et Vetera Nova Spring 2017 • Volume 15, Number 2 The English Edition of the International Theological Journal 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, Catholic University of America Christopher Malloy, University of Dallas Bruce D. Marshall, Southern Methodist University Charles Morerod, O.P., Bishop of Lausanne, Geneva, and Fribourg John O’Callaghan, University of Notre Dame Chad C. Pecknold, Catholic University of America Michael S. Sherwin, O.P., University of Fribourg Board of Advisors Anthony Akinwale, O.P., Dominican Institute, Ibadan, Nigeria Khaled Anatolios, University of Notre Dame Robert Barron, Auxiliary Bishop of Los Angeles, CA John Betz, University of Notre Dame Bernhard Blankenhorn, O.P., Pontifical University of St. Thomas Aquinas Christopher O. Blum, Augustine Institute Stephen Brock, Pontifical University of the Holy Cross Peter Casarella, University of Notre Dame Romanus Cessario, O.P., St. John’s Seminary Boyd Taylor Coolman, Boston College Archbishop J. Augustine Di Noia, O.P., Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith Douglas Farrow, McGill University Anthony Fisher, O.P., Archbishop of Sydney, Australia Simon Francis Gaine, O.P., Blackfriars, University of Oxford Timothy Gray, Augustine Institute Nicholas J. Healy, Jr., Pontifical John Paul II Institute (Washington, DC) Russell Hittinger, University of Tulsa Paige Hochschild, Mount St. Mary’s University Andrew Hofer, O.P., Dominican House of Studies Joseph Lienhard, S.J., Fordham University Steven A. Long, Ave Maria University Guy Mansini, O.S.B., Saint Meinrad School of Theology Francesca Aran Murphy, University of Notre Dame Thomas Osborne, University of St. Thomas (Houston) Michał Paluch, O.P., Instytut Thomistyczny (Warsaw, Poland) Trent Pomplun, Loyola University Maryland Christopher J. Ruddy, Catholic University of America Richard Schenk, O.P., University of Freiburg Michele Schumacher, University of Fribourg Janet Smith, Sacred Heart Major Seminary Christopher Thompson, St. Paul Seminary Thomas Weinandy, O.F.M. Cap., Dominican House of Studies William Wright, Duquesne University Instructions for Contributors 1. Address all contributions, books for review, and related correspondence to Matthew Levering, mjlevering@yahoo.com. 2. 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Nova et Vetera The English Edition of the International Theological Journal ISSN 1542-7315 Spring 2017 Vol. 15, No. 2 Commentary Who am I to Judge? Politics and the Problem of Moral Relativism.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dominic Legge, O.P. 351 Articles A Revised Analysis of the “Phoenix Abortion Case” and a Critique of New Natural Law Intentionality. . . . . . . . Thomas Berg Finding Form: Defining Human Sexual Difference. . . . . . Timothy Fortin Human Sexuality in a Fallen World: An Economy of Mercy and Grace. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Reinhard Hütter A New Narrative for the Reception of Seven Sacraments into Orthodoxy: Peter Lombard’s Sentences in Nicholas Cabasilas and Symeon of Thessalonica and the Utilization of John Duns Scotus by the Holy Synaxis. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Christiaan Kappes “Father, If It Be Possible, Let This Chalice Pass from Me”: Christ’s Prayer in Gethsemane According to St. Thomas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kevin E. O’Reilly, O.P. Aquinas and Maritain on Whether Christ’s Habitual Grace Could Increase. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Andrew V. Rosato The Dictatorship of the Conscience. . . . . . . . . . . . Bernard N. Schumacher Ressourcement in the Age of Migne: The Jesuit Theologians of the Collegio Romano and the Shape of Modern Catholic Thought.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . C. Michael Shea “Be Imitators of God” (Eph 5:1): Aquinas on Charity and Satisfaction. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Daria Spezzano Infideles et Philosophi: Re-Reading ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jeffrey M. Walkey 365 397 433 465 503 527 547 579 615 653 Book Reviews Hans Urs von Balthasar and the Critical Appropriation of Russian Religious Thought by Jennifer Newsome Martin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Anne M. Carpenter The Mystery of Union with God: Dionysian Mysticism in Albert the Great and Thomas Aquinas by Bernhard Blankenhorn, O.P.... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Justin Shaun Coyle The Catholicity of Reason by D. C. Schindler. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Douglas Farrow 675 679 683 One Body: An Essay in Christian Sexual Ethics by Alexander Pruss. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Raymond Hain Heaven Opens: The Trinitarian Mysticism of Adrienne von Speyr by Matthew Lewis Sutton. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Matthew Kuhner Entering into the Mind of Christ: The True Nature of Theology edited by James Keating. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . David Vincent Meconi, S.J. Union with Christ in the New Testament by Grant Macaskill. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Isaac Augustine Morales, O.P. 687 692 696 699 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 978-1-945125-44-7) 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. Institutional subscriptions, notifications of change of address, and inquiries concerning subscriptions, back issues, and missing copies should be sent to: JHUP Journals Division, PO Box 19966, Baltimore, MD 21211-0966. All materials published in Nova et Vetera are copyrighted by St. Paul Center for Biblical Theology. © Copyright 2017 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. Periodical Postage Paid at Steubenville, OH. This periodical is indexed in the ATLA Catholic Periodical and Literature Index® (CPLI®), a product of the American Theological Library Association, 300 S. Wacker Dr., Suite 2100, Chicago, IL 60606, USA. Email: atla@atla.com, www.atla.com. Nova et Vetera Subscription Rates: • Individuals: one-year $40.00, two-year $75.00 International: one-year $60.00, two-year $115.00 • Students: one-year $30.00, two-year $50.00 International: one-year $40.00, two-year $70.00 • Colleges, Universities, Seminaries, and Institutions: one-year $110.00, one-year print + electronic subscription $150.00 International: one-year $135.00 To subscribe online, please visit http://www.nvjournal.net. For subscription inquiries, email us at novaetvetera@stpaulcenter.com or phone 740-264-9535. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 15, No. 2 (2017): 351–364 351 Who am I to Judge? Politics and the Problem of Moral Relativism1 Dominic Legge, O.P. Dominican House of Studies Washington, DC “Who am I to judge?” From the moment Pope Francis uttered this line in a press conference during the return flight from a visit to Brazil in 2013, the media—and, in consequence, many people—have taken it as a kind of summary of Francis’s whole approach to Christianity. As The New Yorker recently put it, it has become a “totemic question,” the “mythic line” of his pontificate. That description is quite apt, for there are a lot of myths floating around about what the Pope was saying. Pope Francis and Thomas Aquinas on Judging Others In fact, the words that most people have read or heard from the Pope’s statement are incomplete and taken out of context: the Pope was expressly addressing the case of a person honestly trying to live according to the teachings of the Church; he was not calling into question that teaching. Nor has it mattered for the media or most people that the Vatican, and even Pope Francis himself, have repeatedly explained that he was only attempting to articulate what is found in the Catechism of the Catholic Church. Indeed, generations of Catholics have long taught the same lesson about judging persons, although formulated in different words: “Love the sinner, and condemn the sin.” Here’s how the Holy Father From a lecture co-sponsored by the Thomistic Institute of the Pontifical Faculty of the Immaculate Conception and Hillsdale College’s Kirby Center in Washington, DC. 1 352 Dominic Legge, O.P. explained this in his new book, The Name of God Is Mercy: “The Church condemns sin because it has to relay the truth, ‘This is a sin.’ But at the same time it embraces the sinner who recognizes himself as such, it welcomes him, it speaks to him of the infinite mercy of God” (50). These two elements are intrinsically connected: the Church must speak the truth about sin precisely out of love for sinners: Christ does not want them to remain trapped in their sins, since sin leads to death. Rather, Christ loves sinners and offers them the grace of repentance and forgiveness, so that, by grace, they can escape the slavery of sin and enter into life in the truth. St. Thomas Aquinas is a good guide when it comes to the dynamic of speaking the truth without rash judgment. Aquinas teaches that, as human beings, we can only judge what we see—an exterior action, which may be a sin—but we should not presume to judge what we cannot see, the “interior movements of the heart” of our neighbor.2 “Man sees what appears, but the Lord beholds the heart” (1 Kgs 16:7). “For to God alone is reserved the judgment of hidden things, among which especially are counted the thoughts of the heart. . . . And hence, if anyone would presume to judge of these things, it is a rash judgment.”3 Aquinas cautions us that, instead of judging our neighbor’s intentions harshly, we should presume the best of him; we should love him, and we should desire his good and, ultimately, his repentance and salvation. Indeed, Aquinas goes even further than this when he speaks about judging persons, because there is a danger of dishonoring our neighbor if, absent clear indications of his intentions, we jump to a rash conclusion about his motives. It must be said that it is one thing to judge about things, and another to judge about persons. For in making a judgment about things, we can do neither good nor evil to the thing about which we judge. . . . But when we make a judgment about persons, we can indeed do good or evil to the person we judge, because we will honor a person we judge to be good, and will consider a person we judge to be evil to be worthy of Super Rom 2, lec. 1 (Marietti nos. 174–75); Super Rom 5, lec. 6 (Marietti no. 456); Super 1 Cor 4, lec. 1 (Marietti nos. 193–96); Super Matt 7, lec. 1 (Marietti no. 632). 3 Super Rom 14, lec. 1 (Marietti no. 1093): “Deus autem soli sibi reservavit iudicare occulta, quae praecipue sunt cogitationes cordium. . . . Et ideo si quis de his iudicare praesumpserit, est temerarium iudicium.” 2 Who am I to Judge: Politics and the Problem of Moral Relativism 353 contempt. For this reason, we ought to aim at judging a person to be good, unless there is evident proof to the contrary.4 He continues: “It may happen that one who interprets doubtful matters for the best is more frequently deceived, but it is better to err frequently by having a good opinion of a bad person, than to err occasionally by having a bad opinion of a good person, because in the latter case an injury is inflicted, but not in the former.” 5 From these texts, we can draw two important Thomistic distinctions about making judgments. These distinctions are very helpful for explaining the traditional Catholic view about moral truths to our contemporaries, who are often very nervous about saying anything that might seem to be making a judgment about another person and, thus, appearing judgmental. First, when we speak the truth about sinful actions, we are primarily judging actions, which we can observe and assess, and not persons. To judge a person implies making a judgment about the interior movements of the heart. This is God’s domain, not ours (at least insofar as we are private persons—judges in a criminal case, for example, are a separate matter). The second distinction is closely related to the first, and it is between, on the one hand, the objective goodness or evil of an action or its objective rightness or wrongness and, on the other hand, the subjective moral Summa Theologiae (ST) II-II, q. 60, a. 4, ad 2: “Ad secundum dicendum quod aliud est iudicare de rebus, et aliud de hominibus. In iudicio enim quo de rebus iudicamus non attenditur bonum vel malum ex parte ipsius rei de qua iudicamus, cui nihil nocet qualitercumque iudicemus de ipsa, sed attenditur ibi solum bonum iudicantis si vere iudicet, vel malum si falso; quia verum est bonum intellectus, falsum autem est malum ipsius, ut dicitur in VI Ethic. Et ideo unusquisque debet niti ad hoc quod de rebus iudicet secundum quod sunt. Sed in iudicio quo iudicamus de hominibus praecipue attenditur bonum et malum ex parte eius de quo iudicatur, qui in hoc ipso honorabilis habetur quod bonus iudicatur, et contemptibilis si iudicetur malus. Et ideo ad hoc potius tendere debemus in tali iudicio quod hominem iudicemus bonum, nisi manifesta ratio in contrarium appareat. Ipsi autem homini iudicanti, falsum iudicium quo bene iudicat de alio non pertinet ad malum intellectus ipsius, sicut nec ad eius perfectionem pertinet secundum se cognoscere veritatem singularium contingentium, sed magis pertinet ad bonum affectum.” 5 Ibid., ad 1: “Ad primum ergo dicendum quod potest contingere quod ille qui in meliorem partem interpretatur, frequentius fallitur. Sed melius est quod aliquis frequenter fallatur habens bonam opinionem de aliquo malo homine, quam quod rarius fallatur habens malam opinionem de aliquo bono, quia ex hoc fit iniuria alicui, non autem ex primo.” See also ibid., corp.: “Unless we have evident indications of a person’s wickedness, we ought to deem him good, by interpreting for the best whatever is doubtful about him.” 4 354 Dominic Legge, O.P. culpability of the actor. We must maintain that an action is objectively right or wrong, and that it produces something either good or evil, but that sometimes, there may be little or no moral fault on the part of the actor. The novelist Douglas Adams recounts a rather amusing (and true) anecdote that illustrates this latter distinction very well. He made a mistake about the time that his train was departing, and so he found himself at the train station with time to kill. To pass the time, he bought a newspaper, a cup of coffee, and a packet of cookies and sat down at a table. He writes: I want you to picture the scene. . . . Here’s the table, newspaper, cup of coffee, packet of cookies. There’s a guy sitting opposite me, perfectly ordinary-looking guy wearing a business suit, carrying a briefcase. It didn’t look like he was going to do anything weird. What he did was this: he suddenly leaned across, picked up the packet of cookies, tore it open, took one out, and ate it. . . . I did what any red-blooded Englishman would do: I ignored it. And I stared at the newspaper, took a sip of coffee, . . . and thought, What am I going to do? In the end I thought Nothing for it, I’ll just have to go for it, and I tried very hard not to notice the fact that the packet was already mysteriously opened. I took out a cookie for myself. I thought, That settled him. But it hadn’t because a moment or two later he did it again. He took another cookie. . . . We went through the whole packet like this. . . . He took one, I took one, he took one, I took one. Finally, when we got to the end, he stood up and walked away. Well, we exchanged meaningful looks, then he walked away, and I breathed a sigh of relief and sat back. A moment or two later the train was coming in, so I tossed back the rest of my coffee, stood up, picked up the newspaper, and underneath the newspaper were my cookies.6 Objectively, Adams stole the cookies. And I bet that the other man thought that what Adams was doing was especially outrageous: it looked to him for all the world like a brazen, open, intentional act Douglas Adams, The Salmon of Doubt: Hitchhiking the Galaxy One Last Time (New York: Ballantine Books, 2002), 150–51. 6 Who am I to Judge: Politics and the Problem of Moral Relativism 355 of theft. But Adams was not guilty of theft, because he did not realize that he was taking the other man’s cookies. Of course, in justice, Adams still owes this anonymous man half a packet of cookies—the objective evil is not erased by his subjective error—but we would not say that Adams deserves to be punished for his action, even though it was objectively wrong to do it. In general, when someone is ignorant, through no fault of his own, of the wrong he is committing, his action, while objectively wrong in itself, may not be morally culpable.7 The Truth about Moral Relativism The Appeal of Relativism These Thomistic reflections about judging have aimed at understanding what Pope Francis said as an expression of a perennial Catholic theme. But now it brings us to another question: Why has this statement, “who am I to judge?” become so totemic, the “mythic line” of the Francis pontificate in the eyes of the world? Why has it had such a resonance in our culture? I think it is in large measure because being judgmental is, for our age, the ultimate unforgivable sin. Younger generations feel this in a particularly acute way. They have been pickled in a pervasive, public moral relativism for most of their lives: it is preached in the media, inculcated in schools, and above all, enforced on college campuses. It is likely that most teachers in the humanities at the university level have encountered students who pose the objection, “What you’re saying is true for you, but not for me.” For a college teacher, especially in philosophy or theology, this is a serious challenge in teaching undergraduates. It is a challenge on a theoretical level because students assume that all moral claims are relative and that to assert the existence of unchanging and timeless truths is to be bigoted and judgmental. If you do not address this objection, you cannot make any progress on the other important questions you want to talk about. It also presents a serious challenge on the more personal level of the psychology of the students them The Catholic moral tradition would further distinguish between ignorance or error about a fact (I make a mistake about whether these cookies are mine) and about the law itself (I don’t know that stealing is wrong). And because they are so basic, the Catholic tradition holds that no one can plead ignorance of the fundamental precepts of the moral law: that acts of murder, adultery, theft, lying, etc., are wrong. 7 356 Dominic Legge, O.P. selves because the ethic of being non-judgmental is so close to the hearts of so many of them. One must find a way to articulate a theory of moral truth that they can accept without feeling like they have been put in a vice, forced either to abandon basic principles of reason or to judge and condemn people whom they want to embrace and affirm. Even when they see the logic behind the argument that there really are objective moral truths, it is hard for them, psychologically, to accept its conclusion. Why are claims to an objective morality so intimidating? Most people have no problem accepting that there are scientific truths that we can know as valid in all places and at all times. We are not speaking of a theoretical or universal philosophical skepticism about the capacity of our minds to know any truth (although one does sometimes encounter arguments about this). Indeed, I have found that, even among those who express reservations about making judgments, at least some privately admit that moral truths exist—but they fear to say so openly. I think there are three reasons why this is often the case, and I have already alluded to two of them: first, they do not want to appear judgmental or intolerant; second, and related, they may not know how to affirm moral standards without judging or condemning others. A third reason, however, should not be discounted, for it is often operating powerfully but below the surface of discussions about objective moral truth: if there are objective moral truths “out there,” I may intuit—perhaps only vaguely—that they will demand something of me. I might have to confront the truth about what I have done or am doing: I might have to admit that I was wrong or give up something to which I am attached. At the deepest level, I might have to acknowledge that there is a standard above me to which I will someday be accountable. Psychologically, I suspect that this third reason is even more powerful than the first two. Indeed, it may explain, at least in part, why students adopt the language of moral relativism after they have gone off to college. They may not have been theoretically convinced of the arguments for relativism. Might it not sometimes happen that a student who, while living (more or less) virtuously under his parents’ roof, under the influence of family, friends, neighborhood, and community, after departing for campus with the best of intentions, finds himself doing things he would never have done at home? Might it then happen that, unable to confront the reality that “I have done something wrong,” he instead accepts a theory that will justify or excuse his actions? Who am I to Judge: Politics and the Problem of Moral Relativism 357 Diagnosing the Disease Relativism comes in several different varieties, all of which can be found on contemporary college campuses. For example, one might think of cultural relativism, historical relativism, linguistic relativism, or legal positivism, which, in an extreme form, can be a kind of legal relativism. What do these “relativisms” teach? How do they formulate their position? According to a standard form of cultural relativism, “right and wrong depends on what the dominant culture says” or “on what you were conditioned to believe by social, religious, and cultural forces.” It contends that there is no standard of right and wrong that transcends your culture. For its part, historical relativism argues that right and wrong depends on what the mores of a certain historical period are. What people thought was right in the eighteenth century we now see is wrong, or vice versa. Just over 150 years ago, slavery was legal in the United States and was even praised by some as a positive good, while today one can hardly find a soul who would deny that it is gravely wrong (thank God). This is posited as evidence that there are no claims to moral rightness or wrongness that transcend a given historical period. Moral truth, on this account, would be merely a product of a cultural system or of a historical period. Radical forms of legal positivism hold that right and wrong depend on what the positive law says, and that is all. (Of course, not all forms of legal positivism are like this, but some strong forms of it tend toward this view.) The law determines what is right and to-be-done and what is wrong and to-be-avoided. If the positive law gives me permission to do something, then it is morally permitted for me to do it. If the Supreme Court declares a new right to do X, then doing X must be morally acceptable. There is no standard of right and wrong beyond what the positive law has enacted. 8 This is a strong form of legal positivism. Other prominent legal theories also lead to a morally relativistic position. One might think of, for example, the legal realism of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., which cautions us against believing that, in the law, there are any fixed and knowable principles of justice at work. It would “be a gain if every word of moral significance could be banished from the law altogether, and other words adopted which should convey legal ideas uncolored by anything outside the law. We should lose the fossil records of a good deal of history and the majesty got from ethical associations, but by ridding ourselves of an unnecessary confusion we should gain very much in the clearness of our thought”; 8 358 Dominic Legge, O.P. All of these forms of relativism share in common the claim that there is no unchanging, non-arbitrary standard of right and wrong and that all moral claims are relative to culture, to historical context, to language, to legal regime, and so forth. What is right and true in one culture or historical epoch is not necessarily right and true in another, they would contend. So what kind of answer can we make to relativism? The fatal flaw of all forms of relativism is that they contain an internal contradiction: they assert that the proposition that “there are no truths that hold always and everywhere” is a truth that holds always and everywhere. Moreover, while there might be some superficial evidence that seems to support cultural and historical relativism (for example, that there have been disagreements across cultures and historical periods about some particular moral questions, like polygamy or slavery), the relativist argument ignores the much broader and deeper agreements about moral principles. What is more, why should the fact that some people, and even some cultures, have made excuses for grave moral wrongs lead us to conclude that there are no such things? Nor should we conflate the moral status of social or cultural conventions (e.g., belching at table is the height of rudeness in some cultures and a necessity of etiquette in others) with deeper moral principles (e.g., that direct and intentional killing of the innocent is wrong). In fact, the relativist argument deliberately obscures these distinctions, claiming that, because some moral censures are merely conventional and because we can find some examples of socially-sanctioned wrongdoing, there are therefore no enduring moral principles. Notice also that the relativist must claim not only that one is sometimes determined by one’s historical period or culture, but that one is always so determined, because (on the relativist account) all moral claims are historically or culturally conditioned. Yet, this seems plainly to be false. Do we not see people challenging moral wrongs in their culture all the time? Indeed, they often do so by appealing to universal moral principles—that is, not merely by claiming that we should apply a different rule from some other time or culture, but by asserting simply, “this is unjust!” How would this be possible see “The Path of the Law,” Harvard Law Review 10 (1897): 457, 464. Though Holmes perhaps would not go so far as to claim that all moral claims are relative, many who have followed him down the path of legal realism and into critical legal studies would make such a claim. Who am I to Judge: Politics and the Problem of Moral Relativism 359 if moral principles are always conditioned by the historical period or the cultural framework in which one is raised or formed? These are theoretical arguments against moral relativism, but we can go further: I would argue that, in practice, there are no true moral relativists. Even moral relativism itself makes a moral judgment (which it tries hard to camouflage as something else) about all the judgmental people who believe in absolute moral truths. This is unsurprising to a Thomist because, according to St. Thomas, moral judgments are judgments about what is good and there is an unbreakable metaphysical link between being and goodness.9 Insofar as something exists, it is good. For Aquinas, the very structure of our desiring and our action necessarily implies that we desire and try to obtain what we judge to be good for us and that, ultimately, these desires are anchored in the sort of being that we are (although, to be sure, we can make mistakes in these judgments, often compounded by disordered desires that are the fruits of original sin and our own personal sins and vices). This is what a moral judgment is: a judgment that X is good (for me, for my neighbor, or for my community) and, hence, is to be sought and that Y is bad and is to be avoided. Likewise, the fundamental orientation of my will is necessarily toward what I regard as good and desirable, and hence, the fundamental structure of moral action is that every person is always aiming at some good, either real or apparent. At this point, a common objection pops up: some people do seem to aim at doing evil. Think of the cold-blooded serial murderer. From Aquinas’s perspective, however, even this case follows the general rule that one desires and wills something only insofar as one perceives it as good in some respect. Even a murderer does not aim at an evil precisely as apprehended as bad for him, but only insofar as he (wrongly or even perversely) finds some good or pleasure in the act or its effects. By definition, one regards what one desires as good in some respect. It may be a disordered good, and it may not be fitting or noble or morally right, but I must at least perceive it as good in some respect or I could not aim at it at all. We should add that pursuing the wrong goods (goods that are out of order and that are therefore “disordered”) or pursuing goods in the wrong way can produce real evil. Think about Michael Corleone in the first two Godfather films. They portray, quite persuasively, See, e.g., ST I, q. 5, a. 1. 9 360 Dominic Legge, O.P. the descent of a man into evil. At each decisive moment, Michael chooses something that he regards as a good under the circumstances: to defend his father, to protect his family, to avenge an evil, to make money, or to win the esteem and respect of others. We, the audience, see the good that he is seeking, and we are inclined to root for him. But because he is using the wrong means to those ends, because he is seeking goods outside of the wider order of goods (what is due to his neighbor, what the common good of society requires, and what natural law and God’s commands requires), his actions are wrong, and they lead him deeper into a web of evil. The drama of the films is that we watch a good man become, by his own choices, a man perverted by evil, so that, in the end, he destroys his family, the very thing he first set out to protect. For Aquinas, this kind of reflection leads to a metaphysical claim about evil: evil is not a positive thing, but rather the absence of what should be there, disorder in place of order. Strictly speaking, evil is not a thing or a being but a privation. It is not possible to desire evil as such because it is not possible to desire a “nothing,” but only something. This brings us to the deepest and most metaphysical explanation of the problem with moral relativism: all persons always will orient themselves to something they think is good. And we find that, in actual practice, they will inevitably make claims on others—and even demands—with respect to that good. Notwithstanding our own culture’s profession of non-judgmental relativism, we find in fact all kinds of judgments being made about what is good, and these judgments are not only factual or scientific or pragmatic, but moral. Consider the law: it is of the essence of law that it makes judgments. It is very hard to come up with an example of a law that does not make judgments. The criminal law, for example, says that you must not kill another person. If you do, you will be punished, and quite severely. Why? This is not only to prevent you from hurting people in the future but also because it is considered wrong to murder and just to punish a murderer. This is why we bring even elderly murderers to justice, to stand trial for their crimes. While their sentence may be mitigated because of old age and infirmity, we still think it is right for the law to pass judgment on them, although we are certain that they will not—or cannot—murder again. Even environmental regulations, which we might be tempted to think are justified by purely factual or scientific statements like “high carbon Who am I to Judge: Politics and the Problem of Moral Relativism 361 emissions decrease air quality,” bear within them a judgment that one should not do these things. Do we not make moral judgments about polluters? When I moved to the East Coast for law school in the mid-1990s after having attended college in environmentally forward-thinking California, I was shocked to discover that my law school dormitory did not have any recycling bins. I felt terribly guilty throwing my aluminum cans in the trash, as if I were a bad citizen of the earth. In fact, it makes sense that one would feel this way if one thinks that recycling is good and that not recycling is bad. Those are judgments, and not merely about scientific facts. They include a moral component: an assessment of what is good. Our history is full of other examples. Consider the American civil rights movement and the great achievements of Martin Luther King, Jr. Segregation and racial discrimination were real injustices, and at least in certain regions of the country, they were both favored by the dominant cultural and political majority (including many Southern pastors)10 and were enshrined in state and local law. Think of Birmingham in 1963, where it was legal to segregate based on race. (At that time, the US Constitution had not been interpreted to forbid segregation except in the case of public schools.) Dr. King said, in effect, “I do not care what the state’s positive law says or what the Constitution says; segregation is unjust. I do not care that the majority of the people of this state say that this is good. It is wrong, and I am going to fight against it.” This furnishes a very nice example of relativism’s failure, for we think it is good to critique a culture that has bad moral norms and to do so on the basis of an appeal to a principle that transcends a given historical or cultural context. The very fact that someone is able to lodge a critique of his or her own culture shows that our moral principles are not purely conditioned by our culture and our historical period. In order to make such a critique, one must be able to stand outside of one’s culture. Is this not, in a certain sense, the story of America? Dr. King is rightly celebrated as having won a great triumph for justice, challenging the conscience of the nation by his forceful appeals to universal moral principles. We could add to his name a whole list of other figures who have done something King’s famous “Letter from a Birmingham Jail” was addressed to his fellow (largely Protestant) clergy who criticized King for his civil rights crusade and his use of civil disobedience. 10 362 Dominic Legge, O.P. similar throughout American history, beginning with the signers of the Declaration of Independence. They are our history’s heroes. These arguments and examples show that there are no practical relativists. Whether we admit it or not, we inevitably make moral judgments based on principles that transcend culture and history. The only question is whether we will camouflage those judgments in the language of relativism or bring them out into the open where they can be assessed and debated. Politics and the Problem of Moral Relativism Moral relativism is disastrous for politics. In the classical sense of the word, politics concerns the common good of the political community, the polis. The classic exercise of politics is thus the search for and deliberation over the common good: citizens come together to reason as a community about what is good for the community. Of course, there will often be disagreements about how to achieve that good, and even about in what it consists.Yet, a healthy political system aims at reasoned deliberation, which presupposes that there really are some things that are, in an objective sense, good—good for the human person, good for our local community, good for our country and our society—that we can talk about, making arguments about what they are and how to obtain them. If, however, we accept the theoretical discourse of moral relativism, if we allow the language of relativism to become the normative language for our public political discourse (which we largely have done), then the unavoidable judgments about what is good that underlie every political position become hidden from view. We lose the ability to reason and argue together about what is good or bad. Politics becomes an exercise of will and of power, not of public reason, as one private interest struggles to gain the upper hand over another. Indeed, it is no longer even clear that there is a common good that concerns all of us. Attempts to make appeals to moral principles yield only fundamental disagreements because they are understood to be founded on irreconcilably-diverse perspectives. John Paul II recognized this clearly. In his encyclical Veritatis Splendor on the crisis of truth in the modern world, you can hear St. John Paul drawing on his personal experience of totalitarianism, having lived in Poland under two totalitarian regimes (Nazism and Communism). That experience taught him that relativism comes with a monstrous human cost: Who am I to Judge: Politics and the Problem of Moral Relativism 363 Totalitarianism arises out of a denial of truth in the objective sense. If there is no transcendent truth, in obedience to which man achieves his full identity, then there is no sure principle for guaranteeing just relations between people. Their self-interest as a class, group or nation would inevitably set them in opposition to one another. If one does not acknowledge transcendent truth, then the force of power takes over, and each person tends to make full use of the means at his disposal in order to impose his own interests or his own opinion, with no regard for the rights of others.11 St. John Paul’s insight is both prophetic and deeply worrying, especially when we acknowledge to what degree our political culture has accepted moral relativism as the coin of the realm for our public life. Does our political life look more like a deliberation about the common good or a search for power—for a party interest, or for a corporate interest, or for my personal interest—at the expense of others? St. John Paul warns us that a crisis of truth will lead to a crisis of freedom because, in the absence of truth, there can be no appeal to reason or argument, but only to power. Of course, Christ himself linked truth and freedom: “If you continue in my word, you are truly my disciples, and you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” ( John 8:31–32). Commenting on this line, St. Thomas Aquinas explains that, if one would be a disciple of Christ, one must keep Christ’s commandments. Yet, the proper goal of a disciple is not simply to be called such, but rather to know the truth and, thus, to receive true freedom. That freedom consists not in a release from physical confinement or chains, but in a spiritual liberty from the error of falsity, from slavery to sin, and from corruption and death. We obtain this “full and perfect freedom” in the glory of heaven, where we enjoy the most perfect good, God himself, the common good of the whole universe. We will no longer be threatened by error, sin, or death there because we will know and love God perfectly unto eternal life.12 No political process will ever succeed in bringing us to the perfect freedom of the kingdom of God. Only Christ can give us that freedom. For our part, in whatever imperfect earthly kingdom we Pope John Paul II, Veritatis Splendor, §99. St. Thomas Aquinas, In Ioan 8, lec. 4 (Marietti nos. 1199 and 1209). 11 12 364 Dominic Legge, O.P. inhabit, let us at least do our part in bearing witness to the unchanging truths that ground authentic freedom and human flourishing. Witnessing to the truth does not require us to make judgments about the hearts of our neighbors, but we are right to judge what is good N&V for the human person and for our community. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 15, No. 2 (2017): 365–396 365 A Revised Analysis of the “Phoenix Abortion Case” and a Critique of New Natural Law Intentionality Thomas Berg Saint Joseph’s Seminary Dunwoodie, NY The present article constitutes a retraction of a paper I presented at the 2011 University Faculty for Life Conference— Life & Learning XXI, hosted by the Notre Dame Center for Ethics and Culture. It presupposes that the relevant facts of the so-called “Phoenix abortion case” (upon which my paper was based) are already broadly known.1 At that conference, I presented a moral analysis of a The case was that of a twenty-seven year old Catholic mother of four children with a history of pulmonary hypertension who was admitted to St. Joseph’s Hospital and Medical Center in Phoenix, Arizona while eleven weeks pregnant with worsening symptoms. As her condition was deemed to be life-threatening, the Ethics Committee at St. Joseph’s Hospital and Medical Center was consulted. It judged that the performance of a D&C would be licit. That intervention was then carried out. For my original paper, I presupposed further medical facts relevant to the case as presented in M. Therese Lysaught, “Moral Analysis of an Intervention Performed at St. Joseph’s Hospital and Medical Center,” an unpublished analysis commissioned by Lloyd H. Dean, President and CEO of Catholic Healthcare West, available at: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/health/documents/abortion/ lysaught-St-Josephs-Hospital-Analysis.pdf, last accessed February 1, 2017. Additionally, these several observations and assumptions served as the basis of my original analysis. At eleven weeks, the fetus measures approximately two inches from crown to rump. Because the baby is so small and the tissues so soft, no matter what efforts might be made to “target only the placenta” (scraping it off the uterine wall), there would be almost certainly no practical way of avoiding contact with the fetus, thereby injuring it, likely even dismembering 1 366 Thomas Berg hypothetical case of a life-threatening pregnancy (used for the sake of argument and based upon the Phoenix case) that concluded to a positive moral assessment of a lethal removal of a fetus from the womb, arguing that such an act could be morally distinguishable from an act of abortion. I crafted that analysis based on the account of moral intentionality emerging from what is today commonly referred to as “new natural law theory” (NNL).2 Accordingly, the present essay proceeds as follows. First, I offer (I) an overview of the NNL account of intentionality and the prominent role played therein by the concept of the “proposal.” Then follows (II) a brief summary of my original 2011 argument supporting lethal fetal removal by dilation and curettage (D&C) in the case of a life-threatening pregnancy. I then (III) critique NNL intentionality exposing the pitfalls entailed in its employment of the concept of the “proposal.” I next explore (IV) how Aquinas’s account of the moral object obviates those pitfalls and, finally, conclude by offering (V) a revised moral judgment on cases of life-threatening pregnancy as typified by the “Phoenix abortion case.” An appendix contains the essence of my original moral analysis of that case.3 Finally, an additional personal note is in order from the outset. For over two decades I adopted many, if not most, of the elements of NNL into my own understanding and teaching of natural law, including its account of intentionality. I count some of NNL’s leading proponents as friends with whom I have collaborated intellectually for many years, including Peter Ryan, S.J., Robert George, Christian it. If the placenta were first scraped from the uterine wall, the embryo would expire within two to three minutes by asphyxia and by hemorrhaging through the umbilical cord. There is no way effectively to remove the placenta alone and intact at eleven weeks of gestation (as is, in fact possible, at full term). Nor is it medically accurate to describe the placenta as “the offending organ”; it is the presence of the pregnancy as a whole that occasions, in this case, the lethal distress of the mother (complicating her underlying condition). Whether the embryo had already expired or not, placenta, amniotic sack, and fetus would most likely be suctioned out, further dismembering the fetus in the process. If the fetus were alternatively removed by forceps, there would follow a similar effect on the fetus. 2 See Christopher Tollefsen, “The New Natural Law Theory,” Lyceum 10.1 (Fall 2008): 1–17. A theory of moral intentionality presents an account of how we understand the content of what we intend, choose, and act for. 3 I would like to thank Michael Augros, Stephen Brock, Kevin Flannery, S.J., and Christopher Tollefsen for many helpful comments and feedback on earlier drafts of this article. A Revised Analysis of the “Phoenix Abortion Case” 367 Brugger, Patrick Lee, and Christopher Tollefsen as well as Germain Grisez. And although I have had fewer interactions with John Finnis, not only have I admired his work and learned exceptionally from him, but it was his earlier work on natural law theory that set me on my own intellectual journey into moral philosophy. I write with profound admiration, gratitude and affection, even if I must now express disagreement with NNL’s account of intentionality. I NNL proposes an understanding of moral intentionality, and specifically of the nature of moral objects of choice, whose fulcrum and neuralgic point is the concept of the “proposal.”4 A 1991 article by John Finnis is foundational for understanding this notion. Finnis explains: Acts are morally significant, and are morally assessed in terms of their type, their intrinsic character, just insofar as they are willed, are expressions of the agent’s free self-determination in choice. More precisely: for moral assessment and judgment, the act is what it is just as it is per se, that is, just as it is intended, under the description it has in the proposal which the agent adopts by choice—not under some self-deceiving description offered by conscience to conscience to rationalize evil, but under the description it has in the practical reasoning which The NNL account of the moral object (and the crucial role played by the notion of the “proposal”) has had its share of critics; most notably (among others), see: Kevin Flannery, “What is Included in a Means to an End?” Gregorianum 74.3 (1993): 499–513; Flannery, “Placing Oneself in the Perspective of the Acting Person: Veritatis Splendor and the Nature of the Moral Act,” in Live the Truth: the Moral Legacy of John Paul II in Catholic Healthcare, ed. Edward J. Furton (Philadelphia: National Catholic Bioethics Center, 2006) 47–67; Flannery, “Thomas Aquinas and The New Natural Law Theory on the Object of the Human Act,” National Catholic Bioethics Quarterly 13.1 (2013): 79–104; Flannery, “John Finnis on Thomas Aquinas on Human Action,” in Reason, Morality, and Law: The Philosophy of John Finnis, ed. John Keown and Robert P. George (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015) 118–31; Steven A. Long, “Fundamental Errors of the New Natural Law Theory,” National Catholic Bioethics Quarterly 13.1 (2013): 105–31 (see especially 123–31, where Long’s critique of NNL’s “logicist account of the object” in many ways coincides with the critique I offer here); and more recently, from the perspective of analytical philosophy, Matthew B. O’Brien and Robert C. Koons, “Objects of Intention: A Hylomorphic Critique of the New Natural Law Theory,” American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly 86.4 (2012): 655–703. 4 Thomas Berg 368 makes the option (the proposal) seem to the chooser intelligent, eligible, “the thing for me to do.”5 Of similar importance are explanations of “proposal” such as the following from Germain Grisez: “By choice one adopts a proposal to do something. . . . Adopting a proposal to do something is a choice, just as a motion which is adopted is a decision of the group. The doing carries out the choice, much as the executive carries out a legislative body’s enactments. The action of an individual is defined by the proposal adopted by choice, just as the action of a group is defined by the motion adopted by a vote.”6 Christopher Tollefsen also offers a succinct explanation of NNL intentionality and the concept of “proposal” in these terms: [This] account of intention can be expressed using the helpful notion of a proposal for action. In acting, agents seek to bring about some state of affairs in which a good or goods will be instantiated (agents thus envisage the state of affairs as offering a benefit). An agent’s proposal for action is her proposal to do such and such in order to bring about that state of affairs. Included in the proposal is both the state of affairs sought— the end—and the instrumentalities by which she will bring about that end—the means. “Intention” for the New Natural Lawyers encompasses both the end (including the good-related benefit which is anticipated in that end) and the means by which the end will be brought about.7 Tollefsen then clarifies: A central point, however, for the New Natural Law account . . . is that intention is thus an agent-centered, or first-personal John Finnis, Intention and Identity: Collected Essays, vol. 2 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 165. The article is presented in this volume as chapter 9 under the title “Intentions and Objects” and replicates the original article published as “Object and Intention in Moral Judgments according to St. Thomas Aquinas,” The Thomist 55.1 (1991): 1–27. A revised version was published in Finalité et Intentionalité: Doctrine Thomiste et Perspectives Modernes, ed. J. Follon and J. McEvoy, Bibliotèque Philosophique de Louvain 35 (Paris: J. Vrin, 1992), 127–48. 6 Germain Grisez, The Way of the Lord Jesus, vol. 1, Christian Moral Principles (Chicago: Franciscan Herald Press, 1983), 9C, 233. 7 Tollefsen, “The New Natural Law Theory,” 9. 5 A Revised Analysis of the “Phoenix Abortion Case” 369 reality. It is from the point of view of the agent as seeking some good that a proposal is considered and adopted. What the agent intends is thus a matter of this proposal, and of nothing else: facts of the world, of causality, or of the proximity of one effect to another do not determine the agent’s intention; and it is thus only by adopting the perspective of the acting person that an agent’s action can be best understood.8 Hence, the tension between NNL and its critics on the question of moral intentionality might be parsed in terms of first-person-perspective intentionalism versus third-person-perspective intentionalism.9 Their bone of contention is whether the moral object draws its entire content solely from the first person standpoint of the agent as she conceives of what she is choosing to bring about. Or (and quite independently of the agent) do certain facts in the world (as can be grasped from a third-person perspective) have a necessary bearing on understanding what she in fact intends as the object of her choice above and beyond her own first-person perspective? The dispute, to say the least, is a complex one. I do not believe NNL denies that, with regard to our actions, “facts in the world,” and particularly observable facts about the oftentimes physical things that our actions are about, have some bearing on the moral analysis of those actions. Nor do those holding to third-person-perspective intentionalism deny the import for moral analysis of the agent’s own honest, subjective account of what she believed herself to be choosing and doing. In pastoral moral analysis (e.g., in counseling or in the confessional) this certainly can bring a lot to bear on our (third person) understanding of what the agent intended to do. Yet, the theoretical dispute here entails much more than merely a difference of emphasis. Implicit in the NNL account of intentionality is the claim that the “proposal” is tantamount to what Aquinas meant when referring Ibid. See especially, Christopher Tollefsen, “Is a Purely First Person Account of Human Action Defensible?” Ethical Theory and Moral Practice 9 (2006): 441–60. Here Tollefsen explores NNL first-person intentionalism in depth, developing its central claims that “it is only from the perspective of the choosing and acting agent that the nature of the act itself is determined” and that “there is, as far as human action is concerned, no natural class of actions on which [one’s] intentions supervene. Rather, [what one does] is entirely a function of [one’s] intention: the end and the means [one has] settled on” (ibid., 445). 8 9 370 Thomas Berg to the moral object of an act. Indeed, Grisez (not without nuance) asserts the following in this respect: The expression “the proposal adopted by choice,” has more or less the same meaning as St. Thomas’ expression “the object of an action.” The point made here by saying, “The action is defined by a proposal adopted by choice,” often is expressed in his language, “The action is specified by its object” (cf. St., 1-2, q. 18, a. 2). However, the classical moralists sometimes used “object of the act” to refer to the outward deed without clearly including its relationship to deliberation and choice. Thus, when they said that the object of the act is a determinant of its morality, they seemed to be trying to ground morality directly in nature considered physically and metaphysically, rather than in human goods. . . . This confusion offered an opportunity for theologians who adopted proportionalism to denounce as “physicalism” or “biologism” the thesis that some kinds of acts are always wrong—wrong ex obiecto or intrinsically evil— regardless of the foreseen goods which might be intended in choosing to do them. The present analysis provides a way of understanding “object of the act” which is not physicalist, but which does allow certain kinds of acts to be always wrong.10 In NNL, then, the moral object, the moral “species” of the action in question, is indicated or “defined” by the “proposal” for action developed by the acting subject in the process of deliberation and elaborated within practical reasoning as one, of perhaps several, possible alternatives for choice. In tension with proportionalism, Finnis in particular has gone to great lengths to emphasize the intimate connection existing at the level of practical reasoning between the end intended by the agent and the means chosen for attaining it—both coming effectively to constitute one object of choice. This valid concern of Finnis’s draws his understanding of the “proposal” into sharp relief. In a 1987 article, Finnis explains: It must be admitted that the term “object” is not used with satisfying clarity in the tradition. But one thing is wholly clear: in choosing to act to bring about some state of affairs Grisez, Christian Moral Principles, 233–34. 10 A Revised Analysis of the “Phoenix Abortion Case” 371 as a means, whatever one thus envisages doing and bringing about as that means, together with whatever state of affairs one envisages as the end to which that means is a means, together constitute the “object of the act” so chosen. Now I have been explaining choice as the adoption of a proposal, viz. a proposal for action (or omission) in order to bring about a state of affairs either as an end in itself or as a means to some such end. Hence, my account of choice is equivalently an account of the “object” of the acts so chosen.11 More succinctly, Finnis would affirm some years later: “Choice, then, is of proposals, and the proposals one shapes in one’s deliberations include one’s ends and one’s means. . . . To use the classical terminology of Thomas, used again in Reconciliatio et paenitentia, one’s proposal, end and means (remote objective(s) and proximate objectives), is the object of one’s choice and act.”12 John Finnis, Intention and Identity, 149. The article is presented in this volume as chapter 8 under the title “Human Acts” and replicates the original article published as “The Act of the Person,” in Persona, Veritá e Morale, atti del Congresso Internazionale di Teologia Morale (Rome: Cittá Nuova Editrice), 159–75. 