre-existing matter.” On the other hand, there is no necessary inconsistency between the two statements “all sinned in Adam” and “all have actually sinned.” The latter is not excluded by the assertion of the former, even if the former asserts more than the latter. The two assertions about Gen 1:1 perhaps involve greater divergence, but here literary device and the imperfect understanding of the author might be invoked without prejudice to the reality pointed to—God’s creation of the world—which comes to be more fully understood in later developments. By way of contrast, any number of certainly illegitimate construals can be imagined, for example, to assert that, in saying “all sinned,” Paul actually meant “none have sinned,” or that, by asserting God’s shaping of matter into creation, the author was really making a statement of how God himself is a man-made invention. The Metaphysics of Meaning 697 must be rooted in the primary affirmations of earlier statements; but at the same time, it is hoped that doctrine not be artificially or rigidly limited to the conscious and explicit intentions of the earlier or original articulations. To bring the inquiry full circle, one way of putting the crucial question underneath the idea of the sensus literalis is this: is later theological development of the meaning of a scriptural text related to the task of exegesis intrinsically or extrinsically? A Hirschean model, as well as much historical critical methodology, seems to come down on the side of “extrinsic relation”—exegesis proper is an affair of construing original meaning by more or less scientific means, explicitly attempting to prescind from the application of “significance” to later audiences. A purely Gadamerian model would probably not concern itself with the relation between original and later meanings in the first place—later developments are all one has, since every interpreter is inextricably historically situated within a tradition. The model I propose here sees both emphases as vital to construing the “primary meaning,” or sensus literalis. If you will, where Hirsch emphasizes what the author means and Gadamer emphasizes what the author means, this model reveals the intrinsic relation between the two, since any artistic creation is given its formal structure by the maker, and yet, in the case of an intellectual work, that structure contains within it significative dimensions that are necessarily complex, inviting deeper reflection and understanding through time. The work is per se related to the mind of the author, and yet, “to represent things that are written in a book concerns the proper nature of a book as such.”60 If the sensus literalis through the history of biblical interpretation has undergone significant shifts in meaning, then Aquinas’s hylemorphic system, analogously applied to a work of art in its formal and material determinations, may well be able to assist theologians in understanding how the sense that is supposed to be the foundation of exegesis and theological reflection could be understood today in terms historically N&V responsible, literarily rich, and theologically informed. 60 De veritate, q. 7, a. 2. (emphasis mine). Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 14, No. 2 (2016): 699–725 699 Book Reviews Rebuilding Catholic Culture: How the Catechism Can Shape Our Common Life by Ryan N. S. Topping (Manchester, NH: Sophia Institute Press, 2012) xxvii + 240 pp. Ryan Topping’s Rebuilding Catholic Culture: How the Catechism Can Shape Our Common Life is a call to arms for the Church in the modern world. It encourages the reader to reaffirm the wisdom of Catholic culture as civilization’s unique hope. In speaking of “culture,” the author has in mind that “excellence in thought and manner which properly accrues to a people.” Topping, a scholar of St. Augustine who has thought deeply about the nature and contemporary challenges of liberal education, is Fellow of the Thomas More College of the Liberal Arts (NH). He writes for a Western world where reason has all but evacuated the public forum and religion (insofar as it is tolerated) has degenerated into mere “therapy or critique.” Both doctrinal and pastoral in his tack, Topping grounds his argument in the Catechism’s teachings and outlook, supports it with sociological data and current events, and enriches it with references to art and experience. The black-and-white prints and photographs are not particularly inspiring or apropos; but the author colors his prose with so many incisive and quotable phrases that Fr. Aidan Nichols, O.P. (who wrote the foreword) and Fr. John Saward (on the back cover) have not inappropriately called it “Chestertonian.” The book comprises eight main chapters, each of which treats a basic subject of one of the Catechism’s four parts: doctrine, sacraments, morals, and prayer. “On Faith” (ch. 1) provides an apology for the ecclesial structure of faith based upon the common-sense need to bring deliberation to an end and, often enough, to trust another’s word in order to act. Topping identifies the negative effects of Kantianism, historicism, and postmodernism while describing the positive “internal 700 Book Reviews and external” conditions that allow faith (qua and quae) to appreciate the authority of Tradition, Scripture, and Magisterium. “On the Creed” (ch. 2) takes up the faith’s use of reason, specifically arguing that authentic humanism requires classical Christology. Evangelical confidence in humanity demands candor about sin and creedal specificity about the unique, incarnate work of Christ. In company with the Catechism, Paul VI’s Humanae Vitae and St. John Paul II’s Familiaris Consortio provide the prophetic programs that best orient the Church’s anthropology for today. “On Worship” (ch. 3) situates present experience within the movement of liturgical reform that began in the nineteenth century. Besides healthy gains, such as greater education of the laity, Topping observes damaging effects: turning Sacrosanctum Concilium’s “participatio actuosa” into a call for the laity’s clericalized activism, elevating the priest’s personal individuality over his sacred ministry, and redirecting the end of divine worship to human instruction and exhortation. Catholics must rediscover that their most important and co-redemptive work is their hierarchical worship of the triune God, which is a “work of the people” only insofar as it is a work of the whole Christ—head and members. “On Sacraments” (ch. 4) considers the contemporary, secular challenges to an enchanted view of the world. Topping uncovers the Enlightenment principles that continue to set man against nature and deaden his sense of the sacred. After Kant, mind and morals are divorced. As a result, people live schizophrenically between the worlds of technical functionalism and sensual libertinism. For Topping, building houses of worship that are decidedly beautiful will renew the Catholic presentation of the embodied person’s integrally transcendent vocation. Accordingly, greater attention to the senses and imagination is also owed to sacramental celebration. Whereas the liturgy has become rationalized, morals have become sentimentalized. “On Virtue” (ch. 5) describes society’s estrangement from the philosophical grammar of its own purported “values,” such as the prerogatives of conscience or justice for all. The author shows how modernity’s authority of the self and confidence in worldly perfection (consider Rousseau) have stifled law’s more universal and ultimate intelligibility. It is no wonder, then, that liberalism sets the stage for totalitarianism. At any rate, the Church’s promise of a happy life, pursued through the asceticism and joy of the virtues, is the answer. Using Dante’s Commedia to paint a delightful tableau to envision the road to happiness, Topping continues his noble effort to re-harmonize Book Reviews 701 intelligent love of the good and the beautiful in “On Law” (ch. 6). Beatitude results from the journey that progressively internalizes God’s law through grace and virtue. And as with his passage through purgatory, man on earth must allow his freedom to be trained with “caresses and blows.” Properly analogous to the soul, a city lacking in discipline, and even punishment, is a city lacking in order and, with it, the potential to flourish. But the right ordering of society is only practicable when the nature and dignity of its most fundamental cell is recognized. “On the Family” (ch. 7) shows how the faithful family is the best argument against secularism’s nihilistic claims that “married life is imprisoning, babies are burdens, and male-female difference is a cultural fiction.” Although catechesis (in this area and others) needs an aggressive overhaul, Topping, a father of five, testifies that parents themselves must be people of prayer and devotion; they must imbue their children’s imagination and memory with the devotional taste for fasting and feasting. The next chapter focuses more specifically “On Prayer” (ch. 8), also continuing the critique against scientist and historicist optimism. Topping would orient the Christian