12 Moral Absolutes (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1991), 69. In support of his contention that the tight connection between intention and choice is essentially that of Aquinas, in footnotes to both this and the preceding quote, Finnis cites the Summa Theologiae (ST) I-II, q.12, a. 4, ad 2: “Ad secundum dicendum quod finis, inquantum est res quaedam, est aliud voluntatis obiectum quam id quod est ad finem. Sed inquantum est ratio volendi id quod est ad finem, est unum et idem obiectum [The end, considered as a thing, and the means to that end, are distinct objects of the will. But in so far as the end is the formal object in willing the means, they are one and the same object]” (unless otherwise noted, all Latin quotations from Aquinas’s works are from the Leonine edition available at www.corpusthomisticum.org and all English translations of ST are from the translation by the Fathers of the English Dominican Province [New York: Benziger Brothers, 1947]). Stephen Brock has (I believe correctly) pointed out (specifically critiquing Finnis’s “Object and Intention” as it first appeared in The Thomist; see note 6 above) that this passage of the Summa does not support Finnis’s contention: 11 Finnis . . . goes to great lengths to downplay the distinction between intention and choice. He judges that at least in the typical case, an intention is always identical with a choice; the distinction between them is only “formal” (a distinction of reason). In support of this he cites I-II, q. 12, a. 4, where Aquinas says that the intention of an end, and the choice of something for the sake of that end, form one act, and are distinct only in reason. But Aquinas is surely not trying to make 372 Thomas Berg Closely related to disagreement over whether and how NNL intentionality relates to Aquinas’s understanding of the moral object, NNL theorists and critics alike also disagree on how we are to interpret Veritatis Splendor (VS) §78 and its observation that, in moral analysis, a proper grasp of the moral object is to be had by placing oneself “in the perspective of the acting person.”13 NNL reads VS §78 as virtually excluding third-person accounts of action: “In morally evaluating human actions,” affirm Grisez, Finnis, and Boyle, “one must identify the action to be evaluated from [the perspective of the acting person] rather than from the perspective of an observer.”14 As the same point that Finnis is. Even if it is true that most intentions are formed by choice, the point of I-II, q. 12, a. 4 is to establish the unity of an intention and any choice for the end intended, even if the choice is formed through a deliberation which terminates long after the intention was formed. This comes out in the reply to the third objection, where Aquinas notes that intentions can exist even when the means to their objects have not yet been selected. He takes this as a sign that intention and choice are distinct. . . . His thought is that an intention can exist without a choice for some means to what is intended; yet when the choice comes about, it forms one act with the intention, and the distinction between them is then only of reason; they form a kind of continuum. See Stephen Brock, Action and Conduct (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998), 186n123 (my gratitude to Kevin Flannery for alerting me to Brock’s treatment of this point). For Finnis’s most developed treatment of the linkage between intention and choice, see Intention and Identity, 152–59. 13 That paragraph reads in part: The morality of the human act depends primarily and fundamentally on the “object” rationally chosen by the deliberate will, as is borne out by the insightful analysis, still valid today, made by Saint Thomas. In order to be able to grasp the object of an act which specifies that act morally, it is therefore necessary to place oneself in the perspective of the acting person. The object of the act of willing is in fact a freely chosen kind of behavior.To the extent that it is in conformity with the order of reason, it is the cause of the goodness of the will; it perfects us morally, and disposes us to recognize our ultimate end in the perfect good, primordial love. By the object of a given moral act, then, one cannot mean a process or an event of the merely physical order, to be assessed on the basis of its ability to bring about a given state of affairs in the outside world. Rather, that object is the proximate end of a deliberate decision which determines the act of willing on the part of the acting person. 14 John Finnis, Germain Grisez, and Joseph Boyle, “‘Direct’ and ‘Indirect’: A Reply to Critics of Our Action Theory,” The Thomist 65 (2001): 12. They go on to observe: A Revised Analysis of the “Phoenix Abortion Case” 373 we will see further ahead, that disagreement sheds much light on the heart of the matter at issue here. NNL, arguably in agreement with its critics, correctly wants to distance moral analysis from two extremes: on the one hand, a thoroughly legalistic physicalism (and a fortiori, “biologism”) that takes no account of the acting person’s interior understanding of his object of choice; and on the other, proportionalism, which conflates the moral object with the acting person’s remote (and presumably rightly “calculated”) intention, disconnecting that intention from the behaviors immediately chosen as means to the intended outcome and—when negative or harmful in some sense—evaluating those means as merely “physical,” “ontic” but ultimately “pre-moral” evils.15 Further analysis will suggest, however, that, in avoiding those two extremes, NNL is tripped up by its own problematic account of moral intentionality. Vitally important to this discussion—and as I will explore in section IV below—is Aquinas’s contention that the moral object has a two-fold dimension: not merely an interior dimension as a behavior Many theorists, even when discussing actions in the context of moral assessment, do not adopt and steadily maintain the perspective of the acting person, and many do not adopt it at all. They consider actions, behavior, and outcomes from, so to speak, the outside—from the perspective of a spectator—in which primary or exclusive attention is given to causal relationships. Such displacement or abandonment of the acting person’s deliberative perspective was common among Catholic manualists of moral theology. (ibid.) 15 Clear to anyone who has worked with NNL is the notable (and laudable) degree to which it was shaped and articulated over time in tension with proportionalism (as suggested in the earlier quote from Grisez; see note 10). In particular, NNL reacts to the false moral space proportionalists sought to open up between the acting person’s intention and his choice of means. Their aim was nothing less than to shift the point of moral analysis away from what the tradition considers paramount—namely, what one chooses (the “proximate end” of a choice, i.e., the “object of the act”)—and exclusively toward a consideration of the acting person’s intention (the motive or reason for acting). That shift opens up a space in moral analysis for the justification of virtually any choice and action in light of a proportionate reason, and the elimination (as NNL correctly maintains and insists) of the category of intrinsically evil acts. Proportionalism accomplishes this by contrasting “moral evil” with the categories of “ontic” or “pre-moral” evil, in combination with a dualistic anthropology that posits within the human person two levels of willing, the ‘thematic’ and the ‘a-thematic’; this in turn becomes the platform for their doctrine of the “fundamental option.” 374 Thomas Berg conceptually conceived and object of choice (an “elicited act” of the will), but also a dimension exterior to the acting subject, in the very realities at which the exterior (or “commanded”) acts of the will that carry out the chosen behavior are aimed.16 According to Aquinas, both exterior and interior acts of the will have their distinct, but intimately related, objects in so far as moral analysis is concerned.17 Commanded acts of the will are themselves specific, basic patterns of behavior that are aimed at realities that are the target or terminus18 of (the very reason for) those patterns of On the distinction between elicited and commanded acts of the will, Stephen Brock is most helpful: 16 Now…Thomas divides the genus of human acts into two sorts, elicited or interior, and commanded or exterior. These are not quite on a par. That is, they are not two independent species of the genus. Commanded acts are human in virtue of elicited acts. All human acts proceed from the will. Some proceed from it immediately, such as to will, to intend, to choose, and so on; they are elicited from it. Others proceed from it mediately, through powers under the will’s command. The powers are moved to them by elicited acts of will. Note that in fact Thomas calls both types acts of will. “‘Act of will’ is of two sorts: one which is of it immediately, namely, to will; and another which is an act of will commanded by the will and exercised through another power, such as to walk and to speak” [S.T., I-II, 6, 4]. Choice is of course an elicited act. As for its object, Thomas makes it clear that both elicited and commanded acts can be chosen. We can choose between willing and not willing, and between doing and not doing; and also between willing this or willing that, and between doing this or doing that. Still, I think that we can say that the more typical object of choice is a commanded act, one carried out by some power other than the will—what Veritatis Splendor calls a “freely chosen kind of behavior.” See Stephen Brock, “Veritatis Splendor §78, St.Thomas, and (Not Merely) Physical Objects of Moral Acts,” Nova et Vetera (English) 6.1 (2008):16. 17 ST I-II, q. 18, a. 6, corp.: “In actu autem voluntario invenitur duplex actus, scilicet actus interior voluntatis, et actus exterior, et uterque horum actuum habet suum obiectum. Finis autem proprie est obiectum interioris actus voluntarii, id autem circa quod est actio exterior, est obiectum eius [Now, in a voluntary action, there is a twofold action, viz., the interior action of the will, and the external action: and each of these actions has its object. The end is properly the object of the interior act of the will: while the object of the external action is that on which the action is brought to bear].” 18 Such is the term employed by Aquinas, following Aristotle, in explaining how actions (being movements) receive their intelligibility—their “species”—from their objects. Flannery offers a helpful exploration of the Aristotelian foundation of Aquinas’s theory of the moral object in “Thomas Aquinas and the New Natural Law Theory.” A Revised Analysis of the “Phoenix Abortion Case” 375 behaviors. Stephen Brock explains: “There can be many true answers to the question, ‘What is [an acting person] doing?’ For each answer, or for each kind of action that he is performing, there will be something, distinct from the action, to which the action is related, and on which the action’s being of that kind depends. This is the object of that kind of action.”19 As Brock observes, that “something, distinct from the action, to which the action is related” Aquinas calls the materia circa quam, the object(s) of the exterior act(s) of the will in acting.20 That is, the object of the exterior or commanded acts (e.g., a set of golf clubs, things belonging to another, a recently shot deer, a married person) stands as matter vis-à-vis the object of the interior act of the will (the action grasped in its basic form or ratio by practical reasoning, e.g., to play golf, to steal, to go deer hunting, to have sex, etc.) that stands as the form in constituting the moral object.21 Brock, “Veritatis Splendor §78,” 19. ST I-II, q. 18, a. 2, ad 2: “Ad secundum dicendum quod obiectum non est materia ex qua, sed materia circa quam, et habet quodammodo rationem formae, inquantum dat speciem” (The object is not the matter of which [a thing is made] but the matter about which [something is done]; and stands in relation to the act as its form, as it were, through giving it its species). 21 As Flannery has aptly noted, the matter-form relation with regard to objects of exterior and interior acts should not be understood as in the metaphysical composition of natural substances. In the former case, the matter is materia circa quam not (as in the latter case) materia ex qua. He notes Aquinas’s explanation in a response to a question regarding the distinction between sins: 19 20 Objects, in so far as they are related to exterior acts, have the character of “matter about which” [an act is]; but, in so far as they are related to the interior act of the will, they have the character of ends—and it is because of this that they give species to an act. Although they also, in so far as they are “matter about which,” must be understood as termini (by which movements are specified, as is said in the fifth book of the Physics and in the tenth of the Nicomachean Ethics), nonetheless, the termini of movements give species in as much as they have the character of an end [ST 1–2.72.3 ad 2]. (“Thomas Aquinas and The New Natural Law,” 85; Flannery’s translation.) Nor can Aquinas’s use of the term materia mean simply “physical.” The object of the exterior act stands as matter to the form (the interior act) as St.Thomas posits at ST I–II, q. 18, a. 6, corp.: “Et ideo actus humani species formaliter consideratur secundum finem, materialiter autem secundum obiectum exterioris actus [consequently, the species of a human act is considered formally with regard to the end, but materially with regard to the object of the external action].” Nor does this use of “matter” to refer to the object of the exterior act of the will mean precisely the same thing as “matter” in the expressions 376 Thomas Berg NNL and its critics disagree on how the realities that are the aim of the acting person’s exterior acts (intelligible behaviors and the realities they bear upon, especially when these are actual physical objects) relate to or enter into the constitution of the object of the interior act. A further, and closely related, disagreement hinges on the extent to which the causal nexus between the chosen behavior and its immediate effects enters (or does not necessarily enter into) the understanding of what one is choosing as the moral object of choice. The fundamental disagreement hinges, then, on how behaviors (e.g., taking what belongs to another, speaking an untruth, striking an aggressor, aiming a pistol, crushing a fetal skull, removing a vital organ, administering morphine, etc.) and their objects (e.g., things belonging to another, an aggressor, a pistol, a fetal skull, a vital organ, morphine, etc.) as comprehensible from the standpoint of persons external to the acting subject contribute to a proper comprehension of the “object of the act” in moral analysis. Pivotal in understanding NNL’s account of the moral object is, as I have stated from the outset, the role played by the “proposal.” At times, the language used by NNL theorists has seemed in fact to identify the “proposal” with the object of the act itself (a position, as we will see further on, asserted by at least one critic of NNL and rejected by John Finnis). What is certain is that NNL does construe the moral object as a possible state of affairs (which, as I hope to show, is itself problematic), whether that is tantamount to what NNL theorists mean by “proposal” or whether the latter simply stands as a concept or idea of that state of affairs. At very least, it is certainly the case that, in NNL, the “proposal” does the theoretical heavy lifting that, in Aquinas’s account of moral intentionality, is accomplished by the “object of the act.” II It was based on NNL intentionality that I crafted my 2011 moral analysis of the “Phoenix abortion case” (see appendix) and engaged in an exchange on that topic with my friend Kevin Flannery. I will present here a very brief synopsis of that analysis. In addition to the known facts of the case at the time,22 my analysis presupposed (1) that “grave matter,” “parvity of matter,” etc., although they are closely related. In the former sense, “matter” is employed as one component of the matter-form analogy comparing the metaphysical composition of things to human acts; the latter sense is a morally qualifying term used in the context of the determination of an action as mortally or venially sinful. 22 See note 1. A Revised Analysis of the “Phoenix Abortion Case” 377 the mother was on the point of irreversibly fatal medical complications and (2) that the medical team had exhausted all other medical means at their disposal to save the mother’s life, the only remaining means being the removal of the fetus. I framed the relevant moral question as follows: In the specific situation in which pregnancy—the presence, ectopically or intrauterine, of a gestating fetus—endangers the mother’s life such that she will necessarily die if the pregnancy continues, is it morally licit for a doctor to take actions upon the fetus such that, as a result of those actions, fetal death will ensue immediately? In 2011, I responded in the affirmative. The procedures a physician would most likely use today in such instances would be salpingostomy (for ectopic tubal pregnancies),23 D&C24 (for normally gestating fetuses), and—in exceedingly rare cases—the craniotomy.25 My original argument also required two provisos, the second more central to the argument itself: (a) In a case such as that presented at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Phoenix, it is not reasonable to consider the placenta as such the “offending organ.” Such a conception of things presupposes the physiologically (and phil A salpingostomy is a manner of treating ectopic pregnancy in the fallopian tube which has not yet ruptured. In this procedure, an incision (called a linear salpingostomy) is made through the wall of the fallopian tube in the area of the ectopic pregnancy; the doctor dislodges the ectopically placed embryo through the use of a scooping procedure in which he detaches the placental tissue that has attached to the tube. Once dislodged, that tissue, including the embryo proper, are then flushed out of the tube with an instrument called a suction-irrigator. The incision is then left to heal and the tube is left intact. Salpingostomy would only be morally licit, in my view, in the event one could arrive at moral certainty that the misplaced embryo had already expired. According to my previous reasoning (based on NNL intentionality), I would have seen it as a licit form of ‘embryo removal.’ 24 Dilation means enlarging or expanding the entrance of a woman’s uterus so that a thin, sharp instrument (the curette) can scrape or suction away (suction curette) the lining of the uterus and take tissue samples (if used for other medical or clinical purposes) or detach a gestating fetus. 25 Perhaps the most plausible historical scenario in which the craniotomy was performed was in the event of hydrocephaly in which an abnormal buildup of cerebrospinal fluid (CSF) in the ventricles of the child’s brain makes the head too large for vaginal delivery. The physician would make an incision in the back of the child’s head, compressing the head to release the fluid and getting the head to a size that would allow vaginal delivery (in situations where cesarean delivery is not safely possible). 23 378 Thomas Berg osophically) false distinction between the placenta, on the one hand (as a “shared” organ between baby and mother), and the “fetus proper,” on the other. Even if characterized as a “shared organ,” the placenta is primarily a vital organ of the fetus. To target the placenta is to target the fetus. Therefore, the conceptual distinction between placenta and “embryo proper” or “fetus proper” had no bearing on my opinion.26 (b) I argued partly with reference to other kinds of cases. Among these is the case of legitimate self-defense. With regard to the latter, however, I did not intend to imply that the fetus is an aggressor with regard to the mother. Both are at all times to be seen as patients. The fetus is an innocent human person, yet it is so intimately entwined in a grave medical complication endangering the mother’s life that one can reasonably affirm that it is the very presence of the gestating fetus that is causing the life-threatening situation for the mother. Though not an aggressor, and innocent, the gestating fetus does nonetheless represent a threat to the mother’s life. The point of my discussion of self-defense, however, was not so much to draw an analogy as to defend, by counter-example, NNL intentionality. The question then was whether a physician, in performing such a medical intervention, could have as his moral object of choice an act that does not qualify as the act the Church traditionally condemns as direct abortion, defined in Evangelium Vitae §58 as “the deliberate and direct killing, by whatever means it is carried out, of a human being in the initial phase of his or her existence, extending from conception to birth” (emphasis added). The question and its resolution depended on resolving what constitutes a true understanding of the moral object of choice in this case. Basing my approach on the NNL account of moral intentionality, it seemed to me that one could admit the following as probable: that, in the situation described, a physician could formulate (in the process of practical reasoning), deliberate on, and choose as his “proposal” to remove the fetus from its place of gestation by engaging in external actions taken directly upon the fetus, foreseeing but not intending (holding This distinction was heavily employed in the moral analysis conducted by Therese Lysaught. The distinction is invalid and, consequently, rendered her analysis unsound. Due to this and other deficiencies in her argumentation that I do not address here, her analysis cannot be used as a point of reference in coming to a sound moral judgment on the “Phoenix case.” 26 A Revised Analysis of the “Phoenix Abortion Case” 379 praeter intentionem) the death of the fetus—“lethal fetal removal” as distinct from abortion. Based on this account of intentionality, a D&C could be performed qua abortion, but it need not be so in all cases: one could conceive of, and engage in, a D&C without intending to kill the unborn child. The latter, in an extreme instance as presented in the Phoenix case, would be an act of “fetal removal” and morally licit; the former, an act of abortion, would be intrinsically immoral, an act malum ex se, an act qui nullo modo bene fieri potest, and prohibited by an exceptionless moral norm. Which is to say, there is no good (i.e., licit) way to perform a procured abortion (which includes the intention of killing—of directly and intentionally bringing about a dead fetus either as an end or as a means). There can be, however, in extreme and unusual circumstances, a licit manner of using the technique known as D&C in removing a pre-term embryo or fetus from its place of gestation without intending to kill the fetus. Such—I argued in 2011—could be the moral object of choice for those involved in limited situations in which a mother’s life is patently endangered by the presence of the fetus gestating in her womb. III NNL theorists have made attempts to distinguish and disassociate the “proposal” from what could otherwise be the acting subject’s skewed perception of what he is doing resulting from interior turmoil, obfuscations, rationalizations, or outright dishonesty. For example, Finnis, Grisez, and Boyle affirm that “what counts for moral analysis is not what may or may not be included in various descriptions that might be given by observers, or even by the acting persons reflecting on what they have done, but what is or is not included within a proposal developed in deliberation for possible adoption by choice. Only the truthful articulation of that proposal can be a description that specifies an act for the purposes of moral analysis.”27 And, as we saw above, Finnis articulates the object of the act as “the description [that the act] has in the proposal which the agent adopts by choice—not under some self-deceiving description offered by conscience to conscience to rationalize evil, but under the description it has in the practical reasoning.”28 Additionally, Finnis clarifies: “The means are included in the proposal, not under some description Finnis, Intention and Identity, 255; emphasis my own. Ibid., 165; emphasis my own. 27 28 380 Thomas Berg which makes them seem compatible with some legal or moral rule but under that description which makes them intelligibly attractive as means—that is, the description under which they enter into one’s deliberation toward choice (not one’s rationalizing of attempts to square that choice with one’s conscience or with the law).”29 Finnis offers an example of just such a rationalization. If a military commander were to find it useful to flood the battleground with human refugees, and if he understands that the way to make this happen is to kill some civilians and destroy their shelters by bombing, “then killing or injuring noncombatants in their homes is intelligibly attractive and is the relevant true description of what one chooses and does. That description does not alter just because one tells oneself and others that what one is doing is ‘bombing military targets.’”30 Clearly then, NNL wants to be able to distinguish rationalized or untruthful accounts of the moral object (“I am merely bombing military targets”) from presumably truthful and non-disingenuous accounts, such as a doctor’s account of his action in performing a craniotomy on a fetus: “I am merely narrowing a cranium.”31 But, by employing its notion of “proposal,” NNL labors under enormous difficulties to render such distinctions credible. After years of intellectual engagement with NNL, I have arrived at the conclusion that its account of moral intentionality, which holds that one arrives at a true understanding of the moral object only by way of accessing the agent’s “proposal,” is internally flawed. And that flaw emanates from NNL’s theoretical anchoring of the knowledge of the moral object in the subject-relative perspective of the agent. On this, Finnis could not be clearer: “In relation to acts done for a Finnis, Moral Absolutes, 68–69; emphasis my own. Ibid., 69. 31 For the NNL approach to the craniotomy issue, see especially Joseph Boyle, “Double Effect and a Certain Type of Embryotomy,” Irish Theological Quarterly 44 (1977): 303–18; Grisez, Finnis, and Boyle, “‘Direct’ and ‘Indirect’,” 21–31; Germain Grisez, The Way of the Lord Jesus, vol. 2, Living a Christian Life (Chicago: Franciscan Herald Press, 1993), 502–03. For critiques of their position, see especially Flannery, “What is Included in a Means to an End?” and Steven A. Long, “A Brief Disquisition regarding the Nature of the Object of the Moral Act according to St. Thomas Aquinas,” The Thomist 67 (2003): 45–71. Flannery has also presented a strong argument suggesting that the Church’s ordinary and universal magisterium, on the question of the licitness of the craniotomy, is now settled, and settled against the procedure; see “‘Vital Conflicts’ and the Catholic Magisterial Tradition,” National Catholic Bioethics Quarterly 11.4 (2011): 691–707. 29 30 A Revised Analysis of the “Phoenix Abortion Case” 381 reason, these principles are specified by a principle less all-pervasive in St. Thomas’s writings but clearly fundamental to his thought: what end-directed things are per se is to be described in terms of their intention—is what their author(s) intend them to be.”32 NNL’s recourse to the notion of “proposal” seemingly leaves no place for a valid manner of grasping the moral object from without the agent, and NNL theorists oftentimes seem to discard such a possibility outright. Grisez, for example, in his discussion of historical problems in applying the principle of double effect, states, “The older moral theologians [in applying more traditional formulations of the principle of double effect] started out by thinking of human acts in a commonsense way, as chunks of behavior having some moral significance because of their inherent characteristics and their being done on purpose. If one takes this view, one literally never knows exactly what anyone is doing, and so one will not be able to deal with precision with difficult cases of the sort for which the principle of double effect was designed.”33 In a word, Grisez is suggesting here that behaviors cannot be understood (we cannot “know exactly what anyone is doing”) but for grasping the “proposal” as understood by the agent in question. Yet, NNL does little, for its part, to explain how those involved in the moral evaluation of the act in question—those besides the agent himself—are to gain access to the privileged subjective realm of the agent’s interiority and thus to understand his behavior. This is what NNL considers “the primacy of the internal perspective.”34 And, as suggested earlier, in insisting on the role played in moral analysis by the perspective, NNL theorists are quite convinced that they have correctly interpreted VS §78 and its remark about placing oneself “in the perspective of the acting person.” Along with most critics of NNL, I would suggest, on the contrary, that NNL’s “internal perspective” is almost certainly not the internal perspective suggested by Pope St. John Paul II in VS §78. That one line from the encyclical must be understood in the context of the entire paragraph in which it is contained, particularly in its close conjunction with Finnis, Intention and Identity, 162; emphasis my own. Grisez, Christian Moral Principles, 308. 34 “It was appropriate for [Veritatis Splendor], in the course of rejecting proportionalism as incompatible with Catholic faith, to affirm the primacy of the internal perspective in the understanding of action for the purposes of moral assessment” (Finnis, Grisez, and Boyle, “‘Direct’ and ‘Indirect,’” 13–14). 32 33 382 Thomas Berg that paragraph’s reference to the second article of question 18 of the Summa theologiae (ST) I-II: Certain actions are called human, inasmuch as they are voluntary, as stated above. Now, in a voluntary action, there is a twofold action, viz. the interior action of the will, and the exterior action: and each of these actions has its object. The end is properly the object of the interior act of the will: while the object of the exterior action, is that on which the action is brought to bear. Therefore just as the exterior action takes its species from the object on which it bears; so the interior act of the will takes its species from the end, as from its own proper object. Now that which is on the part of the will is formal in regard to that which is on the part of the exterior action: because the will uses the limbs to act as instruments; nor have exterior actions any measure of morality, save in so far as they are voluntary.35 In other words, the putative injunction in VS §78 that one must get at the nature of the object from “the perspective of the acting person” is no injunction at all. It is rather simply a way of articulating Aquinas’s understanding that the external accomplishment of an act receives its very status as moral from the interior act of the will. Hence, VS §78 is simply asserting the patent truth that, in the moral evaluation of actions, we must understand them as willed and intended by an agent, and that is all. VS §78 is not requiring of us, in moral analysis, to enter with the psyche of the acting person to understand as he understands what he is choosing and bringing about.36 “Respondeo dicendum quod aliqui actus dicuntur humani, inquantum sunt voluntarii, sicut supra dictum est. In actu autem voluntario invenitur duplex actus, scilicet actus interior voluntatis, et actus exterior, et uterque horum actuum habet suum obiectum. Finis autem proprie est obiectum interioris actus voluntarii, id autem circa quod est actio exterior, est obiectum eius. Sicut igitur actus exterior accipit speciem ab obiecto circa quod est; ita actus interior voluntatis accipit speciem a fine, sicut a proprio obiecto. Ita autem quod est ex parte voluntatis, se habet ut formale ad id quod est ex parte exterioris actus, quia voluntas utitur membris ad agendum, sicut instrumentis; neque actus exteriores habent rationem moralitatis, nisi inquantum sunt voluntarii.” 36 Again, Flannery has it quite right: 35 It might appear to some that this latter remark [i.e. “to place oneself in the perspective of the acting person”] constitutes a shift away from A Revised Analysis of the “Phoenix Abortion Case” 383 An essay by Kevin Flannery published in a festschrift honoring John Finnis is particularly helpful here.37 A portion of that essay is dedicated to critiquing Finnis’s interpretation of two passages from Aquinas: his Commentary on the Sentences II, d. 40, q. 1, a. 1 and ST I-II, q. 20 a. 1. Flannery’s point is that, contrary to Finnis’s interpretation of them, neither passage supports NNL’s understanding of the moral object by which Flannery takes NNL to mean nothing other than the “proposal” itself. As Flannery sees it, in NNL, the “proposal” quite simply is the moral object. Consequently, Flannery holds that these passages from Aquinas serve rather to highlight Aquinas’s quite distinct understanding of the moral object. At one point in his analysis,38 Flannery calls attention to a usage of Latin by Finnis, a usage he employs presumably to highlight Aquinas’s understanding of the moral object. It occurs in Finnis’s 1991 essay “Object and Intention in Moral Judgments according to St. Thomas Aquinas,” cited above,39 and is repeated in the 2011 edition of the same essay in Finnis’s Intention and Identity: Collected Essays, volume 2. In both editions of the essay, the usage appears in footnote 44. The relevant portion of that footnote reads as follows: [Aquinas’s] disagreement is not with the judgment that there are acts which, as he states, are wrong in themselves and cannot in any way be rightly done (de se malus, qui nullo modo bene fieri potest). It is with Lombard’s denial that such acts are wrong by reason of will, intention, purpose ( finis). Such acts, says Aquinas, are wrongful by reason of the acting person’s will. There need be nothing wrong with his intentio or voluntas intendens, his ultimate motivating purpose ( finis ultimus), e.g., to give money to the poor. What is wrongful is, rather, his choice, his electio or the more traditional approach—sometimes (inaccurately) dismissed as excessively “physicalist”—and toward a more modern approach that looks to the reason why we do things rather than to the objective characterization of the things we do. But there is no grounds for such an interpretation in the text of Veritatis splendor. . . . According to Thomas (and also the encyclical), even though there is such a thing as an “exterior” act, it can only be understood as a human act at all in a “non-physicalist” way, i.e., by placing oneself “in the perspective of the acting person.” (“Placing Oneself in the Perspective of the Acting Person,” 48–49) 37 Flannery, “John Finnis on Thomas Aquinas on Human Action,” 118–31. 38 Ibid., 129–30. 39 See note 5. 384 Thomas Berg voluntas eligens, his immediate purpose (objectus proximus or finis proximus), e.g., to forge this testament: Sent. II, d. 40 q. 1 a. 2.40 Finnis’s use of obiectus proximus here, as Flannery suggests, would seem revealing. As Flannery points out, obiectus proximus is not even Aquinas’s term. Yet, Finnis suggests this language is synonymous with Aquinas’s actual usage of obiectum proximum, the object of the act, the proximate end (finis proximus) of a specific kind of behavior that takes its species from the object. Obiectum, as Flannery notes, is the passive participle of the verb obicio (to set before or to place before one). Consequently, an obiectum is something that is “set before” us; we are exposed to it. As such, obiectum adequately conveys nuances of what Aquinas means by moral object as that which is first presented to the intellect and then to the will by way of the agent’s practical reasoning, but not originating in his reasoning. An obiectus, by contrast, (a fourth declension, masculine noun, a term essentially not found in Aquinas’s lexicon) means “a putting against,” “an opposing,” a notion that presupposes the elaboration of that which is then “placed in opposition” and that is—not surprisingly—quite suggestive of the nature of a “proposal” as conceived within NNL, which emphasizes the agent’s elaboration of the object and its arising primarily from his own exercise of articulating in deliberation the content of what he might eventually choose and do.41 Flannery summarizes the problem in these terms: “Whereas Aquinas, adhering to the theory set out in [Aristotle’s] De An. 3.10, understands the object as something presented to the intellect (which is inseparable from rational appetite) as an appetibile (or desirable thing), Finnis understands it as a proposal: as something coming from the agent.”42 In that same festschrift, Finnis responds to Flannery’s contention that NNL understands the moral object to be precisely the “proposal” originating from within the agent. It is worth quoting a large portion of Finnis’s response in its entirety: When one chooses, one chooses between incompatible proposals. Each proposal picks out one or more—usually more than one—object(s): to move the handle, to pump the water, to Finnis, Intention and Identity, 165 (2011 edition). In the 2013 paperback edition of Intention and Identity, the corresponding wording in the last sentence of footnote 44 now reads “objectum proximum.” 42 Flannery, “John Finnis on Thomas Aquinas on Human Action,” 128. 40 41 A Revised Analysis of the “Phoenix Abortion Case” 385 replenish the house cistern, to serve the inhabitants . . . to earn one’s salary, and so forth. In the theological and now doctrinal theses that have recently installed the term “object” in the heart of our civilization, “object” denotes the more “proximate” (say, pumping water), rather than the more “remote” (say, earning pay or a reward), in this sequence of means to ends. As the deliberating and acting person envisages matters, the good of pumping is that it will replenish the cistern, and the good of doing that is that it will serve . . . the inhabitants, and the good of that may be envisaged as . . . a good for its own sake, or as a means to a salary . . . and so on. Obviously, the object in every case is a possible state of affairs considered as being brought about by action choosable for the sake of the benefit (whether merely as means or also as end) thereby attainable. Equally obviously, the proposal is an idea of such states of affair as eligible, that is, as to be pursued and brought about; it is a plan framed in terms suitable for acceptance or rejection—for being chosen, or being rejected in favour of an alternative one prefers (chooses). At the moment of choice, one has two or more proposals, each proposing, picking out, one or more objects as suitable for choice; but as yet one has no object (save to get into a position to choose); and even after one has chosen one of these (sets of objects) in preference to the other(s)—by adopting one of those proposals—the state(s) of affairs which it is now one’s object(ive) to bring about remain(s) to be brought about. In short: It is inconceivable that the proposal is the object, and equally inconceivable that the object is the proposal. [Such] is not my position, nor anyone else’s so far as I am aware.43 Now, were we to grant Finnis’s point that there is theoretical space between the “proposal adopted by choice” and the moral object—the possible state of affairs44 —for which the proposal stands (as an idea), this in no way helps NNL. On the contrary, it serves only to reinforce the problematic nature of its theory of intentionality. And I Keown and George, Reason, Morality, and Law, 492–93. By “state of affairs,” I take it that NNL means something to this effect: “a possibility, actuality or impossibility of the kind expressed by a nominalization of a declarative sentence”; see Ernest Sosa, “State of Affairs,” in The Cambridge Dictionary of Philosophy, ed. Robert Audi (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995). 43 44 386 Thomas Berg think it is further and readily evident that a possible state of affairs to be brought about by choice and action is certainly not Aquinas’s “object of the act.” Aquinas typically describes the object of the interior act of the will as a behavior such as to walk or to speak.45 In fact, Aquinas is quite clear that the object of the interior act of choice either is or at least always involves a behavior.46 We might further observe that, as such, these objects are behaviors conceptualized (to go deer hunting, to take from another, etc.), since they are presented to the will by practical reasoning and are not as yet exterior acts in actu. As such, are these objects not simply, as Finnis would have it, ideas of possible states of affairs—proposals? Hardly. I might have an idea of watching reruns of I Love Lucy this evening. If I choose to do this, however, I do not choose the idea of doing it; rather, I direct my powers and capacities to bring about the set of exterior actions that will constitute my sitting in front of a television at a certain hour watching reruns of I Love Lucy. The heart of the problem with NNL intentionality is that it understands human choice and action precisely and simply as an enterprise of bringing about states of affairs understood through the highly subjective lens of the agent’s “proposal.” As to this, the problematic See ST I-II, q. 6, a. 4, corp. ST I-II, q. 13, a. 4, resp.: “Respondeo dicendum quod, sicut intentio est finis, ita electio est eorum quae sunt ad finem. Finis autem vel est actio, vel res aliqua. Et cum res aliqua fuerit finis, necesse est quod aliqua humana actio interveniat, vel inquantum homo facit rem illam quae est finis, sicut medicus facit sanitatem, quae est finis eius (unde et facere sanitatem dicitur finis medici); vel inquantum homo aliquo modo utitur vel fruitur re quae est finis, sicut avaro est finis pecunia, vel possessio pecuniae. Et eodem modo dicendum est de eo quod est ad finem. Quia necesse est ut id quod est ad finem, vel sit actio; vel res aliqua, interveniente aliqua actione, per quam facit id quod est ad finem, vel utitur eo. Et per hunc modum electio semper est humanorum actuum [I answer that, just as intention regards the end, so does choice regard the means. Now the end is either an action or a thing. And when the end is a thing, some human action must intervene; either in so far as man produces the thing which is the end, as the physician produces health (wherefore the production of health is said to be the end of the physician); or in so far as man, in some fashion, uses or enjoys the thing which is the end; thus for the miser, money or the possession of money is the end. The same is to be said of the means. For the means must needs be either an action; or a thing, with some action intervening whereby man either makes the thing which is the means, or puts it to some use. And thus it is that choice is always in regard to human acts].” 45 46 A Revised Analysis of the “Phoenix Abortion Case” 387 recourse to the very notion of states of affairs, Matthew O’Brien and Robert Koons have made a keen observation from the perspective of analytical philosophy: “The difference between actions’ formal objects and undertakings’ states of affair is not simply a matter of jargon, however, and to construe Aquinas’s account of action in terms of producing states of affairs is to make an ontological category mistake. It is of course possible to try to bring certain states of affairs about; but to characterize the nature of human action in such terms is inaccurate, because the individuation criteria for states of affairs, as opposed to teleologically-ordered processes or activities, are extremely subjective.” 47 As for the notion of “proposal,” the problem remains the degree to which this conceptual device can fail to evade dissolving into mere contrivances of the content-construing noetic activity of the agent. The problem here, in a word, is one of subjectivity versus objectivity.48 As far as their respective intentional constitutions as objects of O’Brien and Koons, “Objects of Intention,” 674. The authors have shed considerable light on the critical difference between understanding the moral object as merely a state of affairs and understanding it as a basic behavior whose objective teleology is anchored in basic powers of the human person exercised within the context of social practices. Christopher Tollefsen has offered a thoughtful response to O’Brien and Koons, in the course of which he raises a particularly valid challenge to proponents of third-person accounts of moral objects. To paraphrase his argument, it would seem that third-person observers would be hard pressed to distinguish, for example, between the act of a soldier who fires upon an on-coming aggressor intending to kill him but actually only hitting him in the leg and the act of a soldier in an identical situation who fires intending precisely to hit him in the leg. In a word, Tollefsen asks how one could pinpoint the moral objects in play in either case but by trusting both soldiers’ descriptions of their corresponding proposals; see his “Response to Robert Koons and Matthew O’Brien’s ‘Objects of Intention: A Hylomorphic Critique of the New Natural Law Theory,’” American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly 87.4 (2013): 751–78. 48 For the purposes of the present essay, a common sense understanding of subjectivity versus objectivity is both sufficient and valid. That is not to minimize the enormous significance of that question in moral philosophy, but the issue has its roots and resolution (not without complexities) at the level of ontology and epistemology. Not uncommonly, philosophers of a more realist bent apply “objective” ontologically, referring to the being-in-itself or degree of ontological autonomy of the entity in question, while they apply “subjective” to an entity’s being-constituted or being-dependent-upon an intentional act for its existence. The two terms, however, admit of a broader use if we consider, as Joseph Seifert wonderfully explored, that, between the purely constituted being, on the one hand, and the purely un-constituted, subject-in47 388 Thomas Berg thought, true accounts of behavior, ideas of possible states of affairs, and rationalizations—and even outright lies—as far as they go, are all in some sense intellectus conceptiones. They are not “constructs” of the mind in the modern, post-Kantian sense, but, in the Thomistic sense, the result—conceptus—of an internal noetic process. Yet their degree of anchorage and origination in extra-subjective reality is quite different. The “proposal” remains always vulnerable to subject-relative manipulation or contrivance due to its origin in the noetic activity of the agent. It can always run the risk of remaining more embedded in subject-relative interferences and obfuscations than in a more pristinely subject-independent consideration of the realities that are the aim and “object” of the exterior act(s) of the acting subject. In sum, NNL’s center of gravity rests with that consideration—the agent’s subjectivity-laden, introspective construal and subsequent consideration of a “proposal”—an idea of a possible state of affairs to be brought about by choice. By contrast, as I hope to explore in the following section, Aquinas’s account of moral intentionality places its center of gravity not in the introspective activity of the agent, but on a behavior specified by, and intelligible because of, its object. IV Aquinas’s account of moral intentionality avoids the subjective pitfalls of NNL’s “proposal” by anchoring an understanding of the moral object in those perspective-independent realities—the materia circa quam—that constitute the target of the exterior act(s) of the agent. Again, according to Aquinas, the object of the interior act of the will is a chosen behavior realizable as an exterior act. In turn, that exterior act has its object, its target or terminus. That object, what the exterior act is about (the materia circa quam), gives sense to the exterior act. But that giving of sense arises only from the object’s being the aim as well of the interior act of the will that renders the exterior act moral to begin with. Again, Brock summarizes: dependent being, on the other, there are varying degrees of partial ontological dependence and independence. In chapter 7 of his Back to Things in Themselves (New York: Routledge, 1987), he has marshaled this unruly crowd of meanings into ordered categories, articulating and differentiating an array of both ontological and epistemological uses of the term, with particular attention given to the term “objective.” Dietrich von Hildebrand similarly articulated six senses of the term “subjective” in chapter 5 of his What is Philosophy? (Chicago: Franciscan Herald Press, 1973). A Revised Analysis of the “Phoenix Abortion Case” 389 The will bears on the action as specified by the thing, and it bears on the thing as object of the action. The action’s status as an end and the thing’s status as an end are inseparable from each other. Here is a crucial implication of the distinction between finis cuius and finis quo. Although action and object are distinct, and although both are ends, we should not think of them as distinct ends. They are the same end. This is not absurd, because each “is” that end in a distinct sense. Thus Thomas: “[A]s was said above, ‘end’ is said in two ways: in one way, the thing itself; in another, the attainment of the thing. Which indeed are not two ends, but one end, considered in itself, and applied to another . . . ; therefore God is not one end, and the enjoyment of God another.”49 So, both exterior act and its object, although distinct, constitute one and the same end. Now, it is in this context of willing (intending and choosing) an end that meaning—ratio—arises, that the intelligibility of an act emerges. This is the “giving of moral species by the object.” The point of origin of that intelligibility is the materia circa quam, the object of the exterior act of the will, the target and source of the intelligible content of that behavior, that in light of which the behavior makes practical and reasonable “sense.” Aquinas understands behavior not simply as a possible state of affairs to be brought about by choice, but as a teleologically oriented and intelligible comportment, the intelligibility of which is anchored in elements preceding and inherently independent of the agent’s intellectual consideration of the possible behavior. The object of the exterior act is the point of departure for the coalescing of a moral species—intelligibility—of an act in as much as it has the character of an end envisaged by the will. Brock has succinctly explained how this can be the case with objects of exterior acts even when those objects are in fact material things: “[Aquinas] insists that anything that functions as the materia circa quam of a commanded or exterior human act, specifying it, must also be functioning as an object of an elicited or interior act of the will; this is why it specifies the exterior act. The exterior act has no object that is Brock, “Veritatis Splendor §78,” 27. The internal quote of Aquinas is from ST I–II, q. 20, a. 1, ad 1. 49 390 Thomas Berg not also an object of an interior act.”50 To better grasp how, on such an understanding of intentionality, the moral species coalesces and how we arrive at an understanding of behaviors, I offer the following examples. The first is taken from Finnis, Grisez, and Boyle. 51 A rancher prepares to castrate a calf. The terminus of the act, the objects of the exterior act, are the calf ’s healthy testicles inherently bound up with its reproductive capacity as the sperm-producing organs. This is, in virtue of the calf ’s natural form, the dominant intelligible feature of this act. Consequently, the testicles, as terminus of the act, give sense to the exterior act: a castration. Castration, in light of the natural capacity with which the testicles are bound up, gives intelligibility to what is being undertaken as the object of the interior act of the will: a sterilization. Granted, the act entails many other features (testosterone reduction, pain infliction, bleeding, etc.), but elimination of the procreative power is integral to the intelligibility of the act in a way that these other features are not. Elimination of such a natural endowment anchored in and emerging from this animal’s substantial form takes an intelligible precedence over other features when considering what’s happening here. Hence, the rancher may well understand his project (his “proposal”) as nothing more than “testosterone reduction” (since the testicles are the chief source of this hormone) with a view to producing a better beef product, with more consistent tenderness and marbling in the beef, in order to please consumers, and so on. Indeed, sterilization need not be part of his “proposal.” But on a Thomistic analysis, it is, nonetheless, the action he accomplishes. Sterilization is the intelligibility of the act arising from its particular object in this particular intentional context, and is so independently of the rancher’s first-person perspective on what he understands himself to be doing. He understands himself to be lowering testosterone in the calf by castrating it. He is simultaneously sterilizing a calf by castrating it. His action, the object of his choice, the what-he-is-doing, is aptly understood as sterilization. NNL flatly denies this.52 Ibid., 26–27. See Finnis, Intention and Identity, 237–38. 52 “So, although the performance is sterilizing (as anyone would say who looks just at the performance and its physical effects), any question as to what is included in the farmer’s proposal is not settled by reference to his behavior. Indeed, since sterilizing (achieving a state of infertility) is for the farmer 50 51 A Revised Analysis of the “Phoenix Abortion Case” 391 We can consider another textbook example. A live grenade has landed in a trench full of soldiers. One soldier immediately pounces on the grenade, covering it with his body, encasing it beneath his abdomen. In this case, unlike the preceding one, the context (rather than a natural capacity) provides the dominant intelligible feature of this act: soldiers huddled in a small area in close proximity to a live grenade and the immediate practical exigency that they be protected from the impending blast. The terminus of the exterior act in this case is two-fold: the soldier’s own body and the grenade. As such, and in this particular context, they give sense to the exterior act: a bodily smothering. Smothering, in turn, in the context so understood, gives intelligibility to what is being undertaken as the object of the soldier’s interior act of the will: a shielding. In sum, the moral object as Aquinas understands it has a point of origination that is by far freer than and independent of the subject-relative manipulation or contrivance to which the NNL “proposal” is susceptible. It has a starting point that exists from without the intellect of the acting subject: its foundation is some intelligible reality, and at times even a physical thing, manifested to the intellect as simultaneously intelligible and desirable. Given the heavily subject-relative origins of the “proposal,” the NNL account of moral intentionality leaves open the door to errors of moral judgment. Employing NNL intentionality, those engaged in moral analysis (most especially the agent himself ) can easily fail to attend sufficiently and adequately to the intelligibility of a basic behavior in question and, rather, construct an inadequate, or at best partial, conception of a possible action, resulting in conceptions of moral objects that are substantially—to use Finnis’s own words—“what their author(s) intend them to be.” Such conceptions may or may not coincide with the true intelligibility of the basic behaviors in question.53 neither end (purpose) nor means, it is not included in the proposals he adopts, is not what he chooses, and for the purposes of an account of human action is not what he is doing” (ibid., 238). 