soul otherwise to hope for God above all other programs and goals. The Church’s members must pray and profess “Thy Kingdom come” with new vigor, furthermore summoning the renewal of consecrated life. When authentically lived, such forms of life testify to the supernatural future of heaven and can manifest its glorious freedom even now. Undoubtedly, Topping’s diagnosis of modern Catholicism in the West is necessary reading for parish leaders, Catholic high-schoolers and undergraduates, and all who have yet to distinguish between the authentic Second Vatican Council of the Magisterium and the mock simulacrum that secular media and ecclesial dissension have engendered. His concluding exhortation for rebuilding Catholic culture is to end legalized abortion, have more babies, teach children Latin, and build beautiful churches. Overall, his work evinces the wisdom of the Catechism’s authors in choosing an intellectual and traditional, rather than situational and revolutionary, approach to the faith. Weaving the voices of, for example, St. Irenaeus, St. Augustine, St. Thomas, Dante, Blessed John Henry Newman, and St. John Paul II into one, Topping masterfully answers his own battle cry: “[to] master and muster the resources of [the Church’s] own tradition. [Which is] done not through endless accommodation to contemporary thought, but through renewal and recovery of its own mind.” Such a renewal and recovery 702 Book Reviews as Topping’s articulates the palpably systemic effects that ideas have had in the West for good and for ill, while pointing the way forward. He does so in a way that would explicitly ally “Thomists and masters of the nouvelle théologie” with each other. Assuredly, some readers will bristle at Topping’s anti-modern militancy (which nevertheless uses the rather modern category of “culture”) and his conservativism, which is suspicious of rights-talk and committed to Christ’s social kingship. But there will be difficulty in contesting his evidence and arguments, even as certain positions and statements remain open to deeper probing—for example, that there are three “authorities or sources” of Revelation; that the unique vice of our age is “to substitute images for ideas”; that being a “rigorous, loyal, and proud” Catholic is the most convincing recipe for radiating Christ’s love; or that the patristic approach to nature differs from the classical by way of “extension,” not “revision.” He also invites historians and theorists to consider further, among other things, the multifaceted relationship between images and ideas in the grasp and transmission of supernatural things and to scrutinize the borders between the Church’s “own mind” and other philosophies. Above all, however, the question that will linger most after reading such a rousing work, published in 2012, is “And what of Francis?” N&V Bruno M. Shah, O.P. University of Notre Dame Notre Dame, Indiana T & T Clark Companion to Augustine and Modern Theology, edited by C. C. Pecknold and Tarmo Toom (New York: Bloomsbury T & T Clark, 2013), xvi + 287 pp. As the Christian West continues to struggle with working out its Augustinian legacy, tools for thinking about that legacy are always in need. As the editors note in their introduction, this volume is meant to be an aid to deepening our understanding of that legacy. The volume offers six chapters on doctrines (Trinity, the human being, Christ, Church, Scripture, and eschatology) that are focused on Augustine himself, followed by six chapters dedicated to how major theologians from the thirteenth (Aquinas and Bonaventure), sixteenth (Luther and Calvin), and twentieth (Lubac and Zizioulas) centuries have received Augustine. Even the chapters focused on Augustine, Book Reviews 703 however, are generally composed with an eye toward modern theology and the ways in which Augustine is useful in addressing its concerns. A few of the chapters are slightly tarnished by imperfect editing, but Pecknold and Toom have put together an admirable volume, drawing together a wide range of scholars to offer their insights to us. If there is one problem this reader would note, it is that there is no chapter on Augustine’s doctrine of grace, one of the richest and most influential aspects of his thought. The Luther and Calvin chapters, of course, talk about the reception of that doctrine, but the absence of a chapter about Augustine and grace feels like a loss. The chapter on Augustine and the Trinity is by Luigi Gioia. Gioia’s offering is more or less a distillation of his book, something that is always useful for the scholar whose reading list grows ever longer. His reading of the progress of the truth from polemic to anagogy to mystagogy to theology of revelation to worship as the expression of wisdom is deeply illuminating. The De Trinitate as speculative theology and as theological anthropology is situated clearly and appropriately in the context of the questions raised by our sinfulness and our weakness, questions that are answered by the one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus. The missions are, if anything, even more important to theology than are the processions. It is precisely in the sacrifice of Christ that the inner life of the Trinity is revealed to us, for knowing God is only possible through “the full thankful and humble acknowledgement of our total dependence on God” (17). Michael Hanby’s chapter on Augustine and the human being presents a deeply admirable project: to locate a sense in Augustine of relationality as essential to humanity, rendering the human person “analogous to the ‘substantive relations’ of the Trinitarian personae” (22). He explicitly places himself in the tradition of re-readings of the De Trinitate that has included such figures as Lewis Ayres and Rowan Williams. He does this by pointing to the constitutive role of memory in the human person as “by definition a response to something first given” (25). The chapter on Augustine and Christ is written by Ronnie Rombs. Rombs skillfully exegetes the centrality of “one mediator between God and man, the man Christ Jesus” as a binding together of person and work, soteriology and Christology, the mediator reconcilians. But perhaps the more significant move comes in his discussion of the relation between mediation and revelation, where he argues that Augustine provides us with the means for a “fruitful engagement” (38) with 704 Book Reviews contemporary “symbolic” Christologies found in Rahner, Dulles, and Haight. For, as mediating revealer who mediates and reveals precisely in the flesh, Christ gives sensory expression to what is non-sensory, and thus can be said to be a “symbol” of God, so long as we allow the symbol simultaneously to be that which it signifies. In Michael Root’s chapter on Augustine and ecclesiology, he hones in on the question of the unity of the Church, and especially with an eye to ecumenical concern. He notes that, in Donatism, we find “a fully non-ecumenical ecclesiology” (57), where the understanding of Church unity is utterly simple. Augustine, on the other hand, develops a layered understanding of Church unity, starting with an external unity found through the sharing of legitimate baptism and moving to an internal unity of charity in the Spirit. This developed sense of unity means that “[t]he problem presented by schism and some forms of heresy is now precisely ecumenical” (60), for genuine connection to the Church (not, as Root notes, communion with or participation in it) is not nullified, as in Donatist thought, but marred by division. Schism is thus ultimately a sin against charity, for charity is always a unitive, not a divisive force. Not only the schismatic, but also the carnal Catholic sins against charity and thus fails to truly participate in the salvific Church and its three levels of unity (in shared sacrament, in visible communion, and in Christ, Spirit, and charity). It is these three levels of unity (tweaked in different ways in different communities) that have given rise to all of modern ecumenical theology. Tarmo Toom’s chapter on Augustine and Scripture discusses how Augustine came to encounter, reject, and finally return to Scripture in his life, before turning to discussing what Scripture is in Augustine’s theology, namely, “a unique case of God’s communication with humankind and, as such . . . a means in the larger context of economy” (77) by which the intelligible God communicates with sense-obsessed humanity through sensible media. As divine speech, Scripture is “holy, truthful, and blameless” (78), as well as a trustworthy guide in salvation. Yet, this message is conveyed through human words, which bring with them a number of attendant problems, such as ambiguity and temporality. Toom notes that these problems arise from the fact that words are signa, and the signum can only ever approximate the res. Scripture is thus to be used in the pursuit of God, who alone is to be enjoyed. For Augustine, this Scripture was a unified whole (85) that points us to Christ Jesus (83). Toom concludes by noting that, while some of Augustine’s views on Scripture have fallen out of