53 And it should finally be noted that Aquinas’s understanding of this process— of picking up basic behaviors and grasping them intentionally as behaviors open to choice—does not necessarily coincide theoretically with his distinction between conceiving an action in genere naturae versus understanding it in genere moris; nor does this distinction coincide with the use with which it has been employed by John Finnis. By his distinction, Aquinas seeks to differentiate—not unlike Finnis—two distinct perspectives or vantage points for consideration. But there the similarities end, and Aquinas’s and the latter’s 392 Thomas Berg V Finally, I must return to the Phoenix case and conclude with a revision of my original moral analysis (see the appendix below). As should be clear, NNL intentionality—in instances such as the “Phoenix abortion case”—allows for the understanding of the performance of a D&C as “fetal removal” (from a womb, foreseeing embryo demise as an immediate consequence), yet distinct from a very different “proposal”— namely, a D&C abortion. While D&C is routinely performed for female health issues unrelated to abortion, it is also a principal means for procuring an abortion, particularly during the first trimester. As a chosen means for procuring an abortion, it constitutes a well-established medical procedure. During the procedure, a physician uses a curette to scrape the surface of the uterus to dislodge the sac containing the developing fetus and the fetal placenta. The uterine lining, fetus, and placenta are removed in pieces. The procedure may also require suctioning to empty the uterus. Wholly and plainly embedded in the intelligibility of this medical practice is the understanding that taking a curette to the live fetal corpus and dissecting it is death dealing. The intelligibility of this act arises from consideration of the immediate object of the set of basic behaviors comprising the D&C abortion—namely, the fetus. Those basic behaviors (cutting, scraping, and suctioning) applied to a human fetus constitute the killing of the fetus. This is a core intelligible content of the medical procedure known as a D&C abortion. But such is also the case, even beyond this particular medical practice, in virtue of considerations at the level of human goods and natural teleology. Rational consideration of this set of behaviors as applied to the fetus cannot but be rationally grasped as incompatible distinctions are not to be conflated. To be sure, Aquinas would appear to mean the following. To consider something in genere naturae suggests a metaphysical consideration of the reality in question (in this context, an action)—that is, how it is “in nature” (e.g., one or multiple, divisible, indivisible, etc.). Notice that this does not coincide with the NNL understanding of considering an action from a third-person-descriptive perspective on the action qua physical performance or behavior. To consider something in genere moris suggests nothing more than considering that reality—if it can be so considered—from the perspective of its having proceeded from the will. The latter has nothing to do with the NNL distinction between a third-person account of a behavior and the agent’s consideration of the proposal he adopts by choice. See Aquinas’s In II Sent. d. 42, q. 1, a. 1, corp. For Finnis’s discussion of in genere naturae/in genere moris, see Intention and Identity, 164–65, particularly note 42. A Revised Analysis of the “Phoenix Abortion Case” 393 with the basic human good of self-preservation to which a developing fetus is teleologically directed. Consequently, one might honestly conceive of one’s “proposal” as a D&C being performed qua “removal of a fetus” while believing it possible to hold the killing of the fetus praeter intentionem. But in light of the foregoing considerations, D&C qua fetal removal belies the manifest intelligibility of the behavior in question, which is simply the killing of the fetus: the terminus of the D&C is a fetus-dissected, and a fetus-dissected is inescapably and without exception co-terminus as a real datum in the world with a fetus-killed. Those choosing to perform a D&C in this situation, no matter whether one subjectively understands this as merely fetal removal (i.e., an NNL-styled “proposal”), given the objective path of intelligibility from basic behaviors involved to their object and the exceptionless incompatibility of that practice with the good of self-preservation of the embryo, one cannot but be including the killing of the embryo within his intention. A different, but related and vitally important question here, beyond the scope of the present essay, would be the issue of the degree of subjective moral responsibility of someone colluding, condoning, assisting or performing the D&C who was honestly convinced at the time that his manner of understanding what he was colluding in, condoning, assisting in, or performing excluded killing the fetus from his intention. Finally, we should recall that, in the realm of understanding and grasping agibilia, there must come to bear the acquired virtue of prudence (recta ratio agibilium) to ensure to the extent humanly possible a right grasp of the object. But, given that same complexity and the variability of degrees of prudence coming to bear, in very complex behaviors (ones that especially evoke profound emotions), disagreements on the nature of object in complex moral questions are almost certainly to be expected. Appendix My previous moral analysis of the “Phoenix abortion case” presented at UFL 2011 My argument proceeded essentially as follows: In the case of self-defense, according to the classic analysis of St. Thomas in the seventh article of question 64 of ST II-II, one and the same actor could adopt as the object of choice either to repel the aggressor (a licit object) or, 394 Thomas Berg if it were to enter into her intention, to kill the aggressor (an illicit object without exception).54 Again, without in any way suggesting that the fetus stands to the mother as an aggressor in any manner, it is clear, nonetheless, that, just as it is true that a woman can licitly use requisite (even if lethal) force on the body of the aggressor with the sole object of repelling him in order to save her own life, it also is true that a doctor could licitly use a D&C or related procedures on the body of the unborn child with the sole object of removing it from the mother’s womb and thereby averting the threat that the baby’s presence within her is itself posing to the mother’s life. The point is that Aquinas’s teaching here sheds a considerable amount of light on our understanding of intentionality. What if, in order to repel an unjust aggressor, the victim’s only recourse were to crush his skull with a large stone? Such a state of affairs would almost universally be accepted by moralists as reasonable as long as the act involved no more than the requisite amount of force. Hence, “deliberately using a stone to crush the skull of a human being”—though a human act possessed of its own “basic intelligibility” in genere naturae, cannot be characterized in itself as the kind of act Thomas identifies as “de se malus, qui nullo modo bene fieri potest.”55 Nor could any set of actions taken directly on the body of another human being that result immediately and directly in death be considered, without further specification, as an intrinsically evil action. Thomas holds that an actual intention to kill a person (occidere hominem) can licitly be held only by the authority of the state and only with regard to the guilty. He notes elsewhere, however, that in its “natural species,” considered as an exterior act, occidere hominem is one, while it can differ in moral species as the object of choice, either as the illicit act of killing, or as the licit object of an administration of justice: “Possibile tamen est quod unus actus secundum speciem naturae, ordinetur ad diversos fines voluntatis, sicut hoc ipsum quod est occidere hominem, quod est idem secundum speciem naturae, potest ordinari sicut in finem ad conservationem iustitiae, et ad satisfaciendum irae. Et ex hoc erunt diversi actus secundum speciem moris, quia uno modo erit actus virtutis, alio modo erit actus vitii [It is possible, however, that an act which is one in respect of its natural species, be ordained to several ends of the will: thus this act to kill a man, which is but one act in respect of its natural species, can be ordained, as to an end, to the safeguarding of justice, and to the satisfying of anger: the result being that there would be several acts in different species of morality: since in one way there will be an act of virtue, in another an act of vice]” (ST I-II, q. 1, a. 3, ad 3). 55 That is, an act which is “in and of itself evil, which in no manner can be rightly done” (see In II Sent. d. 40, q. 1, a. 2, corp.; my own translation). 54 A Revised Analysis of the “Phoenix Abortion Case” 395 But that is precisely what my friend Kevin Flannery and others do discover in the case of craniotomy, salpingostomy, and D&C. They find in each of these behaviors a basic intelligibility that is, in itself, without further specification or qualification, homicidal and therefore intrinsically disordered. Yet, that basic intelligibility is no more or less basic than that of, say, taking a rock and bashing in a skull as part of a performance of self-defense. If they construe the former as intrinsically evil precisely by reason of its basic intelligibility without further specification, they must of necessity construe the latter as unreasonable and intrinsically evil by reason of its substantially identical basic intelligibility without the further specification that could be given (in each of these two kinds of cases) by reference to the intentionality of the acting person. (i.e., deliberation about possible proposals, settling upon a proposal, and adopting it by choice). If however, we hold to Aquinas’s analysis of self-defense, we can see how intrinsic evil could be committed: a person could illicitly choose to kill an aggressor in order to save her life by taking the occasion of the threat to her life as also an opportunity to satisfy, let’s imagine for example, her longstanding hatred of the aggressor. And a doctor who routinely performs on-demand abortions of convenience could be illicitly choosing to perform yet another one (with its intention to kill the fetus) on the occasion of, and with an accompanying intent to avert, the threat to the mother’s life presented by her pregnancy. On the view of those who give greater weight to the basic intelligibility of the act, however, even a doctor who is formally opposed to procured abortion who performs a craniotomy in order to save the mother’s life could not but be intending a dead embryo/fetus. Indeed, that killing cannot but be directly intended as the object of the will, and the will is necessarily evil because of this object, no aspect of which could rationally be held praeter intentionem due to the intrinsic connection between the basic behavior (skull crushing and flushing of the embryo from the tube) and its bringing about death. The killing is not something that “follows from” the behavior; the killing, on their view, is quite precisely the chosen behavior, and it cannot be otherwise. Yet, as should be apparent, no less is the woman’s act of grasping a large stone and bashing it against the aggressor’s skull “headed toward” bringing about death. If the latter act is licit on a sound reading of Aquinas, how could the former fail to be? If Aquinas (with the vast tradition that follows him, including the Catechism of the Catholic Church §2263) permits as licit direct 396 Thomas Berg actions against the body of the assailant and recognizes that “killing the assailant” need not be part of the proposal (the moral object of choice) when the victim picks up a large stone and bashes it against the assailant’s skull, servatis servandis, “killing the fetus” need not be part of the proposal a doctor adopts when taking direct actions upon the fetus, removing it from the womb in the performance of a D&C, a salpingostomy, or a craniotomy. More importantly, however, the performance, for instance, of a D&C qua abortion (DC1) and the performance of a D&C qua removing the fetus (DC2) each has its own distinct moral intelligibility, accompanying mind set, motivations, rationale, and peculiarly distinct set of specific behaviors. The real difference in moral projects would be borne out in the manner in which they were performed. DC1 would be carried out just as a standard D&C abortion: the physician would understand that he is “performing another abortion,” and he would perhaps use the curette first directly on the fetus, alternatively suctioning out fetal parts before working on the remaining fetal organ, the placenta, and scraping it free from the uterine wall. The physician might report “regret” that the “pregnancy had to be terminated,” but he nonetheless would understand himself to have performed a “D&C abortion.” DC2 would be carried out differently: there would at least be an apprehensiveness to directly target the fetal corpus with the curette; the physician might reasonably attempt to detach the placenta, avoiding contact with the fetal corpus, and out of respect for the fetus, attempt to remove the baby through the cervical os with a forceps, as opposed to suctioning. If performed by a physician of genuinely pro-life convictions, the whole experience will present itself as tragic and, indeed, traumatic. Were it possible to remove the fetus intact, he would do so; were it possible to remove the fetus to a safe environment (e.g., an artificial womb) he would gladly do so. Bringing about a dead fetus is never a part of what he intends; he excludes that from his proposal, and it is present only as a foreseen, indeed perhaps immediate, and necessary consequence of his proposal to remove the fetus, whose continuing presence constitutes an immediate danger to the life of the mother (without whose life that unborn person too could not survive). Bringing about a dead fetus does not inform the interior act of will; the doctor does not choose to kill the fetus; his project is not about making the fetus dead; his N&V project is about removing the fetus; full stop. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 15, No. 2 (2017): 397–431 397 Finding Form: Defining Human Sexual Difference Timothy Fortin Seton Hall University South Orange, NJ Introduction What is the nature of human sexual difference? What is it that defines the human male and female as such? This seems a simple enough question: it is resolved with a glance thousands of times each day by doctors, nurses, and new parents. Yet, the answer is not always so clear. Review of intersex disorders reveals that, at times, even nature herself appears confused as to how to resolve the question of sexual difference. Examination of contemporary literature on sexual difference further manifests layers of complexity that seem to belie the apparent simplicity found in delivery rooms. So, how is one to define the human male and female? Is the essential difference found in genes and genitals? Or is sex itself perhaps a set of societal functions, a “place” in a social discourse, a cultural construct that changes with hem lines and prevailing ideologies? Another way to state the above questions is in terms of form, for questions of identity are questions of form. What is the form through which an individual human becomes male or female? And what is the ontological status of such forms? Are they forms through which a human being has his or her being simply, or are they forms that modify a substance whose existence precedes them? Are they simple forms consisting of a single modification of a substance or, rather, kinds of compositions containing several elements unified in a single quality? In this article, I will attempt to provide some answers regarding the formal cause of human sexual difference. I will argue that an individual’s sex comes to be through an accidental form, a quality 398 Timothy Fortin of the human being that, though an accident, flows from the human essence and, so, merits the name “essential accident.” I will further argue that the forms of male and female do not consist in only one determination of the human substance, but rather are compositions of distinct elements of varying importance, the harmony of which constitutes the completion of these essential identities of the human person. To reach these conclusions, the general method I will employ is to build my inquiry upon the foundation of the thought of St. Thomas Aquinas, attempting to bring his physics, metaphysics, and anthropology to bear upon the findings of contemporary science regarding the nature of human sexual difference. My goal is not historical, but rather an application of Thomas’s thought to what has been discovered about sexual difference in the centuries since he completed his work. Sex, Gender, and Gender Dysphoria When considering the nature of sexual difference, one frequently encounters proposed distinctions between sex and gender: sex is a matter of biology while gender is matter of psychology and social role and function.1 As with all topics in the realm of sexual identity, there is disagreement as to precisely of what distinctions between sex and gender consist, which is prior to which, and whether these distinctions are valid at all.2 Though this article will, perhaps, provide an understanding of human sexual difference that is relevant to possible distinctions between sex and gender, its scope does not directly include the clarification of such distinctions. Neither is its principal purpose to address the question of sexual identity from the perspective of gender dysphoria. Clearly, these are topics of great importance and contemporary urgency. However, while I think the arguments contained in this essay will be relevant to questions regarding the distinction between sex and gender and could provide some basis for further work on understanding gender dysphoria, such matters are not my primary focus. With the above limitations in mind, the essay will unfold as See, for instance, Mark A.Yarhouse, Understanding Gender Dysphoria: Navigating Transgender Issues in a Changing Culture (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2015), 17. 2 See Charlotte Witt, The Metaphysics of Gender (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 34–42. 1 Finding Form: Defining Human Sexual Difference 399 follows. I will begin with a brief discussion of the common notions of sexual difference that come to the human mind in virtue of its rapport with reality. This general discussion will provide us with some provisional theses about sexual difference that will serve as starting points for further discussion. With some common ground underfoot, I will next consider whether the forms through which a human being is male or female are substantial forms or accidental forms. Having judged that sexual difference is not a specific difference and, thus, not the difference that defines a substance, but rather one that determines a substance in some aspect of its being, I will next consider which determinations of the human substance constitute sexual difference. Having thus seen the scope of sexual difference, I will then consider challenges presented to our emerging understanding of male and female by the complex realities of the intersex syndromes and, very briefly, the reality of gender dysphoria. Recognizing those difficulties that render simple explanation impossible, I will conclude the ontological assessment of human sexual difference, judging male and female to be essential qualities of the human being that are compositions of many elements unified by their ordering to distinct modes of generativity best summarized as “motherhood” and “fatherhood.” Common Notions Our focus is upon human sexual difference, but when considering our common usage of the terms “male” and “female,” it is important to note that these terms are used not only in reference to humans. As such, we are at times perhaps apt to import aspects that pertain to sexual difference in one species into sexual difference in another species. Biologist R. A. Lockshin notes just such a tendency when speaking of the mechanisms that govern sexual differentiation across species: “[A] student’s impression of sex as decided by X and Y chromosomes is a vastly anthropocentric oversimplification. Sex chromosomes are characteristic only of higher land animals. In fish, amphibians, or aquatic invertebrates, sex may be determined by single genes and readily reversed by exogenous steroids or other chemicals; there are even fish that casually switch from one sex to another, and fish in which different races manifest male heterozygosity or female heterozygosity. Reptiles may be parthenogenic, or the sex of the embryo may be determined by temperature.”3 R. A. Lockshin, “Gender Differences: the Perspective from Biology,” Lupus 8 (1999): 364. 3 400 Timothy Fortin We tend to think of sexual difference as defined by chromosomes: XX is female; XY is male. For human beings, we do so with reason. But, as Lockshin points out, what initiates sexual difference varies significantly from species to species, with sexual difference in some reptiles being determined by temperature, as Aristotle speculated. Even some characteristics that we tend to reliably associate with one sex in most species can be transposed in other species. For instance, there are species of birds and reptiles in which attributes generally associated with males (such as relative size and aggression) are reversed, with females being larger and more aggressive.4 Thus, when attending to our simple apprehensions of sexual difference, we must be mindful of that which pertains to human sexual difference in particular and what might rather be proper to another species.5 So, what is the content of the simple apprehension made by us all regarding sexual difference? What does our mind naturally grasp of “male” and “female”? I noted earlier that we all seem quite adept at identifying sexual difference when a baby first enters the world. How is it that we understand this difference so easily with only a glance? Clearly, we turn our attention to the organs of generation: one mode indicates a female, while the other a male. Our initial impressions point us toward those realties that constitute the essence of sexual difference: whatever else may be true about it, it is clear that sexual difference centers upon the power of generation. A brief reflection upon this power is in order. As Aristotle observed, all living things have three fundamental powers: growth, nutrition, and generation.6 As nature moves to higher beings, she takes a curious turn: no longer does the living See David Geary, Male, Female: The Evolution of Human Sex Differences (Washington, DC: American Psychological Association, 2006), 23–25. 5 The point just made brings to fore interesting questions regarding the nature of sexual difference across species. The question can be made clear by considering how the predicates “male” and “female” apply across species: when one says “male” of an orchid, an ape, and a human, is the predication univocal or perhaps analogical when applied to diverse species? I have just indicated that there appear to be different characteristics associated with males and females of different species, which would seem to argue for a non-univocal predication. While the question of trans-species predication is not a focus of this article, I think our work will allow us to conclude that there is a univocal basis for the predicates “male” and “female” across species but that, ultimately, these qualities are manifest diversely in different species. I shall return to this point later in this work. 6 See Aristotle, On the Soul, 2. 2.413a13–414a28. 4 Finding Form: Defining Human Sexual Difference 401 thing hold the power of generation individually; rather, it is held jointly. No individual member of the species has the power to reproduce alone. Some other is needed for the realization of this essential power.7 This fact of division renders the power of generation unique. Imagine this separation was the case for any of the other essential powers of a living thing—for example, the very power to imagine. In order to realize the power of imagination, we do not have to find another member of the human species who possesses the complementary part of the partial power we possess. Rather, we can each exercise the power by ourselves. Generation is unique in that it is divided: the power is only complete, only truly possessed, in the conjunction of two members of the species. But it is not made whole by the conjunction of just any two members of the species. It is divided non-identically into two ways of partially possessing it—ways that mutually complete each other. Any one individual must find precisely that other who possesses the power in the manner other than his or her own. “Male” and “female” refer precisely to this non-identical way of dividing the power of generation between two members of a species: to be a male is to possess the divided power of generation in one of its modes; to be a female is to possess that power in the other.8 Identifying just what defines these two modes now becomes the principal work, but that sexual For an illuminating discussion on the division of the power generation by St. Thomas, see Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae [ST] I, q. 92, a. 1. English translations of ST are taken from Summa Theologica, trans. Fathers of the English Dominican Province (Westminster, MD: Christian Classics, 1981). 8 Though pertaining more to a discussion of final cause, it is worth noting that there is no a priori biological reason demanding that the power of generation be divided at all or that, further, it be divided non-identically. In fact, both moves might appear counterintuitive according to evolutionary logic: if a genotype is adapted to a certain ecology, asexual reproduction, which produces an exact genetic replica of the parent, seems a better mode of reproduction. And, assuming that the power of generation is to be divided, doing so non-identically—into two distinct mating types—by that very fact limits any individual’s potential mates to half of the species, rendering mate selection all the more difficult. Thus, a case must be made for the reasonableness of sexual reproduction. That, however, is a question for another work. For interesting discussions on the counterintuitive aspects of dividing the power of generation and doing so non-identically see, for instance, Bernice Wuerthrich, “Why Sex? Putting Theory to the Test,” Science Volume 281, Issue 5385 (September 25, 1998): 1980–82, or Laurence D. Hurst, “Why are there only two sexes?” Proceedings: Biological Sciences 263:1369 (April 22, 1996): 415. 7 402 Timothy Fortin difference refers to this non-identical division is clear. Sexual Difference and Specific Difference Before exploring exactly how the power of generation is divided, it will be helpful to consider whether sexual difference is a specific difference. Does sexual difference render a new species, thus making sexual difference that quality through which a being comes into existence simply? Are the forms of male and female substantial forms? These are questions that both Aristotle and St. Thomas addressed.9 Their answers should be clear based upon what we just discussed about the nature of sexual difference as a divided power: the power of generation is an essential power of any living thing. But, for all beings that reproduce sexually, that power is only complete in the union of two sexually differentiated members of that species.10 Thus, if it is only together that they possess an essential power of the species, then clearly, as mutually completing the species, they must be members of the same species. As such, sexual difference cannot be a specific difference. Though based upon a biological understanding of the determination of sex pertaining more to reptiles than to man, Thomas’s treatment of this question merits reflection: He says that male and female are proper affections of animal [proprie passiones animalis], because animal is included in the definition of each. But they do not pertain to animal by reason of its substance or form, but by reason of its matter or body. This is clear from the fact that the same sperm insofar as it undergoes a different kind of change can become a male or a female animal; because, when the heat at work is strong, a male See Aristotle, Metaphysics 10.9.1058a29–1058b26, and Thomas Aquinas, Sent. meta. 10, lec. 11; English translation of the latter will be taken from Commentary on the Metaphysics of Aristotle, trans. John P. Rowan, 2 vols. (Chicago: Regnery, 1964), which is also available at http://dhspriory.org/thomas/Metaphysics. htm, last accessed January 26, 2017. 10 In his Politics 1252a 26–28, Aristotle notes that “there must be a union of those who cannot exist without each other; namely, of male and female, that the race may continue”; see Aristotle, Politics, trans. Benjamin Jowett in The Basic Works of Aristotle, ed. Richard McKeon (New York: Random House, 1941). In the Politics, he is not addressing the question of specific difference, but in stating that the very existence of male and female is each dependent upon the other, there is a clear implication that they must be of the same species. 9 Finding Form: Defining Human Sexual Difference 403 is generated, but when it is weak, a female is generated. But this could not be the case or come about if male and female differed specifically; for specifically different things are not generated from one and the same kind of sperm, because it is the sperm that contains the active power, and every natural agent acts by way of a determinate form by which it produces its like. It follows, then, that male and female do not differ formally, and that they do not differ specifically.11 According to Thomas, it is the very same agent acting by virtue of its form that is responsible for the coming to be of both male and female. But, if the very same agent brings about male or female, depending only upon the accident of heat, clearly sexual difference cannot be due to the presence of different substantial forms. Though the mechanism of differentiation is other than that thought by St. Thomas, the evidence will show that his fundamental point stands: the very same agent causes—mother and father—equally produce female and male. If the same agents acting by virtue of their very same substantial forms equally produce females and males, female and male cannot differ in species. As such, the difference between female and male cannot be a specific difference. Sexual difference must be something that exists within a substance as modifying, not defining it. Humanity is a form that precedes and underlies the forms of male or female. They do not make an individual human being exist simply, but rather indicate some way in which the substance exists. An implication of concluding that sexual difference is not a specific difference is that it must be categorized as some mode of accidental being. It does not enter into the very definition of what it means to be human. It must refer to some way in which a human exists. And the difference must somehow be attributed to the matter rather than to the substantial form itself.12 So, let us now look to the elements of Sent. meta. 10, lec. 11, no. 8. St Thomas notes just this point when distinguishing the ways in which accidents can flow from matter: “For some accidents follow on matter according to an ordering they have to a special form, such as masculine and feminine in animals, a diversity reducible to matter, as is said in Metaphysics 10”; see On Being and Essence in Thomas Aquinas: Selected Writings, trans. Ralph McInerny (London: Penguin, 1998), 228. In fact, St. Thomas here underscores just the point I wish to make: sexual difference emerges from a kind of rapport between the specific form generating the power of generation and a material principle directing that power toward one of two possible modes. 11 12 404 Timothy Fortin sexual difference to see how it unfolds, to see of what modulations of the human substance it consists. In so doing, the forms of male and female will begin to come into sharper focus. The Form of Female and Male Tracking the Agent We have concluded that sexual difference pertains to the non-identically divided power of generation and that the difference between the sexes is not a specific difference. But of what differences of the human substance does sexual difference consist? As we noted earlier, there seems to be a variety of characteristics associated with sexual difference among species. And, as we shall see later, there is significant variation in such characteristics, even within a species. These variations, in addition to philosophical presuppositions, have led some to conclude that sexual difference exists only in the realm of social construction. Anne Fausto-Sterling observes that “labeling someone a man or a woman is a social decision. We may use scientific knowledge to help us make the decision, but only our beliefs about gender—not science—can define our sex.”13 Amid much confusion, how are we to discern of what sexual difference consists? To resolve this question, I propose an exercise in tracking. We are seeking form. And one way to find form is to look to the agent, for an agent’s activity resolves in form: the builder lays down his hammer when the house is complete and the conductor lowers his baton and the musicians their bows and instruments when the symphony is finished and its form fulfilled. So, one way to discern the extension of the forms of male and female is by tracking the activity of the agents of their becoming. We will be able to discern the nature and extent of the forms of male and female by noting when these agents cease their work. But if we are to track the agents, we must first identify them. Generally, I will propose three:14 human nature itself, and then that nature as affected by two material dispositions, the first being genetic, Anne Fausto-Sterling, Sexing the Body (New York: Basic Books, 2000), 3. In offering this list, I do not intend to deny that, ultimately, considerations of psychological and cultural factors are necessary for a complete understanding of human sexual difference. My focus here is on modulations of the human substance as they occur in typical human development. I will argue that cultural and psychological agents are important but posterior to the three agents I am proposing as foundational. 13 14 Finding Form: Defining Human Sexual Difference 405 the second hormonal. The path is, perhaps, a little longer than might be anticipated, for if we are to employ this method, and if it is to be convincing, we must be attentive in following. In order to track these agents, I will consider them individually. I will first establish their agency and then provide some idea of the extent of that agency. It will be impossible to give an exhaustive treatment of this agency, since the effects of genes and hormones upon human development remain areas of vigorous and ongoing research and new findings are continually emerging. To give anything approaching an exhaustive treatment of the current research would far exceed the space that is available.15 I will therefore attempt to provide just enough detail to establish the agents and give a sense of the amplitude of their work. Human Nature Considering human nature as an agent—and in fact the primary agent—of sexual difference leads us to look both forward and backward within this work. Looking back, we must recall that sexual difference is inexorably bound to the power of generation. Anticipating our later ontological analysis, we must note here that, though sexual difference is an accidental form, it is what can be called an essential accident or property: it is not that which defines a human being, but it is something that flows from the essence, as opposed to what Thomas refers to as an extrinsic accident that arises from exterior principle. St. Thomas’s discussion of the relationship between the essence of the soul and its powers will help us clarify how human nature is an agent of sexual difference: First, because the substantial form makes a thing to exist absolutely, and its subject is something purely potential. But the accidental form does not make a thing to exist absolutely but to be such, or so great, or in some particular condition; for its subject is an actual being. Hence it is clear that actuality is observed in the substantial form prior to its being observed in the subject: and since that which is first in a genus is the cause in that genus, the substantial form causes existence in its subject. On the other hand, actuality is observed in the subject of the accidental form prior to its being observed in the acci For a more complete discussion, see, for instance, Melissa Hines, Brain Gender (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), 22–28. 15 406 Timothy Fortin dental form; wherefore the actuality of the accidental form is caused by the actuality of the subject. So the subject, forasmuch as it is in potentiality, is receptive of the accidental form: but forasmuch as it is in act, it produces it. This I say of the proper and “per se” accident; for with regard to the extraneous accident, the subject is receptive only, the accident being caused by an extrinsic agent.16 The human being has its being through its substantial form, through its soul. Thomas is making the argument that the act of its per se or essential accidents is derived from or caused by the act of the substance. Sexual difference refers to a way of having the power of generation. In the article immediately prior in the Summa theologiae to that just quoted, Thomas notes that the subject of the powers of the soul is either the soul itself (in the case of the intellectual powers) or the composite, as is the case for the power of generation. Thus, he adds, “the composite is actual by the soul. Whence it is clear that all the powers of the soul, whether their subject be the soul alone, or the composite, flow from the essence of the soul, as from their principle; because it has already been said that the accident is caused by the subject according as it is actual, and is received into it according as it is in potentiality.”17 Essential accidents are caused by the human substance insofar as it is in act. Thus, the human substance, insofar as it is a principle of activity in its nature, is the principle of accidents. As such, human nature is the principal agent of sexual difference. However, as we noted in our discussion on specific difference, sexual difference cannot arise simply from the form of man; there must be some material element. Enter the genes. Genes Let us recall Thomas’s observation regarding sexual difference and specific difference: “Specifically different things are not generated from one and the same kind of sperm, because it is the sperm that contains the active power, and every natural agent acts by way of a determinate form by which it produces its like.” Sexual difference cannot be generated only on the part of the human substantial form. Thomas appears to have thought that each individual instance of human nature seeks to ST I, q. 77, a. 6. See also On Being and Essence, ch. 6. ST I, q. 77, a. 6. 16 17 Finding Form: Defining Human Sexual Difference 407 produce a male, for the male possesses the active power of generation, and all living things seek to possess the active power of generation. It is a factor on the part of the matter—the lack of sufficient temperature—that leads to the production of the female.18 While Thomas’s biology is clearly mistaken, the general point holds: sexual difference is not derived wholly from the substantial form. Rather, there is indeed a factor on the part of the matter. In human beings, that material factor is not temperature; instead, the beginnings of sexual difference are genetic. The human being comes to be through the soul, through its substantial form. But, only a very special matter can take on this form. Part of the character of this special matter is the genetic code that will determine the way in which an individual instance of human nature is determined regarding a myriad of the accidents of his or her being. In addition to directing the production of our principal parts and organs, genes guide accidents, such as how tall an individual will be, skin color, eye color, and so on. Genes are precisely the means by which matter is disposed so as to pass along traits from parent to offspring.19 A part of this genetic information—in particular, a chromosome inherited from the father—determines the sex of the new human being. A very brief explanation of human DNA and how it fits into generation will be helpful. Human DNA contains two strands of genetic information, one inherited from the mother and the other from the father. Each strand of human DNA contains twenty-three chromosomes, all of which are the same on the strand inherited from mother and father, with the exception of the twenty-third pair, which is the same in females, XX, but different in males, XY.20 Part of the work of St Thomas argues regarding an individual nature that the female is, in a sense, “misbegotten”; however, considering human nature in general, the woman is not misbegotten, “but is included in nature’s intention as directed to the work of generation. Now the general intention of nature depends on God” (ST I, q. 91, a. 1, ad 1). He will further go on to say that the “diversity of sex belongs to the perfection of human nature” (ST I, q. 99, a. 2). We shall soon discuss how it is that even individual human nature intends both male and female equally by virtue of the nature of spermatogenesis. See also ST I, q. 99, a. 2, ad 2, for an interesting discussion of the generation of woman. 19 For a brief summary of the nature and functions of genes, see D. Peter Snustad and Michael J. Simmons, Principles of Genetics, 3rd ed. (New York: John Wiley & Sons, 2003), 368–74. 20 See Mark F. Bear, Barry W. Connors, and Michael A. Paradiso, Neuroscience: 18 408 Timothy Fortin the power of generation is performing the process of meiosis, which is the dividing the double strand of each parent’s DNA into a single strand that can then be combined with the similarly divided DNA given by the other parent.21 Both male and female gonads perform this process. However, in the male, a curious consequence follows from the nature of male genetic composition: when the strands of his DNA are divided, one strand will carry the X chromosome inherited from his mother while the other will carry the Y chromosome inherited from his father. Each strand is duplicated and then becomes the nucleus of a sperm cell.22 Thus, the very nature of spermatogenesis ensures that half of a man’s sperm will bear the X chromosome and half will bear the Y. Thus, by noting the nature of the process of spermatogenesis, it is clear that human nature equally intends both the male and female.23 The beginning of sexual difference in a new human being depends upon which of those sperm—the one bearing the X or the one bearing the Y—wins the race to the heart of the awaiting ovum. Thus, the first determination of a new human being as male or female follows from this material disposition and is coincident with his or her first act of existence. Yet, it is not so much the genetic composition in itself that defines sexual difference as that to which the genotype disposes the new individual. Thus, at the moment of conception, each individual is determined to his or her sex, though not yet possessing that sex in act, much like one with a gene for blue eyes is determined to have blue eyes but does not yet have them in act. We must, then, look to the determinations of the substance that follow upon this genetic difference as the developmental vector of human nature is influenced and directed in one of two paths by the genetic disposition of matter. At the current state of embryology, embryologists can discern no developmental differences in XX and XY individuals up until the sixth week of gestation.24 Even regarding the organs of generation, both XX and XY fetuses develop the same proto-structures that will become either the male or female genitalia. Of principal importance are what can be called the proto-gonads. It appears that the first six Exploring the Brain, 3rd ed. (Philadelphia: Lippincott Williams & Wilkins, 2007), 535–36, and Snustad and Simmons, Principles of Genetics, 114–17. 21 Snustad and Simmons, Principles of Genetics, 32–37. 22 Ibid., 38. 23 This point addresses the question of the intention of human nature discussed in note 12 above. 24 Hines, Brain Gender, 22. Finding Form: Defining Human Sexual Difference 409 weeks of development of both testes and ovaries is indistinguishable.25 It is at the sixth week of gestation that the Y chromosome begins to play a decisive role: it releases an enzyme known as the testes-determining-factor that will cue the forming proto-gonads to form as testicles rather than as ovaries. This marks the first sex-based modulation of the developing substance and imperfect actuality of maleness in an XY individual; for it is the first act through which the power of generation is moved toward one of the two modes it can possess. This new actuality—to be a testicle—then becomes the primary principle of subsequent sex-based determinations in males. Interestingly, the act of determining the proto-gonads is the most significant direct act of the Y chromosome. It has also been found to play a critical role in spermatogenesis,26 and further effects of genetic difference remain an area of ongoing research.27 But, as we shall see, the greater part of subsequent sexual differentiation depends upon the presence or absence of hormones produced by the gonads. Hormones Interestingly, after the initial and dramatic intervention by the Y chromosome in sexual differentiation, the primary agency of distinction is delegated from genes to gonads and the hormones they produce.28 Once formed, the testes begin producing androgens, or male-typical hormones. These hormones begin affecting other cells, most notably those that will become the male external genitalia. Similar to the Though the first six weeks of development appears to be indistinguishable, it does not seem to be correct to say that this newly forming organ stands in equal potency to become either gonad. We shall see when briefly examining the intersex disorders that it is almost never the case that, when gonads attempt to form in a manner contrary to the genetic determination, they result in healthy, functioning organs. Such situations almost always result in sterility. Thus, it is clear that the genetic determination truly disposes the matter for one form over the other. 26 See Daniel D. Federman, “The Biology of Human Sex Differences,” The New England Journal of Medicine 354.14 (April 6, 2006): 1513. 27 A recent study arrives at the following provisional conclusions: “Beyond its roles in testis determination and spermatogenesis, the Y chromosome is essential for male viability, and has unappreciated roles in Turner’s syndrome and in phenotypic differences between the sexes in health and disease”; see Daniel Bellott, et al., “Mammalian Y Chromosomes Retain Widely Expressed Dosage-sensitive Regulators,” Nature 508 (April 24, 2014): 494. 28 For a summary of the effects of prenatal hormonal activity see Hines, Brain Gender, 24–28. 25 410 Timothy Fortin way proto-gonads began their formation in a sex-neutral manner, so also the proto-structures that become the penis and scrotum in males become the clitoris and labia in females. Hormones produced by the testes direct development in the male mode. Thus, through hormones they produce, the testicles become agents in channeling development toward the realization of those organs that will support them and permit them to actualize the power of generation in the mode in which they possess it.29 At this point, we have identified the principal agents of that which is most associated with sexual difference: human nature provides the overarching developmental trajectory. It is modulated by genes that first determine the human substance as male or female and guide the developmental trajectory toward one of two ways of possessing the divided power of generation. Once the Y chromosome has performed its most critical role of determining the proto-gonads as testes, those new testes assume the role of principal agent through their emissaries, male-typical hormones. It is worth noting that, regarding agents of difference, male and female development are not exactly analogous. We noted that the Y chromosome acts first to modulate proto-gonads towards developing as testes and that the testes themselves then become the agents of modulation by means of hormones they produce that cue forming structures to develop according to the male paradigm. If the situation were analogous, we might expect the X chromosome to somehow cue the proto-gonads to form as ovaries and then for the ovaries to produce estrogens that in turn would become agents of female development. Apparently, however—at least regarding development of the organs of generation—this is not the case: female-typical development does not require the presence of some special gene present on the X chromosome30 followed by the intervention of female-typical In addition to the formation of external genitalia as affected by the presence or absence of testosterone, the testes also produce a hormone called “Müllerian Inhibiting Substance” [MIS]. In order to complete the internal genital organs, the developing fetus first produces two initial structures: the Müllerian Ducts and the Wolffian Ducts. In the presence of androgens, the Wolffian Ducts develop into the organs that link the testes and the penis while MIS prevents the development of the Müllerian Ducts. In female development, in the absence of the MIS allows the Müllerian Ducts to develop into female internal generative organs while the absence of testosterone starves the Wolffian structures, leading to their dissolution (Hines, Brain Gender, 24–26). 30 Recall that males also have an active X chromosome. 29 Finding Form: Defining Human Sexual Difference 411 hormones produced by the ovaries. Rather, it seems that what is most pivotal in female development is the absence of the material disposition to male formation (the Y chromosome) and subsequent absence of exposure to androgens. The developmental trajectory “defaults,” as it were, toward female development unless the active intervention of the Y chromosome obtains.31 Perhaps it would not be surprising were the agents of sexual difference to quit their work at this point, having guided the production of the genital organs. Such, however, is not the case. The agents of sexual difference continue their work and so we must continue tracking them. And the next place to which they lead us is the developing, pre-natal brain. We must, therefore, briefly explore sexual differentiation in the brain.32 For the modern researcher of the brain, that there would be differences in the male and female brain is to be expected: “The existence of sex difference in behavior implies the existence of sex differences in the brain because the brain provides the basis for all behavior.”33 Beginning literally with child’s play, there are demonstrable differences in the behaviors of human males and females: styles of play; nature of group formation and dynamics; establishment of dominance hierarchies; aggression and risk-taking; communication styles; and behaviors surrounding mate selection, courtship, and sexual behavior.34 Some researchers likewise note reliable difference Hines summarizes the research supporting this claim in Brain Gender, 24. I must note that sexual dimorphism in the brain is an area of great controversy: it seems that there is scarcely a finding asserted by one author that is not denied by another. On one extreme of the debate are those who tend to reduce human behavior to products of neurological or other physiological difference. On the other are the those who seem to take deconstruction to the point where the material constitution of the human essence becomes little more than the matter from which the conscious, constructing agent—be it individual or societal—creates the reality of sexual difference. Time does not permit us to enter these controversies. For representative sources of those defending the significance of brain differences, see Hines, Brain Gender; Louann Brizendine, The Female Brain (New York: Three Rivers Press, 2006); and Brizendine, The Male Brain (New York: Harmony Press, 2010). For those challenging that research, see Anne Fausto-Sterling, Sexing the Body (New York: Basic Books, 2000); and Rebecca M. Jordan-Young, Brain Storm: The Flaws in the Science of Sex Differences (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2010). 33 Hines, Brain Gender, 65. 34 See, for instance, Eleanor E. Maccoby, “Perspectives on Gender Development,” International Journal of Behavioral Development 24.4 (2000): 398–406, and 31 32 412 Timothy Fortin in some cognitive abilities such as certain spatial abilities, throwing accuracy, verbal memory, and recall of object location.35 Physician and researcher Leonard Sax notes differences in the senses of touch, sight, and hearing between males and females.36 To these sex-based differences in human beings is added the reliable observation of sexual dimorphism in the sub-rational animal brain: experiments on mice and monkeys reveal significant differences in the male and female brain.37 Thus, we would anticipate that there would likewise be some sex-based difference in the human brain. Contemporary research seems to be confirming this hypothesis.38 The study of sexual dimorphism in the brains of animals reveals that, as with differences in the external genitalia in humans, sex-based differences in the brain appear to be primarily due to pre-natal hormone levels rather than to a genetic mechanism.39 Neurological psychiatrist Louann Brizendine writes: “Until eight weeks old, every brain looks female—female is nature’s default gender setting. If you were to watch a female and a male brain developing via time-lapse photography, you would see their circuit diagrams being laid down according to the blueprint drafted by both genes and sex hormones. A huge testosterone surge beginning in the eighth week will turn this unisex brain male by killing of some cells in the communication centers and growing more cells in the sex and aggression centers. If the testosterone surge doesn’t happen, the female brain continues to grow unperturbed.”40 Maccoby, The Two Sexes: Growing Up Apart, Coming Together (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998). Brizendine also provides useful summaries of brain and behavioral difference in her two recent works: The Female Brain, 1–9; The Male Brain, 1–7. 35 A ubiquitous text on the subject of cognitive differences is Doreen Kimura, Sex and Cognition (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999). 36 Leonard Sax, Why Gender Matters:What Parents and Teachers Need to Know about the Emerging Science of Sex Differences (New York: Doubleday, 2005), 16–24, 67. 37 See Hines, Brain Gender, 45–64. 38 Those opposing the significance of sex-based human brain difference will object that, even granting the existence of such differences, the direction of the causal link between brain differences and distinct behaviors and aptitudes is not clear: do brain differences cause different behaviors or do different behaviors, derived from societal expectations, lead to differences in the brain? See Lesley Rogers, Sexing the Brain (London: Phoenix, 2000). 39 Hines describes the actions of hormones on the brain in Brain Gender, 72–76. The effects of prenatal hormone levels is also discussed by Brizendine in The Female Brain, 11–30. 40 Brizendine, The Female Brain, 14. Finding Form: Defining Human Sexual Difference 413 Once again, the agency of sexual differences is delegated to hormones produced by the gonads. The genetic difference begins the process, but the primary work of differentiation is carried out by the hormones. These hormones appear to modulate the development of certain parts of the brain in subtle ways as either male-typical or female-typical. Thus, we see the same pattern as witnessed with the external genitalia: the general agency of development comes from the essence of human nature itself, but that development is directed into one of two general developmental paths by the presence or absence of certain hormones originating in the primary organ of generation. It is impossible to give anything approaching an adequate treatment of the findings of researchers and the criticisms leveled against such findings. Among other findings, researchers claim to have found statistically significant differences in brain size, quantities of grey and white matter,41 lateralization, and inter-hemispheric connectivity,42 as well as in specific parts of the brain: the hypothalamus,43 the hippocampus,44 and the amygdala among others.45 However, assuming these findings to be valid, it is very difficult to discern the precise consequences of observed differences. What does seem relatively certain is that pre-natal hormone levels affect the brain of the developing baby, thus continuing the agency of sex-based hormones and expanding their efficacy beyond only the formation of the genital organs. The agents’ work extends beyond genital organs, indicating that sexual difference, though centered upon differences in the power of generation itself, is not limited thereto. And the agency of sex-based hormones does not end at birth: Brizendine speaks of a relatively brief period just after birth that she calls “infantile puberty.” During this time, infant boys are exposed to androgen levels similar to those of an adult man while infant girls are exposed to estrogens comparable to those of an adult woman. She claims that these distinct hormone levels further distinguish the male and female brain after birth.46 Then, roughly a decade after the initial See Kimura, Sex and Cognition, 128. See Hines, Brain Gender, 191–203. 43 See Kimura, Sex and Cognition, 129–31, and Hines, Brain Gender, 188–90. 44 See Kimura, Sex and Cognition, 131–32, and Hines, Brain Gender, 199. 45 See Kimura, Sex and Cognition, 201, and Hines, Brain Gender, 198–99. For a brief summary of brain differences, see Simon Baron-Cohen, The Essential Difference: The Truth about the Male and Female Brain (New York: Basic Books, 2003), 109–13. 46 The Female Brain, 18–19; The Male Brain, 14. 41 42 414 Timothy Fortin momentous effects that sexually-differentiated hormones have upon the human child developing in the womb and the young infant, they have a second phase of intense developmental agency during puberty. At this time, it is once again sexually-differentiated hormones that will cue the unfolding of what are known as the secondary sex characteristics. These are well enough known that they do not require exhaustive rehearsal here: greater size, musculature, and angularity in males, and in females, the formation of the breasts, broadening of hips and thinning of the waist, and beginning of menstrual cycle.47 We could certainly continue tracking the effects of sexually distinct hormone levels in males and females. Physician and researcher Daniel Federman notes the somatic tissues that are affected by androgens: muscle, larynx, beard, distribution of sexual hair, bone and cartilage, immune system, nervous system, heart, and red blood cells. Those affected by estrogens include breast, uterus, adipose tissue distribution, heart and vascular endothelium, bone and cartilage, immune system, and nervous system.48 In addition to studying the roles of androgens and estrogens, researchers are also exploring the possible consequences of distinct levels of the hormones vasopressin and oxytocin in males and females.49 As was the case with differences in the brain, it is difficult to discern the exact relation between hormone levels and behavioral correlates. For instance, after noting correlations between testosterone and libido, self-confidence, dominance-seeking, and spatial abilities, Steven Pinker concludes that, though the relationship is complex and even includes a certain level of reciprocity, nevertheless, hormone states do influence psychological states and subsequent behaviors.50 To inventory exhaustively all the effects of karyotypes XX versus XY followed by the effects of the distinct hormone environments that follow from the initial genetic distinction would take far more time than is available here. Further, these effects remain an area of ongoing research and controversy. What should be clear, however, is that the agents of sexual difference do not stop simply at the organs of generation: their work extends to the human brain, the development For more detailed descriptions of sex-based difference arising during puberty, see Brizendine’s chapters devoted to the teenage brain: The Female Brain, 31–56; The Male Brain, 30–50. 48 Federman, “The Biology of Human Sex Differences,” 1511 (table 3). 49 Bear, Connors, and Paradiso, Neuroscience, 460–62. 50 Steven Pinker, The Blank Slate:The Modern Denial of Human Nature (New York: Penguin Books, 2002), 347–48. 47 Finding Form: Defining Human Sexual Difference 415 of the secondary sex characteristics, and the possible disposition to action through distinct hormonal environments and dimorphism in the brain. Seeing that the agency of sexual difference extends beyond the sexual organs, some account is needed of this activity to see whether a cogent narrative exists unifying the activity of the agents of sexual difference. That Which Moves the Agent To understand the activity of any agent, we must understand that which moves it, which is the end. The agent’s proximate end is the form that its work achieves (which explains our current interest in the agent cause). Ultimately, however, we must understand not only what St. Thomas refers to as the end of generation (the act in which becoming resolves) but also the end of the thing generated. Alas, full treatment of the ends of sexual difference must be left for another work, but it is clear that the agents of sexual difference extend their activity beyond the fundamental organs of reproduction. If we are to understand the form of sexual difference, we must seek to discern that which unifies its elements, and so we must, at least in a cursory manner, examine the “whys” of sexual difference. So, let us retrace the path of the agent, briefly underscoring that which is likely moving the agent to its activity. Throughout this section, I will apply variations of an insight provided by St. Thomas regarding the generative power. It is a kind of “reduction to vanity”: those things are necessary to the generative power without which that power would be in vain. Thomas writes: “But man’s [hominis] generative power would be frustrated unless it were followed by the proper nutrition, because the offspring would not survive if proper nutrition were withheld. Therefore, the emission of semen ought to be so ordered that it will result in both the production of the proper offspring and the upbringing of that offspring.”51 In considering the generative power and the sexual difference that modifies it, we must consider not only the power itself, but also that which allows the power to reach its perfection, that which would prevent the power from acting in vain. The first act of the principal agent—human nature—regarding sexual differentiation is to generate a new human being with a genetic disposition to either female (XX) or male (XY) and so determine Thomas Aquinas, Summa contra gentiles [SCG] III, ch. 122, trans. Vernon J. Bourke (South Bend, IN: Notre Dame University Press, 1975). 51 416 Timothy Fortin the new human being as female or male. As we have noted, human nature is equally disposed to both. The next steps are quite clear: the genetic influence leads to the formation of either ovaries or testes. But ovaries or testes by themselves cannot bring the power of generation to its realization; supporting organs are needed. Thus, next, either hormones from the testes lead to the generation of organs that support the testes or their absence leads to those organs that support the ovaries, without which organs the testes and ovaries are rendered effectively powerless. The next act of sexually differentiated prenatal agency involves the human brain. Again, it is difficult to discern the precise effects of brain differences. Some of these differences, no doubt, relate to obvious sex-based differences, such as the need to regulate the male and female hormonal systems, which in turn regulate activities such as the woman’s menstrual cycle. However, it is likewise clear that simply having the appropriate organs of generation will not ensure the realization of the power of generation. The two complementary modes of the power of generation must be united. And the partial powers must not only be united but also be joined in such a way so that their union is not in vain, which means that the offspring resulting from the union must flourish. These imperatives demand that each sex finds some other of the opposite sex who can complete his or her partial power of generation and whose presence will lead to the flourishing of his or her offspring. Thus, mate-selection and the capacity to ensure the well-being of offspring are essential to the power of generation.52 It is not surprising, then, that the brains of the male and the female would be disposed to the successful completion of these necessary aspects of the realization of the power of generation. One would anticipate that the sensory appetites of each sex, which reside in organs,53 would be inclined toward those goods that lead to the fulfillment of the power of generation, which is not only the birth of a new little baby boy or girl but also the perfection of that child. So, for instance, the sensory appetite of the male is moved to the female and vice versa. Sensory appetites, however, are bound to the knowing powers they accompany. Thus, the subject of Both mate selection and successful parenting are themes taken up by evolutionary theorists in attempting to explain the evolution of human sexual difference. See David C. Geary, Male, Female: The Evolution of Human Sex Differences (Washington, DC: American Psychological Association, 1998), chs. 2–4. 53 ST I, q. 77, a. 5. 52 Finding Form: Defining Human Sexual Difference 417 these powers is not only the soul but also the organs in which they reside, which organs, based upon what we have seen about the development of the brain, could be susceptible to sexually-differentiated hormone environments. Hence, it is reasonable to think that some sex-based differences in the brain could be linked to dispositions of the sensory appetites as they are ordered towards successful mate selection and rearing of children. Similarly, secondary sex characteristics, such as breasts in women and greater musculature and speed in men, allow both for successful selection of a potential mate and for care of offspring once born. Hence it is reasonable to see the cascading effects of the agents of sexual difference as ordered not only to the acts immediately surrounding reproduction, but also extending in both directions temporally from that central point: both to those things that lead up to act of generation and make it possible—successful selection of a good mate—and those things that flow from the act of generation: successful nurturing and guidance of one’s offspring to the fullness of their being. Thus brain and body, apprehension and appetite are altered by the agents of sexual differentiation. The elements of sexual difference are ordered not only to the generation of the child but also to the tribe and city in which those children thrive.54 The Final Element We have tracked the agents of sexual difference and sought out the various ways in which they modify the human male and female. These modifications pertain to the natural principles of the human substance—to its form and matter. And this has been our principal concern: to consider what determinations of the human substance define sexual difference. And so, we have seen a series of differences following from consistent principles according to a cogent narrative. Before considering how, at times, the development of sexual difference veers off course, we must, at least briefly, consider a final element of sexual differentiation: an individual’s knowledge of and conscious identification of himself or herself as sexually differentiated. Clearly, this is a topic of great complexity that presumes the resolution of This expansion of the generative rapport between male and female, man and woman, is a fruitful field of research, for sexual difference can be seen as generative of the city, as Aristotle notes in the beginning of Politics, and in a way, as generative of our knowledge of the very nature of being.These, however, must remain as themes for a future work. 54 418 Timothy Fortin many questions of anthropology, psychology, and the nature of human self-knowledge. As such, it demands dedicated and subtle treatment. In the context of our current project, I can offer only the most cursory remarks. I will thus offer a hypothesis and state some of the suppositions upon which it rests. Put simply, the point I wish to make here is that, subsequent to the determinations of the human substance of which we have been speaking, the human person, through his intellect, is able to then reflect upon himself precisely as sexually differentiated and thus comes to an awareness of himself as sexually differentiated.55 This awareness of oneself as sexually differentiated and judgment regarding that sexual difference become the final element of sexual difference. In the course of typical development, all the elements of distinction will be consistent with each other and, hence, the knowing individual’s judgment of his sex will presumably be consistent with all prior determinations of his substance: if genes, gonads, genitals, appetites, and aptitudes all align with one or the other sex, then presumably one’s knowledge and judgment regarding oneself will likewise complete that developmental arc. For instance, if all the elements of sexual difference discussed above align as male, then presumably the individual will come to know himself as male and so identify himself as such. Implicit in this line of thought, however, are many anthropological and epistemic theses, but I will try to identify the most important. First, regarding human self-knowledge, we must reiterate a basic truth that follows from Thomas’s anthropology: in his essence, man is not only his soul.56 If man were his soul, then clearly the heart of knowing himself would be knowing his soul. However, because the human being is not simply a thinking thing, for man to know himself means for him to know that self as a unified composite of form and matter. To know himself is to know himself as embodied. However, we have made it clear that the area of our principal concern—sexual difference—is not part of man’s very definition and, so, most strictly speaking, is not part of his essence. Hence, knowledge of man’s essence does not, strictly speaking, include knowledge of sexual difference. However, we likewise noted (and will return to In order to know oneself as sexually differentiated, the terms “male” or “female,” “boy” or “girl,” must have meaning. This meaning, though mediated interpersonally, is grounded in the simple apprehensions mentioned earlier in this article. 56 See, for instance, ST I, q. 75, a. 4. 55 Finding Form: Defining Human Sexual Difference 419 this point later) that, though sexual difference is not man’s specific difference, neither is it simply an extraneous accident; it is, rather, an essential accident inexorably bound to the essential power of generation. Hence, because generation is an essential power of any living thing, the human individual will know herself as she stands toward the divided power of generation; she will know herself as sexually differentiated. There are myriad questions that must be addressed regarding the nature of human self-knowing in regard to knowledge of oneself as sexually differentiated.57 Ultimately, such considerations must include the role of others—both individuals and societal norms—in the formation of judgments about one’s sex. Again, such questions fall beyond the scope that I have set for myself in this work. As such, my point here is quite limited: in the course of normal development, the individual comes to a sense of or judgment concerning himself or herself as sexually differentiated when his or her intellect is brought to bear upon the reality of his or her substance as sexually differentiated. It is this judgment to which I am referring as the final element of sexual differentiation. Intersex Syndromes and Gender Dysphoria Up to this point, I have been discussing the normal unfolding of sexual difference. However, it is not always the case that all the elements of sexual difference harmonize with each other. It is precisely these variances and, at times, dissonances that render simple defining of sexual difference difficult. Thus, we must briefly consider the intersex disorders and, even more briefly, gender dysphoria. Melissa Hines notes that most intersex disorders arise from hormonal, not genetic, origins: 58 they center upon problems either in producing the appropriate hormones or in the body’s capacity to Therese Scarpelli Cory notes that the most likely interpretation of St. Thomas’s position on human self-knowledge allows for a kind of dynamic relationship between an intuitive, general, pre-philosophical knowledge of self and a progressively clearer quidditative knowledge, thus accounting for both the immediacy of self-knowledge and human self-opacity. The tension between certitude and self-opacity is a recurrent theme is Cory’s Aquinas on Human Self-Knowledge (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2014); see, for instance, 69–91. We shall see, when briefly discussing gender dysphoria in the following section, that the dynamic existing between an initial general knowledge followed by a more precise knowledge could indeed enter into the phenomena of gender dysphoria. 58 Brain Gender, 28. 57 420 Timothy Fortin respond to these hormones. Having briefly examined the agents of sexual differentiation, we are in a position to understand these disorders in at least a rudimentary way. We will succinctly review two disorders: one most profoundly affecting XY individuals, the other XX. Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome (AIS) is a disorder that affects a cell’s ability to respond to ambient androgens.59 Its effects are most profound in XY individuals. The Y chromosome properly cues the proto-gonads to form as testes. As we recall from our discussion of the agents of sexual differentiation, much of the process of virilization is a result of androgens produced by the testes. However, in the case of AIS, though the testes are producing these androgens, tissue that is supposed to respond to the promptings of the androgens is hindered in doing so—and in the case of Complete Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome (CAIS), it is completely unable to respond. Thus, when CAIS obtains in XY individuals, the external genitalia form according to the female pattern, while the internal organs (other than the gonads) fail to form properly according to either paradigm. Presumably, neither is the tissue in the brain able to respond to the promptings of androgens and so it forms in the female-typical pattern. This disorder exists in degrees. When it is partial, ambivalent external genitalia may result. However, when the insensitivity is complete, the individual externally may appear fully female but be both genetically and gonadally male. In these cases, the disorder is frequently not discovered until puberty when menses fails to commence. Interestingly, Hines notes that female secondary sex characteristics will develop in CAIS individuals as nature seems to adapt to the depth of the syndrome. Thus, with CAIS, there are XY individuals with testes who are otherwise phenotypically female and who are raised female and spontaneously recognized by all as female. While AIS has its most profound effects upon XY individuals, congenital adrenal hyperplasia (CAH) most profoundly affects XX individuals. In its extreme cases, the opposite dissonance from that found in CAIS can occur: an individual can be genotypically female though phenotypically male. In short, this disorder results from a genetic defect that causes the expecting mother to produce androgens that mimic those produced by the testicles of a developing male child. In XX babies, though the gonads are determined as ovaries, the I follow Hines’s treatment of these disorders in Brain Gender, 28–43. 59 Finding Form: Defining Human Sexual Difference 421 abnormally high level of androgens leads to virilization of the external genitalia. In extreme cases, this virilization is extensive enough such that the XX individual with ovaries is originally assigned as male. Hines notes, however, that this disorder is usually discovered early after birth and the individual surgically assigned as female. It should be noted that infertility is a common result of the intersex disorders. In the case of CAH, a female who is diagnosed with this disorder can indeed be fertile as a female. She could not, however, be fertile according to the male mode of fertility. As regards CAIS, infertility results: while there are testicles, the body’s lack of ability to respond to testosterone appears to prevent the production of sperm.60 Again, the point here is not to give an exhaustive treatment of the nature of all the intersex disorders; it is, rather, to make clear the difficulties that are confronted when attempting to discern the formal cause of the human male or female. One might be inclined to reflexively answer with the genotype: to say that if an individual is 46,XX she is female, if 46,XY, he is male. However, how then does one classify the CAIS individual mentioned above? Such cases should keep us from presenting an overly simplistic response to the question of form. The intersex disorders appear to involve the various levels of determination of the human substance that constitute sexual difference: at times, it can happen that genes and genitals are at odds with each other, resulting in ambiguities that are extremely difficult to resolve practically and pastorally. And finally, we must briefly consider the question of gender dysphoria. As I noted in the introduction, this is a topic far too complex for anything approaching a full treatment here. Psychologist Mark Yarhouse refers to gender dysphoria as “the experience of having a psychological and emotional identity as either More recent research has revealed an individual whose karyotype is 93% XY and 6% simply X (missing the Y). This individual is phenotypically female and has had two natural pregnancies, one resulting in a miscarriage but the other resulting in the natural birth of an XY individual who is also phenotypically female. Thus, there is a predominantly XY individual who has naturally brought the generative power to full actuality in the female mode; see Miroslav Dumic, et al. “Report of Fertility in Woman with Predominantly 46,XY Karyotype in Family with Multiple Disorders of Sexual Development: Review of Prismatic Case,” Mount Sinai Journal of Medicine 75 (2008):168–69, and Anna Biason-Lauber, et al., “Ovaries and Female Phenotype in a Girl with 46,XY Karyotype and Mutations in the CBX2 Gene,” The American Journal of Human Genetics 84 (2009): 658–63. 60 422 Timothy Fortin male or female, and that your psychological and emotional identity does not correspond to your biological sex.”61 There is no generally accepted explanation of the etiology of gender dysphoria.62 Based upon what we have seen up to this point, however, I will venture to offer a few provisional observations. We have noted the various levels of sexual difference which culminate in the individual’s self-reflexive knowledge as male or female. As we noted, in the case of normal development, where all the elements of sexual difference are in harmony, there is no basis upon which one would know himself or herself as anything other than the sex to which he or she is determined. But what of the case in which there is dissonance within the various levels of sexual difference? Is there not ample cause for confusion on the part of the intellect regarding which judgment to make? For instance, we noted that pre-natal hormones affect the brain and speculated that this could possibly affect the seats of human appetites.63 It seems at least possible that one’s intellect could be unsure as it is brought to bear upon appetites that are directed one way, and organs of generation that are directed another. The confusion subsequent to dissonance between the elements of sexual difference would be compounded by the very nature of human self-knowledge: our self-knowledge itself begins in a somewhat confused and undifferentiated manner. The lack of harmony between, for instance, sensory appetite and one’s primary and secondary sex characteristics could perplex the mind as it considers the entire reality of oneself. On one level, an individual’s reason could understand her sex and would experience the inclinations of reason that are the basis of the natural law. Yet, the same intellect could perhaps find her immediate sensory experience of appetites at odds with the judgment of her biological reality, leading to a fundamental experience of dysphoria. And, as the experience of the appetites could seem to the conscious mind even more immediate than the reality of one’s biological sex, the individual might “identify” herself with her appetites as opposed to her biological determination. So, as with the intersex disorders, we see that dissonance can also enter the picture regarding one’s knowledge of himself or herself as sexually differentiated, further complicating attempts to define sexual difference. Understanding Gender Dysphoria, 19. See ibid., 61–83. 63 Yarhouse addresses theories regarding brain formation in ibid., 67–74. 61 62 Finding Form: Defining Human Sexual Difference 423 Forms of Composition and Order It should be clear at this point that sexual difference in the human being refers to more than just one determination of the human substance. We have tracked the agents of sexual difference to see the scope of their work and found that it extends beyond the organs of generation. We have likewise noted that, in the human being, the intellect is brought to bear upon the self as sexually differentiated, leading to a final element of sexual distinction. Finally, we quickly reviewed how, at times, the various levels of sexual difference can become confused and dissonant. It now remains for us to look more closely at how the various elements are united in one form. St. Thomas’s notion of forms of composition and order provide a key to deciphering the relationship of the parts of sexual difference to the forms “male” or “female” considered as wholes. The distinction that St. Thomas makes between substantial forms and forms of composition and order is helpful for strengthening our earlier claim that sexual difference is not a substantial form and is likewise a good beginning for our current discussion: “Now the substantial form perfects not only the whole, but each part of the whole. For since a whole consists of parts, a form of the whole which does not give existence to each of the parts of the body, is a form consisting in composition and order, such as the form of a house; and such a form is accidental.”64 In forms that involve the integration of parts, the relation of part to whole is critical. Thomas is claiming that a substantial form not only perfects the whole—not only gives unity and, therefore, being to the whole—but also perfects the very parts. For example, the substantial form of the human being, the soul, not only unifies the parts into a whole but also brings about the very being of those parts. Man’s soul is responsible for the very being of heart, kidney, lung, and so on, not just a principle of their unification into one organism. Thus, the relationship between part and whole is distinct regarding a car and its parts and a human being and his or her parts. And if the form that unifies the parts does not perfect those parts, it is an accidental form and may be called a form of composition or order. In his Commentary on the Metaphysics, St. Thomas distinguishes forms of composition and order: “Now it is characteristic of the notion of this kind of diversity that the composite sometimes derives its species from some one thing, which is either the form (as in a compound) or combination [compositio] (as in a house) or arrangement ST I, q. 76, a. 8. 64 424 Timothy Fortin [ordo] (as in a syllable or in a number). And then the whole composite must be one without qualification.”65 Thomas is distinguishing those things that are one without qualification from things, such as a pile of rocks, that are one but only in a way. Of things that are one, some are so by virtue of a substantial form: those things, as noted above, that perfect their parts as well as the whole. Others are one by virtue of either composition—having been composed or placed together, presumably by an intending agent—or the order of the parts (such as letters O, G, and D can form different wholes depending upon their order: GOD and DOG differ in order). It would seem that these latter two certainly do not exclude the other, and thus he conflates them in our first quotation. In the case of a substantial form, the species of the thing is derived from the form—as a human being receives his or her species from the soul. However, some things receive their species from the composition or ordering of the parts. So, why refer to sexual difference as a form of composition? First, to reinforce what we argued earlier, sexual difference, the forms of male and female, are not substantial forms. They do not perfect their parts. Consider our reflections upon the agents of sexual difference: it is human nature that is the primary principle of the being of all the elemental parts that constitute sexual difference. The Y chromosome does not cause the existence of the testicle; it only channels the developing gonad into one of two possible developmental paths. Thus, it is once again clear that “maleness” and “femaleness” are not substantial forms. But, why call them forms of composition? From what we have seen regarding the activity of the agents of sexual difference and the reality of the intersex disorders, it seems evident that sexual difference consists of more than one determination of a substance; it is a kind of harmony between multiple parts. It is true that the modality of the power of generation is imperfectly established with the determination of the gonads, but that power is an impotent one without the organs that support it: ovaries that can produce ova but have not the organs to support them, or testicles producing sperm with no other organs to facilitate the delivery of the sperm have no natural possibility of bringing the power of generation to completion. The determination of the gonads sets development definitively upon one path or the other, but the gonads are helpless without those other aspects of the substance that allow for the realization of the act of generation. Similarly, even complete Comm. meta. 7, lec. 17, no. 26. 65 Finding Form: Defining Human Sexual Difference 425 systems of organs of generation cannot actualize their particular potencies without successful finding of a member of the opposite sex. And the children of that union will not flourish without the particular contributions of each parent. We have also briefly seen that this generativity extends beyond even just the immediate offspring—for a healthy child in a failing city is not likely to maintain his or her health for long. St Thomas contrasts forms of composition and order with other compilations that are joined in a sense but are one only in a qualified way: “He [Aristotle] distinguishes one kind of composition from several others; for something composed involves many things in such a way that the whole is one thing composed of many, as a house is composed of its parts and a compound of its elements. But sometimes a composite results from many things in a such a way that the whole composite is not one thing in an unqualified sense but only in a qualified one, as is clear from a heap or pile of stones when the parts are actual, not being continuous.”66 Again, the unity of the parts of sexual difference is not the unity of the elements of a compound, joined as they are by a substantial form, but neither are the elements we have noted as associated with sexual difference a mere pile or heap of characteristics. To be composed is to be placed together.67 It implies end-directed activity, an agent that places the parts together. We see this in quintessential compositions such as a house, or a musical composition. In these cases, the parts are placed together by an agent acting first for the end of the very composition (the form) and then for the further ends that the composition achieves. As Thomas notes, the composite derives its species precisely from the composition, from the ordering of the parts. But this appears to be exactly what we find in the case of sexual difference. There are consistent and related agents that are placing the elements of the form into a composition according to an order. The genetic determination functions somewhat like a blueprint or musical score according to which the materials are disposed: for a house, certain wood and stone is procured, or for a symphony, according to the score, certain instruments and players are gathered. Then comes perhaps the most momentous aspect of sexual differentiation: the gonads are determined according to one mode of possessing the power of generation or the other, the production of ova or sperm. Ibid., no. 25. “Composition” is derived from the Latin componere, “to put together.” 66 67 426 Timothy Fortin Once this is done, all subsequent differences unfold in support of this fundamental difference. This is akin to the setting of the foundation of a house or the first sounding of symphony’s theme. It marks the first act of that which is to come to be more and more fully through time as the elements of the form are fit into their places. Thus, the first act is an imperfect act, but one which determines that which is to come. The subsequent elements of the form follow in accordance with it. The various parts are placed by the agent according to what has come before. The form reaches its completion when all the elements are in place, are composed with the foundation being the mode in which the individual possesses the divided power of generation. Maleness and femaleness are forms that come to be, that come to their perfection, over time as the various elements are brought from potency to act. Not each part is of equal importance, just as in the house, the foundation is of greater importance than a piece of trim, or in a symphony, the theme is more central than ornamental notes that might embellish it. But all have their part within the composition and together constitute the completion of the form. We could develop the illustration of the house to further the fundamental point that the forms of male and female are forms of composition. Instead of houses, consider two complementary “factories” necessary for the making of bread. One produces all the materials required for the making of the bread and has the equipment and materials needed to produce that bread, but it is lacking only one essential element. The other factory produces that missing but essential element—say, the leaven—and delivers it to the first factory. When all goes well, all the parts of each factory will be consistent with its primary function: in the first, the foundation will be set to support the machinery that produces the flour and the ovens that produce the finished bread; in the other, all will be ordered to the production and delivery of the leaven. The parts of each are ordered to and, in a sense, unified by their ends. This is what transpires in normal development. However, sometimes the composition is not complete, but rather is confused. What are we to do if the plan, the foundation, and the primary equipment are in place for one mode, but then the builders mistakenly construct the supporting structures and exterior of the other? It cannot function fully as either, containing elements of each. Such is the case with intersex syndromes.68 For instance, what is one to say of an individual with CAIS whose power of generation has been fundamentally determined according to the male mode 68 Finding Form: Defining Human Sexual Difference 427 What seems clear is that the forms of male and female are forms of composition: they are accidental forms composed of many elements that center upon one or the other of two modes of generativity. These modes of generativity extend beyond just the act of generation itself to a kind of creativity that encompasses the very communal of life of human persons. It is worth noting that understanding male and female as forms of composition allows us to address a question at the beginning of this work and perhaps to address an ambiguity in the use of the words “male” and “female.” I posed the question whether male and female were said univocally across species or perhaps analogically. Having observed the forms of male and female in the human being, we can see that there are root meanings of “male” and “female” that are indeed univocal across species: to be male is to reproduce by means of sperm; to be female is to reproduce by means of ova. Sometimes, this is all we intend by the terms “male” and “female.” In this sense, to be a male dog and to be a male human have the same meaning. However, there is also analogical usage of the terms “male” and “female” across species, for we sometimes intend not only the univocal foundation of the predication but also the composition of all the elements that together constitute the fullness of sexual difference in each species. This, for instance, is what we intend when we use specific terms such as “man” or “woman.” These terms refer not only to the univocal root (that which produces sperm, or that which produces ova) but also to the composition of elements that accompany the generative foundation. Thus, this broader sense of “male” or “female” signifies not only the foundation but also the cascade of elements that follows from the way in which the power of generation is had: it signifies the composition of the elements of sexual difference. These compositions vary from species to species. Questions of Being At this point, we have seen that the forms of male and female are not substantial forms and, so, must be accidental forms, and yet further that they are forms of composition. Before concluding, however, we should clarify some possible confusion that could follow from holding that male and female are accidental forms. For it could be thought that, because male and female are accidental forms, they are therefore by the formation of testicles yet who is phenotypically female? It would seem that the individual is neither perfectly male nor perfectly female. 428 Timothy Fortin either of little importance, mutable, or both. In order to address these concerns we must first distinguish essential accidents from extraneous accidents; then, we shall further distinguish essential accidents. Once again, St. Thomas will help us in confronting the status of male and female as accidental forms. When considering whether the powers of the soul constitute the essence of the soul, an objector argues that the powers of the soul must be included in the very essence of the soul. For, if they are not, then the powers would have to be considered accidents like color or shape. But clearly, the objector protests, the powers of the soul cannot be treated as color or shape.69 St. Thomas replies that, if we consider only the division between substance and accident, there is no room for any mean between them, for they are opposing sides of a contradiction: the attribute in question either exists in another or it does not, but rather exists in itself. Because the powers exist not in themselves but in the human substance, they are accidents. In fact, Thomas notes that the powers of the soul are qualities.70 But the fact that the very powers of the soul are accidents points to an important distinction: the mere fact that the powers are accidents does not mean they are accidents just like color or shape. For, not all accidents are created equal: “if we take accident as one of the five universals, in this sense there is a medium between substance and accident. For the substance is all that belongs to the essence of a thing, whereas whatever is beyond the essence of a thing cannot be called accident in this sense, but only what is not caused by the essential principle of the species. For the ‘proper’ does not belong to the essence of a thing but is caused by the essential principles of the species.” 71 The powers of the soul are accidents (qualities), but they are accidents that flow from the essence of the soul—“properties” in the classical sense of the term. They are not the essence itself, but they belong to the essence as proceeding from it. As such, they are rightly distinguished from extraneous accidents, which do not possess the same relation to the essence.72 ST I, q. 77, a.1, obj. 5. Ibid., ad 5. 71 Ibid. 72 St. Thomas likewise notes this distinction in On Being and Essence: “Whatever belongs to a thing is either caused by the principles of its nature, for example, risible in man; or comes to it from some extrinsic principle, as light to air from the influence of the sun” (ch. 4). As noted earlier, St. Thomas will distinguish, in chapter 6 of the same work, various ways in which an accident can be related to the substance in which it inheres. 69 70 Finding Form: Defining Human Sexual Difference 429 So what are we to make of these forms of male and female? Where do they fit into these distinctions? Essential accidents flow from the essence of the substance. But is this not precisely what we have seen regarding sexual difference? 73 First, we noted that sexual difference is inexorably bound with the power of generation. This power exists in two independently incomplete modes, which modes define sexual difference. So, if the power of generation is an essential accident and sexual difference determines the mode in which this power is possessed, then sexual difference must itself be an essential accident, flowing, as noted above, from the relation between specific form and matter. We should note, however, that sexual difference, while bound to the power of generation, is not itself the power. Most immediately, the female possesses the power of generation through the production of ova and the male through the production of sperm. And, as Thomas notes, these powers reside in the soul and the organs of generation. But one is not female because she produces ova, nor male because he produces sperm. Rather, the converse is true: an individual produces ova because she is female, or produces sperm because he is male. A post-menopausal woman does not cease to be a woman when her fertility ends. In this way, the relation of maleness and femaleness to the power of generation is similar to that of the essence of man to the power of reason: one is not human because he possesses the power of reason; he possesses the power of reason because he is human. St. Thomas refers to sexual difference as a qualitative difference.74 Maleness and femaleness are qualities of the human substance. This, too, fits with what we argued about sexual difference. A quality determines a substance according to a certain mode or measure. But sexual difference is precisely that difference of the substance that determines it according to one or the other modes of possessing the power of human generativity. As such, we rightly refer to maleness or femaleness as qualities of the human substance. And, from what we have just argued regarding sexual difference as an essential accident underlying one or the other partial powers of generation, it should I do not wish to imply that sexual difference flows from the substantial form as such. As we noted earlier, if this were true, male and female would be distinct species. However, it is clear from what we have seen that human nature intends the material disposition through which the forms of male and female are realized. As such, the essence is the ultimate source of the difference. 74 Sent. meta. 7, lec. 4. 73 Timothy Fortin 430 likewise be clear that it is a “determination of the substance in regard to the very nature of the thing.” 75 Thus, we can conclude that sexual difference is a quality pertaining to the first category of quality: “The mode or determination of the subject, in regard to the nature of the thing, belongs to the first species of quality, which is habit and disposition: for the Philosopher says (Phys. vii, text. 17), when speaking of habits of the soul and of the body, that they are ‘dispositions of the perfect to the best; and by perfect I mean that which is disposed in accordance with its nature.’” 76 In sexual difference, the human substance is determined in ordine ad ipsam naturam subiecti: the difference flows from the nature of the subject and regards the perfection of the nature of the subject. In fact, regarding the origin of the word “nature” itself in the word natus, sexual difference underpins the very possibility of birth. Without the relative fullness of the forms of maleness and femaleness and the cascading levels of generativity they imply, the human power of generation would be in vain. Conclusion So, in the end, what are we to say of human sexual difference? Sexual difference, the forms of female or male, are qualities, determinations of the human substance. They are essential accidents. Their fundamental developmental energy flows from the essence of the human soul but is modulated by material dispositions likewise fashioned by human nature. The determination of the substance, however, does not lie in only one modification, but rather in a series of ordered modal differences that together make the fullness of these forms. Unlike a substantial form, where the parts are given their being by the form, the forms of maleness and femaleness come to be at first imperfectly and arrive at their perfection over time as the agent puts each element of the composition in place. Thus, that which answers to our words “male” or “female” refers to a composition of many elements centered upon one or another way of possessing the power of generation. Ideally, the situation is as Eliot describes for the composition of language: The end is where we start from. And every phrase And sentence that is right (where every word is at home, ST I-II, q. 49, a. 2. Ibid. 75 76 Finding Form: Defining Human Sexual Difference 431 Taking its place to support the others . . . The complete consort dancing together).77 The agent moves toward its immediate end, which is the form of female or male, with all its aspects in place, each supporting the other in their complete consort, a dance whose unity impels the end that explains that unity, which end is motherhood or fatherhood—a modally distinct generativity embedded in the very substance of the human person. N&V T. S. Eliot, Little Gidding, lns. 216–23. 77 Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 15, No. 2 (2017): 433–464 433 Human Sexuality in a Fallen World: An Economy of Mercy and Grace1 Reinhard Hütter The Catholic University of America Washington, DC Mercy and truth have met together; justice and peace have kissed each other. —Psalm 85:10 Although God may be surpassingly merciful, his mercy in no way obviates his justice. For a mercy that removes justice deserves much more to be called stupidity rather than virtue, and this does not befit God. —Thomas Aquinas, In III Sent. d. 1, q. 1, a. 2, ad 4 Introduction: Divine Mercy, Human Sexuality, and the Dominant Self-Images of the Age This is a theological essay about divine mercy and human sexuality—much more, though, about the former than the latter—and about the ways in which divine mercy comes to inform human sexuality. The following is, therefore, as much an exercise in dogmatic theology as it is an exercise in moral theology. Incidentally, An earlier version of this essay was presented as a paper—with the precise topic captured in the title assigned to me—at the16th plenary session of the Pontifical Academy of St. Thomas Aquinas, “St. Thomas Aquinas, Marriage, and the Family,” June 17–19, 2016 at the Casina Pio IV, Vatican. I am grateful to Romanus Cessario, O.P., Nancy Heitzenrater Hütter, Stephan Kampowski, Julio Raul Mendez, John O’Callaghan, Luca F. Tuninetti, Michael Waldstein, Thomas Joseph White, O.P., and an anonymous peer reviewer for their suggestions and criticisms. 1 434 Reinhard Hütter the article will make plain that dogmatic and moral theology cannot be separated meaningfully from each other, for they are two integral parts of one single discipline, or science: sacred theology. And because one of the theologians who exemplified in his theological work the integration of dogmatic and moral theology was Thomas Aquinas, I shall draw upon him in the following as my central resource and interlocutor. Quite likely, there has been no other age compared to ours—the age of the late-modern consumer capitalist societies of the Western Hemisphere—that has been as obsessed with sex and, at the same time, as confused about it as ours, especially since the invention and widespread use of biochemical means of contraception. It is far from an overstatement to characterize these later modern consumer societies as being in the iron grip of an unrelenting pan-sexism that increasingly subjects all religious, political, social, and cultural discourses to an ever more comprehensive and aggressive policing of all aspects of public and, increasingly, also private life. This state of affairs constitutes a considerable challenge for the Catholic Church, her mission, catechesis, and preaching in these societies, a challenge that remains largely unaddressed because too many Christians are all too deeply affected by the obsession with, as well as the confusion about, human sexuality in the wake of the principled separation of sexuality from procreation. In order to address this challenge constructively and effectively, it seems to me to be necessary for the Church first to realize why and how human sexuality has become the ideological battleground for the two dominant competing self-images of the age, angelism and animalism, then second, to find a way to reintegrate human sexuality theologically into the encompassing divine scheme of creation and redemption—the divine economy of mercy and grace—and third, to discover a way to think and talk theologically about divine mercy in a societal context that tends immediately to mistake mercy for an all-embracing and principled divine indulgence and permissiveness. Finally, when operating within these Western or thoroughly Westernized societies held in the iron grip of pan-sexism, the Church will have to make a persuasive case for the following: first, that it is false to assume that human sexuality can be sufficiently understood by, on the one hand, taking it to be a matter of sovereign human self-definition or self-construction or, on the other hand, regarding it as a form of behavior analogous to that of advanced primates; and secondly, that to make such an assumption is nothing but to endorse one or the other of the two dominant but erroneous anthropocentric self-images of Human Sexuality in a Fallen World 435 the age, angelism and animalism. In order to escape the Babylonian captivity to one or the other of these false self-images, the Church will have to begin to think again in an unapologetically theological and theocentric way about human sexuality. This essay is a modest proposal on behalf of this fourfold task. I shall first name the modern problematic that turns human sexuality into the battleground between the two dominant, competing, and equally erroneous anthropocentric self-images of the age, angelism and animalism. I will then adumbrate the encompassing economy of mercy and grace into which human sexuality falls when considered in a proper and unapologetically theological context, a context free from the distortive invasions by the two dominant self-images. I shall subsequently clarify the nature of divine mercy by drawing attention to a crucial distinction that Aquinas draws between two aspects of divine mercy and then put his theological account of divine mercy into sharp contrast with two erroneous forms of a divine necessitism of mercy. In a further step, I will consider Aquinas’s analysis of the goods of human nature and subsequently the wounds of human nature consequent upon sin. Finally, I will name the difference the woundedness of human nature and the corresponding divine economy of mercy and grace makes for the theological understanding of human sexuality, for its liberation from the two erroneous self-images of the age, and for the inchoately realized eschatology that is integral to the divine economy of mercy and grace. Modernity’s Anthropocentric Turn and Human Sexuality: The Battleground for the Agon between a Gnostic “Angelism” and a Naturalist “Animalism” In the early decades of the twenty-first century an observant spectator might perceive the striking ambiguity that haunts late modern humanity in the Western Hemisphere. The rapidly accelerating progress of the scientific penetration of the natural world and the ensuing technological domination of the whole planet seem to have advanced humanity into a quasi-divine position, into a collective Demiurge. Sovereignty, once upon a time an exclusive attribute of divinity, seems now to fall to humanity collectively, and in rather far reaching specific ways to each individual human subject. In the affluent parts of the Western Hemisphere, subjective sovereignty is exercised by way of the unfettered rule of one’s will over ideally everything exterior to one’s will, from myriads of consumer goods to varyingly branded identities, and last but not least, ideo- 436 Reinhard Hütter logical and religious affiliations. However, the interpretation of reality that the natural sciences communicate to the public presents a jarringly different picture—a picture that puts into question the very possibility of subjective sovereignty. The human mind is understood as an epiphenomenon of the brain’s neurological processes and human choices are predicted with statistical precision and unmasked as ultimately driven by nothing other than the interests of the “selfish gene.” And so it comes that the late-modern subject vacillates between two competing self-images, between, on the one side, what might be called the gnostic angelism of the sovereign self that may submit to its will an absolutely malleable and fluid exteriority and, on the other side, the materialist animalism of a super-primate allegedly determined by its genetic make-up and its particular ecological niche. The existentialist self-image of the sovereign subject and the competing naturalist self-image of the super-primate constantly destabilize each other precisely because they are nothing but the two contradictory effects brought about by the modern anthropocentric turn.2 This turn, prepared in the Italian Renaissance, ushered in by Cartesian rationalism and Humean empiricism, and solidified by Kant’s critical idealism, raised the specter of the irreconcilable bifurcation between a gnostic angelism and a materialist animalism. Both self-images of the age are false and, hence, ultimately uninhabitable by human beings. With the rapid increase of biotechnological means of turning the human body into a malleable medium of self-design, human sexuality has become a primary, if not the central domain for affirming and exercising subjective sovereignty. Under these conditions, the creaturely gift and givenness of one’s sexual constitution and gender specification is seen as inherently incompatible with the self-image of subjective sovereignty. For the sovereign self, this creaturely gift and given is nothing but a random constraint of one’s sovereign self-constitution, a constraint to be cast off with the help of biotech In his Critique of Pure Reason, Immanuel Kant advances a profound analysis of this distinctly modern problematic and, tacitly presupposing the ontological and epistemological entailments of the anthropocentric turn, elevates the problematic to the dignity of one of the four antinomies of pure reason, the antinomy between causality according the laws of nature and spontaneity—in short, the antinomy between determination and freedom; see “Die Antinomie der reinen Vernunft,” under “Transzendentale Elementarlehre,” in Kritik der reinen Vernunft, Philosophische Bibliothek 37a (Hamburg: Meiner, 1956), 462–66 (A 444/B472–A 452/B 480). 