favor, others have Book Reviews 705 become or are becoming influential: the focus on linguistic signification, the use of Christological analogies, and the continuing spiritual usefulness of Scripture. The last chapter, on doctrine, is Morwenna Ludlow’s chapter on Augustine and the last things. Here, she brings the eschatology of the City of God into conversation with twentieth-century suspicions of a future (or a certain future) last day. While she notes that Augustine is less certain than some might take him to be at the end of that book, this reader felt like she ascribed rather too much certainty to him. A helpful recent discussion can be found in Cavadini’s essay in James Wetzel’s Augustine’s City of God: a Critical Guide. Nevertheless, her analysis is generally strong, and her choice of conversation partners is illuminating, especially the use of John Milbank and feminist discussions of bodies. With these latter commentators especially, one wishes she would have been able to engage with Sarah Coakley’s recent book God, Sexuality, and the Self. Since the latter volume was published two weeks after this collection, such a wish was, of course, less a real possibility than a wistful “what might have been.” Frederick Bauerschmidt’s chapter on Augustine and Aquinas is more about the rhetorical tropes of “Thomism” and “Augustinianism” as competing modes of thought than it is about Augustine and Aquinas per se. Perhaps the best part of this section is his noting that Ratzinger came to read Thomas “as an heir to the Augustinian project of seeking a knowing adequate to the yearnings of the restless heart” (121), a stance that the reader has known many Thomists to take in private conversation and in conference settings. This dichotomy is more about the subjective versus the objective experience of theology, whereas more recent commentators like Massimo Faggioli have tended to use the tropes to propose an Augustinian world-pessimism and a Thomistic world-optimism. Thankfully, Bauerschmidt points out that these latter tropes are rather less accurate than some might hope. As it turns out, love is the key for both thinkers, not optimism or pessimism. Joshua Benson’s chapter on Augustine and Bonaventure looks at the disputed question of Bonaventure’s Augustinianism. After a review of the scholarship on the matter, he turns to a letter in which Bonaventure writes that “our masters of theology have set down little or nothing in their writings that you will not find in the books of Augustine himself ” (136). For Bonaventure, Augustine emerges as the “model philosopher for the theologian” (138) whom later thinkers must emulate, rather than simply falling into an “Augustinian” school. He finally concludes 706 Book Reviews by presenting Bonaventure as an Augustinian, “if that means an attempt to remain faithful to Augustine even in disagreement” (148), rather than simply reproducing what Augustine says. To this reader, that seems like the right kind of Augustinian to be. The chapter on Augustine and Luther comes to us from Phillip Cary. Cary reduces Luther’s development of Augustinian theology to “a more inward conception of sin and a more outward conception of grace” (151). The former shift is accomplished through a querying of motivations for loving God, which can only be good for Augustine, but can be bad for Luther. The latter shift, of course, is connected to the project of Cary’s trilogy on Augustine, for it arises from sacramentalizing grace. For Cary, Luther becomes Lutheran when he discovers, not the righteousness of God, but the sacramentality of the Gospel, a departure from Augustine’s (for Cary) wholly interior communication of grace. Anthony Lane’s chapter on Augustine and Calvin discusses the ways in which Calvin uses appeal to the Fathers (and especially to Augustine) as a defense against the ever-potent charge of theological innovation. He notes that this apologetic purpose is the main (but not only) reason behind Calvin’s references to patristic authority. Calvin often finds Augustine’s scriptural exegesis overly subtle and figurative, although on questions of doctrine, Augustine is (though not infallible) authoritative enough that “his judgment was sufficient to counterbalance all the other Fathers” (186). He closes by calling for a clearer examination of the influence that Augustine had on Calvin, both in doctrine and in exegesis. The chapter on Augustine and Henri de Lubac is co-authored by C. C. Pecknold and Jacob Wood. It looks at the argument about the natural desire for God that began with Lubac’s Surnaturel and has re-surfaced in the twenty-first century. But this chapter goes very deep into the discussion and firmly situates Lubac in the tradition of the Augustinian theology that began with Giles of Rome. The authors argue that, against the backdrop of this tradition, Lubac is far less inconsistent than many have taken him to be. The rich and layered discussion of the background to the debate will leave any reader interested in the “natural desire” debate hungry for more and hopeful that the dissertation written by Wood under Pecknold will emerge in book form before too long. Will Cohen’s chapter on Augustine and Zizioulas gestures towards a certain disparity in Catholic-Orthodox dialogue: while Catholics Book Reviews 707 generally regard the Greek Fathers of Orthodox thought as valuable sources for thought, Orthodox Christians generally regard Augustine, the Latin Father of Catholic thought, as being the deeply problematic source of the errors of the West. Zizioulas is no exception, but Cohen shows that many of his criticisms of Augustine are based on misunderstandings, especially of the Trinitarian doctrine of Augustine, where Cohen deftly shows Augustine to hold to the same principles that Zizioulas champions “against” Augustine and Western thought. Similarly, Zizioulas’s charge that Augustine is the fountainhead of an inwardly turned Western solipsism, as opposed to a communion-founded identity, is dispelled, with the aid of Phillip Cary, by pointing to the way Plotinus’s inward turn becomes a turn “in and up” N&V in Augustine. Joshua Gonnerman Catholic University of America Washington, D.C. Dark Passages of the Bible: Engaging Scripture with Benedict XVI and Thomas Aquinas by Matthew J. Ramage (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2013), vii + 303 pp. Fifty years ago , the German Jesuit and exegete Norbert Lohfink bemoaned the rumor that the fathers of the Second Vatican Council were considering removing the cursing psalms from the breviary, asking if such a move “might not be throwing the baby out with the bath water.” His fear was confirmed when Psalms 58, 83 and 109 were omitted from the psalter cycle because of “a certain psychological difficulty.”1 Despite the specification of the doctrine of inerrancy as pertaining to truth “for the sake of our salvation” in Dei Verbum §11, as well as the doctrinal commitment of Dei Verbum §12 to the necessity of a holistic reading of the biblical text in the light of Sacred Tradition, this pastoral decision regarding the Divine Office seems to indicate a lack of magisterial confidence that a proper interpretation of these psalms could be readily put into practice among those praying the official prayer of the Church. 1 A.M. Roguet, trans. Peter Coughlan and Peter Purdue, The Liturgy of the Hours: The General Instruction on the Liturgy of the Hours with a Commentary (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1971), no. 131. 708 Book Reviews This gap between conciliar teaching and application has become a hallmark of post-Vatican II biblical interpretation, which has been marked, on the whole, by a radical instability in which the use of modern methods of analysis and the hermeneutic of faith are rarely integrated. Current attempts at interpretation often swing wildly from one to the other, from historical-critical homilies that never seem to reach the point of preaching to strained attempts to domesticate the Bible by reference to one or more controlling concepts that promise to “unlock” it as a perspicuous sourcebook for faith and morals. In this confusion, the really difficult, even demoralizing, passages in the Bible are very often simply overlooked, so much so that Benedict XVI felt it necessary, in his apostolic exhortation Verbum Domini, to encourage scholars and pastors to avoid neglecting these “dark passages” and even “to help all the faithful” to understand them “in the light of the mystery of Christ” (§42). In response to this call, Matthew J. Ramage undertakes an encounter with the “dark passages” of the Bible and does so with candor, depth, and profound attention to the Catholic tradition of reading Sacred Scripture. His work, the published version of his doctoral dissertation, comprises a thorough synthesis of historical-critical exegesis and dogmatic interpretation that greatly respects and draws upon both approaches, bringing them into a fruitful synthesis that he applies, with great benefit, to some of the most unsettling passages of Sacred Scripture. Ramage introduces his work by expressing his goal: “to