2 Human Sexuality in a Fallen World 437 nological interventions. Indeed, subjective sovereignty requires all constraints that might arise from the antecedent givenness of one’s embodied existence ideally to be reduced to the bare minimum, the mere existence of the sovereign subject, the subject that sovereignly determines its essence, which comes to include, among many other properties, the sovereign subject’s sexual specification, gender, and gender expression. Jean-Paul Sartre’s existentialism, his creative misunderstanding of Heidegger’s Being and Time in his own programmatic Being and Nothingness, has thus found a late and not altogether surprising renaissance in the deeply utopian angelism characteristic of current trans-humanism: thrown into an existence bereft of antecedent meaning—that is, God—we are doomed to create our essence freely and, thus, create meaning. In an age in which the human imagination is dominated by the utopian promises of bioengineering and, at the same time, in the grip of pan-sexism, such Sartrean self-creation focuses all too predictably on the free specification of one’s sexuality and construction of one’s gender. In a world in which its status as primordial gift, as creation ex nihilo, ordered by divine providence, is denied, forgotten, or occluded, any primordial givenness becomes an alienating and humiliating fatum threatening to thwart the pretensions of subjective sovereignty. All forms of givenness must therefore be repudiated in order to affirm this much desired self-image. “Human sexuality,” being itself a distinctly modern term and concept, thus dramatically reflects the aporia at the heart of the modern anthropocentric turn.3 The late-modern understanding of See the instructive entry “Sexualität” (esp. “II. Sexualität im Denken der Moderne”) by M. Schetsche and R. Lautmann in Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie, ed. Joachim Ritter and Karlfried Gründer, vol. 9 (Basel, CH: Schwabe & Co., 1995), 725–42. For the crucial stages in the development of the genuinely modern conceptuality of human sexuality, see Sigmund Freud, Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality (1905), trans. James Strachey (London: Imago Publications, 1949); Margaret Mead, Sex and Temperament in Three Primitive Societies (New York: Perennial, 1935); Mead, Male and Female: A Study of the Sexes in a Changing World (New York: William Morrow, 1949); Wilhelm Reich, The Sexual Revolution: Toward a Self-governing Character Structure (1936), trans. Theodore P. Wolfe (New York: Orgone Institute Press, 1945); Alfred C. Kinsey et al., Sexual Behavior in the Human Male (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1948); Kinsey et al., Sexual Behavior in the Human Female (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1953); Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex (1949), trans. H. M. Parshley (New York: Vintage Books, 1989); Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization: A Philosophical Inquiry into Freud (Boston: 3 438 Reinhard Hütter human sexuality is caught in the agon between (on the one side) the gnostic angelism, its artificial, biotechnologically imposed separation of sex, procreation, and gender and its insistence upon sovereign gender expression and (on the other side) the naturalist animalism conceiving of sexuality as genetically determined and as, in turn, determining human beings in a significant if not comprehensive way. Angelism and animalism, arguably the characteristic consequences of the modern anthropocentric turn, constitute the opposite poles of the arena in which the contemporary, essentially aporetic agon over human sexuality unfolds. This peculiar situation accounts for the mutually exclusive views, often simultaneously held by one and the same person, of (on the one hand) “heterosexuality,” “homosexuality,” and other assumed “sexualities” as genetic givens that shape the identity, desires, and agency of every person in profound and presumably irreversible ways versus (on the other hand) “sexuality” as the fluid material base to be freely claimed, determined, and employed as an instrument for sovereign gender expression. In short, at stake is the qualifier “human” in “human sexuality.” Predominantly, this qualifier is interpreted either in an “angelist” way—and thereby inflated— or in an “animalist” way—and thereby abolished. Because the late modern syntax and grammar of “human sexuality” is fraught with this central aporia, contemporary Catholic theological reflection about “human sexuality” would be ill advised to read this precarious predicament as one of the “signs of the times” that might offer guidance or illumination for theological reflection.4 Beacon Press, 1955); Robert Stoller, Sex and Gender: On the Development of Masculinity and Femininity (New York: Science House, 1968); John Money and Anke Ehrhardt, Man & Woman, Boy & Girl: The Differentiation and Dimorphism of Gender Identity from Conception to Maturity (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1972); Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality (1976-1984), 3 vols., trans. Robert Hurley (New York: Random House, 1978–1988); and Judith Butler, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (New York: Routledge, 1990). 4 By mistaking the deliveries of the dominant spirit of the age for signs of the times, one might, for instance, be tempted, but still ill-advised, to substitute the objective realism of a theology of the body with a theology of “love,” thereby embracing not only all the implications of the anthropocentric turn but also, with it, the central tenets of the characteristically modern moral theory of emotivism. For two profound and still pertinent critiques of emotivism, see Alasdair MacIntyre, After Virtue: A Study in Moral Theory (1981), 3rd ed. (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2007), esp. 6–35, and (for a wider audience in a less technical form) C.S. Lewis, The Abolition of Man (1944) (New York: HarperCollins, 2015). Human Sexuality in a Fallen World 439 Rather, Catholic theological reflection about human sexuality in a fallen world and in light of an overarching economy of mercy and grace will have to position itself in a fundamentally critical relationship to this contemporary discussion precisely because the normative principles that inform the two presently dominant interpretations are philosophically dubious and theologically false.5 Nothing less than a thorough ressourcement is called for that reaches back behind the modern anthropocentric turn. I submit that Aquinas’s integration of an account of human sexuality in a theocentric economy of mercy, grace, and deification is of an ongoing fundamental relevance for the contemporary consideration of these difficult questions. The Economy of Mercy and Grace according to Thomas Aquinas Stated up front, Aquinas’s fundamental theological axiom is that, in principle and considered comprehensively and in respect to humans, the extant order of divine providence is identical with the economy of mercy and grace.6 The economy of mercy and grace begins with creation, has its center in the death and Resurrection of the Incarnate Word, Jesus Christ, and comes to its completion in the new creation and in the deification of the elect.7 For noteworthy efforts of philosophical clarification that are as instructive as they are constructive, see (from an approach characteristic of contemporary natural science) Nicanor Austriaco, O.P., “The Specification of Sex/Gender in the Human Species: A Thomistic Analysis,” New Blackfriars 94 (2013): 701–15. For a metaphysical approach, see John Finley, “The Metaphysics of Gender: A Thomistic Approach,” The Thomist 79.4 (2015): 585–614; and for a social philosophical approach utilizing metaphysical concepts, see Charlotte Witt, The Metaphysics of Gender (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). 6 In his consideration of divine providence in Summa theologiae (ST) I, q. 22, a. 3, Aquinas distinguishes between, on the one hand, the type of things ordered to their respective ends (providentia in the strict sense) and, on the other hand, the execution of this order, gubernatio (providence in the wider sense, encompassing its very execution). In the following, “the extant order of divine providence” refers to the latter, the order of execution, or gubernatio, government. 7 Aquinas was, of course, first and foremost a magister in sacra pagina. Unsurprisingly, his biblical commentaries offer a rich resource for a deeper, nuanced, and scripturally informed understanding of divine mercy.Yet, tracing Aquinas’s interpretations of divine misericordia in his biblical commentaries far exceeds the scope of this essay. For an instructive first step in this direction and in conversation with modern biblical exegesis, see Yves Congar, O.P., “La miséricorde, attribute souverain de Dieu,” La vie spirituelle 482 (1962): 380–95. 5 440 Reinhard Hütter In one important respect, however, the economy of mercy and grace differs from the extant order of divine providence. When considered specifically, the economy of mercy and grace and the extant order of divine providence are not simply identical. Rather, there obtains a causal relationship between the two, for the root and origin of God’s providential government is indeed nothing but God’s mercy. The title of Pope Francis’s recent book-length conversation, The Name of God Is Mercy,8 echoes Thomas Aquinas, who already states, “Misericordia est Deo maxime attribuenda.”9 Mercy is most especially attributed to God, not, of course, in the sense of an emotion that God undergoes, but rather in the sense of an effect of God’s agency. This effect of divine mercy is of such an all-encompassing nature that, for the sake of clarity, it is advisable to distinguish between two aspects of divine mercy: primordial ontological mercy1, and redemptive and perfective mercy2. The latter, mercy2, is what we usually understand by mercy. But it is crucial to realize that mercy2 arises from and completely depends upon the primordial ontological mercy1. Why does this distinction matter and to what exactly do these two aspects of mercy refer? Mercy2 denotes the dynamic of gratuitous perfections being given by God in order to redeem and deify the human being; in short, mercy2 encompasses the economy of salvation, the whole ordo salutis centering in the death, Resurrection, and Ascension of the Incarnate Word, Jesus Christ.10 To bestow perfections pertains primarily to God’s goodness, but also to God’s justice (insofar as perfections are given to things in proportion), to God’s liberality (insofar as God does not bestow these perfections for God’s own use), and finally, to God’s mercy (insofar as they are given in order to expel defects). Aquinas states, “It does most properly [maxime] belong to Him to dispel that misery, whatever be the defect we call by that name.”11 Pope Francis, The Name of God Is Mercy: A Conversation with Andrea Tornielli, trans. Oonagh Stransky (New York: Random House, 2016). 9 ST I, q. 21, a. 3, corp. Latin citations from ST are taken from http://www. corpusthomisticum.org/iopera.html. 10 For the best recent Thomist treatise on Christology that articulates with great lucidity the very heart and center of the ordo salutis, see Thomas Joseph White, O.P., The Incarnate Lord: A Thomist Study in Christology (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2015). 11 ST I, q. 21, a. 3 corp.: “Repellere miseriam alterius, hoc maxime ei competit, ut per miseriam quemcumque defectum intelligamus.” All English citations 8 Human Sexuality in a Fallen World 441 This is redemptive and perfective mercy2. Crucially, mercy2 does not contradict, annul, or replace divine justice, but rather perfects it. As Aquinas observes, “God acts mercifully, not indeed by going against His justice, but by doing something more than justice. Mercy does not destroy justice, but in a sense is the fullness thereof. And thus it is said, ‘Mercy exalteth itself above judgment’” ( Jas 2:13).12 It might be worth considering what it would entail if redemptive and perfective mercy2 were not the perfection of divine justice but rather its contradiction, annulment, or replacement. It seems, for instance, that, under this supposition, the ecclesial practice of granting indulgences to the faithful would become, at best, an empty gesture, or worse, a strategy of simulation. Yet the practice of granting indulgences has been consistently affirmed by the universal magisterium and is universally accepted in the Catholic Church.13 But indulgences only make theological sense on the very presupposition that redemptive and perfective mercy2 is not a replacement or annulment of divine justice, but rather its very perfection. Hence it is crucial to understand that redemptive and perfective mercy2 presupposes divine justice. Yet it is equally important to grasp that divine justice, in turn, presupposes primordial ontological mercy1. If mercy is the removal of any kind of defect, then mercy, Aquinas argues, must be found in all of God’s works, including creation. But creation seems to presuppose nothing and, hence, as the objection states, “in creation neither mercy nor justice is found.”14 In response, Aquinas argues that, “although creation presupposes nothing in the universe; yet it does presuppose something in the knowledge of God. In this way too the idea of justice is preserved in creation; by the production of beings in a manner that accords with the divine wisdom and goodness. And the idea of from ST are taken from the translation of the Fathers of the English Dominican Province (New York: Benziger Bros., 1948; repr. 1981 by Christian Classics ), and alterations are indicated by English in square brackets. 12 ST I, q. 21, a. 3, ad 2: “Deus misericorditer agit, non quidem contra iustitiam suam faciendo, sed aliquid supra iustitiam operando. . . . Ex quo patet quod misericordia non tollit iustitiam, sed est quaedam iustitiae plenitudo. Unde dicitur Iac. II, quod misericordia superexaltat iudicium.” 13 See Catechism of the Catholic Church, §§1471–79. 14 ST I, q. 21, a. 4, obj. 4: “Praeterea, iustitiae est reddere debitum, misericordiae autem sublevare miseriam, et sic tam iustitia quam misericordia aliquid praesupponit in suo opere. Sed creatio nihil praesupponit. Ergo in creatione neque misericordia est, neque iustitia.” 442 Reinhard Hütter mercy, also, is preserved in the change of creatures from non-existence to existence.”15 This understanding of the primordial ontological mercy1 is echoed when Aquinas discusses the virtue of mercy in question 30 of the Summa theologiae (ST) II-II. In article 4, he considers whether mercy is the greatest of virtues. He states, “In itself, mercy takes precedence of other virtues, for it belongs to mercy to be bountiful to others, and, what is more, to succor others in their wants, which pertains chiefly to one who stands above. Hence mercy is accounted as being proper to God: and therein His omnipotence is declared to be chiefly manifested.”16 This surpassing manifestation of divine omnipotence is nothing but the primordial ontological mercy1. For, the effect of the primordial ontological mercy1 is the dare esse, the granting of gratuitous participation in the act of being and, thereby, the removal, so to speak, of the deficiency of the non-existence of creatures. Consequently, mercy1 is the ontological origin of all effects of mercy2. Aquinas concludes, “So in every work of God, viewed at its primary source, there appears mercy. In all that follows, the power of mercy remains, and works indeed with ever greater force; as the influence of the first cause is more intense than that of second causes.”17 Hence, even grace comes by way of being, as the eminent German Thomist philosopher Ferdinand Ulrich18 used to say, the first effect of primordial ontological mercy1. And consequently, the concrete economy of mercy and grace presupposes not only divine justice but also the reality of creation, the effect of the primordial ontological mercy1. ST I, q. 21, a. 4, ad 4: “Licet creationi non praesupponatur aliquid in rerum natura, praesupponitur tamen aliquid in Dei cognitione. Et secundum hoc etiam salvatur ibi ratio iustitiae, inquantum res in esse producitur, secundum quod convenit divinae sapientiae et bonitati. Et salvatur quodammodo ratio misericordiae, inquantum res de non esse in esse mutatur.” 16 ST II-II, q. 30, a. 4, corp.: “Secundum se quidem misericordia maxima est. Pertinet enim ad misericordiam quod alii effundat; et, quod plus est, quod defectus aliorum sublevet; et hoc est maxime superioris. Unde et misereri ponitur proprium Deo, et in hoc maxime dicitur eius omnipotentia manifestari.” 17 ST I, q. 21, a. 4, corp.: “Et sic in quolibet opere Dei apparet misericordia, quantum ad primam radicem eius. Cuius virtus salvatur in omnibus consequentibus; et etiam vehementius in eis operatur, sicut causa primaria vehementius influit quam causa secunda.” 18 Ferdinand Ulrich, Homo Abyssus: Das Wagnis der Seinsfrage, introd. by Martin Bieler, 2nd ed. (Einsiedeln: Johannes Verlag, 1998), 111. 15 Human Sexuality in a Fallen World 443 Yet it is important to realize that the primordial ontological mercy1 is, in turn, not without its own proper presupposition. For, the dare esse, the granting of the gratuitous participation in the act of being that is the first effect of primordial ontological mercy1, is posterior to God’s ideas (rationes).19 Since the divine ideas are only notionally different from the divine essence, they antecede the dare esse logically as well as ontologically.20 Yet, because God does have providence over all things immediately in the ideas of the divine mind, including natural causes and the operations of animals, the first aspect of divine providence, providentia in the strict sense, is eternal and, therefore, not the subject of primordial ontological mercy1, but rather an entailment of divine knowledge. Hence, while providentia in the strict sense pertains to God’s essence, primordial ontological mercy1 and the extant order of divine providence or governance, in contrast, pertain to God’s works. In summary, in the logical order of the divine names as they pertain to God’s works, primordial ontological mercy1 antecedes divine justice,21 and redemptive and perfective mercy2 follows upon divine justice.22 Divine mercy thus does not abolish but rather envelopes and perfects divine justice. There is no redemptive and perfective mercy2 without the antecedent divine justice, and there is no divine justice without the antecedent ontological mercy1. Divine justice, the execution of divine wisdom, qualifies mercy1, the effect of divine goodness and liberality, and thereby provides the basis for mercy2. Mercy2 is a quite unique perfection of mercy1 insofar as it does not—like the ontological mercy1—pertain to all creatures, but rather specifically to rational creatures, angels and humans, and their ordination to beatitude. Aquinas states that “not every defect can properly be called a misery; but only a defect in a rational nature whose lot is to be happy; for misery is opposed to happiness [ felicitas].”23 The For an excellent discussion of this important but complex topic in Aquinas’s theology, see Gregory T. Doolan, Aquinas on the Divine Ideas as Exemplary Causes (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2008). 20 ST I, q. 15, a. 1, ad 3. 21 ST I, q. 21, a. 4, corp.: “The work of divine justice always presupposes the work of mercy; and is founded thereupon.” (“Opus autem divinae iustitiae semper praesupponit opus misericordiae, et in eo fundatur.”) 22 See the citation of ST I, q. 21, a. 3, ad 2, in note 12 above. 23 ST I, q. 21, a. 4, corp.: “Quamvis non omnis defectus proprie possit dici miseria, sed solum defectus rationalis naturae, quam contingit esse felicem; nam miseria felicitati opponitur.” 19 444 Reinhard Hütter effect of the primordial ontological mercy1 is creaturely existence as specified by divine wisdom in the extant order of divine providence; the effect of redemptive and perfective mercy2 is the special help that humans—finite, fallible, and wounded by original and actual sin—receive in order to attain beatitude. Both mercy1 and mercy2 are ultimately effects of divine omnipotence and informed by divine wisdom, and therefore, one can rightly say that the surpassing manifestation of divine omnipotence is mercy. The double gratuity of the effects of mercy1 and mercy2—creaturely existence and the salvation and deification of the rational creature—presuppose a horizon of needfulness, first, of absolute ontological “poverty” (as per Ferdinand Ulrich), the utter inability of every creature to establish and sustain its existence on its own, and second, of the woundedness of human nature due to original and actual sin and the consequent estrangement from God. Without a keen and explicit awareness in the life of faith, as well as in theology, of the absolute ontological needfulness from which primordial mercy1 lifts all creatures by way of the dare esse and the ongoing sustaining of their existence, thus putting every creature into a real relation with God, and the woundedness of human nature and consequent estrangement from God by sin, from which mercy2 saves sinners and restores them to friendship with God—in short, without a keen and explicit awareness of the infinite gratuitous condescension of God to the creature and to the sinner— the very notion of divine mercy stands in grave danger of corruption into some form of divine necessitism. Such an erroneous necessitism of divine mercy usually takes either a theocentric and ontological or an anthropocentric and pseudo-ethical form. Two Forms of an Erroneous Necessitism of Divine Mercy Theocentric ontological necessitism of divine mercy characteristically conceives of creation as the dynamic excess of a divine life of love that is irrepressibly diffusive of itself and of salvation as the irresistible return of the excess to its source and, thus, culminates in a comprehensive universalism, the apokatastasis tōn pantōn, that, in virtue of the logical necessity of the system, also includes the salvation of Satan. The most brilliant twentieth-century articulation of such a necessitism of divine mercy can be found in Sergius Bulgakov’s grandiose speculative synthesis of creation and salvation articulated most extensively in The Bride Human Sexuality in a Fallen World 445 of the Lamb.24 Bulgakov’s subtle, sublime, and nevertheless profoundly problematic account of a thoroughgoing theocentric necessitism turns on the exitus and reditus of the created sophia from and into the Divine Sophia, an account that makes the primordial ontological mercy1 identical with the divine essence such that the Triune God is essentially Creator, and the divine Sophia, the life of the Triune God, diffuses itself, therefore, unavoidably and folds mercy2 completely into mercy1 as its soteriological recapitulation and return. Divine mercy is not a matter of an infinite and infinitely free and gratuitous divine condescension, but rather a matter of the dynamic excess of divine being, love, and life, an essential property issuing in a necessary modality of the divine life, Sophia, uncreated as well as created. A much more problematic and theologically far less benign and infinitely less beautiful, indeed outright appalling, form of the necessitism of divine mercy is its modern anthropocentric and quasi-ethical instantiation. It is a quite amorphous and widespread phenomenon that John Henry Newman encountered already in the Church of England in the earlier parts of the nineteenth century, a phenomenon he characterized as “the religion natural to a civilized age.” In his sermon “The Religion of the Day,” he asks, “What is the world’s religion now? It has taken the brighter side of the Gospel,—its tidings of comfort, its precepts of love; all darker, deeper views of man’s condition and prospects being comparatively forgotten. This is the religion natural to a civilized age, and well has Satan dressed and completed it into an idol of the Truth.”25 In an increasingly anthropocentric rendition of the Christian faith— one increasingly deformed by the late-modern self-image of subjective sovereignty, the granting of divine mercy turns into a human entitlement. The anthropocentric reconstitution of the Christian faith in its rationalistic strand (to be contrasted with its pietistic strand) includes God as just another moral agent into an encompassing, univocal ethical framework, a framework that, by the sheer necessity of its conceptual constitution, puts God in the dock. God is on trial, and at stake is God’s acquittal in light of his alleged causation, or at least permission, of evil, especially horrendous evil. This is the project of modern rationalistic theodicy, the seemingly benign cousin of atheism. Let me Sergius Bulgakov, The Bride of the Lamb, trans. Boris Jakim (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2001). 25 John Henry Newman, Plain and Parochial Sermons I (London: Longmans, Green 1907), 311–12. 24 446 Reinhard Hütter explain: on the supposition that God is omnipotent, omniscient, and good, so the reasoning goes, God must be ultimately responsible for natural and moral evil and, therefore, also for human failure and sin and all the suffering that comes along with it.26 One could, of course, remove the divine attributes of omnipotence and omniscience, but such a severely amputated deity is hardly worth putting into the dock in the first place, for it appears all too human. Hence—on the supposition of divine omnipotence, omniscience, and goodness—there remains only one possibility for an acquittal, for a successful theodicy: the commitment of the deity to the moral obligation of a complete and even surpassing restitution, if not in this life then in the life to come, that means comprehensive divine indulgence in this life and universal salvation in the life to come, with all of this understood as the just restitution of the claimant and the necessary condition for the acquittal of the accused. Lest the deity in the dock be faced with the death sentence (the declaration of the non-existence of the accused), the reception of unqualified divine mercy in the form of universal divine indulgence and salvation can be nothing but a just entitlement of the sovereign subject. In short, universal indulgence and salvation is the only way that the deity in the dock may acquit himself—in light of the reality of evil, sin, and suffering—from the charge of neglect of due diligence as creator and governor of the universe. As an exemplary rendition of this quasi-ethical necessitism of divine mercy that the sovereign subject claims as an entitlement may serve the well-known death-bed remark by the nineteenth-century German writer and poet Heinrich Heine, who actually quotes Voltaire: “Of course God will forgive me; that’s his job.” Most often, this quasi-ethical necessitism of divine mercy is not formulated quite as stridently, but in more subtle, subdued, and only partially conscious ways in much of contemporary anthropocentric faith and piety, be it Catholic or Protestant. When claimed as an entitlement to universal divine indulgence, divine mercy ceases to be mercy, and the sin of presumption is mistaken for the sovereign subject’s just moral claim upon the Creator. For a remarkably thorough and profound theological investigation from a theocentric Thomist perspective that treats the problem of evil, the fall, and human existence under sin in the context of a thorough Augustinian-Thomist defense of divine mercy as the first cause of all of God’s works, see the treatise of Aloysius M. Ciappi, O.P., who later became a cardinal and was a distinguished theologian of the pontifical household from 1955 to 1989: De divina misericordia ut prima causa operum Dei (Rome: Scuola Tipographica Missionaria Domenicana, Convento di S. Sisto Vecchio, 1935). 26 Human Sexuality in a Fallen World 447 In his homily from March 3, 2016 in the chapel of the Vatican’s Santa Marta guest house, Pope Francis addressed this self-deceptive attitude of entitlement by emphasizing that only when we recognize ourselves as sinners can we receive God’s mercy. Recognizing ourselves as sinners presupposes a keen awareness not first and foremost of God’s mercy, but rather of God’s surpassing holiness, majesty, and justice and of humanity’s—that is, our own—profound woundedness by sin, original and actual—what Newman calls “all darker, deeper views of man’s condition and prospects,”—an awareness that the anthropocentric religion of subjective sovereignty, “the religion natural to a civilized age,” systemically suppresses. Yet, without such a keen awareness, rooted in divine revelation and received in divine faith, we humans are unable to understand and appreciate the utter astonishment and wonder of the Psalmist, who asks in Psalm 8, “What are human beings that you are mindful of them, mortals that you care for them?” (Ps 8:4, NRSV), and we are consequently unable to conceive of divine mercy as something extraordinary. Why should I long for, hope for, and rejoice in God’s infinite mercy when I am actually entitled to the everlasting indulgence of the deity in the dock? Primordial ontological mercy1 is only mercy when seen as the utterly free and sovereign effect of the divine will as informed by divine wisdom, and redemptive and perfective mercy2 is only mercy when it is understood as the utterly free gratuity of an eternal divine decree that does not abolish, but rather perfects, divine justice. When hardened into the attitude of putative sovereignty and assumed self-righteousness, modern subjects are constitutively incapable of recognizing in surpassing gratitude the primordial ontological mercy1 to which they owe their very lives and of receiving in utter humility and joy the redemptive and perfective mercy2 that restores them to their eternal destiny of surpassing happiness. Mistaken for a morallynecessary universal divine indulgence due to humanity for acquitting the deity in the dock from the charge of culpable negligence, mercy becomes an entitlement in service of the subject’s putative sovereignty, a widespread form of de facto practical atheism in many corners of late-modern, putatively-enlightened Catholic and Protestant Christianity “come of age” in the Western Hemisphere, where the self-image of the subjective sovereignty is taking an ever stronger, albeit contested, hold of the collective imagination. Avoiding such a false necessitism of divine mercy is greatly assisted by recovering the ontological foundation of divine mercy in the metaphysics of creation. It is to this topic that we must turn now. 448 Reinhard Hütter Mercy1 and Mercy2: Ontological and Soteriological Participation Aquinas’s metaphysics of creation rests on the fundamental principle “creare est dare esse,” that to create is to grant each creature a participation in its respective actus essendi. This principle marks the primordial onto-theological difference between the source of all being, the transcendent, infinite, and perfect self-subsistent Being, ipsum esse subsistens, and each respective participating actus essendi, terminating in the participating datum, the gift of the contingent existence of discrete creatures. It signifies in metaphysical terms both the source and the effect of the primordial ontological mercy1. The ontological reality of the natural participation of all finite beings in their respective actus essendi allows Aquinas to consider analogically the surpassing supernatural participation of the rational creature in the divine nature.27 This supernatural participation rests on sanctifying grace as its quasi-ontological foundation and is realized in the acts of the supernatural habitus of charity, the most eminent of the three infused theological virtues, issuing in an inchoative union with God. This is the effect of the redemptive and perfective mercy2. The whole economy of mercy and grace, considered comprehensively (comprising mercy1 and mercy2 ),thus encompasses the orders of natural participation of all creatures in their respective actus essendi and of supernatural inchoative participation of rational creatures in the life of the Triune God. How does this dynamic participation (the economy of mercy and grace) unfold, and what are its characteristic features? According to the ontological constitution and the teleological dynamism of finite being, each creature is first and foremost directed to its own perfection, to the full actualization of its specific nature. Simultaneously, by way of the self-same actualization of its specific nature, every On the topic of deification in the teaching of Thomas Aquinas, see the two important recent studies: Bernhard Blankenhorn, O.P., The Mystery of Union with God: Dionysian Mysticism in Albert the Great and Thomas Aquinas (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2015); and Daria Spezzano, The Glory of God’s Grace: Deification According to St. Thomas Aquinas (Ave Maria, FL: Sapientia Press, 2015). See also the magisterial account offered by Marcelo Sánchez Sorondo, La gracia como participación de la naturaleza divina según Santo Tomas de Aquino (Salamanca, ES: Universidad Pontificia, 1979), and Sorondo, “La grazia come partecipazione della natura divina: Implicazioni antropologiche dei misteri della fede Cristiana,” Doctor Communis: Review of the Pontifical Academy of St. Thomas (2014): 83–93. 27 Human Sexuality in a Fallen World 449 creature is directed to the twofold good of the universe: the order among the parts and the ordering of the whole universe to God.28 Nothing short of the universe’s perfection is the fitting manifestation of God’s wisdom and goodness. Toward that end, Aquinas argues, God created an abundance of diverse beings with a plethora of different perfections in order that the universe as a whole may more perfectly manifest and participate God’s goodness. Creatures do precisely that, not simply by participating their respective actus essendi, but to a much greater degree by imitating God through their characteristic operations, thereby causing—proportionate to their specific natures—distinct states of being. For this very reason, Aquinas argues, God created all things in a state of potency to their specific type of operation, which is the full realization of their specific nature. By realizing their specific nature through these acts, all creatures contribute to the perfection of the universe. These secondary perfections are the way each creature participates the eternal law, the ratio by way of which God governs the universe—that is, establishes and executes the extant order of providence.29 God’s ratio, the eternal law, has imprinted upon all creatures natural inclinations to their proper natural ends. Precisely by following their natural inclinations, all creatures pursue their own perfection and contribute to the perfection of the whole universe.30 Yet, God’s wisdom ordains that the perfection of the universe transcends the finality proportionate to finite created natures, that it transcends the perfection that arises from the participation of all beings in their respective actus essendi. The only possible participation that transcends the participation of finite beings in their actus essendi must be an utterly unique and surpassingly mysterious participation in the transcendent infinite and perfect self-subsisting Being, the ipsum esse subsistens—in short, nothing but a kind of participation in the divine nature itself. For this surpassing end, God has created rational creatures (angels and humans) as dynamic images of the See esp. Summa contra gentiles I, ch. 29; III, chs. 23–32. On this topic, now available in English, see the important essay by Charles de Koninck, “The Primacy of the Common Good against the Personalists,” in The Writings of Charles de Koninck, vol. 2, ed. and trans. Ralph McInerny (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2009), 63–108. 29 For a lucid discussion of this complex topic, see John Rziha, Perfecting Human Actions: St. Thomas Aquinas on Human Participation in Eternal Law (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2009). 30 See ST I-II, q. 91, a. 2; q. 94, a. 2. 28 450 Reinhard Hütter divine Triune exemplar.31 Their perfect realization as images consists in their union with the divine exemplar, a participation in the divine nature that surpasses infinitely the participation in their respective actus essendi. Because God is a trinity of subsistent relations, persons in the fullest ontological sense,32 participation of the created image in the divine exemplar occurs by way of a conformation to the image of the Trinity. This conformation, flowing from the divine nature, is realized by way of the operations characteristic of the specific faculties rational creatures are endowed with, intellect and will. Aquinas states: God is in all things by His essence, power, and presence, according to His one common mode, as the cause existing in the effects which participate in His goodness. Above and beyond this common mode, however, there is one special mode belonging to the rational nature wherein God is said to be present as the object known is in the knower, and the beloved in the lover. And since the rational creature by its operation of knowledge and love attains to God Himself, according to this special mode God is said not only to exist in the rational creature, but also to dwell therein as in His own temple.33 Elected by God to this surpassing final end, the blessed qua creatures participate not only in their respective actus essendi, but rather, qua deified persons, also in the divine life and beatitude of the Triune God. Aquinas posits this divine ordinatio of humanity’s final supernatural end in the very first article of the ST: “[The human being] is directed to God, as to an end that surpasses the grasp of his reason.” Then he quotes the Vulgate rendition of a crucial passage he returns to frequently when considering the supernatural final end to which humanity is ordained. It is Isaiah 64:4, a passage that the Apostle Paul ST I, q. 93, aa. 1 and 3. ST I, q. 29, a. 4. 33 ST I, q. 43, a. 3: “Est enim unus communis modus quo Deus est in omnibus rebus per essentiam, potentiam et praesentiam, sicut causa in effectibus participantibus bonitatem ipsius. Super istum modum autem communem, est unus specialis, qui convenit creaturae rationali, in qua Deus dicitur esse sicut cognitum in cognoscente et amatum in amante. Et quia, cognoscendo et amando, creatura rationalis sua operatione attingit ad ipsum Deum, secundum istum specialem modum Deus non solum dicitur esse in creatura rationali, sed etiam habitare in ea sicut in templo suo.” 31 32 Human Sexuality in a Fallen World 451 quotes in 1 Corinthians 2:9: “The eye has not seen, O God, besides Thee, what things Thou hast prepared for them that wait for Thee.”34 In order to carry out this ordinatio of his wisdom, God, “who moves all things to their due ends”35 and thereby orders all things sweetly, adds supernatural forms to the natural powers of the rational creatures. The first of these supernatural forms, sanctifying grace, poured into the very essence of the soul, is the ontological principle and root of all the other supernatural forms or habitus, the theological virtues, the infused moral virtues, and the gifts of the Holy Spirit.36 Thus, their intellect being informed by the theological virtue of faith and their will by the theological virtue of charity, the elect become, through faith and charity, inchoatively participators “of the divine Word and of the Love proceeding, so as freely to know God truly and to love God rightly.”37 Among these supernaturally infused theological virtues, charity is of surpassing eminence, first because charity is a certain participation of the Holy Spirit in which all the gifts of the Holy Spirit are rooted. Secondly and even more importantly, charity is of surpassing eminence because, already in this life of the viator, charity affords an inchoative union with God. It is for this very reason Aquinas maintains that God is present in the souls of the just not only as the transcendent First Efficient Cause by his essence, power, and presence, but also as an object of the love of charity and of the connatural knowledge concomitant with charity and, hence, as a guest and friend. The formal cause of the indwelling of the Blessed Trinity is this quasi-experiential knowledge rooted in sanctifying grace and afforded by the love of charity and its connatural knowledge of the beloved.38 ST I, q. 1, a. 1: “Homo ordinatur ad Deum sicut ad quendam finem qui comprehensionem rationis excedit, secundum illud Isaiae LXIV, oculus non vidit Deus absque te, quae praeparasti diligentibus te.” 35 ST II-II, q. 23, a. 2: “Unde Deus, qui omnia movet ad debitos fines, singulis rebus indidit formas per quas inclinantur ad fines sibi praestitutos a Deo, et secundum hoc disponit omnia suaviter, ut dicitur Sap. VIII.” 36 ST I, q. 43, a. 3, ad 2: “Sanctifying grace disposes the soul to possess the divine person [Gratia gratum faciens disponit animam ad habendam divinam personam].” 37 ST I, q. 38, a. 1. 38 The infused habitus of sanctifying grace and the quasi-experiential knowledge of charity are conjoined formal causes of the indwelling of the Trinity. See Barthélemy Froget, O.P., The Indwelling of the Holy Spirit in the Souls of the Just According to the Teaching of St. Thomas Aquinas, trans. Sydney A. Raemers (Westminster, MD: Newman Press, 1952), and for a more comprehensive 34 452 Reinhard Hütter This is, according to Aquinas, in a nutshell, the encompassing economy of mercy and grace that has as its end the deification and eternal beatitude of the rational creature. The whole sacramental order is one distinct expression of redemptive and perfective mercy2, including especially the sacrament of marriage.39 After having considered the overarching dynamic of this participation and its central features, we must turn to one central underlying structure characteristic of the rational creature—the order of reason. The Order of Reason (ordo rationis) in the Extant Supernatural Order of Mercy and Grace When considering the order of reason, it is of the utmost importance to remember that, according to Aquinas, the extant order of providence is a supernatural order, one in which, from the first moment of human creation, humanity was ordained for and called to communion in the life of the Blessed Trinity, an order of providence in which the divine life of charity was shared with humanity, was lost with the fall, and was regained—merited, to be precise—by Christ in his Passion on the Cross.40 It is important to keep this in mind because, whenever Aquinas invokes the order of reason to which the virtues conform, he understands it to be in accordance with the truth of real things as they pertain to the extant order of providence. It is a theonomic order of a fundamentally supernatural orientation that participates variously in the eternal law and encompasses both nature and grace. It is precisely this order that is implicitly or explicitly rejected by the two dominant self-images of the age. For gnostic angelism, even the suggestion of an order of reason is already offensive, for subjective sovereignty suffers only order that arises from the subject’s sovereign will—if not de facto, so at least according to the self-image’s projected ideal state of affairs. For materialist animalism, an order of reason is simply unintelligible, at best a useful figment of the human imagination. As an epiphenomenon of the brain’s biochemical processes, the mind and its operation (reasoning) can, at its very best, be taken as a very unique, evolutionary-advanced tool of the super-primate and conceptually more penetrating study that compares and contrasts Aquinas’s account with those of St. Albert the Great, St. Bonaventure, and other interlocutors, see Francis L. B. Cunningham, O.P., The Indwelling of the Trinity: A Historico-Doctrinal Study of the Theory of St. Thomas Aquinas (Dubuque, IA: Priory Press, 1955). 39 See ST III, q. 65, a. 1. 40 See ST III, q. 48, esp. a. 1, but also aa. 2–6. Human Sexuality in a Fallen World 453 that the human is, a tool serving the purpose of fulfilling basic and advanced desires and, ultimately, of securing, if not ongoing, at least frequently recurring states of sensual pleasure. At this point at the latest it becomes obvious that, in the dispute with the two dominant self-images of the age, the order of reason in Aquinas’s discourse takes on the function of a first principle. When I use the term “first principle” here, I do not use it in the sense of a first principle or cause in the metaphysical order, as Aquinas himself would have understood the term, for the order of reason is not a first principle in this sense. Rather, I use it in the sense of a first principle in the order of controversy and disputation as, significantly, John Henry Newman understands it. At the end of the tenth of his famous Fifteen Sermons Preached Before the University of Oxford, he states the following: “Half the controversies in the world are verbal ones; and could they be brought to a plain issue, they would be brought to a prompt termination. Parties engaged in them would then perceive, either that in substance they agreed together, or that their difference was one of first principles. . . . When men understand what each other mean, they see, for the most part, that controversy is either superfluous or hopeless.”41 I take the order of reason to be a first principle in precisely this sense, and it is for this very reason that, in the following, I shall not attempt to argue for the truth of the order of reason, but rather, supposing its truth, I shall simply describe how Aquinas understands it. For Catholics who have not forgotten the twofold order of knowledge (duplex ordo cognitionis) to which the First Vatican Council’s Dogmatic Constitution on the Catholic Faith, Dei Filius, refers, this should be a matter of course, and no prima facie argument will convince those beholden by one or the other of the two dominant self-images of the age that the order of reason indeed obtains. To become convinced of this requires long and complex processes of deliberation at the end of which some might change their mind and come to acknowledge and participate in the order of reason. Such participation will eventually begin to immunize such a participant in the order of reason against the errors of angelism and animalism. The fact that, contrary to our age, Aquinas could simply suppose the order of reason and appeal to it does not display his intellectual naiveté, as some might be all too eager to assume, but rather the depth John Henry Newman, Fifteen Sermons Preached Before the University of Oxford Between A.D. 1826 and 1843, introd. by Mary Katherine Tillman (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997), 200–01. 41 454 Reinhard Hütter to which our age is intellectually intoxicated with one or the other of the dominant self-images. Unaffected by such intoxication but under the influence of the divine illumination of the human mind by the virtue of faith, Aquinas perceives three essential entailments in the order of reason as it pertains to human sexuality. The first entailment is that the rational creature not obstruct the procreative purpose that is immanent to the sexual power,42 but rather fulfill it in marriage with its threefold good of fides (spousal faithfulness and friendship), proles (children), and sacramentum (instrumentality of salvation).43 The order of reason implies, second, that the moral integrity of the human person remains intact and, third, that justice (what is due to the other person) be maintained among all persons (especially spouses, parents, and children preconceived, preborn, and born).44 Contrary to the overwhelming modern secular departure from this understanding (and thereby from an accurate perception of the natural law), it is the case, according to Aquinas, that procuring venereal pleasure and engaging in sexual acts outside of marriage contradicts the order of reason (which, for the rational creature, is the order of nature) and consists in an act against the virtue of justice. The order of reason in sexual matters is realized by the virtue of chastity.45 Josef Pieper aptly states what is at stake in the virtue of chastity: What we are concerned with here is that the purpose of sex as it was intended originally in the first creation, and ennobled by Christ in the New Creation, . . . the existential structure of the moral person, as established in nature and in grace; . . . [and] For a compelling personalist development of Aquinas’s principles, see Chad Engelland, “The Personal Significance of Sexual Reproduction,” The Thomist 79.4 (2015): 615–39. 43 See Pope Francis, Post-Synodal Apostolic Exhortation Amoris Laetitia, §§72, 80–81. 44 See Pope Francis, Amoris Laetitia, §172. Admittedly, Aquinas holds that the relations between family members are too close for justice to work there properly. These relations must therefore operate on the basis of charity. But it would be wrong to understand charity as the poor substitute and stop-gap for justice. Rather, because justice does not work well in these relations, it is the surpassing perfection of justice—charity—that has to intervene in order to perfect what justice lacks. However, charity can only do so, of course, where it obtains. Absent charity, justice—supported by natural predilection of one’s own children—will have to suffice. 45 See Pope Francis, Amoris Laetitia, §206. 42 Human Sexuality in a Fallen World 455 the order among [humans] as guaranteed not merely by natural justice, but also by the higher justice of caritas, that is, supernatural love of God and man. Chastity realizes in the province of sex the order which corresponds to the truth of the world and of [humans] both as experienced and as revealed, and which accords with the twofold form of this truth—not that of unveiled evidence alone, but that of veiled evidence also—that is, of mystery.46 The infused virtue of chastity is one instantiation of the redemptive and perfective mercy2 in the healing and full restoration of the order of reason. The widespread late modern intellectual and volitional departure from the order of reason in sexual matters and the simultaneous widespread contempt for the virtue of chastity might arguably be directly proportional to the extent to which and to the intensity with which one or the other of the two dominant self-images of the age are embraced. Yet, when considered theologically, the problem goes, of course, quite a bit deeper than the embrace of angelism and animalism. In order to understand the full scope of what is entailed in the restoration of the order of reason, especially as it pertains to human sexuality, we must consider Aquinas’s analysis of the woundedness of human nature brought about by human sin, original and actual. The Wounds of Human Nature Consequent Upon Original and Actual Sin As is well known, Aquinas affirms Augustine’s theology of evil and sin but undergirds it with a more robust metaphysics of participation. Evil (malum) is a partial privation of good and, more specifically, the absence of a specific good that is due. Sin (peccatum) is the absence of a due act, interior or exterior, in reference to God. Sin cannot undo the primary perfection, the subsistent terminus of the act of being, which is the essence of the rational creature. Sin does, however, have a profoundly negative impact on the secondary perfections, the realization of the good of a rational creature by way of that creature’s actions or omission of actions. Because this is a matter of considerable importance for the overall topic, I shall attend at this point more closely to Aquinas’s analysis. Josef Pieper, The Four Cardinal Virtues (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1966), 158. 46 456 Reinhard Hütter In the first article within question 85 of ST I-II, Aquinas asks whether and, if so, how precisely sin diminishes the good of human nature. In his answer, he distinguishes between three distinct but correlated goods of human nature. The first good of human nature is its primary perfection—the essential principles that constitute human nature and the properties that belong to it, such as the faculties or powers of the rational soul (the intellect, the will, and the sense appetites). The second good of human nature is the natural inclination to virtue.47 Every form causes a corresponding inclination. Hence, the inclination that results from the substantial form of the body—the rational soul—is ordered toward and actualizes itself, first in actions in accord with reason and subsequently respective to acquired habitus, the virtues. The third good of human nature pertains to humanity’s state of integral nature. In order to indicate the distinct difference of this third good from the other two, Aquinas sends a subtle linguistic signal. The gift of original righteousness, conferred on the whole human nature in the person of the first human being, may be called (potest dici) a good of nature. It is, quite obviously, a good of human nature for its properties to be rightly ordered and, hence, to be rightly ordered internally in regard to the order of reason (reason ruling the sense appetites), as well as externally in regard to the source of all being (reason being perfected by God and subject to God in all things). Because this good of human nature orders humans rightly to what infinitely transcends the created nature as such, it is a good that is not proportionate to the powers of human nature and, hence, a good uniquely distinct from the first and the second goods of nature. It therefore was later called “preternatural,” in contradistinction from “supernatural,” the latter being the principle of the divine life itself. Aquinas’s characterization of the three goods of human nature reflects his consistent integration of a metaphysical analysis (the first and the second good of human nature corresponding to the primary and the secondary perfections of each creature) within the dominant framework of the economy of salvation (the third good of human nature, the state of integral nature). The first and the second good pertain to human nature considered ontologically. The third good of human nature pertains to the proper internal ordering of the faculties of this created nature in its historical existence as personally related to an essentially transcendent reality. This concrete and gratuitously See ST I-II, q. 60, a. 1; q. 63, a. 1. 47 Human Sexuality in a Fallen World 457 granted internal ordering of all faculties and their ordering in a real relation to God entails an accidental perfection of human nature that surpasses its ontological constitution. Aquinas’s careful way of indicating that this integral nature may be called (postest dici) a good of nature signals a subtle analogical shift in the meaning of nature, a shift from nature identifying the essence or the quiddity of the species—that is, what constitutes human nature quasi de iure—to nature signifying now the inclusion of a perfection that human nature de facto received when first created. The three goods of human nature together constitute the state of integral nature. According to Aquinas, the state of original righteousness—which, in the extant order of divine providence, from the first instance of the creation of the human being onward, is identical with the state of integral nature— includes from the first moment of the creation of human nature also the gratuitous gift of sanctifying grace, the principle of the divine life infused in the human soul. From its very inception, humanity not only was ordered toward becoming partakers in the life of the Triune God but also received all the special divine help that allowed it to exist instantaneously in the state of inchoative friendship with God, the beginning of the journey of deification. This and nothing less is the original paradigmatic context of virtuous, uncorrupt human sexuality and, simultaneously, the horizon in which redeemed sexuality, marital or virginal, comes to stand. From the consideration of human nature in its integrity, Aquinas turns to the consideration of human nature as wounded by original and actual sin. The first mentioned good of human nature, the essential principles of human nature and their properties, are neither destroyed nor diminished by sin. The third good of human nature, human nature rightly ordered to God—original righteousness—is entirely destroyed by original sin. The second good of human nature, the natural inclination to virtue, however, is not destroyed by sin, but it is diminished. Human nature, Aquinas observes, has received four wounds consequent upon original and actual sin: weakness, ignorance, malice, and concupiscence. Unsurprisingly, Aquinas considers wounded nature in reference to integral human nature. Integral human nature, as mentioned above, includes the third good of human nature, in virtue of which reason had a perfect hold over the lower parts of the soul (the sense appetites), while reason itself was perfected by God and subject to God. Consequent upon original sin, all powers of the soul are left destitute of their proper order, whereby they are natu- 458 Reinhard Hütter rally directed to virtue. It is this destitution of proper order that Aquinas has in mind when he discusses the four wounds of human nature consequent upon sin. The essential powers or faculties of the soul that can be the subject of virtue are the reason, the will, the irascible sense appetite, and the concupiscible sense appetite, and each of these powers has been wounded by sin. The wound of ignorance pertains to reason, in which prudence resides. Reason is weakened in its perception of the order to the true, especially in regard to moral matters—that is, the unambiguous perception of the precepts of the natural law and the proper specification of actions according to them. The wound of malice pertains to the will, in which justice resides: the will is weakened in its orientation to the true good. The wound of weakness pertains to the irascible sense appetite, in which fortitude resides and which is weakened in its orientation to overcoming what is arduous. The wound of concupiscence pertains to the concupiscible sense-appetite, in which temperance resides. The concupiscible sense appetite is weakened in its proper orientation to the delectable moderated by reason. These four wounds of human nature are the consequence of original and actual sin. All human beings, with the exception of the Blessed Virgin and those who live in the extant order of divine providence without ever committing a mortal sin, still live under a condition in which the four essential powers of their souls that can be subject to virtue are severely diminished in relationship to the proper order whereby they are naturally directed to virtue.48 The historical condition of fallen human nature is such that the proper orderedness characteristic of the natural directedness of all powers toward virtue is profoundly disturbed and that some divine auxilium seems to be required in order to account for the proper operation even of the acquired virtues.49 Through actual sin, reason is made dull (first and foremost, in moral matters) and the will, absorbed by counterfeit goods, is hardened against the good to be pursued according to right reason. Hence, theologically considered, the embrace of the two dominant self-images of the age is, in a complex and non-linear way, related to the wounds of the intellect, the will, and the irascible and the concupiscible sense appetites consequent upon sin. Granted, the distinct reasons that make a particular person hic et nunc embrace the one or the other of the dominant self-images or move back from See ST I-II, q. 109, a. 8. See ST I-II, q. 109, a. 6, corp. and ad 2; q. 109, a. 7. 48 49 Human Sexuality in a Fallen World 459 one to the other remain most often implicit and even upon reflection the reasons a person might give hic et nunc for moving back and forth are not necessarily identical with the full range of the de facto reasons involved. The explicit reasons a person gives will much more likely reflect the ideological program promoted by one or the other of the two respective self-images. While the individual reasons for embracing the one or the other of these self-images remain largely untraceable, when considered as collective constructs, the self-images lend themselves, nevertheless, to a theological analysis of their attractiveness, as well as their deficiency, in relation to the order of reason and the economy of mercy and grace. Given Aquinas’s analysis of human nature wounded by sin, the question must finally be posed of what difference this analysis makes when applied to the theological consideration of human sexuality. Human Sexuality in a Fallen World: An Economy of Mercy and Grace Human sexuality is obviously part of the human condition in a fallen world, and Augustine offered a profound and deeply influential theological phenomenology of “fallen sexuality” as it takes shape in the context of the disordered human desires authoritatively named by the Apostle John as “the lust of the flesh and the lust of the eyes and the pride of life” (1 John 2:16). Augustine holds that, in the world of destitution and due to original sin, it is only in an insuperably problematic way that humans experience sexual desire and are able to consummate sexual activity.50 As is well known, Aquinas did not adopt Augustine’s view without what he regarded to be friendly amendments and respectful correctives. Sanctifying grace (the sacramental order), together with the theological and infused virtues and the gifts of the Holy Spirit, can have, according to Aquinas, such a healing and sanctifying impact on human nature wounded by original and actual sin as to make virtuous sexuality possible. Aquinas’s overall governing theological principle is that grace heals and perfects nature. Hence, pace Augustine’s take on concupiscence as strictly expressive of fallen human nature, Aquinas understands concupiscence to be first and foremost a property of integral human nature. Conceived this way, concupiscence is not in principle contradictory to virtue, as Augustine See, e.g., Augustine, De Genesi ad litteram 11, but also De bono coniugali, De coniugiis alduterinis, De continentia, De sancta virginitate, and Opus imperfectum contra Iulianum. 50 460 Reinhard Hütter thought it to be. Rather, the concupiscence of the state of fallen human nature can be healed, restored, and even elevated by grace such that it becomes an integral component of redeemed human sexuality. Yet, absent original righteousness, bereft of the proper order to the delectable moderated by reason, and resistant to the effects of redemptive and perfective mercy2, concupiscence unavoidably inflames and fosters the vice of intemperance.51 Moreover, after the anthropocentric turn and the embrace of the self-images of angelism and animalism, the intellect is dulled in rather far-reaching ways in matters that pertain to objective metaphysical and moral truth, such that, in consequence, the natural law becomes considerably blunted, if not occluded.52 These false self-images foster self-indulgence that eventually will deprive the sense appetites of their orientation to what is delectable as moderated by reason and will inflame concupiscence. Thus entrapped by the whims of the sense-appetites and the ever varying desires of a will unmoored from right reason, the human being still remains irreducibly an embodied rational being but is now thoroughly estranged from the gift and given of embodiment and its sexual specification. Since neither one of the two dominant self-images is true and, therefore, authentically livable, people flee from the one self-image to take refuge with the other only to return eventually to the first. Hence, the inter Unchecked concupiscence lived out is nothing but the sin of intemperance, the willful abandoning of the virtue of temperance, which is self-less self-discipline and proper measure (ST II-II, q. 142, a. 2). The particular species of intemperance pertaining to sexual matters is the vice of lust. Lust, luxuria, is a capital or principal vice, Aquinas argues, and “one that has a very desirable end, so that through desire for that end, [one] proceeds to commit many sins. . . . The end of lust is venereal pleasure, which is very great. Wherefore this pleasure is very desirable as regards the sensitive appetite, both on account of the intensity of the pleasure, and because such like concupiscence is connatural to [the human being] [“Vitium capitale est quod habet finem multum appetibilem, ita quod ex eius appetitu homo procedit ad multa peccata perpetranda, quae omnia ex illo vitio tanquam ex principali oriri dicuntur. Finis autem luxuriae est delectatio venereorum, quae est maxima. Unde huiusmodi delectatio est maxime appetibilis secundum appetitum sensitivum, tum propter vehementiam delectationis; tum etiam propter connaturalitatem huius concupiscentiae]” (ST II-II, q. 153, a. 4, corp.). For Aquinas’s detailed discussion of the sins of intemperance pertaining to sexual pleasure, see ST II-II, q. 154, aa. 1–12. 52 For an astute analysis of this matter, see Peter B. Wells, “Religion and Society in a Secularized Age: How Do We Sharpen the ‘Bluntness’ of the Natural Law?” Doctor Communis: Review of the Pontifical Academy of St. Thomas (2011): 148–66. 51 Human Sexuality in a Fallen World 461 minable agon many people in the so-called advanced societies of the Western Hemisphere experience between the gnostic angelism of an instrumentalized embodiment and a sexuality construed according to the sovereign decree of one’s will, on the one hand, and the materialist animalism of departing from one’s rational nature into the free-flowing ocean of the ever varying instincts and desires of the human super-primate, on the other. The collective sin characteristic of the age of anthropocentrism is the rejection of the creaturely gift and given of the animal rationale—angelism’s rejection of the gift and given of one’s embodiment with its sexual determination and gender specification and animalism’s rejection of the rational soul by way of which human beings are embedded in the order of reason. The agon between angelism and animalism is the immediate and interminable consequence of this fundamental rejection of the creaturely gift and given. Hence, virtuous sexuality not only presupposes the embrace of the creaturely gift and given of the full entailment of being animal rationale, an embodied rational soul with a distinct sexual determination and gender specification, but also requires the effects of mercy2—healing and sanctifying grace and the grace conveyed in the sacramental order: baptism, confirmation, Eucharist, and sacramental reconciliation. For it is by way of these effects that redemptive and perfective mercy2 heals and restores the human participation in the order of reason, which, as already stated above, for the rational creature, is the order of nature. The order of reason, affirmed by the deposit of faith and the Church’s consistent universal teaching, specifies that virtuous sexuality occurs in the marriage between one man and one woman and is consummated in a conjugal act that is inherently open to life.53 Furthermore, contra the severe modern prejudices and confusions in this regard, there is no virtuous sexual expression without the virtue of chastity.54 Chastity liberates from the misery of intemperance and lust and is therefore an exemplary effect of the redemptive and perfective mercy2. The primordial ontological mercy1, as informed by divine wisdom and concretized by divine justice, provides, by way of For a lucid philosophical defense of such an account of virtuous sexuality, see Alexander R. Pruss, One Body: An Essay in Christian Sexual Ethics (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2012). For a compatible theological account that draws explicitly upon revelation and magisterial teaching, see John S. Grabowski, Sex and Virtue: An Introduction to Sexual Ethics (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2003). 54 See Pope Francis, Amoris Laetitia, §206. 53 462 Reinhard Hütter the dare esse, the order of nature and the order of reason in the extant order of divine providence. Acts of redemptive and perfective mercy2 can therefore never contradict the order of nature and the order of reason, nor can they contradict the order of grace and the sacramental order, since these acts themselves are nothing but expressions of the self-same redemptive and perfective mercy2. These acts are, furthermore, ultimately funded by the primordial ontological mercy1 as it is informed by divine wisdom and as it, in turn, informs divine justice. Redemptive and perfective mercy2 perfects divine justice, but perfection is not contradiction, and hence, the semblance of mercy2 contradicting what mercy1 has established cannot be its authentic actualization, but only a deceptive counterfeit. The Church is, as Pope Francis famously stated, a field hospital in which the wounds of sin are treated and healed. This undoubtedly is the work of mercy and grace. But it seems to be that only those instruments of redemptive and perfective mercy2 can truly heal, convert, and sanctify that are undergirded by the primordial ontological mercy1 as it is informed by divine wisdom and as it, in turn, informs divine justice. For, the end of healing is conversion and, ultimately, deification and eternal beatitude.55 This inchoate eschatological reality—the very effect of the economy of mercy and This dynamic of healing and conversion includes, of course, the exercise of the infused virtue of mercy (ST II-II, q. 30), which Aquinas understands to be a virtue that influences one’s will to have compassion for another’s misfortune and, if possible, to alleviate it. For an instructive analysis, see Anthony Keaty, “The Christian Virtue of Mercy: Aquinas’ Transformation of Aristotelian Pity,” Heythrop Journal 46 (2005): 181–98. The virtue of mercy is exercised in what are traditionally considered the seven corporeal and the seven spiritual works of mercy (ST II-II, q. 32, a. 2). It might be worthwhile to recall what these works of mercy actually comprise: the seven corporeal works of mercy are feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty, clothing the naked, giving shelter to the homeless, visiting the sick, visiting the imprisoned, and burying the dead. The seven spiritual works of mercy are instructing the ignorant, counseling the doubtful, admonishing sinners, bearing wrongs patiently, forgiving offenses willingly, comforting the afflicted, and praying for the living and the dead. The works of mercy are crucial for not only the recipient’s conversio ad Deum and integral healing, for whom they are a tangible encounter with God’s redemptive and perfective mercy2. Rather, these works of mercy are also crucial for the one who extends them. For they—being an actualization of charity—form an integral part of his or her own ongoing conversio ad Deum, sanctification, and deification, the sine qua non of which is the ongoing reception of God’s redemptive and perfective mercy2 by way of the sacraments and in the growth of faith, hope, and especially charity, the friendship with God. 55 Human Sexuality in a Fallen World 463 grace—makes possible not only a discourse on redeemed human sexuality but rather also a life of redeemed human sexuality (on the other side of the modern agon between the two dominant but equally false self-images of the age, angelism and animalism), a discourse and a life that are able to recapitulate the order of nature and the order of reason in the light of Christ, who is the revelation and unity of mercy1 and mercy2.56 “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” (Gaudium et Spes, §22, the probably most famous programmatic line from the Second Vatican Council’s Pastoral Constitution on the Church in the Modern World). The life of redeemed sexuality and its corresponding theological discourse are integral to the holiness to which there is a universal call in the Church, according to the Second Vatican Council’s Dogmatic Constitution on the Church, Lumen Gentium, §42: “All the faithful of Christ are invited to strive for holiness and perfection of their own proper state. Indeed, they have an obligation so to strive.” Human sexuality is not excluded from this universal call to holiness, but rather emphatically included in it. Such a life of and discourse on redeemed human sexuality, last but not least, does make it possible to recapture afresh the ancient Christian insight into virginity as a surpassing theocentric and eschatological witness to the supernatural calling of the human being. In §42, Lumen Gentium puts the matter as clearly as one can wish: The holiness of the Church is fostered in a special way by the observance of the counsels proposed in the Gospel by Our Lord to His disciples. An eminent position among these is held by virginity or the celibate state. This is a precious gift The single best book instantiating such a discourse on redeemed human sexuality remains still Karol Wojtyla’s Love and Responsibility, trans. H. T. Willets (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1981), and the deepest biblical exegesis to date exemplifying such a discourse remains Pope John Paul II’s series of catechetical talks on man, woman, love, marriage, sexuality, marriage, and virginity during his Wednesday general audience—masterfully edited and introduced by Michael Waldstein: John Paul II, Man and Woman He Created Them: A Theology of the Body (Boston: Pauline Books and Media, 2006). For the best recent work demonstrating how Pope John Paul II’s thought is intimately connected to the discussion of this article, see the excellent book by Thomas Petri, O.P., Aquinas and the Theology of the Body: The Thomistic Foundations of John Paul II’s Anthropology (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2016). 56 464 Reinhard Hütter of divine grace given by the Father to certain souls, whereby they may devote themselves to God alone the more easily, due to an undivided heart. This perfect continency, out of desire for the kingdom of heaven, has always been held in particular honor in the Church. The reason for this was and is that perfect continency for the love of God is an incentive to charity, and is certainly a particular source of spiritual fecundity in the world. Human sexuality healed, liberated, and redeemed in the divine economy of mercy and grace is necessarily a stumbling block and folly to those beholden by the dominant self-images of the age. But to those who embrace the gift and given of human creatureliness, an embodied animal rationale ordained for eternal life in communion with God, and who embrace the divine economy of mercy and grace and the universal call to holiness, redeemed sexuality becomes the gift and given of divine wisdom and an integral part of the ever deepening friendship with the God of mercy and grace, the Blessed Trinity already indwelling the faithful: “You must know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is within—the Spirit you have received from God. You are not your own. You have been purchased, and at a N&V price. So glorify God in your body” (1 Cor. 6:19–20).57 See Pope Francis, Amoris Laetitia, §§159 and 161. 57 Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 15, No. 2 (2017): 465–501 465 A New Narrative for the Reception of Seven Sacraments into Orthodoxy: Peter Lombard’s Sentences in Nicholas Cabasilas and Symeon of Thessalonica and the Utilization of John Duns Scotus by the Holy Synaxis Christiaan Kappes SS. Cyril and Methodius Byzantine Catholic Seminary Pittsburgh, PA Introduction Specialists in Byzantine theology and liturgiol- ogy regularly repeat the narrative that the sevenfold enumeration and content of the “sacraments” or “mysteries” in Orthodoxy is the result of Roman Catholic qua papal imposition of the sacramental system upon the Eastern Church per the Second Ecumenical Council of Lyons (1274).1 More precisely, standard narratives assume that the numerical list of sacraments entered into Orthodoxy only following the ill-fated profession of faith from Emperor Michael VIII at Lyons II.2 The Roman Church officially convened Lyons II as an ecumenical Martin Jugie, Theologia dogmatica christianorum orientalium ab ecclesia catholica dissidentium (Paris: Letouzey et Ané, 1935), 15–25; Paul Evdokimov, Orthodoxy (Hyde Park, NY: New City Press, 1979), 269–70; Deno Geanakoplos, Constantinople and the West: Essays on the Late Byzantine (Palaeologan) and Italian Renaissances and the Byzantine and Roman Churches (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1989), 202; Andrew Louth, Introducing Eastern Orthodoxy (Downers Grove, IL: Intervarsity Press, 2013), 103–05; Yury Avvakumov, “‘Sacramental Theology’: Between East and West,” in The Oxford Handbook of Sacramental Theology [hereafter, Oxford], ed. H. Boersma and M. Levering (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 253. In the present essay, if English translations are not attributed to a translation edition, they are my own work from the original languages. 2 Enchiridion symbolorum definitionum et declarationum de rebus fidei et morum (Compendium of Creeds, Definitions, and Declarations on Matters of Faith and 1 466 Christiaan Kappes council,3 the acts of which were implicitly reaffirmed as “ecumenical” during the Second Vatican Council (1962–1965).4 In the events leading to Lyons II, the Byzantine emperor made a profession of faith acceptable to the Latins, which included seven sacraments.5 Wherefore, historians of theology tend to assume that the Latin order and doctrine of the sacraments somehow entered into the Greek lexicon under emperor Michael VIII (1267) and his allied clergy (e.g., the unpopular John XI Beccus, Patriarch of Constantinople, 1275–1282). Although emperor Michael coerced ecclesial “reunion,” prompting Orthodox scrutiny of and acquaintance with theologically Latinophile sacramentology, such a narrative fails to explain how Orthodox conservatives and anti-unionists adopted the Latin sacramental economy wholesale without any real pretense of resistance.6 Another common assumption in contemporary scholarship is that post-Reformation Orthodox commitments to the sevenfold sacramental economy stem from Orthodox reactions to Protestantism and its rejection of a multifaceted sacramental economy,7 as with Peter of Moghila (d. 1646) and Dositheus of Jerusalem (d. 1707). These celebrated theologians (along with coeval Orthodox synods) made ex professo commitments to defend “seven sacraments” during the Renaissance and Enlightenment periods. This phenomenon prompted another historical narrative: post-Reformation Orthodox felt further beholden to the septenary system in reaction to extreme sacramental iconoclasm of the Calvinist, Cyril Lukaris, Patriarch of Constantinople (interim 1620–1638).8 Morals: Latin-English [hereafter, DZ]), ed. H. Denzinger, P. Hünermann, and R. Fastiggi (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2012), 860. 3 Norman Tanner, introduction to Second Council of Lyons—1274, in Decrees of the Ecumenical of the Ecumenical Councils [hereafter, DEC], ed. N. Tanner, 2 vols. (Georgetown: Sheed & Ward, 1990), 304. 4 Pope John XXIII, Concilium Oecumenicum Primum et Vicesimum, in Acta Apostolicae Sedis 54 (1962): 791; Fathers of Vatican II, Nous les Pères du XXIème Concile Oecumènique, in Acta Apostolicae Sedis 58 (1966): 10. 5 John Meyendorff, Byzantine Theology: Historical trends and Doctrinal Themes (New York: Fordham University Press, 1976), 191–92. 6 For Joasaph of Ephesus’s discordant voice in the fifteenth century, see ibid., 192 and the relevant section below. 7 For a handy English translation of both confessions of faith, see Creeds of Christendom with a History and Critical Notes, ed. P. Schaff (New York: Harper, 1881), 1:55–66. 8 John Morris, The Historic Church: An Orthodox View of Christian History (Bloomington, IN: Authorhouse, 2011), 295–96; Radu Bordeianu, “(In) Voluntary Ecumenism: Dumitru Staniloae’s Interaction with the West as Open A Narrative for the Reception of Seven Sacraments into Orthodoxy 467 Some general outlines of these standard narratives will prove true. Nonetheless, I will argue that learned Orthodox and hoi polloi alike complacently absorbed the enumeration and content of seven sacraments from more attractive sources than either Lyons II or reactions to Protestant polemics. The most developed Orthodox sacramentology prior to the fall of Constantinople actually developed out of Orthodox reflection and exposition on the mysteries occasioned by surprising source texts that predated Scholastic Summas and Roman creeds of Roman Catholic ecumenical councils.9 I conclude my investigation by challenging the standard historical narrative surrounding the adoption of the seven sacraments in the Orthodox East. As we shall see, Orthodox adoption of the sevenfold sacramental system must be reduced to cataloguing a rather limited number of individual authors who exercised a strong literary and spiritual influence on posterior generations. Although individual Orthodox authors’ motives for adopting the heptad of mysteries prove, for the most part, to be idiosyncratic, they nonetheless permit me to weave a tale wherein Orthodox churchmen assess the number and genera of sacraments as something intrinsically reconcilable to the Orthodox Way. The principal persons of interest in this study betrayed neither knowledge of nor commitment to the sacramental lists or commitments of Lyons II. Instead, the authors took their inspiration from other material that predates this lightning rod for controversy between Orthodox and Catholic teaching on the filioque. Septenary Latin Sacraments become a Heptad of Greek Mysteries The aforementioned narratives infelicitously neglect a rather irenic chronicle wherein positive evaluations of the sevenfold nature of the mysteries were held among Palamites and ex professo anti-unionist Orthodox. This facet of historical Orthodoxy may prove to be a rich area for contemporary Orthodox reflection and reevaluation of the compatibility of the seven sacraments with the Orthodox Way. Researchers have long known about the first quasi-enumeration of mysteries in Byzantine Christianity via the description of Theodore Studite (759–826). While Martin Jugie noted Theodore’s omission Sobornicity,” in Orthodox Constructions of the West, ed. G. Demacopoulos and A. Papanikolaou (New York: Fordham University Press, 2013), 35. 9 I intend only to supplement the unsurpassable study of Jean Darrouzès, “Textes Synodaux Chypriotes,” Revue des études byzantines 37 (1979): 5–122 [hereafter, Darr.]. 468 Christiaan Kappes of three modern sacraments—anointing, penance, and marriage—he also observed that Theodore created only a tetrad list of mysteries in spite of the fact that (according to Theodore’s hagiography) he underwent anointing of the sick, was accustomed to private confession of sins, and argued to uphold the ecclesial nature of first marriages.10 Accordingly, Theodore’s tetrad would have served little to inspire Orthodox wholesale adoption of Latins’ quasi-official hebdomad.11 Centuries later, questionably Orthodox bishops adopted the seven-sacraments enumeration first at a synod of Cyprus in 1260, predating the papal profession of Michael VIII by several years. In spite of Greek locale, the synod reflected a synthesis of Orthodox and Scholastic theology following on the heels of the uncanonical usurpation of the Cypriot metropolitanate12 by which a Latin archbishop forcibly ruled over a greatly reduced number of Greek bishops functioning as mere suffragans. The local Greek synod decreed thus:13 “It is necessary for one to know that seven mysteries are of the Church of Christ: (1.) Marriage (γάμος), (2.) holy order (τάξις ἱερά), (3.) baptism (βάπτισμα), (4.) chrism by myron (χρῖσμα διὰ μύρου), (5.) communion, which is also called synaxis (κοινωνία, ὃ καὶ σύναξις), (6.) penance, i.e., confession (μετάνοια ἤτοι ἐξομολόγησις), (7.) and anointing of oil (χρῖσις ἐλαίου). Wherefore, only these and no more exist in number.”14 The Cypriot synodical list seems uninfluenced by Peter Lombard’s ( floruit 1138–1160) original sacramental sequence (3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 1, and 2 from the Cypriot synod). Above, Pope Alexander IV (scripsit 1260) served as the synodical source (in Instruens graecos) for the names of the seven sacraments to be imposed on Cyprus in its upcoming synod.15 Curiously, the Cypriot synod changed Alexander’s numer Jugie, Theologia dogmatica, 3:15–16. More recently, a sixfold division of sacraments has been located in Theodore according to Yury Avvakumov, “‘Sacramental Theology,’” in Oxford, 253: (1.) baptism (φώτισμα), (2.) communion (σύναξις εἴτουν κοινωνία), (3.) chrism (μύρον), (4.) holy orders (ἱερατικαὶ τελειώσεις), (5.) monastic profession (μοναχικὴ τελειώσις), and (6.) what surrounds holy burial (τῶν ἱερῶς κεκοιμημένων). This enumeration reflects the Ps.-Dionysius the Areopagite’s On the Ecclesiastical Hierarchy (see further below). 12 The authentic acts of the Cypriot Synod are yoked with Scholastic commentary that professes (inter alia) instrumental, material, and formal causality. 13 George Hill, A History of Cyprus (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 3:42 and 1056–59. 14 Cypriot Synod, Canons sur les sept sacrament 8.0 (Darr., 97–98). 15 Sacroroum Conciliorum Nova et amplissima collectio, ed. J. Mansi, 53 vols. [here10 11 A Narrative for the Reception of Seven Sacraments into Orthodoxy 469 ical sequence. Alexander naturally was faithful to Peter Lombard, insofar as each named sacrament represented a really individual item, not a generic category under which other ceremonies might fall. Immediately following the decree above, the Cypriot synod surprisingly departed from Lombard’s and Alexander’s shared notion of the seven sacraments as individual things. In an explanatory paragraph or gloss, the Greek bishops morphed the sacramental system into seven “genera,” or sets, into which various “species” or tokens fit: (I.) Genus of human generation: in which falls the species of marriage; (II.) Genus of spiritual generation, in which falls: (A.) Species of “dedication of churches,” and (B.) Species of ordination, by which necessary and conditional sacraments are made operative; namely: (i.) Absolutely necessary species for all people; namely: (a.) baptism, (b.) chrism, and (c.) communion; and (ii.) Conditionally necessary species for sinners: (a.) penance and (b.) anointing. The Cypriot synod substantially abandoned Latin Scholastic distinctions between sacraments that denote a “necessity of means” (e.g., baptism) and “necessity of precept” (e.g., confirmation). Instead, the synod proposed universal sacraments (e.g., chrism) and conditional sacraments for sinners after baptism (e.g., anointing). These features will resurface in subsequent Orthodox authors. Because the Orthodoxy of the Cypriot church was called into question by Constantinople at this time, we cannot assume that Orthodox theologians everywhere would have unscrupulously adopted this catalogue during Cyprus’s elongated schism.16 In effect, Orthodox bishops in after, Mansi] (Venice, IT: Anonio Zatta, 1854–1909), 26:324C: “They should above all instruct on the ecclesiastical sacraments, showing them that there are, namely: baptism, confirmation on the forehead with chrism [chrismate] via a bishop, Eucharist, penance, order, and extreme unction via a priest from holy oil, and marriage. Let them too denounce, then, that someone feels otherwise about these sacraments, than the Roman Church teaches and guards.” 16 For tensions between Constantinople and Cyprus, see Darr., 7–14; Basili Katsarou, “Ἰωσὴφ Βρυεννίου Τὰ πρακιτικὰ τῆς συνόδου τῆς Κύπρου (1406),” Byzantina (2000): 21–31. I have chosen not to engage the more perplexing 470 Christiaan Kappes Cyprus partially thwarted papal imposition of the seven-sacraments conceptual framework into the Cypriot church by equivocating the nature of the seven sacraments as general headings under which many individual ceremonies might fall. Greek bishops satisfied papal demand for a numerical “seven” as both limit and scriptural form of the mysteries. For example, holy order (II above) has two tokens: ordination and dedication of a temple (A and B above). Contrariwise, a Latin sacrament can have only one ceremony for every heading. Notable, too, is the fact that the synod never suggested that the dedication of a Church was a “sacramental” or lesser imitation of priesthood, as does Latin theology. Though the distinction between species and genus was standard jargon for Greeks and Latins, the Greek solution above was, in fact, defective, for the “genus” of marriage has only one species. Classically, this undermines the need to create a genus at all (minimally composed of two species). The categorization above was asymmetric, with “holy order” as a genus while marriage is a mere species outside of any genus. Posterior Orthodox authors corrected this defect by adding species to even more sacraments. Consequently, the Cypriot synod theologically fell outside of the formal Roman concatenation of sacraments as found in papal professions of faith. In the same vein, the Cypriot synodical decree fell outside of the dogmatic definition of sacraments according to profession of faith at Lyons II and the posterior Council of Florence’s Decretum pro Armenis (1439).17 Following the Cypriot synod, Rome revised Alexander IV’s sacramental sequence in 1264. Departing from Lombard, Cyprus, and Pope Alexander, the new text was professed as follows: [Unionist Michael VIII (1267) to Pope Gregory X:]18 The same Roman Church also teaches and holds: seven are the ecclesiastical sacraments; namely, (1.) one is baptism, about which it was problem of the Latins’ theory that each sacrament signifies only one species or individual ceremony. Clearly, the sacrament of order, depending on one’s Scholastic proclivities, was composed of at least two species (diaconate and priesthood), or even three (the former two plus episcopacy). This obviously means that the sacrament of order must be a genus with species. For this reason, the Byzantine solution of making each sacrament into a genus actually enjoys a greater logical consistency than the common Latin position. 17 DZ, 1310–28. 18 The published edition of these professions neglected to reproduce the Greek original, which was composed under Pope Clement IV (1265–1268), as critiqued in Darr., 43. A Narrative for the Reception of Seven Sacraments into Orthodoxy 471 aforementioned, (2.) another is the sacrament of confirmation (confirmationis), which bishops confer through imposition of hands, by anointing the reborn, (3.) another is penance, (4.) another Eucharist, (5.) another the sacrament of order, (6.) another is marriage, (7.) another is extreme unction (extrema unctio), which according to the doctrine of blessed James is dispensed to the sick.19 [Orthodox Andronicus II Palaiologus (1277) to Pope John XXI:] The holy apostolic Church of Rome both asserts and preaches that seven are the ecclesiastical sacraments: (1.) one, I call, baptism, about which it was aforementioned, (2.) another is the mystery of confirmation, which bishops confer through imposition of hands, chrismating the reborn, (3.) another is penance, (4.) another is Eucharist, (5.) another mystery [is] of holy ordination (χειροτονίας), (6.) another is that of marriage, (7.) another [is] last anointing, which according to the teaching of James is dispensed to the sick.20 Unsurprisingly, churchmen used professions of faith to gauge one another’s orthodoxy/Orthodoxy. Each above stated profession of faith contains Greek calques for sacramental names. We note that Andronicus begrudgingly accepted union because of his father, Michael VIII, but immediately repudiated it upon the latter’s death. One can wonder if “Orthodox” Andronicus’s profession of faith subsequently influenced admiring Orthodox contemporaries. Martin Jugie, Dimitru Staniloae, and Andrew Louth suppose this to be the case.21 John Meyendorff also thought this a significant point in the history of Orthodox sacramentology.22 The evidence supporting such supposition, however, is slim. Some scholars immediately allude to DZ, 860. Monumenta spectantia ad unionem ecclesiarum graecae et romanae, ed. A.Theiner and F. Miklosich (Vindobonae, AT: Wilhelm Braumueller, 1872), 1:17–18. I omit John Beccus’s Roman Catholic profession of faith (1277), since it imitates Andronicus’s. Beccus’s slight differences include: ἱεροπραξίαι (sacraments), τὸ τῆς βεβαιώσεως χρῖσμα (confirmation), ἡ ἱερὰ τάξις (holy order), and τὸ ἔσχᾶτον χρῖσμα. See ibid., 1:28. 21 Bordeianu, “(In)Voluntary Ecumenism,” 248–49; Bordeianu, Dumitru Staniloae: An Ecumenical Ecclesiology (New York: T&T Clark, 2011), 32–40; and Brian Butcher, “Orthodox Sacramental Theology: Sixteenth–Nineteenth Centuries,” in Oxford, 336–38. 22 Meyendorff, Byzantine Theology, 192. 19 20 472 Christiaan Kappes the monk Job ( floruit 1270) as a witness to the immediate influence of this Latinophile profession of faith after 1264: “Seven are the mysteries of the Holy Church of God: (1.) firstly, baptism, (2.) secondly, chrism, (3.) thirdly, communion [μετάληψις τῶν ἁγιασμάτων], (4.) fourthly, priesthood, (5.) fifthly, honorable marriage, (6.) sixthly, monastic habit [ἅγιον σχῆμα], and (7.) seventhly, anointing, i.e., penance [εὐχέλαιον, ἕβδομον ἤτοι ἡ μετάνοια].”23 An Orthodox believer, Job essentially repeats the Cypriot synod’s proemium: “Seven are the mysteries.” This proemium notably differs from the Roman professions of faith in Greek. Job also develops the Cypriot synodical genera: he categorized rituals as a species falling into the genus, contrary to coeval Latin Scholasticism. Job unusually rearranges the mysteries within his holy hebdomad, as partially illustrated below with the first and last sacraments in his sequence:24 (1.) Baptismal genus: (a.) baptism, and (b.) Epiphany water (μέγᾶς ἁγιασμός); (2.) Chrism genus: (a.) chrismation, and (b.) dedication of a church; (3.) Communion genus: (a.) communing, and (b.) consecration of chrism; 25 (6.) Monastic genus: (a.) three grades of habit, and (b.) virginity; (7.) Repentance genus: (a.) anointing, and (b.) penance. Given his verbal dependence on the Cypriot synod and his affirmation of a sacramental genera (versus species), I see no reason to suppose that Lyons II needs to be taken into account for Job’s positive sacramentology. Job, too, is liturgically conscientious in his categorization. For example, he remarks that confession and anointing were concomitantly celebrated for the sick.26 With confession and anointing forming but one sacrament, Job makes room for the inclusion of monastic habit as a mystery proper, and he considers other candidates (e.g., the panagia particle) for sacraments but rejects them.27 Comparing all sacramental lists, one constant factor unites them: all septiSee the excerpt from Job as published in Jugie, Theologia dogmatica, 3:17–18. Ibid., 3:18. 25 He notes that Chrism is instituted on Holy Thursday, i.e., at the invention of the Eucharist. 26 Ibid., 3:18. 27 For the history and nature of the ritual see John Yiannianis, “The Elevation of the Panaghia,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 26 (1972): 226–36. 23 24 A Narrative for the Reception of Seven Sacraments into Orthodoxy 473 mal lists at least include the minimum of Peter Lombard’s original number and content. Lists differ in sequence and sometimes contain additional ceremonies or widen the meaning of a sacramental species “a” into a sacramental genus “a.” The Cypriot synod reordered Pope Alexander’s sacraments under the major heading of two categories: generation (marriage) and salvation (the remainder). The synod also switched the relative position between orders and marriage. Job’s sequence is somewhat alien to these considerations. His template is fairly obscure, but we cannot discount the universal influence of Ps.-Dionysius for considering candidates for sacramental status.28 Still, Job’s list and its enumeration are not at all dependent on the Roman profession of faith, contrary to the suppositions of scholars. Job did not accept the rationale whereby Cypriots divided sacraments into headings of “natural” and “salvific” production. Curiously, Job’s template is somewhat closer to the sequence of Lombard’s Sentences. Was Job privy to Lombard’s traditional taxis? Job’s aforementioned list raises the question as to whether a Greek translation of Lombard’s Sentences was in circulation in the late thirteenth century. Lombard’s Sentences (scripsit 1150s) are indubitably the point of departure for the number and content of the sacraments in the Latin West, as follows: “Hence, let us arrive at the sacraments of the New Law, which are: (1.) baptism, (2.) confirmation, (3.) bread of blessing, i.e., Eucharist, (4.) penance, (5.) extreme unction, (6.) order (later: ecclesiastical orders/sacred ordination), and (7.) conjugal bond (later: marriage).”29 When Cypriots abandoned Alexander IV’s unique list and placed marriage and orders (supra, 7 and 6) to the head of their innovative philosophical exposition, they sequentially relocated this dyad to the beginning of their taxis (supra, 7, 6, 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5). Diversely, Job placed sacraments of initiation at the head (supra, 1, 2, and 3). Can this be from the influence of the Cypriot genus-species system, which Job surely knew? To explain his rationale, I note that Job thought of penance as liturgically occurring within the rite of anointing. So, he reversed Lombard’s relative order (supra, 5 and I agree that questions remain, as in the investigation of Darr., 43–44. Peter Lombard, IV Sent. d. 2.1.1. This is my own translation from Sententiae in IV Libris Distinctae, 4 vols., Spicilegium Bonaventuranum 5 (Rome: Ad Claras Aquas, 1981), 2:239, done because, for this passage and some others, G. Silano’s translation in The Sentences (see note 49 below) and others are too loose to allow for word-for-word comparisons with other lists of the sacraments. Cf. ibid., 2:243, 2:276, 2:280, 2:315, 2:390, 2:393, 2:416. 28 29 474 Christiaan Kappes 4). Whatever the sources upon which Job might have relied, he definitely inserted orders and marriage (supra, 7 and 8) after initiation (supra, 1, 2, and 3). Job then paired vocation (supra, 6 and 7) with his new sacrament, monastic habit, and grouped these into a triad. Why did he place penance-anointing (supra, 4 and 5) as the last sacramental genus? Though any guess can hardly be conclusive, Job was perhaps emboldened to change his arrangement because he knew of competing lists: the Cypriot synod and Lombard’s Sentences. Job’s innovations aside, we should have noticed that Roman professions of faith between 1264 and 1277 drastically reorganized Lombard’s traditional order of sacraments. Papal reordering is all the more puzzling given the fact that a pope called “the Ecumenical Council of Lateran IV” (1215), which vested Lombard’s collection with authority.30 Afterward, the Parisian master Alexander of Hales (d. 1245) produced the first Summa theologica, or commentary on the Sentences.31 The popularity of this publication eventually inspired universities to require similar dissertations on the Sentences as a sine qua non for obtaining the equivalent of a university doctorate in the thirteenth century and beyond. Why did the papal professions of faith begin to depart from the sacramental taxis of the Sentences as early as Michael VIII’s profession, which was composed by 1264? First of all, proto-Albigensian heretics had long been required to recite sacramental professions in the eleventh century.32 Albigensians famously despised the sacraments and were required to confess belief in the sacraments by name for reconciliation,33 especially from 1177 into the first quarter of the thirteenth century.34 Simultaneously, the ecclesiastical authorities in Byzantium were compiling errors of the Bogomil heretics, who mirrored Albigensians by rejecting the following mysteries: (1.) marriage, (2.) baptism, (3.) chrismation (obliquely), (4.) communion, and (5.) forgiveness of sins.35 Orthodox DZ, 803. See Alexander of Hales, Summa theologica, 4 vols. (Rome: Ad Claras Aquas, 1924–1948). 32 Robert Moore, The Birth of Popular Heresy (Canada: Medieval Academy of America, 1995), 16–19. 33 Walter Wakefield and Austin Evans, Heresies of the High Middle Ages (New York: Columbia University Press, 1991), 204–08. 34 Malcom Barber, The Cathars: Dualist Heretics in Languedoc in the High Middle Ages (New York: Routledge, 2014), 71–72. 35 Περὶ τῆς βλασφήμου καὶ πολυειδοῦς αἱρέσεως τῶν . . . Πογομίλων; see Eretici, Dissidenti, Musulmani ed Ebrei a Bisanzio: una raccolta eresiologica del XII secolo 30 31 A Narrative for the Reception of Seven Sacraments into Orthodoxy 475 required all penitents within sacramental confession to anathematize an entire heretical list of errors before ecclesial reconciliation.36 Accordingly, papal requests for Byzantines to profess belief in sacraments were hardly something novel for anyone, excepting the fact that there had never been a fixedly sevenfold number and content to Greek professions of faith in the reconciliation of penitents. As regards questions about Latin rearrangement of Lombard’s traditional numerical sequence, there is the fact that Lombard’s list was compiled in a context where a liturgical link still existed (technically) between the three sacraments of initiation (baptism, chrism, and Eucharist). Because Latin bishops alone chrismated children, confirmation was increasingly delayed as Christians multiplied in the Middle Ages.37 Nonetheless, some Latin liturgical books managed to retain the custom of infant communion at baptism (with prior confirmation)38 as late as the first quarter of the thirteenth century.39 The definitive disappearance from liturgical books of a unified system of Christian initiation betrayed Latins’ complete ignorance of the ancient order. With the delay of confirmation and, likewise, communion until post-pubescence, an adolescent naturally was required to make sacramental confession before communion. Consequently, late thirteenth-century Roman professions of faith assumed penance before every communion, reflecting the sacramental realities of the time. This explains well the interpolation of penance between Lombard’s sequence of confirmation and Eucharist. Why does Lombard place anointing fifth in his ordering, while Pope Alexander places it sixth and later Roman professions of faith place it last? Lombard reflected the antecedent theology of Ivo of Chartres and Alan of Lille, who explicitly saw anointing as connected to public penance.40 Yet, in the thirteenth century, following substantial occidental decline in public penance, no psychological association between penance and anoint[hereafter, Eretici], ed. and trans. P. Eleuteri and A. Rigo (Venice: Il Cardo, 1993), 144, 146, 148 (13.147, 17.176, 18.181, 19.192–93, 28.255–57). 36 Ibid., 156 (1.17–8). 37 I sacramenti: teologia e storia della celebrazione, ed. Salvatore Marsili, Jordi Pinell, et al. (Genoa, IT: Marietti, 2002), 1:100–01. 38 Le pontifical romain au moyen âge 2: Le pontifical de la curie romaine au XIII siècle, ed. Michel Andrieu, Studi e testi 27 (Vatican City: Bibliotheca Apostolica Vaticana, 1940), 2:452–53 (no. 24), 2:477 (no. 54.26). 39 I sacramenti, 1:100–01 and 111. 40 Claude Ortemann, Il sacramento degli infermi: storia e significato (Turin, IT: Elle di Ci, 1971), 40–41. 476 Christiaan Kappes ing existed any longer.41 Because, for Latins, anointing had long been considered the sacrament of dying (viz., “extreme unction”),42 the Roman professions of faith symbolically transferred anointing to the end, after sacraments of vocation. Because thirteenth-century theologians associated sacraments with the stages of life from cradle to grave, anointing was most fittingly at the end of life, “the sacrament of death.”43 Anti-Latin Tradition of Seven Mysteries Whether Byzantines opted for Lombard’s order, for Job’s, or for Roman professions of faith, each list had theological implications. Before passing on to the introduction of Aquinas’s works into Byzantium, I note that Jean Darrouzès located an important pro-Barlaamite Orthodox witness to the influence of the 1260 Cypriot synod. The Cypriot George Lapithes (floruit 1340–1349) also had access to Pope Alexander’s sacramental list.44 Lapithes, skilled in both Latin and Greek, perhaps translated and certainly arranged two septimal lists in philosophical accord with the Cypriot synod.45 In subsequent centuries, Lapithes’s sacramental lists were misattributed to George-Gennadius Scholarius (d. 1472), for which reason Jugie happened to include a work of Lapithes in his edition of Scholarius’ Opera omnia.46 In On What a Bishop Should Know and Teach, formerly attributed to Scholarius, Lapithes adopts a clearly Scholastic approach to sacramental questions.47 I sacramenti, 1:180–83. Ortemann, Il sacramento degli infermi, 40–41. 43 Summa Theologiae III, q. 65, a. 1–2. In article 1, Aquinas follows Lombard’s traditional liturgical order. Thereafter, in article 2, he appeals to Scholastic rationale for seven sacraments, placing anointing last. All references to Aquinas’s works rely on the Latin in Opera omnia at http://www.corpusthomisticum.org/iopera.html, last accessed February 24, 2017). 44 Darr., 42. 45 Ibid., 37–42. 46 George-Gennadius Scholarius, Oeuvres Complètes de Georges Scholarios [hereafter, OCGS], ed. L. Petit, X. Sidéridès and M. Jugie, 8 vols. (Paris: Maison de la Bonne Presse, 1929–1935), 4:xi. This work looks suspiciously like a translation of one of the various handbooks for priests originating from the genre of Thomas of Chobham’s “Things a Priest Should Necessarily Know.” This kind of Scholastic manual followed upon the heels of Lateran IV. What is more, it coincided with similar legislation in Latin-occupied Cyprus. See Thomas Izbicki, The Eucharist in Medieval Canon Law (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 14–15. 47 See OCGS, 4:195, for example, where Lapithes argues that the priest is an instrumental cause (ποιητικὸν ἢ μᾶλλον ὀργανικὸν αἴτιον). 41 42 A Narrative for the Reception of Seven Sacraments into Orthodoxy 477 In fact, he embraces the notion of the minister of a sacrament as an instrumental cause. This means that sources common to Lapithes and Aquinas, or even Thomistic theology, were on hand. This is not the only opusculum of Lapithes on seven sacraments that Darrouzès has shown to mimic the Cypriot synod. Despite his enthusiasm for Scholasticism, and though he was a correspondent of Barlaam the Calabrian (ca. 1290–1348), I have as yet found no trace of Lombard’s Sentences in Lapithes’s compositions. For his part, Barlaam is fairly certain to have had access to at least the first book of Lombard’s Sentences.48 Although a Greek translation of Augustine’s De trinitate had already been produced under Maximus Planudes in the century prior, Barlaam’s own references to Augustine clearly opt for a vocabulary and phraseology other than that in the well-known Greek edition of Planudes.49 Instead, Barlaam obliquely refers to the relevant passages of Augustine within an unknown translation that he equates to the au courant position of Latin theologians. What is more, Barlaam’s passages happen to coincide exactly with relevant Augustinian excerpts, phraseology, and vocabulary Konstantinos Palaiologos, “The Use of Latin Theological Sources in Matthaios Blastares’s Treatise on the Error of the Latins,” Nicolaus 40 (2013): 61–62, 68–69. 49 E.g., Augustine of Hippo, Περὶ Τριάδος Βιβλία Πεντεκαιδέκα, vol. 2, trans. Maximos Planudes, ed. M. Papathomopoulos, I. Tsavari, and G. Rigotti (Athens: Κέντρον Ἐκδόσεων Ἔργων Ἐλλήνων Συγγραφέων, 1995), 15.17.29: “ἐκπορεύεται ἀρχοειδῶς τὸ Πνεῦμα τὸ ἅγιον . . . ὁ Θεὸς Πατήρ [The Father makes proceed from himself the Holy Spirit as in the nature of a principle]”; Barlaam the Calabrian, Syntagma de processione de Spiritu sancto 45: “Αὐγουστῖνος, ἐν βιβλῳ πεντεκαιδεκάτῃ Περὶ τῆς ἁγίας Τριάδος οὐχ ἅπαξ, ἀλλὰ πολλάκις τὸ Πνεῦμα τὸ ἅγιον κυρίως καὶ ἰδίως φησὶν ἐκ τοῦ Πατρός ἐκπορεύεσθαι [Augustine, in the fifteenth book of the De trinitate, not only once but many times says that the Holy Spirit is principally and properly made to proceed from the Father]”; in Barlaam Calabro: Opere contro i Latini, Studi e Testi 348 (Vatican City: Bibliotheca Apostolica Latina, 1998), 2:664. Cf. Lombard, I Sent. d. 12.2.2: “Augustinus dicit spiritum sanctum principaliter procedere de Patre [Augustine says that the Holy Spirit principally proceeds from the Father]”; in The Sentences, trans. G. Silano, 4 vols., Medieval Sources in Translation 48 (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 2010), 1:66–67. For an independent witness to an existing consistent translation of Augustine’s work that is foreign to that of Planudes, see Matthaios Blatares, Refutation of the Errors of the Latins, ed. K. Palaiologos (PhD diss., Royal Holloway and Bedford New College, 2011), 293: “τὸ Πνεῦμα τὸ ἅγιον, κυρίως ἐκπορεύεται ἀπὸ τοῦ Πατρός [The Holy Spirit principally proceeds from the Father].” 48 478 Christiaan Kappes from selections within Lombard’s Sentences.50 Barlaam’s polemics on the Holy Spirit claim to employ popular passages among Latins, and these auspiciously coincide with pro-filioque arguments within Lombard. Finally, Barlaam lifts an excerpt from a letter of Ps.-Jerome that also mirrors a relevant selection, vocabulary, and phraseology of Ps.-Jerome within Lombard’s Sentences.51 What is the net result of cataloguing all these instances that derive from unknown translations of Greek texts? When comparing each of Barlaam’s citations of Augustine’s De trinitate to Blastares’s employment of the exact same vocabulary and passages, both Thessalonican professors are found to rely on the same Greek florilegia (of non-Planudian origin), forcing Konstantinos Palaiologos to conclude parsimoniously that both Barlaam and Blastares cited a translation of Lombard’s Sentences that is no longer extant. For Lapithes’s part, his attraction to seven sacraments seems to coincide with Job, insofar as both found the schema and organization of the sacraments according to the Cypriot synod convenient for their purposes. Still, Lapithes was clearly enthusiastic about Scholastic distinctions and was influenced by Scholastic treatises on sacramentology. Oppositely, Job relied on only a limited conceptual framework and phraseology from the Cypriot synod, while his deviations therefrom can be conveniently explained by recourse to Lombard’s Sentences in play with Ps.-Dionysian ceremonies enjoying attribution of apostolicity to ceremonies, such as monastic profession. From here, Lapithes passed from history’s sight about the time that an important court official of the Byzantine Empire named Demetrius Cydones finished his Greek editio princeps of Thomas Aquinas’s Summa Palaiologos provides three examples that argue his thesis. For the second instance, see Augustine, De Trinitate 15.17.29: “Spiritus sanctus de patre principaliter . . . procedit [The Holy Spirit principally proceeds from the Father],” Augustine, Sancti Aurelii Augustini De trinitate libri xv (libri xiii–xv), ed. W. J. Mountain, Corpus Christianorum 50 (Aurelii Augustini Opera 16.2) (Turhout, BE: Brepols, 1968), 503. Cf. Augustine, Περὶ Τριάδος 15.17.29: “τὸ Πνεῦμα τὸ ἅγιον ἐκ τοῦ πατρὸς αρχικῶς . . . πρόεισιν [The Holy Spirit primordially processes from the Father]”; cf. Barlaam, Syntagma 45: “τὸ Πνεῦμα τὸ ἅγιον κυρίως καὶ ἰδίως φησὶν ἐκ τοῦ Πατρὸς ἐκπορεύεσθαι [The Holy Spirit principally and properly proceeds from the Father]” (Opere contro i Latini, 2:664); cf. Blastares, Refutation of the Errors of the Latins 6.25–28: “τὸ Πνεῦμα τὸ ἅγιον ἐκ τοῦ πατρὸς κυρίως ἐκπορεύεται [The Holy Spirit principally proceeds from the Father]” (Palaiologos diss. edition, 293). 51 Palaiologos, “The Use of Latin Theological Sources,” 60–62. 50 A Narrative for the Reception of Seven Sacraments into Orthodoxy 479 contra gentiles (hereafter, SCG) on Christmas Eve of 1354.52 Aquinas, once a youthful commentator on the Sentences, retained the septenary sacramental arrangement of “master” Lombard in his SCG: (1.) baptism, (2.) confirmation, (3.) Eucharist, (4.) penance, (5.) extreme unction, (6.) order, and (7.) marriage.53 Lombard’s sequence was again retained in Aquinas’s Summa theologiae (hereafter, ST), whose sacramental sections became partially available in Greek by around 1360.54 If select sacramental questions from Aquinas’s tertia pars of his ST are today extant in Greek,55 his SCG enjoyed relative popularity in Byzantium, judging from the large number of manuscripts still extant.56 At any rate, both Latinophile and anti-Latin Byzantines customarily referenced (whether positively or negatively) Aquinas.57 Subsequent to Cydones, the fourteenth-century convert from Orthodoxy Dominican Manuel Calecas (d. 1410) exposited a Greek arrangement of the sacramental order (supplemented with Aquinas’s cradle-to-grave rationale) as follows: (1.) baptism, (2.) chrism of myron, (3.) communion of hallowed gifts, (4.) penance, (5.) the mystery of anointing (εὐχελαίου), (6.) the mystery of orders (τάξεων), and (7.) marriage.58 Despite the considerable headway that Thomism had made in Byzantium, Greeks showed no palpable interest in Calecas’ distribution of the sacramental taxis. For example, Joseph Bryennius (d. ca. 1431), a fierce anti-Latin who was Calecas’ contemporary and correspondent, wrote, “The mysteries of the Church are Stylianos Papadopoulos, Οἱ ‘Ελληνικαὶ μεταφράσεις θωμιστικῶν ἔργων: Φιλοθωμισταὶ καὶ ἀντιθωμισταὶ ἐν Βυζαντίῳ: Συμβολὴ εἰς τὴν ἱστορίαν τῆς βυζαντινῆς θεολογίας (Athens: Βιβλιοθήκη τῆς ἐν Αθῇναις Φιλεκπαιδευτικῆς ἑταιρείας, 1967), 25–32. 53 Thomas Aquinas, Summa contra gentiles I, ch. 58. 54 Christopher Wright, “Towards an Edition of Demetrius Kydones’s Autograph Translation of Thomas Aquinas’s Summa Theologiae: Prima Pars,” Nicolaus 40 (2013): 15–30. 55 See “Thomas de Aquino Byzantinus,” ed. John A. Demetracopulos (http:// www.labarts.upatras.gr/dimitr/index1.html). 56 Around thirty MSS have been catalogued in Linos Benakis, “Ἡ παροuσία τοῦ Θωμᾶ Ακινάτη στὸ Βυζάντιο: ἡ νεώτερη ἔρευνα γιὰ τοῦς οπαδοῦς καὶ ἀντιπάλους τῆς Σκολαστκῆς στὴν Ἑλληνικὴ Ανατολή,” in Ζῶ δε οὐκέτι ἐγώ, ζῇ δὲ ἐν ἐμοὶ Χριστός: Ἀφιέρωμα στὸν ἀρχιεπίσκοπο Δημήτριο (Athens: A. Sakkoulas, 2002), 528. 57 John A. Demetracopoulos, “Palamas Transformed: Palamite Interpretations of the Distinction between God’s Essence and Energies,” in Greeks, Latins, and Intellectual History 1204–1500, ed. M. Hinterberger and C. Schabel, Recherches de Théologie et Philosophie Médiévale 11 (Paris: Peeters Leuven, 2011), 263–72. 58 Manuel Calecas, De principiis fidei catholicae (PG, 152:597–609). 