elucidate a theology of Scripture” that remains true to Catholic doctrine, but at the same time, contains an “inductive dimension” in which theory is confronted by reality in the historical-critical analysis of “the most difficult texts of Scripture” (3). To this end, he endeavors to wed the perspective of “Method A” exegesis—the patristic and medieval approach that emphasizes the unity and harmony of Sacred Scripture—with the practice of “Method B” exegesis—the unsparing scientific approach of the modern historian that seeks not to unite texts, but to distinguish them as products of unique human authors writing in specific historical and cultural situations. The product of this union is “Method C exegesis,” which Ramage hopes can synthesize such perspectives by relating unique texts through attention to development in light of the Catholic Faith, understood as the mature fruit of this development, never compromising, but carefully nuancing the doctrines of inspiration and inerrancy. These doctrines serve the Method C exegete not as rigid confines that commit the exegete to obscurantism, Book Reviews 709 nor as a substitute for encountering the Bible as a historian. Instead, they comprise the modus vivendi that enables the Christian exegete to have the courage and confidence to be unsparingly historical, to deal honestly with imperfect and even demoralizing passages as representing not themselves, but as one stage of a movement toward Christ. In the words of Benedict XVI, quoted by Ramage, “For the Church the Old Testament represents, in its totality, an advance towards Christ; only when it attains to him does its real meaning… become clear” (6). That movement is their real meaning for the Christian, a meaning that can be known only in the light of faith. In the spirit of Method C, Ramage goes directly to the text to engage some of the “dark passages” of Scripture. In chapter 1, he considers three themes of central importance to Christian Faith: the nature of God, the nature of good and evil, and the afterlife. In regard to the first theme, Ramage considers many OT passages that mention the Lord as only one of many gods; in regard to the second, many OT passages in which God commands the killing of the innocent and/or tempts and hardens human hearts to their destruction; and in regard to the third, many OT passages that deny the blessedness for the righteous dead and resurrection. Many of these passages are well-known, but their cumulative weight presses the issue inescapably: “How can the Bible be God’s word if it is rife with problems in so many areas?” (49). Chapter 2 begins Ramage’s extended answer to this question by elaborating on the nature and origins of Method C exegesis and the principles of Catholic biblical interpretation. The idea and phraseology (“Methods A, B, and C”) come from Joseph Ratzinger, and it is he who is held up as primary theoretician and the working model for its actual practice. Ramage begins by explaining the nature of Method A and then notes its shortcomings, such as neglect of the literal sense. These defects are counterbalanced in Method B, but new shortcomings arise there as well, especially the tendency toward reconstructions of sayings and events based on a priori philosophical assumptions such as metaphysical naturalism. From a Catholic perspective, each approach is valid but needs the other, with Method B coming first in execution, but with the motive and faith hermeneutic of Method A. It is through the practice of Method B that, with Method A’s principles as rationale and guide, a deeper understanding of the Bible’s dark passages can be achieved. Ramage recognizes that this approach requires more than papal enthusiasm and commendation in order to be accomplished well; it needs a theology. It is here that he draws upon the thought of 710 Book Reviews St. Thomas Aquinas to qualify the assertion that there is development in the Bible (chapter 3) and to offer a careful interpretation of the doctrines of inspiration and inerrancy (chapter 4). Chapter 3 approaches the matter diachronically, showing that the idea of development is not a discovery of Method B, but one already envisioned by one of the most successful and influential practitioners of Method A. Thomas’s distinction between the “substance of the articles of faith” and the “number of the articles of faith” allows Ramage to highlight the integrity of the earliest strata of the biblical corpus as truly revelatory, while allowing for the full flowering of God’s self-disclosure in later texts, culminating in Christ. Thomas’s doctrine of the divine pedagogy roots this process in God’s condescension to humanity that allows for growth in understanding, illuminating the previous distinction. Finally, Thomas’s doctrine of the three ages of man (before the Law, under the Law, and the time of grace), marked as it is by progress in knowledge of God, gives a working schema for approaching the various strata of biblical texts to see this development. In this way, Method B provides an opportunity to see in moving color what Aquinas had already perceived but could not see with acuity. His theology provides Ramage with a way to relate biblical unity (the emphasis of Method A) to biblical change (the emphasis of Method B). Chapter 4 approaches the matter synchronically, exploring Thomas’s theory of the divine act of revelation, by which God gave human minds perceptions of divine things, and inspiration, the elevation of the mind that makes the former possible. Ramage is on difficult terrain here, but with the help of numerous commentators (Synave, Benoit, Congar, et al.) he does an admirable job of presenting the complex relationship between the perfect Divine Author and the many imperfect human authors of Sacred Scripture. He adopts Benoit’s distinction between “revelation in the broad sense,” in which authors are given the ability to perceive natural realities (things and events) from God’s perspective, and “revelation in the strict sense,” in which authors receive supernatural ideas. This distinction is crucial for Method C because it requires neither a verbalistic conception of inspiration nor a propositional claim-by-claim application of inerrancy. When this insight is combined with the insights of Chapter 3 regarding the divine pedagogy, it becomes clearer how a biblical author could be inspired but, at the same, time limited by his own milieu in his expression of divine truth. Ramage posits a distinction between a formal error (an “error of rationality” a la Stephen Wykstra) and a material imperfection Book Reviews 711 that is the result of some calculus of the author’s position in salvation history and his use of reason that makes the imperfection inevitable, even obligatory in some cases (131–146). What Catholics are committed to by their faith is that the biblical authors “wrote precisely what God wanted them to write at their respective points within the divine pedagogy” (146). He concludes by adding an additional dimension not found in St. Thomas, the role of the practical judgment and purposes of the biblical authors, whose purposes were not always doctrinal, but sometimes exhortative, liturgical, narratival, or archival, and so on. Chapters 5–6 complete the process with an application of these insights to the “dark passages” regarding the nature of God, good and evil (chapter 5), and the afterlife (chapter 6). Ramage is not interested in offering new exegetical insights here, but draws upon the work of well-known biblical scholars, Catholic and Protestant, ancient and modern, to work out on the ground what a Method C approach might look like in regard to these themes. His application of the various Thomistic distinctions explored in chapters 3–4 is impressive for its balance and its respect for both the faith of the ancient exegetes and the acuity of the modern exegetes upon whom he relies. Since it traces a process of development, it is necessary for Ramage to take a summary approach. Because his aim is not to recapitulate the meticulous work of others, but rather to show how they can be brought together fruitfully, his brevity is justifiable. While it would be impossible within the scope of a review to evaluate every claim, in my opinion, Ramage is quite successful overall in showing how a faithfully Catholic exegete can remain one while never compromising his scholarly honesty. The chapter on the afterlife is particularly well-developed and insightful, and both chapters (5 and 6) justify Ramage’s confidence that Method C exegesis is eminently practicable, thus demonstrating “the reasonableness of Catholic magisterial teaching on the inspiration and inerrancy of scripture” (274). Ramage’s work is an excellent contribution to a project that is only beginning and was indicated by Ratzinger himself as a work that would take at least a generation to realize. One major benefit is that the work draws together manifold examples from Joseph Ratzinger to show how he interprets the Bible and illumines why he takes modern exegetical methods and their fruits so seriously while never compromising his commitment to the Bible as the word of God. The courage of Ratzinger to carefully work in obedience to conciliar teaching on biblical interpretation has a subtle but powerful lesson for Catholic 712 Book Reviews scholars and preachers. It is not simply a moral lesson about the virtue of obedience, but a lesson about the very relationship between faith and reason itself. In its use of Ratzinger and Aquinas, but also in Ramage’s own careful and responsible conclusions, Dark Passages is particularly helpful for revealing Catholic biblical exegesis as one very important function of that relationship. It will be an important resource for all Catholics who wish to bridge the gap into which the cursing Psalms have fallen and out of which the criticisms of the New N&V Atheists resound incessantly. Christopher T. Baglow Notre Dame Seminary New Orleans, Louisiana Dynamic Transcendentals: Truth, Goodness, & Beauty from a Thomistic Perspective by Alice M. Ramos (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2012), 256 pp. Over the last twenty or so years , various studies have been published on St. Thomas’s doctrine of the transcendental properties of being. Particularly noteworthy among these studies is Jan Aertsen’s Medieval Philosophy and the Transcendentals: The Case of Thomas Aquinas (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1996). In the introduction to her book, Alice Ramos notes that, according to Aertsen’s analysis, Thomas’s doctrine of the transcendentals brings together both theological and anthropological considerations, as well as pointing to the connection between the transcendentals and morality. Ramos is concerned not only with these connections made by Aertsen, but more specifically with the intensification, as it were, of truth, goodness, and beauty effected by the human person as he contributes to the perfection of the universe and, thus, to the return of all things to their Source, namely God. Her appreciation of the intimate connection between Thomas’s metaphysics, anthropology, and ethics enables her to pursue this theme and ably and insightfully to show forth the dynamic nature of Thomas’s conception of truth, goodness, and beauty. And yet, given the debate about whether beauty is, properly speaking, a transcendental property of being, and given that Aertsen has argued that it is not, one wonders why this issue is not addressed by the author. The book is not a systematic treatise, but rather a collection of essays that approach truth, goodness, and beauty from various perspectives. These essays are, nevertheless, organized into three sections: Part I, Book Reviews 713 “Truth, Measure, and Virtue”; Part II, “Beauty, Order, and Teleology: The Perfection of Man and the Universe”; and Part III, “Goodness and Beauty: Human Reason and the True Good.” The array of influences and dialogue partners is truly impressive: Joseph de Finance, Oliva Blanchette, Servais Pinckaers, Johnathan Lear, Alasdair MacIntyre, Martin Heidegger, John Rist, Kant, Nietzsche, Foucault, and John Paul II, to name a few. Ramos’s work demonstrates the perennial significance of St. Thomas’s thought—and for that we are in her debt. Chapter 1 emphasizes the relationship between mind, the universe, and the divinity in Aristotle’s metaphysics. It interprets Aristotle as positing that man has a desire for the supernatural, arguing for the identity of the contemplative life with the happy life. The intelligibility of the world and the fact that God is the author of the world in all its intelligibility mean that true understanding of the world contributes to the divinization of man (17). (Perhaps one might add the qualification, “in a certain respect” to account for the existence of men who extract knowledge from nature for immoral purposes). The second section of this essay engages the Summa contra gentiles and shows, among other things, that, for Thomas, the first truth, which is God, is the good of human intelligence that man naturally desires as his natural end. Chapter 2 brings out the moral implications of human life in the ontological space between God as Origin and End of all that exists. Relevant here is the Neoplatonist principle according to which an effect seeks to assimilate itself to its cause. In the return of men to the Origin and End, Ramos discerns the operation of two measures— namely, reason and law—although one might see these as constituting a single measure, since for Thomas, law is an opus rationis. Intrinsic to the dynamics of assimilation to God that is this return is virtue, which, in ordering man’s life in accordance with reason, orders him to the good—that is to say, to his end. A more theological and personalist tenor marks the final essay of Part I. Only faith in Christ can bring reason to the fulfilment of its desire for truth. The truth that Christ reveals to us, however, Ramos writes, requires “more than a theoretical understanding, for the truth that is the Person of Christ wants to enter into a relationship with each human being and for this the human person needs to entrust himself, to give himself, to Christ and to those to whom is given the authority to interpret his message of truth” (50). This entrustment and concomitant assimilation to divine Truth require a certain asceticism in which virtues such as studiositas, humility, and magnanimity area cultivated. 714 Book Reviews The first essay of Part II presents us with the idea that virtue, in ordering man to his final end, contributes to the final form of the universe, to “its final beauty” (93). The virtue of justice, in which the use of right reason principally appears, comes to the forefront towards the end of the essay. Justice and truth are intimately related, as Thomas argues: “Since the will is the rational appetite, when the rectitude of the reason which is called truth is imprinted on the will on account of its [accord with] the reason, this imprint retains the name of truth; and hence it is that justice … sometimes goes by the name of truth” (Summa theologiae II-II, q. 58, a. 4, sed contra; hereafter, ST). The idea of divine Providence makes an important appearance in this chapter, since it is by divine Providence that the rational creature participates in the Eternal Reason “whereby it has a natural inclination to its proper act and end” (ST I-II, q. 91, a. 2). It reappears in the next chapter (5), where Ramos treats the problem of evil. Here she argues that, “through the suffering of others, God makes us participants in a special way of his providence, so as to provide for others, help them, love them, and so cause goodness, as God himself does” (106). Indeed, suffering brings benefits to the one who must endure it: it furnishes the conditions in which he can recognize the ephemeral nature of goods such as health, riches, physical beauty, and honor and recognize that God alone can answer the human desire for happiness. And, as we are told in chapter 6 (which deals with the experience of vulnerability and shame), this “crucified God certainly inverts our ordinary conceptions of the beautiful and challenges our way of seeing the world” (118). Experience of the cross purifies and transforms our construal of what is truly beautiful. This point would, however, merit further development. Chapter 7 turns once again to truth and, in particular, to one vice and one virtue (vainglory and magnanimity) that, respectively, undermine and facilitate its attainment. While the former enslaves the mind in its pursuit of extrinsic and superficial goods, the latter liberates the mind so that it can seek what is truly honorable and good. The one who genuinely seeks the good according to the nature of reason becomes more virtuous and more like God, as chapter 8 emphasizes. He grows in beauty and posits acts that are endowed with beauty— bearing in mind that Thomas attributes beauty to an act of reason (ST II-II, q. 180, a. 2, ad 3). This beauty, however, is not possible without grace: “For since the lustre of grace springs from the shedding of Divine light, this lustre cannot be brought back, except God sheds His light anew” (ST I-II, q. 109, a. 7). Book Reviews 715 Beauty, along with goodness, furnishes the focus of the first essay of Part III. The influence of Jacques Maritain is evident in the definition of beauty as “that which pleases on being seen” (150). While this definition in no way distorts what Thomas writes, what he actually says is that “beautiful things are those which please when seen” (ST I, q. 5, a. 4, ad. 1).The idea is that beauty is a function of intellect and will together, albeit an experience that engages the human person in his psychosomatic reality. The following assertion, therefore, does not tally with a Thomistic understanding: “A beautiful object that is grasped by the senses gives pleasure to the sense appetite” (150). Ramos’s own correct understanding of the influence of the internal senses and the passions on the judgment of the intellect in chapter 10 (200) is of relevance in formulating a Thomistic account of aesthetic experience. While one will readily agree with the idea that “the ability to appreciate sensible beauty