52 480 Christiaan Kappes seven: (1.) baptism, (2.) chrismation of myron (χρίσις μύρου), (3.) holy oil (ἅγιον ἔλαιον), (4.) marriage in the Lord, (5.) ordination (χειροτονία), (6.) confession, and (7) communion (μετάληψις).”59 Bryennius seems familiar with the proemium of his anti-Latin forebears and clearly accepts the heptad in its traditional content, but he also finds reasons to alter sacramental terminology and order. He definitely knew Lombard’s sequence through Aquinas’s two Summae.60 Curiously, Bryennius shows little concern for the intrinsic connection between the mysteries of initiation and no concern for typical terminology or taxonomy of the mysteries. In the context of his treatise, wherein he names all seven sacraments, his clear attraction to this categorization can be reduced to the fact that he lists innumerable things (from astronomical to spiritual phenomena) that can be divided into sacred sets of the number seven. One gets the sense that Bryennius was simply enthusiastic about any set of items that he could find to bolster his argument that seven was the perfect number. Consequently, no unifying motive among Job, Lapithes, and Bryennius manifests itself to explain Orthodox adoption of the number, the taxis, or the content of seven sacraments. Excepting Scholastic influence on the anti-Palamite Lapithes, there are not even signs that Lyons II (or Aquinas) played a significant role in anti-Latin adoption of the sacramental system. Moving on, Bryennius’ student George-Gennadius Scholarius and their contemporary Joasaph of Ephesus (d. 1437) employed some of Bryennius’ exact phraseology.61 For his part, Joasaph seemed influenced by the 1260 Cypriot synod when subdividing the generic category of holy order into priesthood and dedication of a temple: “The sacraments of the Church are not seven . . . but more . . . the sacrament of illumination, of divine communication of the precious body and blood . . . the rite of holy myron, of priestly perfections, and the dedication of a church, marriage in the Lord, the rite of those who died in the Lord, the sacrament of anointing, the sacrament of monks, the sacrament of confession.”62 It is unlikely that coincidence inspires Joasaph to place dedication Joseph Bryennius, Λόγος πρῶτος: Περὶ συντελείας, in Ιὠσὴφ Μοναχοῦ τοῦ Βρυεννίου τὰ εὐρεθέντα, ed. E. Bulgaris (Lipsia: Breitkopf, 1768), 2:198. 60 Demetracopoulos, “Palamas Transformed,” 287–92. 61 Jugie, Theologia dogmatica, 3:20. 62 Joasaph of Ephesus, Responsiones ad quaestiones presbyteri Georgii Drasini, nos. 47.383–90, in Ἰωάσαφ Ἐφέσου (d. 1437) (Ἰωάννης Βλαδύντερος), ed. A. Korakides (Athens: Βιβλιοπωλεῖον Νεκτάριος Παναγόπουλος, 1992), 1:233. 59 A Narrative for the Reception of Seven Sacraments into Orthodoxy 481 of a church next to priesthood, just as the 1260 synod had subdivided order. His sacrament of monastic habit not only coincides with his predecessor Job but also mirrors Symeon of Thessalonica, whom we shall treat momentarily.63 Joasaph is unique in supplementing the sevenfold sacramental list that he knew with the addition of the funeral ritual, which is located suspiciously next to anointing. Might Joasaph accept anointing’s intrinsic relation to the dying? In answer, we need to compare Joasaph’s extra ceremonies to his original inspiration, Ps.-Dionysius the Areopagite. In his On the Ecclesiastical Hierarchy, the Areopagite discusses the funeral ritual, monastic habit, and other ceremonies as functions bearing dignity similar to principal mysteries such as baptism. Joasaph appeals to the putatively apostolic Dionysius, though in reality, he grafts obscure sixth-century ceremonies of Syrian origin onto his own liturgical inheritance.64 For instance, Joasaph equates fifteenth-century Byzantine funeral services—detached from Eucharist—to the liturgical rites of apostolic times. Nonetheless, the Areopagite patently clothes non-Eucharistic rituals surrounding burial in language and honor that are customarily embraced for dominical sacraments of Latin lists. When we take into account the uncontroversial and universal acknowledgement of the Areopagite’s sustained and profound influence on the development and interpretation of Byzantine liturgy, we are hardly surprised to find that Joasaph’s more expansive list can be easily accounted for by combining the Areopagite’s “sacraments” with a septenary list of Latin origin. For Joasaph, the solution to the question of the number of sacraments is simply to synthesize two traditions into one. The presumably apostolic origin of the Areopagite’s doctrine naturally urged Joasaph to view septenary enumeration with prejudice, even if the latter does not reject any individual items named in Lombard’s list.65 The listing of sacraments The presumably apostolic origin of monasticism was asserted from the existence of θεραπευταί, or apostolic monks. The term was not employed haphazardly in Ps.-Dionysius, On the Ecclesiastical Hierarchy 6.3; in Corpus Dionysiacum II [hereafter, Denys], ed. G. Heil and A. Ritter (New York: Gruyter, 1991), 116. Ps.-Dionysius garners credibility for the apostolicity of monastic profession by acknowledging that it is rooted in the well-known therapeutai (i.e., first-century Judaeo-Egyptian monastics) of Eusebius of Caesarea, Histoire ecclésiastique, ed. G. Bardy, Sources chrétiennes 31 (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1952), 2.17.3. 64 Arthur Rosemary, “The Dating of the Dionysian Corpus,” Studia Patristica 48 (2007): 171–75. 65 Granted Louth’s caution against reading Scholastic categories into the 63 482 Christiaan Kappes from the Cypriot synod likely influenced Joasaph, but he departed from it by creatively synthesizing Dionysian ceremonies into his sacramental taxis. Furthermore, he completely departed from the Cypriot genus-species method of categorization and simply supplied his reader with a list of particular rituals that he denominated individually as sacramental. We next investigate Archbishop Symeon of Thessalonica (ca. 1416–1429): “Seven are the gifts of the Spirit, as Isaiah says, and seven the mysteries of the Church, which are energized through the Spirit. Now, these are: (1.) baptism, (2.) chrism, (3.) communion (κοινωνία), (4.) ordination (χειροτονία), (5.) marriage, (6.) penance, and (7.) holy oil.”66 Symeon’s preface develops an ingenious relation between the sevenfold charisms and sacraments. Clearly, Symeon is attracted to the sacred hebdomad for reasons that do not perfectly coincide with his predecessors either. In short, he interprets Jesus’s baptism as a moment of prophetic fulfillment: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he anointed (ἔχρισε) me” (Isa 61:1). Symeon sees this as spiritual license to connect a sevenfold Spirit (Isa 11:2), manifested at Jesus’s baptism, to a wellspring of seven charisms.67 Accordingly, Jesus’s baptism and chrismation are connected to this first passage of Isaiah. Disappointingly, he fails to connect Eucharist with Isaiah, opting for Melchisedech, which weakens his typological argument.68 Next, Symeon refers to ordination under the aegis of the root of Jesse (Isa 11:2), endowed with seven charisms.69 Marriage, as Eucharist, initially receives only passing mention, devoid of any reference to Isaiah.70 Nonetheless, Symeon uses the Areopagite, the rituals that Ps.-Dionysius describes are customarily divided into six “sacraments”: (1.) baptism (or φώτισμα) (Denys, 70, 129); (2.) Eucharist (σύναξις or κοινωνία) (Denys, 80); (3.) chrism (ἡ τελετὴ τοῦ μύρου) (Denys, 95): (a.) post-baptismal chrismation (ἡ τοῦ μύρου τελειωτικὴ χρῖσις) (Denys, 78), (b.) dedication of a church (μύρον ὁ ἱεράρχης λαβὼν ἐπιτίθησι τῷ θείῳ θυσιαστηρίῳ) (Denys, 95), (4.) ordination (ἱερατικαὶ τελείωσεις) (Denys, 110), (5.) monastic consecration (μοναχικὴ τελείωσις) (Denys, 117) with its implied cleansing of imperfection (Denys, 116), and (6.) funerals (with anointing) (τῶν ἱερῶς κεκοιμημένων) (Denys, 122); see Andrew Louth “Late Patristic Developments in Sacramental Theology in the East: Fifth–Ninth Centuries,” in Oxford, 172–74. 66 Symeon of Thessalonica, Περὶ τῶν ἱερῶν τελετῶν 33 (PG, 155:177B). 67 Ibid. 43 (PG, 155:185D). 68 Ibid. 44 (PG, 155:189C). 69 Ibid. 45 (PG, 155:189D). 70 Ibid. 46 (PG, 155:192B). A Narrative for the Reception of Seven Sacraments into Orthodoxy 483 mystery of marriage as a springboard to speak about the virginity of the Theotokos, connecting divine-virginal espousals to fruitfulness, and ultimately to Christ’s own virginity.71 Not unlike Job, who sees the sacraments as generic categories, Symeon bifurcates marriage into virginal-spiritual marriage (e.g., the Theotokos) and fleshly marriage in the Lord. In Symeon’s sacramental treatise, the impression is given that Christ’s undergoing the sacraments of initiation culminates in his virginal and sinless marriage to the Church and, consequently, to our souls. This suggests that a thematic motive inspired Symeon to displace penance-monastic habit and anointing to the last place in his ordering, since they are the only sacraments exclusively conditioned by human sin (versus Christ’s sacramental vocation in the world).72 This point coincides somewhat with the theology of the 1260 synod. However, it also greatly surpasses it by using a Christological justification that is entirely absent from the Cypriot synod. Hence, direct dependence on the synod is possible but not demonstrable. Penance occasions Symeon’s longest discourse, which is inspired by Christ as the form of penitents in the Gospel. Therein, Symeon briefly recalls his episcopal office of forgiving sins but is mainly concerned with the monastic vocation as embracing the Lord’s example, mixed with human sorrow for sin, for sin separates the monk from Christ. Here, again, a sacrament is a genus with two species. If Latins gradually transferred anointing to the end of their sacramental lists, associating it with the last stage of life, Symeon oppositely rails against Latin association of anointing with dying. He sees anointing as a panacea for various kinds of conditions in life, and his rejection of “the death sacrament” precludes him from displacing anointing to the end of his list because of associations with grave illness.73 Symeon betrays no direct dependence on the Latin professions of faith or their vocabulary, save only the opening statement: “The mysteries of the Church are seven.” This makes us suspicious that he had access to a list similar to the monk Job. Stephen Hawkes-Teeples observes that, throughout his works, Symeon made strenuous efforts to imitate the language and symbolism of his Dionysian and Ibid. 46–48 (PG, 155:192B–193C). Ibid. 49–55 (PG, 155:193C–204A). 73 Ibid. 56 (PG, 155:204D). 71 72 484 Christiaan Kappes patristic sources.74 He further notes that Symeon was often poorly informed about Latin and Armenian liturgical customs.75 From these observations, it seems too much to expect that Symeon would have consciously entertained a newfangled lexicon interspersed with calques from Latin. Clearly, the 1260 Cypriot synod, Roman professions of faith, and Joseph Bryennius’ list fail to offer themselves as potential sources for Symeon’s order and terminology. Instead, Symeon’s list bears the distinct marks of Lombard’s Sentences. If we are initially misled by Symeon’s displacement of the duo of penance and holy oil to the place after marriage, it is nonetheless clear that he conserves Lombard’s liturgically correct links among the sacraments of initiation. Secondly, Symeon retains Lombard’s relative order between orders and marriage, as well as between penance and extreme unction. The dual sacraments of vocation and the dyad of repentance and anointing form natural pairs. Symeon relocated penance and “holy oil” at the end of the list because penance, confession, and monastic habit were part of the divine economy only after sin.76 Moreover, Symeon’s similarity to the monk Job is more than superficial. Job also considered monastic habit to be fully sacramental, even if he surpassed Symeon by making penance a postpositive synonym for anointing within the same genus (no. 7a–b of Job’s work). If we assume Symeon’s literary dependence upon Job because of their mutual esteem for the Dionysian “sacrament of monasticism,” it is nonetheless a puzzle as to why Symeon renamed Job’s sacraments. Naturally, Symeon and Job sacramentalized ceremonies such as monastic profession due to universal attribution of apostolicity to the Dionysian corpus. Be that as it may, we also must explain why Symeon inverts Job’s order (anointing before penance, in 7b of Job’s work) back to Lombard’s (penance before anointing)! Parsimony suggests that both Symeon and Job merely apply a popular sacramental fusion between monastic and liturgical penance. In conclusion, Symeon may have independently rearranged Lombard’s attractive taxis, even if somewhat inspired by Job’s Byzantine inclu Steven Hawkes-Teeples, introduction to St. Symeon of Thessalonica: The Liturgical Commentaries, Studies and Texts 168 (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 2011), 31–39, 43–52, 63–66. 75 Ibid., 42–47. This fact is all the more puzzling for Hawkes-Teeples, since he suspects Symeon may have had access to something like Lombard’s Sentences. 76 Symeon, Περὶ τῶν ἱερῶν τελετῶν 39 (PG, 155:180B). 74 A Narrative for the Reception of Seven Sacraments into Orthodoxy 485 sion of monastic tonsure in the sacramental economy.77 Both Job and Symeon displace penance and anointing to the last place, but for different reasons. If Job inspired Symeon to arrange sacraments outside Lombard’s original position, the latter was not impressed with Job’s innovative interpolation of monastic habit into the taxis. Job’s fusion of virginity with monastic habit may have influenced Symeon to reflect on a way to associate virginity to some sacrament. This would explain Symeon’s excursus into Mary’s productive virginity (childbirth) as the foundation for including virginity in the genus of marriage. Instead of accepting Job’s fusion of virginity and monasticism, Symeon chose another route. Should this analysis reasonably explain Symeon’s organization of his sacramental taxis, then where did Symeon initially get the idea of “a traditional taxis”? Symeon must have read Lombard’s Sentences, as gleaned from his doctrine on baptism and extreme unction. Hawkes-Teeple’s recent research suggests that Symeon had little knowledge of Latin customs, while “the Byzantine lists”—condemning Latin practices in vivid description—knew virtually nothing about Latin confirmation.78 Linguistically, Greeks were unable to follow Latin baptismal ceremonies, while Latin ritual itself was unique for employing a post-baptismal (non-sacramental) anointing by using chrism. From patristic times, Latin priests had performed this anointing independently of confirmation.79 Greek onlookers at Latin baptisms would have been misled into thinking that post-baptismal anointing with chrism conferred the signaculum or σφραγίς of confirmation upon the child.80 Curiously, Symeon was privileged to know otherwise: 81 This is likely because of the Byzantine tendency among earlier theologians to place penance next to monastic tonsure, as investigated in Meyendorff, Byzantine Theology, 196. 78 There are mainly isolated complaints, of which none coincide exactly with Symeon; namely, that Latins refuse to: (1.) use correctly made oil, (2.) have chrismation at all, (3.) deviate from bishops alone chrismating, (4.) chrismate immediately after baptism (i.e., at the end of the ceremony); see Tia Kolbaba, The Byzantine Lists: Errors of the Latins (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2000), 130, 144, 174, 204. 79 I sacramenti, 1:105. 80 Greeks rarely complained about the unusual delay of “chrism” (non-sacramental anointing) until the end of the Latin ceremony; see Kolbaba, The Byzantine Lists, 204. 81 Symeon, Περὶ τῶν ἱερῶν τελετῶν 43 (PG, 155:183C). 77 Christiaan Kappes 486 Peter and John laid hands, and some received the Holy Spirit [Acts 8:17], which is the myron, for laying on of hands is to distribute the chrism, as happened with the apostles, and through them, to many others. . . . It is necessary that the faithful always be sealed through baptism, so that, after someone is baptized, the super-divine baptism should be perfect per se. For if [ Jesus] took the Spirit, after he was baptized, and those who were baptized by Philip took the Spirit through laying on of hands of Peter and John, in order that those might not be imperfect and unsealed by the Spirit, the faithful baptized also have to be anointed with this myron in baptism, and not—as do the Latin rites or infants of whomever else—remain incomplete and unsealed.82 Lombard writes: That it can only be conferred by the highest priests—Pope Eusebius: that “the sacrament cannot be performed by anyone other than the highest priests”; at the time of the Apostles we read that it was not done by any other than the Apostles themselves [Acts 8:17], nor can or ought it to be done by any other. . . . [In another place:] They “[priests] cannot sign on the brow with chrism.”83 And yet Gregory writes . . . “some have been scandalized by our having forbidden priests to touch with chrism those who have been baptized. . . . But if any are in fact saddened by this, we grant that, where there are no bishops, priests may also touch those who are baptized on their foreheads with chrism. . . . But this is adjudged only to have been granted once for the sake of putting scandal to rest.”84 Clearly, Symeon was very well informed about the subtleties of Latin sacraments. His uncanny example from Acts of the Apostles and insistence on baptism “always” being accompanied with chrism leave his reader with the impression that Latin priests might dispense chrism on some rare occasion as mentioned in Lombard. Symeon manages to avoid making erroneous judgments about Latin sacraIbid. 43 (PG, 155:187C). Lombard, IV Sent. d. 7.2.1 (The Sentences, 4:39). 84 Ibid. d. 7.2.2 (The Sentences, 4:39). 82 83 A Narrative for the Reception of Seven Sacraments into Orthodoxy 487 mental praxis despite the scant and often inaccurate comments of his Byzantine forebears. Symeon’s precision surely stems from his access to Lombard’s section on anointing of the sick, which distinguished the various kinds of oils and affirmed the existence of a proper oil of chrism.85 In this vein, no traditional lists of Byzantine condemnations seem to have impugned the Latin practice of delaying confirmation.86 Nonetheless, Symeon complains: “[ Jas 5:15:] ‘And prayer of faith [after anointing] will save the infirm, and the Lord will raise him. If has committed sin, he will forgive him.’ Whence, yet another sentential judgment—one of their [Latin] innovations—is destroyed. Because they say (as in everything else, so also here they rationalize and manipulate the apostolic sayings) that ‘holy oil is not useful to dispense to those who possess hope of life, but to the dying only, since it is productive of forgiveness of sins.’”87 Lombard writes: On the sacrament of extreme unction—after the ones mentioned above—there is another sacrament, namely the anointing of the sick, which is done at the end of life with oil consecrated by the bishop.88 [After citing Jas 5:15:] In this passage it was shown that this sacrament was instituted for a double cause, namely, for the remission of sins, and for the relief of bodily infirmity. And so it is established that someone who receives this anointing with faith and devotion is relieved in body and soul, so long as it is expedient that he should be relieved in both. But if perhaps it is not expedient that he should have bodily health, he acquires in this sacrament that health which pertains to the soul.89 In short, Symeon’s treatise on the sacraments supplies obvious correctives to theological problems that he detected when reading Lombard’s Sentences. Ibid. d. 23.2 (The Sentences, 4:136). There is one complaint of Latins anointing people who commit grave sins in order to administer forgiveness; see Kolbaba, The Byzantine Lists, 198. 87 Symeon, Περὶ τῶν ἱερῶν τελετῶν 46 (PG, 155:204C). 88 Lombard, IV Sent. d. 23.1 (The Sentences, 4:136). 89 Lombard, IV Sent. d. 23.3.2 (The Sentences, 4:136). 85 86 488 Christiaan Kappes Latin Sources for Seven Greek Mysteries Symeon likely had access to the library or at least to the manuscript of his Thessalonican predecessors.90 I have already affirmed Konstantinos Palaiologos’ convincing argument for the existence of a Greek edition of the Sentences based upon his comparing Greek excerpts from the Syntagma of the Byzantine canonist, Matthew Blastares (ca. 1290–ca. 1350), to relevant sections of the Sentences.91 The Thessalonican pedigree of this hypothetical manuscript is reinforced by the fact that Palaiologos located a passage in Barlaam of Calabria traceable to Lombard.92 Furthermore, I argue that Nicholas Cabasilas also made use of the Sentences, which had become available in Thessalonica around 1341, as discussed earlier with respect to Barlaam.93 The link between Blastares and Cabasilas is further strengthened by the fact that both often rely on the same literary sources.94 In fact, Cabasilas lifted a direct citation of The Sentences for his Commentary from the singular excerpt of the Roman Canon (hereafter, RC) within any of Lombard’s four books:95 [Lombard (ca. 1150):] Omnipotens Deus, iube haec perferri per manus sancti angeli tui in sublime altare tuum, etc.96 [Cydones (ca. 1369):] Πρόσταξον ἀπενεχθῆναι ταῦτα διὰ χειρὸς ἀγγέλου ἁγίου σου εἰς τὸ ἐπουράνιόν σου θυσιαστήριον.97 [Cabasilas1 (1391):] Κέλευσον ἀνενεχθῆναι τὰ δῶρα ταῦτα ἐν χειρὶ ἀγγέλου εἰς τὸ ὑπερουράνιόν σου θυσιαστήριον.98 For Cabasilas’s library, to which Symeon had access, see Marie-Hélène Congourdeau, introduction to Correspondence de Nicholas Cabasilas: bilingue (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 2010), xxii–xxiii. 91 Palaiologos, “The Use of Latin Theological Sources,” 60–2. Blastares cited Lombard, I Sent. d. 12.2 and d. 12.2.4. 92 Ibid., 60–61. 93 Ibid., 52. 94 Franz Tinnefeld, “Intellectuals in Late Byzantine Thessalonica,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 57 (2003): 156, 162, 171; Hélène-Marie Congourdeau, “Nil Cabasilas et les projets de concile oecuménique pour l’union des églises,” in Réduire le schisme? Ecclésiologies et politique de l’union entre orient e occident (XIIIe_XVIIIe siècles), ed. M.-H. Blanchet and F. Gabriel, Centre de Recherche d’Histoire et Civilisation de Byzance: Monographies 39 (Paris: ACHCByz, 2013), 79–80. 95 For Blastares’s citations of Lombard, see Palaiologos, “The Use of Latin Theological Sources,” 60–63, 68. 96 Lombard, IV Sent. d. 13.1.4 (The Sentences, 4:313–14). 97 Demetrius Cydones, Liturgia S. Gregorii Magni, ed. Anton Baumstark, Oriens Christianus 4 (1904): 20–21. 98 Nicholas Cabasilas, Explication de la divine liturgie: traduction et notes [hereafter, 90 A Narrative for the Reception of Seven Sacraments into Orthodoxy 489 [Cabasilas2 (1439):] Κέλευσον προσενεχθῆναι τὰ δῶρα ταῦτα ἐν χειρὶ ἁγίου ἀγγέλου εἰς τὸ ὑπερουράνιόν σου θυσιαστήριον.99 Cabasilas provides late fourteenth-century confirmation for the existence of Lombard’s fourth book—on the sacraments—in Thessalonica.100 Cydones’ influence, from his translation of the Roman Mass, can easily be excluded as Cabasilas’ textual source. In Lombard’s Sentences, the RC is cited but once.101 Cabasilas just happens to pick up this singular and brief passage. The length and content of Cabasilas’ passage were independently verified at the Council of Florence, where Byzantines referenced it in the their arguments for the eucharistic epiclesis. If Cabasilas had possessed a more extensive translation of the RC, I can think of no reason for him to refrain from using it in his lengthy diatribe against the Latins’ understanding of their own anaphora. Below, I first provide Cabasilas’ thesis, and then I cite two of Lombard’s excerpts that supplied Cabasilas with his arguments from the RC against the Latins: What do they mean when they say: “[Almighty God, commmand] that these be brought up [by the hand of your holy angel before your altar in heaven], etc.” . . . They are asking that they [gifts] be raised in dignity from a humble state to the highest of all. . . . How . . . shall that which is not yet the Body of Christ, which is truly heavenly, become heavenly? Or how . . . could that which excels all . . . be carried up in the hand of an angel? Supposing . . . that the prayer of the Latins is asking that the offerings be raised in dignity and transformed into a higher reality, then they are guilty of a monstrous blasphemy if, considering that the Body of the Lord is already present, they nevertheless believe that it can Explic.] 30.2, trans. and ed. S. Salaville, Sources Chrétiennes 4b (Paris: Cerf, 1967), 192. 99 Theodore Xanthopoulos, Dorotheus of Myteline, et al., Quae supersunt Actorum Graecorum Concilii Florentini, ed. J. Gill, Concilium Florentinum Documenta et Scriptores Series B (Rome: Pontificium Institutum Orientalium Studiorum, 1953), 5.2:441–42. 100 See Sévérien Salaville, notes complémentaires to Explic., 320–23. Salaville mentioned Lombard’s passage as an obiter dictum, among other Latin commentators, who had held a similar opinion to Cabasilas. More recently, Cabasilas’s theory has been revisited in Robert Taft, “Problems in Anaphoral Theology: Words of Consecration versus Consecratory Epiclesis,” St Vladimir’s Theological Quarterly 57 (2013): 55–57. 101 The Sentences cite the Roman Canon (textus receptus) verbatim. 490 Christiaan Kappes become something higher and holier. Thus it is clear that the Latins know perfectly well that the bread and wine are not yet consecrated; that is why they pray for the offerings as elements still in need of prayer. They pray that these which are still here below may be carried on high, that, as offerings which have not yet been sacrificed, they may be carried to the altar where they are to be immolated. For this, they have need of the hand of an angel. . . . This prayer can have only one significance—it transforms the offerings into the Body and Blood of the Lord.102 Also [Pope] Gregory: “Some hold that the communion of the body is less sanctified, if it is done by the office of those whose life appears ignoble to their eyes. Alas, in what a great trap they fall in believing that the divine and secret mysteries can be made more sanctified by others, when one and the same Holy Spirit through the whole Church invisibly sanctifies those mysteries by his work and blesses by sanctifying invisibly.”103 [Ps.-]Augustine . . . For the Mass is so called because the heavenly messenger comes to consecrate the life-giving body, according to the words of the priest: “Almighty God, commmand that these be brought up by the hand of your holy angel before your altar in heaven, etc.” And so unless the angel comes, it cannot in any way be rightly called a Mass. If a heretic dared to usurp this mystery, would God send his angel from the heavens to consecrate his offering? No.104 In Cabasilas’ chapter prior to his argument above, he explicitly speaks about his debates with Latin missionaries who argued that the Eucharist was perfected only after the priest recited: “This is my body/blood” (viz., the words of consecration within the institution narrative).105 In the RC, after the priest repeats Jesus’s words, he continues praying and eventually arrives at the phrase that Cabasilas cites above. In addition to the isolated citation from the RC, Cabasilas recorded for his Orthodox reader that Scholastic missionaries in Nicholas Cabasilas, A Commentary on the Divine Liturgy, trans. J. Hussey and P. French (Crestwood, NY: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1998), 76–77. This is a translation of Explic. 103 Lombard, IV Sent. d. 13.1.3 (The Sentences, 4:66). 104 Ibid., d. 13.1.4 (The Sentences, 4:66). 105 Explic. 29.1–21 (pp. 178–90 ). 102 A Narrative for the Reception of Seven Sacraments into Orthodoxy 491 Thessalonica or Constantinople had forgotten about more antique Latin authorities, ones whom Cabasilas saw as similar to Byzantines. Cabasilas correctly assessed the sermon of (Ps.-) Augustine (Paschasius Radbertus), which taught that the perfection of the Eucharist occurred only after the ancient Latin epiclesis, at the Iube haec perferri. Although this theory was popular during Lombard’s time, it began to wane in the early thirteenth century.106 Cabasilas capitalizes on Pope Gregory’s condemnation of any theory that would elevate the holiness of the Eucharist, applying this to the uselessness of making an angelic petition-epiclesis after a total consecration at the words of consecration. Turning the authoritative opinion on this quaestio disputata within Lombard’s Sentences against the Latins themselves, Cabasilas showed himself to be an able polemicist. Finally, Cabasilas focused on (Ps.-) Augustine’s assertion that there is “no Mass” (meaning sacrifice) unless the angel of the Iube haec perferri makes his appearance. Again, the priest recites the passage under Cabasilas’ scrutiny only after the institution narrative in the RC. In light of fairly ironclad evidence for the existence of the Sentences around 1341, might it be the case that the monk Job possessed the first Greek translation of Lombard’s Sentences in the late thirteenth century? This could explain how the Sentences arrived in fourteenth-century Thessalonica. Unfortunately, arguments on behalf of Job’s true identity have not yet been settled.107 Yet, if Job can eventually be identified with a known anti-Latin theologian of the late thirteenth century, he might mark the point of departure for mixing Lombard’s sacramental taxis with some theological points of the 1260 synod, bequeathing this to Thessalonican monks and clergy. The Mysteries in the Confession of the Holy Synaxis Finally, in the last stage of reception of seven-sacraments conceptual framework in Byzantium, we confront the two greatest defenders of Orthodoxy in the fifteenth century, Mark Eugenicus, Metropolitan of Ephesus (1437–1445), and George-Gennadius Scholarius, handpicked successor to Mark (1445–ca. 1472). Each admired Symeon of Thessalonica,108 whom they read and incorporated into their theoloTaft, “Problems in Anaphoral Theology,” 55–57. Cf. R. J. Macrides, “Job,” in The Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium, ed. A. Kazhdan, A.-M. Talbot, et al (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991), 2:1042. 108 We can surmise that the Eugenicus family knew Symeon well due to the fact that Mark’s younger brother, John Eugenicus, composed a liturgical office to Symeon to canonize him. In Scholarius’ tutelage under Mark, he was a 106 107 492 Christiaan Kappes gy.109 Mark cited Symeon in defense of the epiclesis at the Council of Florence (1439).110 After Mark of Ephesus’s disappointment with the Florentine synod, he began to cooperate with an Orthodox communion of hierarchs whose followers organized into anti-unionist body by 1447.111 They called themselves the Holy Synaxis (ἱερὰ σύναξις).112 Before Mark was on his deathbed (1445), his disciple Scholarius won for himself moral leadership of the incipient Synaxis.113 Additionally, Mark bequeathed to his beloved pupil the honor of being his scion.114 Marie-Hélène Blanchet has already chronicled Scholarius’s consorting with the anti-Florentine party as early as 1444 or 1445.115 Afterward, the Synaxis came into contact with Hussite utraquists, who impugned the Latin practice of communion under one species for all besides the consecrating cleric at Roman Mass. Mark of Ephesus had previously been aware of the utraquists and exploited the controversy in his libellus on the Eucharist, commissioned by Emperor John VIII to former pupil of Makres, who would have had likely given Scholarius access to his correspondence and (hypothetically) to other works; see Symeon’s Epistle to Makres in The Politico-Historical Works of Symeon Archbishop of Thessalonica (1416/7 to 1429), ed. D. Balfour, Weiner Byzantinitische Studien 13 (Vienna, AT: Verlag, 1979), 91–3, 197, 241. 109 Scholarius, Περὶ τῶν ἀνθρωπείων ψυχῶν 3.1 (OCGS, 1:505–06). 110 Michael Zheltov, “The Moment of Eucharistic Consecration in Byzantine Thought,” in Issues in Eucharistic Praying in East and West, ed. M. Johnson (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2010), 280. 111 Marie-Hélène Blanchet, “La reaction byzantine à l’union de Florence: les discourse antiromains de la Synaxe des orthodoxes,” in Réduire le schisme? Ecclésiologies et politique de l’union entre orient e occident (XIIIe_XVIIIe siècles), ed. M.-H. Blanchet and F. Gabriel, Centre de Recherche d’Histoire et Civilisation de Byzance: Monographies 39 (Paris: ACHCByz, 2013), 195.This group seems to have spontaneously rallied to Mark’s cause around 1443. He was its “heart” but not necessarily an organized “president”; see Constantine Tsirpanlis, Mark Eugenicus and the Council of Florence, Byzantine Texts and Studies 14 (New York: Center for Byzantine Studies, 1979), 21, 57, 97. 112 Blanchet, “La reaction byzantine à l’union de Florence,” 92–94. 113 For the numerous problems in fleshing out the structure and leadership of the Synaxis, and for the inconsistencies in Scholarius’ role, see Marie-Hélène Blanchet, Georges-Gennadios Scholarios (vers 1400–vers 147): un intellectuel orthodoxe face à la disparition de l’empire byzantine (Paris: Institut Français d’Études Byzantines), 390–96. 114 Mark Eugenicus, Oratio ad amicos 17.B, in Marci Eugenici Metropolitae Ephesi opera anti-unionistica. Concilium Florentinum Documenta et Scriptores, ed. L. Petit, series A, vol. 10, bk. 1 [hereafter, MEME] (Rome: Pontificale Institutum Orientalium Studiorum, 1977), 178–81. 115 Blanchet, Georges-Gennadios Scholarios, 384. A Narrative for the Reception of Seven Sacraments into Orthodoxy 493 be used anonymously in a Eucharistic debate on June 19 of 1439.116 The Byzantines were well aware of Hussites because Emperor John VIII Palaiologus protested the Latin Synod of Basel’s attempt to group Orthodox bishops with “heretics” in a projected synod of reunion.117 After the Council of Florence, Hussites showed interest in the Orthodox faith in their estrangement from the Roman papacy. The Synaxis charged Scholarius to instruct an important convert in its name.118 The Synaxis also sought Scholarius’s cooperation—if not his principal authorship—in drafting an official profession of faith for converts,119 which begins thus: The Holy Synaxis, who directs the seat of the Patriarch of Constantinople, who represents our Church in union and harmony with the patriarchs of the East . . . unto the perfection of the faith. . . .120 Mother of all Orthodox Christians, teaches and professes, after having abolished and condemned all novelties . . . the following. . . . 121 It is necessary to believe seven sacraments of the Church are true and indispensable for salvation . . . (1.) First ancestral and actual sins are forgiven through baptism . . . [then follows condemnation of Latin baptism by infusion and the formula: “I baptize you, etc.”] (2.) Secondly, [it is necessary to believe] in that, which is of sacrament, in which we take up spiritual power [ἰσχὺν] . . . (3.) Thirdly [to believe] in what is of the sacrifice [θυσίας] . . . [then follows condemnation of azymes and communion under one kind] (4.) Fourthly, [to believe] in what is of penance . . . (5.) Fifthly in what is of marriage . . . (6.) Sixthly in what is of priesthood . . . and (7.) Seventh Mark Eugenicus, Libellus de consecration 6.7 (MEME, 126). Mildad Paulová, “L’empire byzantin et les Tchèques avant la chute de Constantinople,” Byzantinoslavica 14 (1953): 158–225. 118 Holy Synaxis, Ἔκθεσις B1.3–4, in Constantinople et Prague en 1452 [hereafter, CP], trans. and ed. Antonín Salač, Ročník 68 (Prague: Řada Společenských Vĕd, 1958), 40, 42. 119 Antonín Salač, introduction to Ἔκθεσις (CP, 26–27). 120 Holy Synaxis, Ἔκθεσις A1.1 (CP, 28). 121 Ibid. B2.2 (CP, 44). 116 117 494 Christiaan Kappes in what is of the last anointing, which it call by us Greeks εὐχέλαιον.122 Stylistically, Scholarius was responsible for the idiomatically turgid expressions and neologisms within the Synaxis’s common exposition of faith. Anti-Florentine tenor partially inspired inclusion of newfangled terms to compare and contrast with Latins. Nonetheless, the Synaxis’s profession of faith is only slightly in opposition to Florentine sacramentology. While the Decretum pro Armenis (November 22, 1439) strictly follows Lombard’s taxis (employing Aquinas’s sacramentology), the Synaxis’s ἔκθεσις (1452) provides glosses on what is essentially the content and sequence of Lombard’s Sentences for sacraments 1 through 4 (initiation through penance). However, the profession of faith mysteriously departs from Lombard’s sequence on numbers 5 through 7. Even if the Greeks had officially concluded Florence on July 6 of 1439123 and left Italy by August 26 of 1439— missing the Armenian discussions—communication and travel were constant between Latindom and Byzantium. Scholarius—often content to follow Aquinas—and the Synaxis opted for a sacramental sequence mostly but not completely according to Lombard’s Sentences. Why? The Synaxis approved Scholarius’s choice as part of its creed, though chastising Latin sacramental “errors” that Mark of Ephesus had rejected: (i.) baptism by infusion, (ii.) unleavened bread, and (iii.) communion under one kind.124 Mark’s utraquist concerns at Florence were sui generis. Still, the Synaxis opportunely adopted them because of the Hussite context of its creed more than anything else, for the Synaxis failed to mention the more important debate on the epiclesis at Florence.125 If Mark and Hussites Ibid. B3.1–4 (CP, 51–52). DZ, 1310. 124 Eugenicus, Libellus de consecratione 6.7: [Institution narrative:] “Take . . . drink all of you . . . do this in me remembrance” . . . [After describing the rite of Mass from the anaphora to communion, Mark declares:] [The Latin priest] drinks down the whole chalice, he turns to the concelebrating deacons [i.e., deacon and subdeacon] to kiss them [pax], having communicated to nobody anything, when boasting boldly the phrase: “Take . . . drink” (MEME, 126). He obviously makes these words a contradiction to both the traditional expositions and exegeses, even with respect to the dominical words and their terms. 125 Holy Synaxis, Ἔκθεσις B3.3: “We, who commune of the true body and blood of Christ, we burgeon in life according to the Spirit, not [communicating] from only one of two [kinds]­—as the Roman Church has innovated for some time— 122 123 A Narrative for the Reception of Seven Sacraments into Orthodoxy 495 were the inspiration for polemics, might the sacramental lists being used in contemporary Prague have served for Scholarius’ sacramental taxis? Unlike Symeon, Scholarius did not base himself completely on the Lombard. Instead, the Synaxis’s ἔκθεσις enigmatically ordered anointing last, as did more recent Latin lists. Still, I do not find its entire rationale transparent. Curiously, as a last point of interest, the Synaxis went out of its way to disagree with Lombard’s and Aquinas’s sacramental theology in one part of the ἔκθεσις: “[Synaxis, Ἔκθεσις (1452):] Verily penance is constituted [συνίσταται] in the contrition [συντριβῇ] of heart, and especially the confession [ἐξομολογήσει] of the mouth, and in the satisfaction [ἱκανοποιήσει] of work, when the circumstances of death do not impede.”126 Scholarius maintains the exact doctrine of the Synaxis in his writings: [Scholarius, De differentia (ca. 1457–1460/1464):] Penance is a medicine, if it is true [ἀληθής] and certain [βέβαια] in the contrition of the heart and confession (ἐξαγορεύσει), and has been constituted [συνισταμένη] by means of satisfaction [ἱκανοποιήσει], but when death comes upon one, or some other necessity impedes confession [τὴν ἐξαγόρευσιν] and satisfaction [ἱκανοποίησιν], whenever there is contrition of the heart, it quite suffices as true [ἀληθής] [penance].127 Scholarius rejected absolutely necessary “integral” parts of penance of Lombard’s Sentences: [Lombard, Sentences (ca. 1150):] In three modes ought we to make satisfaction: “Perfect penance [perfecta poenitentia] urges the sinner to carry everything willingly: contrition [contrition] in the heart, confession [confession] in the mouth, and total humility in work [opera]. This is fructiferous penance.”128 but of both together according to the tradition of the sacrament” (CP, 52). Holy Synaxis, Ἔκθεσις B3.4 (CP, 52). 127 George-Gennadius Scholarius, De differentia inter peccata excusabilia et perniciosa 7.4–7, in (OCGS, 4:281). I conjecture this date based upon: (1.) Scholarius’ autograph being of the Prodromos (cf. OCGS, 4:xvi–xvii), (2.) where Scholarius was his residence at least two times (cf. Blanchet, Georges-Gennadios Scholarios, 482–87), and (3.) both times postdate Scholarius’s first citations of Scotus around 1437, per Monfasani, “The Pro-Latin Apologetics,” 165–68. 128 Lombard, IV Sent. d. 16.1.1 (The Sentences, 4:88). 126 496 Christiaan Kappes Aquinas enthusiastically agreed with Lombard’s doctrine: “[Aquinas, ST (ca. 1273):] Perfect penance is made integral from several items; namely, from contrition, confession and satisfaction.”129 For their part, both the Synaxis and Scholarius paraphrased Scotus’s Ordinatio (In libris IV Sententiarum) to explain the true nature of penance: [Scotus, Ordinatio (scripsit ca. 1302–1303):] Against: Master [Lombard], who says that these three are required. Several items are not required for the perfection of something, intrinsically speaking, unless they are in some way its parts. . . . On this score, in no way are the [three] aforementioned items [integral] parts of the power of penance. . . . Now, [1.] contrition, [2.] confession, and [3.] satisfaction are items having a kind of act in the state of becoming [esse in fieri]: but what is permanent does not stand from having parts [thus]. Likewise, the last two [supra, 2 and 3] are not in the will, as in a subject, but are exterior items [to the moral person].130 Penance is that sacramental absolution done by words . . . and, of this, contrition has no part, which is something spiritual in the soul, nor [verbal] confession, because it has nothing of the character of the sentential judgment of the priest, but it is an act of the guilty person accusing oneself, and not satisfaction.131 Scotus goes on to say that forgiveness of sins can be given without 2 and 3 immediately above: [Ibid.:] True penance, whether only interior, or exterior, along with the undertaking of the sacrament of penance, suffices for salvation of someone in dire straits [in extremis] . . . because God is always able to reward, even in the circumstance of death. Therefore, since fruitful penance is not a human work but of God, he is able to inspire it whenever he wills via his mercy. It is also obvious through reason, because whether [1.] ST III, q. 90, a. 1, sc. John Duns Scotus, In IV Sent. d. 16.1.1, d. 16.1.5, in Opera omnia, ed. L. Wadding (Heldesheim: Georg Olms, 1968), 9:244, 246. I employ the non-critical edition of Wadding because its interpolated text reflects the closest text to which Scholarius was exposed. I thank Dr. Garrett Smith for bringing to my attention Wadding’s edition as approximately that to which nearly every theologian of Scholarius’s time and place was familiar. 131 Ibid. d. 16.1.7 (p. 9:247). 129 130 A Narrative for the Reception of Seven Sacraments into Orthodoxy 497 this interior penance alone disposes toward justification— through some manner of proportionately worthy action (meriti de congruo)—or [2.] whether the sacrament of penance operates toward the same [justification]—through some manner of the sacrament itself—either [a.] someone has the latter penance in dire straits [supra, 2], or [b.] the former [supra, 1], the same rationale of obtainment of a grace is also possessed in some penitent: both such a grace and salvation will consequently be perceived.132 Scotus held the doctrine that, without verbal confession and satisfaction, a person can still be validly forgiven in danger of death or some grave circumstance. In technical terms, verbal confessing and performing a satisfactory penitential action are not absolutely (simpliciter) necessary for God’s forgiveness, but necessary only under normal conditions (secundum quid).133 In extraordinary human duress, God forgives through sincere contrition or through the penitent’s intrinsic disposition and reception of priestly absolution. While the Synaxis reflected the πατερικὸν φρόνημα perfectly, in the sense that it defended traditional Orthodoxy against historically Latin liturgical innovations (e.g., baptism), Scholarius nonetheless used Scotus to justify Mark of Ephesus’s conciliar arguments that satisfaction is not absolutely part of penance.134 To promote Mark’s doctrine against aspects of thomistic interpretations of Florentine decrees,135 the prin Ibid. d. 20.1.3 (p. 9:403). Generally, something like a necessity of acts of repentance is needed to appease God in Greco-Orthodox tradition, but absolute necessity of “satisfaction” for “valid” sacramental penance is not patristically well attested (Jugie, Theologia Dogmatica, 3:352–62). 134 Mark Eugenicus, Marci Ephesii Responsio ad Quaestiones Latinorum 5.19, in Documents Relatifs au Concile de Florence, ed. L. Petit, Patrologia Orientalis 15 (Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1927), 130–31. 135 Mark assiduously avoided condemning Aquinas (though implying Aquinas) in three works on the essence-energy leading up to Florence, which phenomenon is likely a product of Mark’s cautious unionism, whereby incendiary remarks against Aquinas were avoided, as opined in Marios Pilavakis, introduction to “First Antirrhetic on the Distinction between Essence and Energy: First Antirrhetic against Manuel Kalekas (Editio princeps)” (PhD diss., University of London, 1987), 53, 149. At Florence, Mark took scandal to an official rhetor, John Montenero, O.P., explicitly invoking Aquinas’s tenets, though really exaggerating a novel version of the filioque coupled with explicit anti-Palamism (Xanthopoulos, Quae supersunt actorum graecorum, 132 133 498 Christiaan Kappes cipal author—Scholarius—borrowed from this renowned opponent of Aquinas.136 Despite his reverence for Symeon of Thessalonica, Scholarius abandoned the (by now) quasi-traditional genus-species approach to sacramental theology in Symeon and opted for the Scholastic sacramental theory: one sacrament signifies one individual item. The Synaxis, consisting of Palamites and anti-unionist Orthodox, followed the spiritual flagship of Mark of Ephesus and 2:346–50). Consequently, Mark inferred that Aquinas was the official doctrine of the Latins and thus condemned Thomistic theology of God in 1440; see Mark Eugenicus, Encyclica contra graeco-latinos 9.6 (MEME, 149). Thereafter, Scholarius openly confirmed Mark’s judgment on particular accounts of the filioque and essence-energies in 1445, whereupon Scholarius attacked only Aquinas’s theology of God. Therein, Scholarius introduced into his Thomistic “commentary” explicit laud for Scotus and thereupon employed Scotistic philosophy to counter Aquinas’s metaphysics of the Godhead; see Christiaan Kappes, “The Latin Sources of the Palamite Theology of George-Gennadius Scholarius,” Nicolaus 40 (2013): 71–114. Scholarius alludes to rekindling of Palamite controversies in the recent past (viz., Florence). Despite his general admiration and frequent imitation of Aquinas, Scholarius rejects his ad intra theology of God; see Scholarius, Commentary on De ente et essentia 94 (OGCS, 6:179–80, 284–85). 136 Eugenicus, Scholarius, and Emperor John VIII had already studied Scotus together before the Council in 1437; see John Monfasani, “The Pro-Latin Apologetics of the Greek Émigrés to Quattrocento Italy,” in Byzantine Theology and its Philosophical Background, ed. A. Rigo (Turnhout: Brepols, 2011), 165–68. As per Monfasani’s investigation, Scotus likely allowed Mark and Scholarius to see that Latin alternatives comparable to Orthodoxy existed contra Aquinas. In Palamas, Mark had theological conclusions and patristic prooftexts, but at Florence, he argued with the Dominican Montenero by surprising recourse to arguments paralleling Scotism; see Acta, Session 2.18, Ins 20–28: On the subject of divine items, essence and hypostasis differ from one another. However it is not the appropriate moment to speak [on this matter]; for it is probable that we [Greeks and Latins] also do not differ surrounding this argument. For, on another score, essence and hypostasis differ simpliciter (ἁπλῶς); namely, according to the manner through which property (τὸ ἴδιον) differs from universal (τοῦ κοινοῦ), just as [Ps.-]Basil the Great writes to his brother Gregory: “And by the mode that one predicates an essence of a man to differ from the universal concept, thus a person (πρόσωπον) and hypostasis (ὑπόστασις) differ” [from the divine essence]. (Xanthopoulos, Quae supersunt Actorum Graecorum 2:267) Basil’s Epistle 38 to his brother Gregory, as referred to by Mark, may be a work of Gregory Nyssa. Wherefore, a study on Nyssa’s Trinitarian predication (in relation to Scotus) is quite relevant to the discussion; see Richard Cross, “Gregory Nyssa on Universals,” Vigiliae Christianae 56 (2002): 372. A Narrative for the Reception of Seven Sacraments into Orthodoxy 499 yet felt comfortable adopting this confession of faith as the standard for post-Florentine Orthodoxy. Because the Synaxis conscientiously used calques from Latin in its profession, the hierarchs were undoubtedly aware of the Latin terminology, but they appear unconcerned that these differences threatened their liturgical traditions or age-old dogmatic tenets. Lombard’s taxis (partim) and Scotus’s sacramental theology (speciatim) were grafted onto Orthodox theology insofar as they contributed to Orthodox mission. Conclusions In this study, the standard narrative of Orthodoxy’s reception of the seven sacraments has been shown to be simplistic and ultimately invalid. First, Orthodox do not appear beholden to Latino-papal professions of faith post-1260 (especially Lyons II). Secondly, although Alexander IV’s Latin list was reorganized and utilized in the 1260 Cypriot synod, the Greek bishops equivocated on the nature and definition of the sacraments vis-à-vis Alexander IV’s Instruens graecos. Thereafter, Alexander IV’s and the 1260 Cypriot synod’s influence culminated in Cyprus among the anti-Palamite Orthodox (e.g., George Lapithes) in the 1340s. The Cypriot-originated genus-species method of sacramental division was modestly attractive to Job and more robustly exploited in the fifteenth-century Symeon of Thessalonica, if only to be placed in dialogue with Peter Lombard’s Sentences. Given the fact that Barlaam, Blastares, Cabasilas, and Symeon were all living and teaching in Thessalonica, and given the common library or sources shared between Cabasilas and Symeon, it is no surprise that all the aforementioned manifest an unusually detailed and accurate estimation of Latin opinions on select theological matters. Lombard was influential among Thessalonican Orthodox theologians for theological reflection and polemics (e.g., filioque arguments), as evidenced in the citations from Augustine in Barlaam, Blastares, and Lombard. Furthermore, Blastares’s appeals to Ps.-Jerome, paralleling Lombard’s Sentences, further solidify this line of argumentation. When we couple all this with the facts that Cabasilas cites the exact and unique excerpt from the Roman Canon as available in Lombard and that Cabasilas frames his arguments in perfect terminological and scriptural harmony with relevant sections of book IV of Lombard’s Sentences, then the case appears closed. Nonetheless, evidence continues to multiply as we look at Symeon of Thessalonica having detailed knowledge of Latin sacramentology that was unavailable in anti-Latin polemical literature but easily accounted for by recourse to Lombard’s Sentences. 500 Christiaan Kappes Throughout my presentation of this new narrative for the adoption of the seven sacraments into Byzantium, we see all these celebrated theologians of the Orthodox Church manifesting peculiarly personal motives for their own approaches to and arrangements of the seven sacraments. Nevertheless, as each Orthodox author’s sanctity or fame became celebrated, we infer that positive estimation and conclusions about the seven sacraments resulted in their benign adoption by pious Orthodox readers. Simultaneously, in no case studied have I found the profession of faith of Lyons II (or even that of Aquinas) to explain the arrangement, content, or speciation of the mysteries among approved Orthodox writers. As a point of precision, although the Sentences were a universal source for Latin argumentation, as well as resource for lifting extracts and for writing dissertations, Eastern Orthodox should hardly be called “Scholastic” for utilizing this proto-Scholastic text for a variety of purposes. Orthodox interest in the Sentences does not ipso facto render such authors “Scholastic” in the standard sense of the term. Concerning my last section of study, even though Symeon of Thessalonica’s writings were influential upon Mark of Ephesus and George-Gennadius Scholarius, Mark never showed ex professo interest in the number or content of the sacraments, while both Scholarius and the Synaxis failed even to reference Symeon’s sacramentology. Instead, the Synaxis approved of Scholarius’ more sophisticated arguments, some of which drew upon the most powerful critic of Aquinas’s theology in the Middle Ages, Duns Scotus. In the circumstances of post-Florence Byzantium, the Holy Synaxis and Scholarius shared the same motives for their adoption of seven sacraments: to profess their belief in the mysteries’ content and effects to the Hussites in contradistinction to Rome. All the same, their sacramental faith was stated in manner that set the Holy Synaxis apart from only a few Latin practices and Thomistic opiniones theologicae, which had proved controversial at the Council of Florence. In light of the commitments of the Holy Synaxis, one might wonder in what way subsequent Orthodoxy positively employed its pre-Reformation reflections on seven sacraments to confront post-Reformation challenges. I speak now of the anti-Protestantism that supposedly acted as the sufficient cause for the definitive adoption, enumeration, and theology of seven sacraments as adopted by Orthodox synods in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Narratives that essentially reduce the adoption of septimal lists of A Narrative for the Reception of Seven Sacraments into Orthodoxy 501 sacraments and their relative order to an imitation of Tridentine Catholicism are likely incomplete. For instance, I note that Dositheus of Jerusalem ( floruit 1672) was explicitly aware of documents and happenings surrounding the Synaxis in 1452.137 This fact suggests that popular narratives of post-Reformation Orthodoxy merely mimicking “papal” or “Tridentine” sacramental enumeration and content contra Protestantism may also be of questionable worth. Whether before or after the fall of the Polis in 1453, the history of Orthodox reception of the sacraments needs to be revised in light of a more positive, creative, and tangible influence of irenic Latin sources, not to mention the significance of the holy Synaxis’s profession of faith, especially considering the fact that it was the sole body to resist the Council of Florence within the confines of Byzantium.138 N&V CP, 25–27. I would like to thank Marie-Hélène Congourdeau (CNRS, Paris) and John Monfasani (Albany-SUNY) for their willingness to read and offer critiques on this paper. 