predisposes one to appreciate intelligible beauty” (150–151), the idea that it predisposes one “to admire, for example, the beauty that radiates from moral activity” (151) would require more argumentative support than Ramos provides. The theme of moral beauty is continued in chapter 10, which lingers on the notion of honestas, which is the same as virtue. This essay also contains an excellent treatment of temperance and beauty. In brief, the idea is that, “given the harmony, proportion, and clarity that characterize the temperate life . . . beauty is, in a special or excellent way, ascribed to temperance” (197). The final essay deals with the themes of art, truth, and morality, engaging with Plato, Aristotle, Kant, and Oscar Wilde as it does so. Amongst other things, the author rightly concludes that “the arts are far from being morally neutral and indifferent to truth” (225). At their best, they serve the cause of the true and the good. Yet, this Thomistic view seems to be undermined by Ramos’s recourse to the Kantian idea that we take interest in particular artworks for their own sake and not in any purpose they may serve, an idea that is at odds with the teleology that is intrinsic to a Thomistic aesthetic. Thus, the Sistine Chapel, to use Ramos’s example, serves to give glory to God, and the experience of its beauty is arguably enhanced for anyone who appreciates this fact. In the final words of this book, Ramos suggests that “reflection on the beautiful . . . may indeed be a privileged route to both the truth and the good, and education in the beautiful may well pave the way for a reshaping of our culture and world and for human happiness” (233). While I would certainly agree with the crucial role that a sense 716 Book Reviews of beauty plays in cultivating an appreciation of the true and the good, it nevertheless remains that truth and goodness are more basic than beauty—according to Thomas’s view, after all, beauty is a function of truth and the good or, more precisely, “beautiful things are those which when seen give pleasure [pulchra enim dicuntur quae visa placent]” (ST I, q. 1, a. 5, ad 1). This view would also provide support for Ramos’s many excellent reflections, both philosophical and theological, concerning the crucial role that the life of virtue plays in cultivating a sense of beauty. N&V Kevin E. O’Reilly, O.P. Theological Studium, St. Saviour’s Dublin, Ireland Explorations in the Theology of Benedict XVI, edited by John C. Cavadini (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2012), 328 pp. A collection of essays from a conference by the same name at the University of Notre Dame in 2012, Explorations in the Theology of Benedict XVI is precisely that: an appreciative, critical, and in no way slavish engagement with Ratzinger/Benedict’s long career as a theologian. The book is not intended to be an introduction to Benedict’s thought, as several serviceable options for such a text are already available (e.g., those by Aidan Nichols and Tracey Rowland). Rather, it is truly a Festschrift, though of higher quality than often found in that genre. Written and published while Benedict was feliciter regnans, the importance of this volume is only increased now that he has resigned from the office of bishop of Rome and his theological and papal career can be assessed as a whole. It is a celebration and interpretation of the latest instance, in what has been a rather rare occurrence, of a theologian-pope. In addition to summarizing the articles, John Cavadini’s editorial introduction offers a hermeneutical lens through which to interpretthe collection as a whole. The theme is “God is Love,” taken as both a particular characteristic of Benedict’s theological project, exemplified in Deus Caritas Est, and an encapsulation of the Christian faith. In exploring the reality of a God characterized as love and manifested decisively in the Incarnation, the authors acknowledge themselves “to be following the footsteps, most proximately, of Pope Benedict XVI” (1). The book looks in two directions, with some authors more focused on one than the other: at Benedict and his vast corpus, and with Book Reviews 717 Benedict, or perhaps better, through Benedictine eyes at various issues concerning the Christian faith. In both cases, all authors acknowledge that they are in large part favorably disposed to, if not entirely in agreement with, Benedict as a theologian. Of the articles that more nearly look at Benedict, the first and longest piece in the collection, by Cyril O’Regan, provides the most panoramic vision of Benedict’s thought. It seeks not only to identify recurrent themes that link his six decades of writing, but also to find a place for Benedict within history. Because one’s friends are a sure way to learn about one’s priorities, Benedict’s place is found among his friends. In Benedict’s case, not only are his contemporary friends, especially de Lubac and von Balthasar, illuminating for getting to the heart of his concerns, but more historical “friendships” can also be telling. His primary theological friends are Augustine and John Henry Newman. For O’Regan, Benedict is Augustinian in both a conscious reliance upon the bishop of Hippo and, even more substantively, in his repetition of predominantly Augustinian themes and emphases. If anything confirms O’Regan’s Augustinian ascription, as well as the Newmanian connection, it is the simple fact that Augustine and Newman (and we could add Bonaventure) are frequently cited by the other authors in the collection.There seems to be an implicit consensus among the authors, made explicit by O’Regan, that Benedict’s legacy belongs on an axis that includes Augustine and Newman, on the basis of a variety of common characteristics, but preeminently for a shared eschatological sensibility and a strong emphasis on the corporate prayer life of the Church. In a volume on Benedict’s theology, we thus find what anyone would hope and expect to find: faith and reason, liturgy, ecclesiology, and biblical interpretation. These have all been constant preoccupations for Benedict and, thus, ought to have received attention. Yet, just because these issues had to be discussed does not mean that these essays are in any way perfunctory or redundant. For example, though Francesca Aran Murphy’s essay on ecclesiology outlines the major points, such as eucharistic ecclesiology, she also emphasizes themes that are typically forgotten when looking at Benedict’s ecclesiology, such as the place of martyrdom and “Ratzinger’s continuous practice of keeping Protestant interlocutors within earshot” (216). In addition to the expected themes, there are also some genuine surprises: Benedict on Buddhism (Robert Gimello), on the economy (Simona Beretta), and on international reconciliation (Daniel Philpott). 718 Book Reviews These would not typically be considered as particularly Benedictine themes, but the authors convincingly use Benedict’s thought as a catalyst. For instance, though Benedict very rarely wrote about Buddhism, and when he did it was never with any great sophistication, Gimello proposes Benedict’s theology as a model for respecting the genuine otherness of non-Christian religions. How he does this is even more surprising: it is the much-maligned Dominus Iesus that becomes the true respecter of otherness, rather than facile treatments that tend to assume, for example, that Buddhist karu!" (“compassion”) is the same thing as Christian agape (136). These essays that go beyond Benedict by using his initial insights or methods to address a pertinent question, are prime examples of thinking with Benedict and demonstrate the particular fecundity of Benedict’s thought. Two main topics recur throughout the essays: liturgy and the connection between faith and reason. As Benedict himself noted, the themes of cult and truth are actually two sides of the same coin: “the freedom of truth belongs not merely accidentally but essentially in the context of worship, of cult. Where the latter no longer exists, the former ceases as well,” (The Nature and Mission of Theology, 41). The primacy of liturgy in Benedict’s thought needs no justification, and his recent decision to have the volume on liturgy appear first in his Opera Omnia only confirms the obvious. Kimberly Hope Belcher takes up the Eucharist specifically in her clear essay on the tension between meal and sacrifice in Eucharistic theology and the potential development of Benedict’s thought on the issue. Even here, Belcher sees the implications as extending far beyond sacramental theology. The Eucharistic question is fundamentally a question about the relation between God and the world and about how to navigate the relationship between God’s utter gratuity and human freedom. The ability of humans to also offer themselves to God in the Eucharist, which is a necessary element to understand the sacrifice of the Mass, relates analogously to our next subject, faith and reason. Supernatural gifts, whether sacraments or the theological virtue of faith, do not destroy human cooperation or human reason, but rather raise and elevate these beyond their natural faculties. The majority of authors make at least some mention of the faith and reason question, and it could well be read as the red thread that weaves throughout the book. Gary Anderson’s essay, a serious engagement with Benedict’s biblical hermeneutics, ends with what he sees as “the overall aim” of the Jesus of Nazareth series: “Faith without reason is weak and prone to collapse; reason untempered by faith fails Book Reviews 719 to come to terms with the questions most dear to the human heart” (251). Thus, even when considering biblical interpretation, this perennial question is lingering for Benedict. The question is broached most directly in the essays by Philpott, Peter Casarella and Edward Oakes. Casarella approaches the issue by analyzing the question of the proper relation between human culture and religion. As he neatly summarizes, for Benedict, “when one tries to extract all religion from the culture (or vice versa), one is left with a cadaver” (67). Oakes’ essay is focused on the question of relativism in the modern era. Sidestepping the simplistic notion that Benedict rejects any and all forms of relativism (he in fact advocates for some forms of political relativism as a remedy to totalitarianism), Oakes reminds us of Benedict’s belief that “there is a salubrious kind of relativism and a toxic form” (95). A particularly toxic form is one that assumes, in the words of Rousseau, that religion is “une affaire de géographie” and not potentially universally valid. Like all recent papal encyclicals, the volume ends with Mary. Matthew Levering’s essay traces the main texts and themes of Benedict’s Mariology, showing in particular the essential place of typology in establishing the biblical foundations of Marian doctrines. As many of the other authors have done, Levering also shows how, for Benedict, each particular doctrine—in this case, those relating to Mary—is joined to and exemplifies the whole of Christian revelation: “In Mary, Christ has already accomplished the fullness of redemption in a merely human person, as he will do for the whole Church at the end of time” (291). It is perhaps no accident, then, that not only this volume but also Benedict’s career as pope ends with a Marian theme. It seems appropriate to interpret Benedict’s resignation as an act of Marian docility, to say simply “ecce ancilla domini, fiat mihi secundum verbum tuum” (Luke 1:38). All books have their limitations, but limitations are less pernicious when recognized and self-imposed. This book is consciously not attempting to provide a “neutral” critique of Benedict’s theology or career as prefect and pope. It is self-consciously sympathetic with Benedict, perhaps even most fully in those few moments when the authors critique him. In other words, many other books are needed than simply this one to take into account Benedict’s theology.Yet, this book fills an important role in that it demonstrates that, for many contemporary thinkers, Benedict’s thought is as stimulating as it is ecclesially grounded. Or rather, from the perspective of the authors, Benedict is stimulating because he is ecclesially grounded. Lawrence Cunningham’s historically instructive essay on Introduction to Christianity says it clearly: “It has always seemed to me that Ratzinger understood his vocation 720 Book Reviews as a theologian not as a disinterested but learned purveyor of facts but rather as someone who was a pilgrim of faith inviting others to join that journey” (144). The authors in the collection evidently see themselves as those invited by Benedict to join him on that journey of an engaged and genuinely Christian attestation to the faith. N&V Jonathan Martin Ciraulo University of Notre Dame Notre Dame, Indiana Aquinas and the Cry of Rachel: Thomistic Reflections on the Problem of Evil by John F. X. Knasas (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2013), xvi + 304 pp. Professor John F. X. Knasas (University of St. Thomas, Houston), known as an “existential Thomist” for his emphasis on Aquinas’s metaphysics of being, has taken on one of the most hotly debated topics in philosophy of religion: the problem of evil. In Aquinas and the Cry of Rachel:Thomistic Reflections on the Problem of Evil, Knasas does not shy away from addressing the “hard cases.” Along the way, he considers an impressive array of alternative positions, which makes sense since one of Knasas’s aims is to argue that there are several philosophically viable answers to how God and evil can coexist. Knasas also unfolds an innovative, metaphysically grounded philosophical psychology that helps explain why our prima facie intuitions about certain instantiations of being, their inherent preciousness, and evil are often incorrect, or at least philosophically unprovable. Finally, Knasas has clearly done his textual homework; in the course of the monograph, he probes myriad texts from Thomas on evil, most of which he translated by himself (often with additional references to other translations and related debates). There is a fluidity between Knasas’s interpretive and constructive projects that might present an obstacle to some interested readers. Even so, Knasas’s work is valuable well beyond the Thomistic discussion, due to its treatment of so many key alternative accounts, as well as the challenges he poses to them. Chapter 1 sets up the work via a discussion of Jacques Maritain’s insistence that human persons are irreplaceable “wholes” unto themselves. Although this sentiment is widespread and plays an important role in the literature on evil, Knasas argues over the course of the book that the truth of this idea can only be known theologically (viz., via Book Reviews 721 special revelation). In a purely philosophical context, even a theistic one, we can at most verify that human beings are “principal parts” of the universe. For Knasas, this means that other parts of the universe are generally, but not exclusively, oriented toward the good of such higher parts and that human beings have special obligations to each other on account of their status. Philosophy cannot prove, however, that human persons are ends in themselves whose individual flourishing God can never override for the sake of another individual, the species, or the universe more broadly. As Knasas moves into his initial exposition of Aquinas on the metaphysics of being, human psychology, and evil in chapters 2–4, he draws on the psychology of three paradigmatic reactions to evil noted in chapter 1: Rachel’s inconsolable cry for her dead children (Matt 2:16); the retreat of the survivors to small, earthly joys in Albert Camus’s The Plague; and the insistence on fatherly love in Anthony Flew’s “Theology and Falsification.” Knasas holds that these responses to evil, while certainly understandable psychologically, are limited in their ability to raise philosophical doubts about the existence of an omnipotent, omniscient, and all-good creator God. “[T]he problem of evil,” Knasas says, “is generated by an inappropriate aggrandizement of persons and other things” (16). Knasas’s philosophical psychology draws on the metaphysics of being so prominent in this and his other works. The crux is this: Human persons are not just beings—potential forms endowed with existence. They are also “intellectors of being,” which renders them special “epiphanies” of being, and thus also of the good. In virtue of their ability to appreciate existence itself, the whole of created being, and its Source, human beings have a privileged status before God and moral obligations to their fellow intellectors. At the same time, Knasas argues, human persons are not philosophically quite as important as is often assumed, and the process of discerning being can play tricks on the human mind. Mentally taking in existents that lie at spatial, temporal, or conceptual extremes—a vast ocean view, a single atom, a fast-fading flower, a powerful nation, or a vulnerable fawn—requires such a large backdrop of being or such a removal of everything else from the backdrop of being that these existents very often incorrectly acquire a preciousness out of proportion to their actual importance, as if they were as valuable as being itself. Even though tiny children or heroic soldiers are indeed, qua human beings, heightened epiphanies of being in the universe, they can take 722 Book Reviews on a value in one’s mind out of proportion with what philosophy can definitively tell us about the worth of an individual human person. In fact, on Knasas’s understanding of Aquinas, it is the limited “being” itself in things that endows them with their worth (since being and goodness are interchangeable transcendental attributes). We can understandably get too wrapped up in certain instantiations of being such that we lose proper perspective, even to the point of regarding them as gods, and the loss of them as irretrievably devastating. Knasas argues that despair at the death of one’s child is psychologically understandable, but ultimately, this desolation belies an incorrect fixation on (and narrowing of vision to) one lost epiphany of being, one instance of God’s creative goodness, to the exclusion of all the other genuine goods around us—especially the other human “epiphanies of being” that merit our care and appreciation. Philosophically, one cannot know (contra several recent accounts) that each human being has been granted a unique status such that any unmerited suffering on their part can be justified only by outweighing benefits accruing to that individual, although one may philosophically entertain such a possibility. The truth that each person has been granted the status of an irreplaceable child of God is a matter of Christian good news. Thus, the problem of unresolved, individual human suffering and its solution come along together in revealed theological context. Over the course of the book, Knasas classifies the kinds of evil as follows. First of all, there can be no “best possible” creation; God’s limitless perfections could always be reflected in more or greater ways. Now, in the chosen creation, certain parts of creation instantiate contingent goodness by relying on cycles of generation and corruption. By nature, then, the corruptible order will have “natural evils” of the lower being taken up into the higher. God intends these evils per accidens (not per se) because of the goods they make possible. (Here Knasas marshals a variety of texts to argue against interpreters of Thomas who consider natural corruption simply an instance of divine “permission.” He also distinguishes himself from those who label all non-moral evils as undifferentiatedly “natural.”) Of greater concern are quandoque evils, the “occasional” outcomes of conflicting lines of causality in a material order in which the higher is damaged by the lower (e.g., human beings killed by lions or plagues). For Knasas’s Aquinas, God does not intend quandoque evils, but permits them for the sake of other antecedent or consequent goods. Whereas some theorists stress the import of only antecedent or consequent goods in their solutions to the problem Book Reviews 723 of evil, Knasas argues that there are several philosophically coherent responses, none of which can be fully adjudicated on philosophical grounds alone. As with the question of creation’s eternity or beginning in time, only revelation can make a final ruling. Turning now to human beings in particular, Knasas argues that there are multiple valid philosophical responses to the question of why we suffer and die. First, eventual corruption is natural to human beings as material creatures. God’s initial preservation of humanity from death was (on Aquinas’s view) a supernatural grace and not something naturally due to us, given the type of creatures we are. Second, quandoque evils increase greatly when human ignorance and moral weakness interact with the passions and the contingent, material order. Third, God can intend per accidens, not just permit, the evil of punishment towards the good of justice. And fourth, although our fellow human beings owe us the special respect due to “intellectors of being” (the basis for Knasas’s ethics), God does not owe us preservation from the potential moral evil of others. As the free will discussion later explains (in chapter 7), God has valid reason to permit, though in no way intend, the sin of morally evil acts, even while endowing these acts— like all others—with their being. (Like most if not all discussions of God’s causal role in morally evil acts, Knasas’s explanation of Aquinas here leaves some things mysterious.) In all these cases, stoic resignation is one among several valid philosophical responses in the face of human suffering and death from natural corruption, quandoque evil, punishment, or the moral trespasses of others. The Christian narrative of human creation, fall, and redemption is also a philosophically entertainable possibility: God intended all human beings for a greater, supernatural fulfillment of their nascent desire to know the Creator, who is already known faintly as the source of created being. Human beings were first graced (according to Thomas) with supernatural protection from the vicissitudes of their passions, ignorance, material bodies, and contingent surroundings. The Fall provides a theodicy. The Gospel tells us God still has good plans for each and all. In chapters 5-8, while continuing to develop his own position, Knasas helpfully describes many contrasting interpretations of Thomas and contemporary non-Thomistic viewpoints on the problem of evil. In the course of the monograph, Knasas analyzes most of the top contenders (or paradigmatic representatives thereof), treating both personalist and cosmological theodicies. In the process, he orients read- 724 Book Reviews ers to central passages both in Aquinas’s texts and in recent literature to further assess the points at hand, or even (for the uninitiated) to know which points are most debated, both normatively and—in regards to Thomas’s texts—interpretively. The critiques are thought-provoking, and the comprehensive mapping of the philosophical terrain is itself very valuable. Knasas saves Brian Davies’s and Eleonore Stump’s tomes for last, as the strongest of recent, broadly Thomistic alternatives to his own position. Throughout the book, Knasas carefully distinguishes between the theologically informed (viz., what we can only know with certainty by revelation) and the strictly philosophical. He rightly discerns that a lack of sensitivity to this distinction often causes confusion in the “problem of evil” literature. Still, there are times when it seems almost impossible for one to do more than assert which data drawn from the actual, supernaturally infused creation belong in which category. Knasas believes that God justifiably could have created a cosmos that included human beings without having a supernatural origin and destiny planned for them. Even granting that claim, we cannot know which of the most horrific extremes of moral evil in our world would have come about under such a configuration. In a “simply natural order” of that kind, perhaps God would have more strongly limited his permissions to moral evil. Were Knasas arguing that some amount of each kind of evil (moral evil, punishment, quandoque evils, and natural corruption) can be reconciled with salvationist and non-salvationist accounts alike, I think his point could be easily well-taken by many. But, by the examples he uses, one sees that his actual assertion is stronger: The worst evils of our actual world are all justifiable on several philosophical accounts, including accounts that make no promises regarding a positive resolution for individual human victims. He argues that God (loving us “as principal parts of creation,” but not “as children”) could have chosen to accept the risk of great, unresolved trespasses against innocent persons, and that God could have been perfectly happy creating humanity (an intrinsically fragile species also endowed with a conscious awareness of the harms that come its way) with nothing more than the opportunity for a few of the species’ individuals to come arduously to temporary happiness through knowledge. If this is true, there is still more work to be done to make the point convincing. Further, it will still strike many theists and atheists alike as mistaken because they have an unshakeable inkling (commensurate with the truth of the actual order) that, when Book Reviews 725 faced with examples like those from The Brothers Karamazov, there must be more to the full theodicean story than this. And, of course, Knasas agrees—in theological context. Here are two other concerns: First, Knasas seems to emphasize exclusively “intellection of being” as what gives human beings their special ontological and moral status. It would have been helpful to hear more about the relation of this status to potential versus actual intellectual abilities (although presumably he would consider all human beings special in virtue of their species membership). It seems, moreover, that there is something beyond a psychological illusion that makes harms to the very young or vulnerable among us particularly grievous. Second, the heavy use of the conceptual-linguistic framework of the ratio entis and the primacy of esse is perhaps unnecessary at times; it will make for a steep learning curve for some readers, although they could still profit from the book in other ways. Aquinas and the Cry of Rachel is a valuable work that covers ground and makes distinctions not seen elsewhere in the literature. It also forces readers to rethink certain major assumptions on the topic of evil that they might otherwise continue to consider unquestionable. The author inspires renewed humility about one’s possible place in the universe, were it not for the divine economy that God has gratuitously chosen to put in place. Knasas has a strong command of a vast array of relevant texts from Aquinas and is clearly committed to engagement with a broad spectrum of viewpoints. The result is a thought-provoking work that has much to offer to Problem of Evil theorists and Thomas N&V interpreters alike. Karina Robson Duke University Durham, North Carolina