137 138 Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 15, No. 2 (2017): 503–526 503 “Father, If It Be Possible, Let This Chalice Pass from Me”: Christ’s Prayer in Gethsemane According to St. Thomas Kevin E. O’Reilly, O.P. Pontifical University of St. Thomas Aquinas (Angelicum) Rome The focus of this article is St. Thomas’s account of Christ’s prayer at question 21 of the tertia pars the Summa Theologiae (ST), where his prayer in Gethsemane enjoys a particular prominence. At the outset of this question Thomas reiterates what he has already said about prayer at question 83 of the secunda secundae in the course of a series of questions on the virtue of religion. In this regard, various texts indicate that prayer and subjection to God are intimately related. It should therefore be no surprise that Thomas places a question on Christ’s subjection to the Father before his treatment of Christ’s prayer. Christ’s obedience unto death on the Cross at once expresses both an attitude of perfect subjection to God and the ultimate realization of the virtue of religion. Since this attitude receives particular expression in his prayer in Gethsemane, Christ’s prayer can be said to possess a sacrificial character. The interpretation is further corroborated at question 22 of the tertia pars, which deals with Christ’s priesthood. Once again, Thomas’s treatment of the virtue of religion stands in the background, this time the question on sacrifice (ST II-II, q. 85). Of particular import is the idea that outward sacrifice points towards the “inward sacrifice” of “devotion, prayer, and other like interior acts.”1 Summa Theologiae (ST) II-II, q. 85, a. 3, ad 2. Unless otherwise noted, all quotations from ST are from Summa Theologiae, trans. Fathers of the English Dominican Province, 5 vols. (Allen, TX: Christian Classics, 1981) 1 504 Kevin E. O’Reilly, O.P. The significance of Christ’s prayer in Gethsemane can be properly understood, however, only in the light of the doctrine of the hypostatic union, of which Christ’s prayer in general is a consequence. Of particular import in this regard is Thomas’s dyotheletism, his espousal of the doctrine that Christ possessed two wills—a divine will and a human will. For, if Christ possessed only a divine will, then it would not have been necessary for him to pray. We therefore turn in the first instance to this doctrine. According to Thomas’s analysis, Christ’s human will was moved by the divine will but in accord with the exigencies of his humanity as animated with a rational soul and thus as moved by its own will. Viewed in this light, his human will can attain what it wishes only by the divine power. Thomas’s rigorous adherence to the fact that Christ truly took on human flesh combines with his dyotheletism in helping to explain how Christ can recoil from the Father’s will in his humanity while at the same time and without logical contradiction positing the perfect attunement of Christ’s human will to the divine will. This perfect attunement of Christ’s human will to the divine will, which his prayer in Gethsemane expresses, in effect constitutes the perfect spiritual sacrifice. Christ’s Possession of Two Wills and His Prayer Thomas’s Chalcedonian Christology leads him to endorse classical dyotheletism, the doctrine that there are two wills in Christ, in the course of the series of questions devoted to the consequences of the union, questions 16–26 of the tertia pars of ST. In article 1 of question 18, after outlining various historical heresies in this regard, Thomas quotes from Constantinople III, which decreed as follows: “In accordance with what the Prophets of old taught us concerning Christ, and as He taught us Himself, and the Symbol of the Holy Fathers has handed down to us, we confess two natural wills in Him and two natural operations.”2 Thomas has already shown that the Son of God assumed a perfect human nature.3 It follows, therefore, that he must have assumed a human will, since “the will pertains to the perfection See also ST III, q. 19, a. 1, where Thomas quotes from Act 18 of Constantinople III (the Sixth Council): “We confess two natural, indivisible, unconvertible, unconfused, and inseparable operations in the same Lord Jesus Christ our true God; i.e. the Divine operation and the human operation.” For a treatment of Constantinople III in St. Thomas’s thought, see Thomas Joseph White, O.P., “Dyotheletism and the Instrumental Consciousness of Jesus,” Pro Ecclesia 17 (2008): 396–422. 3 See ST III, q. 5; and q. 9, a. 1. 2 Christ’s Prayer in Gethsemane According to St. Thomas 505 of human nature, being one of its natural powers.”4 At the same time, the assumption of human nature by the Son of God entailed no diminution on the part of the divine nature, “to which it belongs to have a will.”5 Hence, concludes Thomas, “it must be said that there are two wills in Christ, i.e. one human, the other Divine.”6 That Christ’s prayer is to be understood in the light of his possession of two wills—and, by extension, in the light of the hypostatic union—is clearly in evidence from the outset in article 1 of question 21, where Thomas discusses whether it is becoming for Christ to pray. As he begins to lay out his own position, Thomas asserts that “prayer is the unfolding of our will to God, that He may fulfil it.”7 If Christ had possessed a divine will alone, it would not have been necessary for him to pray, since the divine will would have brought about whatever he wished. Christ, however, has two distinct wills, divine and human.8 In so far as the human will is concerned, Thomas clearly has in mind the will as reason (ut ratio),9 what Paul Gondreau refers to as “the higher internal appetitive ordering of the will to the universal good, to the summum bonum.”10 The human will in this sense achieves what it desires only by the power of the divine will. As Thomas explains in his express treatment of the two wills of Christ, his human will possessed a determinate mode on account of the fact that it was in the divine hypostasis: “it was always moved in accordance with the bidding of the Divine will.”11 One must nevertheless avoid misunderstanding this assertion as meaning that there was no movement of the will proper to Christ’s human nature. Thomas appeals in this regard to the example of the saints: their good wills are moved by God’s will, “Who worketh in them both to will and to accom- ST III, q. 18, a. 1 (see also ST I, qq. 79–80). Ibid. 6 Ibid. 7 ST III, q. 21, a. 1. 8 See ST III, q. 18, a. 1. 9 It will be seen below that Thomas distinguishes between will as nature (voluntas ut natura [θέλησις]) and will as reason (voluntas ut ratio [βούλησις]). Furthermore, as shall be seen, he maintains that sensuality or the sensual appetite can be regarded as “a will by participation” (ST III, q. 18, a. 2). 10 Paul Gondreau, “St. Thomas Aquinas, the Communication of Idioms, and the Suffering of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane,” in Divine Impassibility and the Mystery of Human Suffering, ed. James F. Keating and Thomas Joseph White, O.P. (Grand Rapids, MI/Cambridge, UK: William B. Eerdmans, 2009), 227. 11 ST III, q. 18, a. 1, ad 4. 4 5 506 Kevin E. O’Reilly, O.P. plish, as it is written Phil 2:13.”12 Thomas’s invocation of the notion of instrumental causality is apt in this context: Christ’s human nature was the instrument of the Godhead according to its own exigencies, as an instrument animated with a rational soul and thus moved by its own will.13 The groundwork that Thomas lays in article 1 of question 18 thus establishes what he reiterates in article 1 of question 21: “The Divine and the human wills are distinct in Christ, and the human will of itself is not efficacious enough to do what it wishes, except by Divine power.” Thus, it belongs to Christ incarnate as possessing a human will to pray.14 ST III, q. 18, a. 1, ad 1. See ST III, q. 18, a. 1, ad 2, where Thomas employs the analogy of a servant being moved to act by the command of his master to illustrate this point: “An instrument animated by a sensitive soul is moved by the sensitive appetite, as a horse by its rider; and an instrument animated with a rational soul is moved by its will, as by the command of his lord the servant is moved to act, the servant being like an animate instrument, as the Philosopher says (Polit. i, 2,4; Ethic. viii, 11). And hence it was in this manner that the human nature of Christ was the instrument of the Godhead, and was moved by its own will.” See also ST III, q. 19, a. 1, ad 2. On the movement of the human will in general by God, see ST I-II, q. 10, a. 4: “As Dionysius says (Div. Nom. iv) it belongs to Divine providence, not to destroy but to preserve the nature of things. Wherefore it moves all things in accordance with their conditions; so that from necessary causes through the Divine motion, effects follow of necessity; but from contingent causes, effects follow contingently. Since, therefore, the will is an active principle, not determinate to one thing, but having an indifferent relation to many things, God so moves it, that He does not determine it of necessity to one thing, but its movement remains contingent and not necessary, except in those things to which it is moved naturally.” See also ST III, q. 19, a. 1: “In Christ the human nature has its proper form and power whereby it acts; and so has the Divine. Hence the human nature has its proper operation distinct from the Divine, and conversely. Nevertheless, the Divine Nature makes use of the operation of the human nature, as of the operation of its instrument; and in the same way the human nature shares in the operation of the Divine Nature, as an instrument shares in the operation of the principal agent. And this is what Pope Leo says (Ep. ad Flavian. xxviii): Both forms (i.e. both the Divine and the human nature in Christ) do what is proper to each in union with the other, i.e. the Word operates what belongs to the Word, and the flesh carries out what belongs to flesh.” 14 Thomas guards against the error of Nestorianism by emphasizing that operation pertains to a subsisting hypostasis in accordance with the form and nature from which it receives its species. Thus, writes Thomas, “from the diversity of forms or natures spring the divers[e] species of operations, but from the unity of hypostasis springs the numerical unity as regards the operation of the species: thus fire has two operations specifically different, namely, to illuminate and to heat, from the difference of light and heat, and yet the illumination 12 13 Christ’s Prayer in Gethsemane According to St. Thomas 507 In this regard, it ought to be recalled that “prayer implies a certain ordering inasmuch as we desire something to be fulfilled by God; and this is the work of reason alone.”15 There is therefore an obvious sense in which prayer cannot be ascribed to sensuality, for the movement of sensuality is incapable of transcending material reality in order to rise up to God. The fact that the nature of Christ’s sensuality was identical with ours means that he did not pray with his sensuality either. There is, nevertheless, another sense in which we can pray according to our sensuality—when our prayer expresses to God the desire of our appetite or sensuality. Christ can be said to have prayed with his sensuality in this sense “inasmuch as his prayer expressed the desire of His sensuality, as if it were the advocate of the sensuality.”16 His intent in praying is thus once again to teach us. Antoine Guggenheim’s observation in this regard is worth noting: this instruction is a truly human act; if it were not so, it would not be salvific.17 Christ is not a spectator to his own prayer or to his own life—that would constitute a kind of Docetism; he acts, rather, in keeping with the demands of the economy of revelation according to the flesh.18 To pray with his sensuality shows that he had assumed human nature in its fullness with its natural affections. Obviously referring to Christ’s prayer in Gethsemane, moreover, Thomas argues that, in praying with his sensuality, Christ shows that it is possible for us to wish according to our natural desire what God does not wish. It shows finally “that man should subject his own will to the Divine will.”19 Thomas again quotes from Augustine to illustrate this point with the example of Christ’s prayer in Gethsemane: “Christ acting as a man, shows the proper will of a man when He says ‘Let this chalice pass from Me’; for this was the human will desiring something proper to itself and, so to say, private. But because He wishes man to be righteous and to of the fire that illuminates at one and the same time is numerically one. So, likewise, in Christ there are necessarily two specifically different operations by reason of His two natures; nevertheless, each of the operations at one and the same time is numerically one, as one walking and one healing” (ST III, q. 19, a. 1, ad 3). 15 ST III, q. 21, a. 2. 16 Ibid. 17 Antoine Guggenheim, Jésus Christ, Grand Prêtre de l’ancienne et de la nouvelle Alliance: Étude théologique et herméneutique du Commentaire de saint Thomas d’Aquin sur l’Épître aux Hébreux (Paris: Parole et Silence, 2004), 206. 18 See ibid., 206–7. 19 ST III, q. 21, a. 2. 508 Kevin E. O’Reilly, O.P. be directed to God, He adds: ‘Nevertheless not as I will but as Thou wilt,’ as if to say, ‘See thyself in Me, for thou canst desire something proper to thee, even though God wishes something else.’”20 Christ’s reason did not in fact desire the fulfilment of the petition that He might not drink of the chalice that was his Passion and death on the Cross. His example of prayer was rather for our instruction by making known to us “His natural will, and the movement of His sensuality, which was His as man.”21 Christ’s prayer in Gethsemane witnesses to the fact that, in him, there was a will of sensuality in addition to a will of reason, since “the Son of God assumed human nature together with everything Ibid. ST III, q. 21, a. 4, ad 1. See also, for example, Super Ioan. 17, lect. 1: “There is a difference between the prayer of Christ and our own prayer: our prayer arises solely from our needs, while the prayer of Christ is more for our instruction, for there was no need for him to pray for himself, since together with his Father he answers prayers. He instructs us here by his words and actions. He teaches us by his actions in lifting up his eyes, so that we also will lift our eyes to heaven when we pray: ‘To you I lift up my eyes, O you who are enthroned in the heavens!’ (Ps 123:1). And not just our eyes, but also our actions, by referring them to God: ‘Let us lift up our hearts and hands to God in heaven’ (Lam 3:41). He teaches us by his words, for he said his prayer publicly, and said, so that those whom he taught by teaching he might also teach by praying. We are taught not just by the words of Christ, but also by his actions”; see Commentary on the Gospel of John, trans. Fabian Larcher, O.P., and James A. Weisheipl, O.P. (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2010), no. 2179. While John 17 recounts Christ’s priestly prayer at the Last Supper, its focus is decidedly different from that of Christ’s prayer in Gethsemane. For one thing, it is removed from the context of Christ’s anguish in Gethsemane immediately prior to his Passion, the context that calls for a discussion of his two wills. In the commentary on John 17, this anguish therefore does not enter into Thomas’s considerations. Thus, in commenting on Christ’s sacrifice he writes, “And so it was appropriate that some sacrifice be offered for the sanctification of the disciples. This is what he is saying: I sanctify myself in order that they might be sanctified, that is, I am offering myself as a sacrifice: ‘who offered himself without blemish to God’ (Heb 9:14)” (Super Ioan. 17, lect. 4, no. 2231). Indeed, in keeping with the text on which he is commenting,Thomas’s emphasis is on Christ’s glory. Apart from five occurrences of the word “glory” in the block quotations of the Gospel text, there are seventy-nine other occurrences of it in Thomas’s commentary—an indication of the importance of this notion. Finally, the genre of Thomas’s commentary on John 17 is very different from ST. The former is a verse by verse commentary on the Gospel text, while the latter is a systematic treatise structured according to Thomas’s theological design. That Thomas’s structural choices in ST have a theological significance is the point of this present article with regard to Christ’s prayer. 20 21 Christ’s Prayer in Gethsemane According to St. Thomas 509 pertaining to the perfection of human nature.”22 Since animal nature is included in human nature as a genus in its species, the Son of God necessarily assumed all that pertains to our animal nature, including the sensitive appetite or sensuality, described by Gondreau as movements of a “lower animal-like inclination to sense goods or evils.”23 In other words, Christ’s experience of the passions is implicit in his assumption of human nature.24 Christ in his human nature was, as Gondreau puts it, “subject to an affective type of willing, a type of willing connected to the desire for bodily goods.”25 In this respect, it must be borne in mind that it is the human compositum that is subject ST III, q. 18, a. 2. Gondreau, “St. Thomas Aquinas, the Communication of Idioms, and the Suffering of Christ,” 226. 24 See ST III, q. 15, a. 4: “The affections of the sensitive appetite are most properly called passions of the soul. Now these were in Christ, even as all else pertaining to man’s nature.” Earlier in this question (ST III, q. 15, a. 2, ad 2), Thomas writes: “The flesh naturally seeks what is pleasing to it by the concupiscence of the sensitive appetite; but the flesh of man, who is a rational animal, seeks this after the manner and order of reason. And thus with the concupiscence of the sensitive appetite Christ’s flesh naturally sought food, drink, and sleep, and all else that is sought in right reason, as is plain from Damascene (De Fide Orth. iii, 14).” At the same time, it ought to be noted that, according to Thomas, Christ’s experience of the passions differed from ours in certain ways. On this point, see ST III, q. 15, a. 4: “The passions were in Christ otherwise than in us, in three ways. First, as regards the object, since in us these passions very often tend towards what is unlawful, but not so in Christ. Secondly, as regards the principle, since these passions in us frequently forestall the judgment of reason; but in Christ all movements of the sensitive appetite sprang from the disposition of the reason. Hence Augustine says (De Civ. Dei xiv, 9), that Christ assumed these movements, in His human soul, by an unfailing dispensation, when He willed; even as He became man when He willed. Thirdly, as regards the effect, because in us these movements, at times, do not remain in the sensitive appetite, but deflect the reason; but not so in Christ, since by His disposition the movements that are naturally becoming to human flesh so remained in the sensitive appetite that the reason was nowise hindered in doing what was right. Hence Jerome says (on Matt 26:37) that Our Lord, in order to prove the reality of the assumed manhood, ‘was sorrowful’ in very deed; yet lest a passion should hold sway over His soul, it is by a propassion that He is said to have ‘begun to grow sorrowful and to be sad’; so that it is a perfect passion when it dominates the soul, i.e. the reason; and a propassion when it has its beginning in the sensitive appetite, but goes no further.” 25 Gondreau, “St. Thomas Aquinas, the Communication of Idioms, and the Suffering of Christ,” 227. 22 23 510 Kevin E. O’Reilly, O.P. to passion: compositum patitur.26 Robert Miner explains Thomas’s position well: “The passions are in the sensitive appetite, but the sensitive appetite itself belongs to the form/matter composite, since it requires a bodily organ for its operation.”27 According to the hylomorphic structure of the passions, “the formal element is the movement of the appetitive power, while the bodily transmutation is the material element.”28 Thomas’s hylomorphism also entails certain consequences for how he construes the relationship between the passions and reason. It is not possible to discuss this relationship at length within the confines of this article, but one aspect demands our attention, the relationship of dynamic reciprocal influence between reason and the passions. The analogy of political power, taken from Aristotle, suggests itself for the passions, since they are free and, thus, possess “a certain right of opposition.”29 The passions are therefore capable of undermining the judgment of reason. On the other hand, when they do follow the lead of reason, being thereby “rationalized,”30 they facilitate its command, since they are disposed toward the good that is in accord with reason. As Mark D. Jordan puts it, “so far as the passions are brought under right reason, they increase the exercise of reason and so nearness to the good.”31 It is precisely this idea that Thomas brings to bear on his discussion in article 2 of question 18, concerning whether there was a will of sensuality in Christ, when he writes: “It must be ST I-II, q. 22, a. 1. Robert Miner, Thomas Aquinas on the Passions: A Study of Summa Theologiae 1a2ae 22–48 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 32. 28 ST I-II, q. 44, a. 1. 29 Ibid. Freedom is not ascribed in the same univocal sense to the lower appetite as it is to the rational appetite (the will). As Gondreau points out, however, its ascription to the lower appetite is not merely metaphorical either. He explains: “Aquinas truly believes that the dynamic interplay between our higher faculties and our lower ones is such that, through the work of moral virtue, reason and will penetrate into the very sensitive appetite and endow it with a real, albeit derived and partial, sharing in rationality and freedom. For Thomas, the lower appetite, our animal-like inclination to bodily goods, has the capability of becoming rational (and thus free) by participation” (“St. Thomas Aquinas, the Communication of Idioms, and the Suffering of Christ,” 230). 30 This expression is borrowed from the title of Elisabeth Uffenheimer-Lippens’s article “Rationalized Passion and Passionate Rationality: Thomas Aquinas on the Relation Between Reason and the Passions,” The Review of Metaphysics 56 (2003): 525–58. 31 Mark D. Jordan, “Aquinas’s Construction of a Moral Account of the Passions,” Freiburger Zeitschrift für Philosophie und Theologie 33 (1986): 92. 26 27 Christ’s Prayer in Gethsemane According to St. Thomas 511 borne in mind that sensuality or the sensual appetite, inasmuch as it naturally obeys reason, is said to be rational by participation,” a point gleaned from Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics.32 Since “the will is in the reason,”33 it can be said by logical extension that the sensuality is “a will by participation.”34 In discussing the act of Christ’s will, Thomas distinguishes between “simple will,” or “will as nature” (voluntas ut natura; θέλησις), and “counselling will,” or “will as reason” (voluntas ut ratio; βούλησις), a distinction drawn from Damascene.35 In the case of voluntas ut natura, the will is borne toward the end simply and absolutely “as towards what is good in itself,”36 while in the case of voluntas ut ratio, it is borne toward the means under a certain relation, since “the goodness of the means depends on something else.”37 Thus, for example, we desire health by an act of simple willing, whereas we desire medicine, a means to health, by an act of the counselling will. The significance of Christ’s twofold will according to his human nature—“the will of sensuality, which is called will by participation, and the rational will, whether considered after the manner of nature, or after the manner of reason”38 —for Christ’s prayer in Gethsemane begins to emerge in Thomas’s discussion in article 5 of question 18, about whether the human will of Christ was altogether conformed to the divine will in the thing willed. Indeed, the quotation from Augustine in the sed contra indicates as much: “Augustine says (Contra Maxim. ii, 20): When Christ says ‘Not what I will, but what See Nicomachean ethics 1.13. On this point, see ST I, q. 87, a. 4, and q. 87, a. 4, ad 3. See also Quaestiones disputatae de anima, a. 13, ad 12: “The will exists in the reason inasmuch as it follows the apprehension of the reason” (“voluntas est in ratione in quantum sequitur apprehensionem rationis”; my own translation from the Marietti/ Turin edition available at http://www.corpusthomisticum.org/qda01.html, last accessed Jan 30, 2017). Expressed otherwise, Thomas states, “the intellect moves the will, because the good understood is the object of the will, and moves it as an end” (ST I, q. 82, a. 4). For a treatment of the participation of the will in the reason, see Tibor Horvath, S.J., Caritas est in Ratione: Die Lehre des hl. Thomas über die Einheit der intellectiven und affectiven Begnadung des Menschen (Münster: Aschendorff, 1966), 48–58. 34 ST III, q. 18, a. 2. 35 ST III, q. 18, a. 3. 36 Ibid. These acts do not of course diversify the power, since “both acts regard the one common ratio of the object, which is goodness” (ibid.). In other words, there is in Christ but one human will. 37 Ibid. 38 ST III, q. 18, a. 5. The will so construed is, in effect, threefold. 32 33 512 Kevin E. O’Reilly, O.P. Thou wilt’ He shows Himself to have willed something else than did His Father.” Thomas takes this recoiling from the Father’s will seriously; it is not something to be explained away, especially in view of what Gondreau describes as Thomas’s “view of the human being (which he ascribes here to Christ) as an integrated, participated whole, by which the various powers of the soul retain an intimate synergistic union with each other.”39 As truly human, the will of sensuality in Christ “naturally shrinks from sensible pains and bodily hurt.”40 In like manner, Christ’s voluntas ut natura “turns from what is against nature and what is evil in itself, as death and the like.”41 In contrast, it was by his voluntas ut ratio that Christ willed to fulfil the divine will—namely that He should undergo pain, suffering, and death for our salvation. In brief, it is clear that “in His will of sensuality and in His rational will considered as nature, Christ could will what God did not; but in His will as reason He always willed the same as God, which appears from what He says (Matt 26:39): Not as I will, but as Thou wilt.”42 While Thomas preserves the perfect conformity between Christ’s divine and human wills by invoking the distinction between voluntas ut natura and voluntas ut ratio, there nevertheless remains an issue concerning a seeming discord between Jesus’s lower sensitive powers/ emotions and his reason and will. In this regard, Gondreau points out that Jesus’s aversion to death corresponds to “the natural, instinctive, affective, aversion to death that all animals (as with all creatures) possess; his aversion to death does not pertain to a fully elicited appetitive movement as such.”43 As such, it does not constitute a movement of passion that opposes the command of reason and will. Instinctive affective reactions still remain part of the human lot even in the case of a human being who is perfectly virtuous, since the sensitive appetite enjoys a quasi-autonomy. Crucially, in the case of Christ, however, as Gondreau writes, these reactions “are finalized by reason, that is, they are fully integrated into Christ’s perfection in moral virtue before they reach the stage of a fully elicited movement of the lower appetite.”44 Prayer as the ordering force of reason Gondreau, “St. Thomas Aquinas, the Communication of Idioms, and the Suffering of Christ,” 233. 40 ST III, q. 18, a. 5. 41 Ibid. 42 Ibid. On this point see also Compendium theologiae, ch. 233. 43 Gondreau, “St. Thomas Aquinas, the Communication of Idioms, and the Suffering of Christ,” 235. 44 Ibid., 236. 39 Christ’s Prayer in Gethsemane According to St. Thomas 513 brought to bear upon our desire so that this desire is conformed to the divine will finds its perfect exemplar in Christ’s prayer. In the final article of Thomas’s discussion of Christ’s two wills we encounter a reference to what constitutes a fully elicited movement of the sensitive appetite: “There was an agony in Christ with regard to the sensitive part, inasmuch as it implies a fear of imminent trial, as Damascene says (De Fide Orth. ii, 15; iii, 18, 23).”45 Christ’s experience of fear, however, did not entail a disruption of the imperium of reason and will over the sensitive appetite. Thomas categorizes it elsewhere as a “propassion” in order to distinguish it from the passion of fear that “implies a perfect passion drawing man from what reason dictates.”46 In other words, Jesus’s experience of fear was rightly ordered. As Craig Steven Titus writes with respect to Jesus’s experience of sorrow, he was “rightly affected by the object, without unreasonable resultant action”47 so that “He was not deflected from His mission, which involved knowledge, freedom, and surety, that is, a moral act.”48 Jesus, “the man of consummate moral virtue,”49 experienced fear in a way that did not come into direct conflict with the Father’s will.50 In other words, fear did not undermine the perfection of his prayer. This section has highlighted the significance of the hypostatic union for a proper understanding of Christ’s prayer. This doctrine ST III, q. 18, a. 6, ad 3 (my translation from the Leonine edition, available at http://www.corpusthomisticum.org/sth4016.html#47733, last accessed Jan 30, 2017). Thomas treats the passion of fear at length earlier in ST I-II, qq. 41–44. 46 ST III, q. 15, a. 7, ad 1. As already noted, Thomas discusses the difference between Christ’s passions and our passions in ST III, q. 15, a. 4 (see note 24 above). For a discussion of the notion that “the passions were in Christ otherwise than in us,” see Paul Gondreau, The Passions of Christ’s Soul in the Theology of St. Thomas Aquinas (Scranton, PA / London: University of Scranton Press, 2009), 333–74. Gondreau comments that “Jesus enjoyed a moral integrity characterized by a radically extensive penetration of reason into his sensibility, whereby every movement of his affectivity was instinctively and innately oriented to the exercise of virtue” (373). 47 Craig Steven Titus, Resilience and the Virtue of Fortitude: Aquinas in Dialogue with the Psychosocial Sciences (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2006), 334. 48 Ibid., 335. 49 Gondreau, “St. Thomas Aquinas, the Communication of Idioms, and the Suffering of Christ,” 238. 50 In the case of fear as a propassion, therefore, Thomas does not need to invoke the distinction between voluntas ut natura and voluntas ut ratio. 45 514 Kevin E. O’Reilly, O.P. requires that we ascribe two wills to Christ—a human will and a divine will. It is inasmuch as Christ possesses a human will that he prays, since “the human will of itself is not efficacious enough to do what it wishes, except by Divine power.”51 While prayer is essentially an act of reason, there is a sense in which it can express the desire of sensuality, as if it were its advocate. Christ’s prayer in Gethsemane, which, like all his prayer, serves as an example for our instruction is a case in point,52 shows us that, while it is possible for natural desire to be inclined to what God does not wish, man should nevertheless “subject his own will to the Divine will.”53 Thomas’s hylomorphic anthropology allied with his dyotheletism allows him to take Christ’s recoiling from the Father’s will in his humanity seriously while, at the same time and without logical contradiction, positing the perfect conformity of Christ’s human will to the divine will. My next section turns to a consideration of the virtue of religion, which “excels among the moral virtues,”54 and of Christ’s prayer in Gethsemane. While it presupposes the doctrines of the hypostatic union and of Christ’s possession of two wills, Thomas’s account of Christ’s prayer also presupposes what he has written in the secunda pars about the virtue of religion. Prayer, along with devotion, is one of the internal acts of this virtue. Since he possessed all the virtues perfectly, Christ necessarily had the virtue of religion and, thus, also exemplified a constant attitude of prayer. In this regard, careful attention to the relevant texts shows that prayer and subjection to God are intimately related: prayer expresses our subjection to God and our confession of our need of him as the author of what promotes our well-being.55 Thomas’s placement of a question on Christ’s subjection to the Father before his treatment of Christ’s prayer should be seen in this light. Christ’s obedience unto death on the Cross at once furnishes both the all-surpassing attitude of subjection to God and the ultimate realization of the virtue of religion. The outward sacrifice of the Cross is, however, ordered toward “devotion, prayer, and other like interior acts.”56 It follows, therefore, that Christ’s prayer is intimately associated with his priesthood, treated by Thomas in question 22 of the tertia pars, immediately following his discussion of ST III, q. 21, a. 1. See, for example, Super Ioan. 17, lec. 1 (quoted above in note 21). 53 ST III, q. 21 a. 2. 54 ST II-II, q. 81, a. 6. 55 See ST II-II, q. 83, a. 3 56 ST II-II, q. 85, a. 3, ad 2. 51 52 Christ’s Prayer in Gethsemane According to St. Thomas 515 Christ’s prayer, since the notion of sacrifice, one of the external acts of religion, is essential to this office. The position of the question on Christ’s prayer—between considerations of his subjection to the Father and of his priesthood—indicates that his prayer is sacrificial in character. The primary example adduced by Thomas in this regard is Christ’s prayer in Gethsemane. The Sacrificial Character of Christ’s Prayer As we have already intimated, Thomas begins his treatment of Christ’s prayer by recalling what he has already written about prayer in question 83 of the secunda secundae, in the course of a series of questions on the virtue of religion. In the first two articles of that question, it becomes clear that “prayer is the unfolding of our will to God, that He may fulfil it.”57 If Christ possessed but a divine will, it would clearly not have been fitting for him to pray, since “the Divine will of itself is effective of whatever He wishes by it, according to Psalms. 134:6: Whatsoever the Lord pleased, He hath done.”58 The distinction between the divine and human wills in Christ means, however, that it belonged to Christ as a man possessing a human will to pray, since “the human will of itself is not efficacious enough to do what it wishes.”59 The grace of Christ, however, was most perfect, and so there flowed from it “the virtues which perfect the several powers of the soul for all the soul’s acts.”60 He therefore possessed all the virtues—including the virtue of religion, which excels all the others inasmuch as “its actions are directly and immediately ordered to the honor of God.”61 By this virtue, his mind was perfectly subjected to God62 and reverenced him “as the first principle of the creation and government of things.”63 One might say that Christ in his human nature possessed an unfailing attitude of prayer, since, as Thomas writes concerning prayer, “man shows reverence to ST III, q. 21 a. 2. Ibid. 59 Ibid. See also ST II-II, q. 83, a. 10, ad, 1: “The Son is said to ask or pray in respect of His assumed, i.e. His human, nature and not in respect of His Godhead.” 60 ST III, q. 7, a. 2. 61 ST II-II, q. 81, a. 6. Thomas does not state explicitly that Christ had the virtue of religion. As R. Jared Staudt explains, however, that Christ did in fact possess this virtue “is clearly inferred through his religious acts”; see “Did Christ Worship the Trinity?” The Thomist 76 (2012): 245. Staudt then proceeds to offer abundant evidence from the Summa to support this point (ibid., 243–53). 62 See ST II-II, q. 81, a. 7. 63 ST II-II, q. 81, a. 3. 57 58 516 Kevin E. O’Reilly, O.P. God by means of prayer, in so far as he subjects himself to Him, and by praying confesses that he needs Him as the Author of his goods.”64 Expressed otherwise, “the mind of Christ was always raised up to God, since He was always contemplating him as existing above himself.”65 One might wonder, however, how Thomas’s portrayal of Christ’s prayer tallies with his anti-Nestorian attitude, since he is clear that there is only one Person in Christ. In other words, does Christ as God pray to himself? The response to this question is provided by the doctrine of the hypostatic union: Christ in his humanity prays to God, to whom, in the Person of the Word, his human soul is hypostatically united. Adapting R. Jared Staudt’s words, we can say that Christ prays to God through his human and creaturely soul “in respect of God’s pre-eminence both as creator and as end.”66 One could employ Thomas’s own words in relation to the virtue of religion to Christ in his humanity: Christ in his humanity prays to God “as the first principle of the creation and government of things.”67 God’s Trinitarian being demands moreover that Christ’s prayer, which is directed to the Person of the Father, is, by logical extension, communicated to the other divine Persons.68 Indeed, as created, ST II-II, q. 83, a. 3. ST III, q. 21, a. 1, ad 3. In another sense “the human mind of Christ did not need to rise to God, since it was ever united to God both by personal being and by the blessed vision” (ibid.). Thomas is here quoting from John Damascene, De fide orth. 3.24. Underlying both these formulations is the notion that a nature always implies a hypostatic subject that always acts in and through a nature. Thus, as White explains, “the unity of activity of the Incarnate Word requires the beatific vision in the intellect of Christ, so that his human will and his divine will may cooperate within one subject”; see White, “The Voluntary Action of the Earthly Christ and the Necessity of the Beatific Vision,” The Thomist 69 (2005): 507. Elsewhere White writes that “the natural operations of Christ’s mind and will are treated as principles of activity, even as these transpire within the unity of his unique person, the Son of God. Because they can be identified as distinct principles of natural operations, they can also be treated as grammatical subjects of activity” (White, “Dyotheletism,” 398–99). 66 Staudt, “Did Christ Worship the Trinity?” 257. 67 ST II-II, q. 81, a. 3. See also ST II-II, q. 81, a. 3, ad 3: “By praying man surrenders his mind to God, since he subjects it to Him with reverence and, so to speak, presents it to Him. . . .Wherefore just as the human mind excels exterior things, whether bodily members, or those external things that are employed for God’s service, so too, prayer surpasses other acts of religion.” 68 See Staudt, “Did Christ Worship the Trinity?” 257: “To say that Christ as a man does not worship (offer acts of adoration and latria) himself as divine as a separate subject is crucial in upholding anti-Nestorian doctrine. There is only 64 65 Christ’s Prayer in Gethsemane According to St. Thomas 517 Christ’s humanity is dependent on God and is therefore subject to God in three ways, a subjection that “Christ professes of Himself.”69 As Staudt writes, “Christ’s humanity is subject to the Holy Trinity and thus owes it the honor due from all human beings (though Christ is not a human person).” 70 Indeed, Christ’s prayer does not pertain to his divine nature and, hence, does not imply, as Thomas Joseph White, O.P., explains, “an eternal subordination or obedience within the uncreated Trinity.” 71 Nevertheless, White elaborates, “this prayer is expressive of an inner-Trinitarian relation. It reveals to us the relation that the person of the Son has with respect to the Father: Jesus receives all that he is and has both as God and man from the Father as his origin.” 72 Christ’s prayer is “a human mode of expression of his intra-Trinitarian filial identity.” 73 According to Thomas, prayer and subjection to God are intimately connected: by means of prayer, we subject ourselves to him and confess that we need him as the author of what conduces to our well-being.74 Human nature, he tells us as he begins his discussion of Christ’s subjection to the Father, is characterized by a threefold subjection to God.75 The first kind of subjection pertains to our participation in the divine goodness as created effects of his creative causality. Interestingly, Thomas construes this subjection in a positive light: participation in the divine goodness means that human nature, like any created nature, is subject to the rays of God’s goodness. one person in Christ. Yet this does not mean that we must de facto rule out Christ’s worship of the Holy Trinity, for two reasons. First, there is reverence in the human soul of Christ toward God, to whom, in the second person, this human soul is hypostatically united. Second, the worship which is directed to the person of the Father is communicated to the other persons.” These comments are equally applicable to Christ’s prayer, and this idea is supported by ST III, q. 26, a. 2: as God, Christ “does not differ from the Father and the Holy Ghost in nature and power of dominion: nor have the Father and the Holy Ghost anything that the Son has not, so that He be able to communicate to others something belonging to the Father or the Holy Ghost, as though it were belonging to others than Himself.” 69 ST III, q. 20, a. 1. 70 Staudt, “Did Christ Worship the Trinity?” 262. 71 Thomas Joseph White, O.P., “The Voluntary Action of the Earthly Christ and the Necessity of the Beatific Vision,” The Thomist 69 (2005): 527. 72 Ibid. Imitation of Christ’s example draws the believer into this relation. 73 Ibid., 528. 74 See ST II-II, q. 83, a. 3 75 See ST III, q. 20, a. 1. 518 Kevin E. O’Reilly, O.P. The second kind of subjection relates to God’s power “inasmuch as human nature, even as every creature, is subject to the operation of the Divine ordinance.” 76 This second aspect of our subjection to God clearly places Thomas’s discussion in the context of divine providence.77 It is in this context that prayer finds its place, for, as Thomas tells us, “we pray not that we may change the Divine disposition [divinam dispositionem], but that we may impetrate that which God has disposed [disposuit] to be fulfilled by our prayers, in other words that by asking, men may deserve to receive what Almighty God from eternity has disposed [disposuit] to give, as Gregory says (Dial. i, 8).” 78 Christ’s prayer in particular ought to be understood in this way, inasmuch as all that befell him is believed to have happened to him according to what God had disposed (“omnia quae circa humanitatem Christi acta sunt, divina dispositione gesta creduntur”).79 The third aspect of our subjection to God pertains to the proper act of human nature, “inasmuch as by its own will it obeys His command.”80 Thomas has previously established that God is the cause of the human soul’s movement for two reasons: firstly, because the will is the power of the rational soul that “is caused by God alone, by creation”; 81 secondly, because the will is intrinsically ordered towards the universal Good, God himself.82 These two reasons form the Ibid. See ST I, q. 22, a. 1: “It is necessary to attribute providence to God. For all the good that is in created things has been created by God. . . . In created things good is found not only as regards their substance, but also as regards their order towards an end and especially their last end, which . . . is the divine goodness. . . . This good of order existing in things created, is itself created by God. Since, however, God is the cause of things by His intellect, and thus it behooves that the type of every effect should pre-exist in Him, as is clear from what has gone before (q. 19, a. 4), it is necessary that the type of the order of things towards their end should pre-exist in the divine mind: and the type of things ordered towards an end is, properly speaking, providence.” 78 ST II-II, q. 83, a. 2. 79 ST III, q. 20, a. 1. 80 Ibid. 81 ST I-II, q. 9, a. 6. See also ST I, q. 90, a. 2. 82 Ibid. Thomas continues: “Every other good is good by participation, and is some particular good, and a particular cause does not give a universal inclination” (ibid.). See also ST I-II, q. 2, a. 8: “It is impossible for any created good to constitute man’s happiness. For happiness is the perfect good, which lulls the appetite altogether; else it would not be the last end, if something yet remained to be desired. Now the object of the will, i.e. of man’s appetite, is the universal good; just as the object of the intellect is the universal true. Hence it is evident 76 77 Christ’s Prayer in Gethsemane According to St. Thomas 519 basis for the virtue of religion—of which prayer is one of the chief acts, since “by it religion directs man’s intellect to God.”83 Religion, Thomas explains, properly denotes “a relation to God,”84 since “it is He to Whom we ought to be bound as to our unfailing principle; to Whom also our choice should be resolutely directed as to our last end.”85 Religion is a virtue annexed to the virtue of justice, the essential character of which “consists in rendering to another his due according to equality.”86 Religion thus shares in common with justice the fact of rendering someone—namely, God—what is due to him. At the same time, the virtue of religion falls short of the perfection of justice inasmuch as man can never render God as much as he owes him. It is in this sense that Thomas argues that, “just as all natural things are subject to the divine motion by a natural necessity, so too all wills, by a kind of necessity of justice, are bound to obey the divine command.”87 According to Thomas, Christ ascribes this kind of subjection to himself. John 8:29 supports this contention: “I do always the things that please Him.”88 Christ is here referring to his subjection to the Father in his obedience unto death. Scripture is once again invoked in this regard: “Hence it is written (Phil 2:8) that he became obedient to the Father unto death.”89 The Cross thus proves to be defining with regard to Christ’s exercise of the virtue of religion in his subjection and obedience to the Father. Since prayer and subjection to God are intimately associated and prayer is an internal act of the virtue of religion—to which external acts such as sacrifice are ordered—it follows that Christ’s Cross is also defining with regard to his prayer. In other words, Christ’s prayer is sacrificial in character. While Thomas does indeed refer to various texts that record Christ’s prayer, it remains that the greatest emphasis in this regard that naught can lull man’s will, save the universal good. This is to be found, not in any creature, but in God alone; because every creature has goodness by participation. Wherefore God alone can satisfy the will of man, according to the words of Ps 102:5: Who satisfieth thy desire with good things. Therefore God alone constitutes man’s happiness.” 83 ST II-II, q. 83, a. 3. 84 ST II-II, q. 81, a. 1. 85 Ibid. 86 ST II-II, q. 80, a. 1. 87 ST II-II, q. 104, a. 4. God communicates His commands to us either by the natural law or by the written law (see ST II-II, q. 104, a. 5, ad 2). 88 ST III, q. 20, a. 1. 89 Ibid. 520 Kevin E. O’Reilly, O.P. concerns his prayer in Gethsemane.90 It furnishes the primary illustration employed by Thomas at the second article of question 21 of the tertia pars in answering the question of whether it pertains to Christ to pray according to his sensuality. In his response, as we have seen, Thomas points out that Christ could be said to have prayed with his sensuality “inasmuch as His prayer expressed the desire of His sensuality, as if it were the advocate of the sensuality.”91 Among the things that Christ’s example in this regard teaches us is that “man should subject his own will to the Divine will.”92 Implicated here, as we have seen, is Thomas’s espousal of Constantinople III’s teaching concerning Christ’s two wills. He quotes a passage from Augustine in this regard, a passage that focuses on Christ’s prayer in Gethsemane.93 The third article of question 21, informed by Thomas’s dyotheletism, also makes reference to this particular prayer of Christ in the course of an explanation of the two ways in which Christ prayed for himself. Connecting with the previous article, Thomas states that Christ prayed “by expressing the desire of His sensuality, as stated above (a. 2); or also of His simple will, considered as a nature; as when He prayed that the chalice of His Passion might pass from Him (Matt 26:39).”94 The response of the final article of this question (a. 4) does not mention the prayer in Gethsemane directly, but exegesis of the sed contra by way of reference to Thomas’s commentary on Pope Benedict XVI, in elaborating the basis for a spiritual Christology, points out that “the entire gospel testimony is unanimous that Jesus’ words and deeds flowed from his most intimate communion with the Father; that he continually went ‘into the hills’ to pray in solitude after the burden of the day (e.g., Mk 1:35; 6:46; 14:35, 39)”; see Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger / Pope Benedict XVI, Behold the Pierced One: An Approach to Spiritual Christology, trans. Graham Harrison (San Francisco: Ignatius, 1984), 17. Luke’s Gospel in particular emphasizes this reality. It is not surprising, therefore, that the sed contra of Thomas’s first article on Christ’s prayer draws upon this Gospel: “It is written (Luke 4:12): And it came to pass in those days, that He went out into a mountain, and He passed the whole night in the prayer of God” (ST III, q. 20, a. 1, sc). 91 ST III, q. 21, a. 2. 92 Ibid. 93 Ibid.: “Christ acting as a man, shows the proper will of a man when He says ‘Let this chalice pass from Me’; for this was the human will desiring something proper to itself and, so to say, private. But because He wishes man to be righteous and to be directed to God, He adds: ‘Nevertheless not as I will but as Thou wilt,’ as if to say, ‘See thyself in Me, for thou canst desire something proper to thee, even though God wishes something else.’” 94 ST III, q. 21, a. 3. 90 Christ’s Prayer in Gethsemane According to St. Thomas 521 Hebrews 5:7 will reveal its implicit presence.95 This implicit presence is significant for how we understand Thomas’s response: Christ’s prayer has a sacrificial tenor, a cruciform character. A final reference to Christ’s prayer in Gethsemane occurs in response to an objection in which Thomas points out its pedagogical function: “For our instruction, it was His will to make known to us His natural will, and the movement of His sensuality, which was His as man.”96 Christ’s prayer in Gethsemane looms large throughout the first three articles of question 21 of the tertia pars, but in the final article (a. 4), Thomas heightens his emphasis on the sacrificial character of Christ’s prayer, and the sed contra once again plays a significant role in guiding our interpretation. Here Thomas quotes from a passage in the letter to the Hebrews (5:7) that deals with Christ’s priesthood: “With a strong cry and tears offering up prayers . . . He was heard for his reverence.”97 In his commentary on the letter to the Hebrews, Thomas describes Christ’s “prayers and supplications” as the “spiritual sacrifice”98 that he offered. Again it is Christ’s prayer in Gethsemane that Thomas has in mind, a fact that is inferred from his reference to Matthew 26:39, where we are told that “He fell upon his face, praying.”99 Christ prays to the Father, who has the power to See the next two paragraphs. ST III, q. 21, a. 4, ad 1. 97 ST III, q. 21, a. 4, sc. For an extensive commentary on Thomas’s treatment of Christ’s priesthood in the letter to the Hebrews, see Guggenheim, Jésus Christ. 98 Super Heb 5, lec. 1 (Marietti no. 255); all English translation from Super Epistolam B. Pauli ad Hebraeos lectura (Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews), trans. Fabian R. Larcher, O.P. (Lander, WY: Aquinas Institute for the Study of Sacred Doctrine, 2012). See ST II-II, q. 85, a. 2: “The sacrifice that is offered outwardly represents the inward spiritual sacrifice, whereby the soul offers itself to God according to Ps 50:19, A sacrifice to God is an afflicted spirit, since . . . the outward acts of religion are directed to the inward acts.” See also ST II-II, q. 85, a. 3, ad 2: “Man’s good is threefold. There is first his soul’s good which is offered to God in a certain inward sacrifice by devotion, prayer and other like interior acts: and this is the principal sacrifice.” Outward sacrifice necessarily employs sensible things on account of the hylomorphic constitution of human nature. Thus, as Charles Journet explains: “Sacrifice . . . is ‘an essentially latreutic symbol,’ it is ‘in its essence a rite significative of that homage which is due to God alone’”; see Charles Journet, The Church of the Word Incarnate, vol. 1 (London/New York: Sheed and Ward, 1955), 53n4. Clearly, therefore, as Staudt concludes, Christ possesses “to the highest degree the virtue of religion, manifest in the great priestly offering of himself on the cross” (Staudt, “Did Christ Worship the Trinity?” 252). 99 Super Heb 5, lect. 1 (Marietti no. 255). 95 96 522 Kevin E. O’Reilly, O.P. save him in two ways. Firstly, the Father has the power to save him from death on the Cross: “‘Father, if it be possible, let this chalice pass from me. Nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will’ (Matt 26:39).”100 Secondly, the Father has the power to raise Christ up from the dead: “‘Because you will not leave my soul in hell’ (Ps 15:10); and again: ‘But you, O Lord, have mercy on me and raise me up again’ (Ps 40:11).”101 Thomas goes on to state that Christ’s priesthood is “ordained to that spiritual sacrifice”102—namely, “to offer prayers and supplications”103 — concerning which Scripture attests: “‘The sacrifice of praise shall glorify me’ (Ps 49:23); ‘We will render the calves of our lips’ (Hos 14:3).”104 This contention is in accord with the principle that Thomas established in his treatment of sacrifice in question 85 of the secunda secundae, that “the outward acts of religion are directed to the inward acts.”105 Significantly, Thomas again quotes from Hebrew 5 in the next article, article 1 of question 22 of the tertia pars, where he discusses whether it is fitting that Christ should be a priest. As priest, Christ not only “bestows Divine things on the people” but also “offers up the people’s prayers to God, and, in a manner, makes satisfaction to God for their sins.”106 Thomas cites Hebrews 5:1 in support of this claim: “Every high-priest taken from among men is ordained for men in the things that appertain to God, that he may offer up gifts and sacrifices for sins.”107 The point is that Thomas’s question on Christ’s prayer cannot and ought not to be taken in isolation from the following question concerning Christ’s priesthood, in which the notion of sacrifice, one of the external acts of religion, is essential. Familiarity with Thomas’s treatment of sacrifice at question 85 of the secunda secundae corroborates this interpretation. Thus, he writes Ibid. Ibid. 102 Ibid. 103 Ibid. 104 Ibid. 105 ST II-II, q. 85, a. 2. 106 ST III, q. 22, a. 1. 107 Ibid. See also Thomas’s Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews (244): “The act of the high priest is to offer gifts, i.e., voluntary oblations, not extorted: ‘Of every man that offers of his own accord, you shall take them’ (Exod 25:2) and sacrifices for sins, i.e., which are offered to him to satisfy for sins: ‘The priest shall pray for him and for his sin, and it shall be forgiven him’ (Lev 4:26). This indicates that everything offered, whether voluntary or under vow or for satisfaction, shall be offered according to the disposition of the prelate.” 100 101 Christ’s Prayer in Gethsemane According to St. Thomas 523 that “the sacrifice that is offered outwardly represents the inward spiritual sacrifice, whereby the soul offers itself to God according to Ps 50:19, A sacrifice to God is an afflicted spirit, since . . . the outward acts of religion are directed to the inward acts.”108 Further on, he refers to the “inward sacrifice” of “devotion, prayer, and other like interior acts,”109 and this inward sacrifice constitutes “the principal sacrifice.”110 In the final article devoted to sacrifice, Thomas writes, “Sacrifice is twofold. . . . The first and principal is the inward sacrifice, which all are bound to offer, since all are obliged to offer to God a devout mind. The other is the outward sacrifice.”111 The prayer of Christ in Gethsemane fulfils Thomas’s definition of prayer in a preeminent way when Christ says to the Father, “Nevertheless not as I will but as Thou wilt.” The very words them ST II-II, q. 85, a. 2. ST II-II, q. 85, a. 3, ad 2. For a short treatment of the act of devotion, see Dom Odon Lottin, O.S.B., L’âme du culte: la vertu de la religion d’après s. Thomas d’Aquin (Louvain, BE: Bureau des Oeuvres Liturgiques, Abbaye du Mont-César, 1920), 24–25. For a longer exegesis, see Erich Hech, Der Begriff Religio bei Thomas von Aquin (Munich/Paderborn/Vienna: Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh, 1971). Lottin observes that, in modern ascetical language, the term “devotion” tends to mean the fervor of charity. It is therefore not an act but a quality belonging to charity rather than to religion (L’âme du culte, 24). In contrast, Thomas deems devotion to be “a special act of the will” whereby one gives oneself readily “to things concerning the service of God” (ST II-II, q. 82, a. 1). Indeed, it is the first act of religion and “a necessary condition of all its secondary acts” (ST II-II, q. 83, a. 15). Staudt points to ST III, q. 22, a. 4, ad 2, in order to show that Christ’s self-offering was guided by devotion, “the interior religious disposition required for proper worship” (“Did Christ Worship the Trinity?,” 246). In ST III, q. 22, a. 4, ad 2, we read: “Two things may be considered in the offering of a sacrifice by any priest–namely, the sacrifice itself which is offered, and the devotion of the offerer. Now the proper effect of priesthood is that which results from the sacrifice itself. But Christ obtained a result from His passion, not as by virtue of the sacrifice, which is offered by way of satisfaction, but by the very devotion with which out of charity He humbly endured the passion.” 110 Ibid. The full text reads: “Man’s good is threefold. There is first his soul’s good which is offered to God in a certain inward sacrifice by devotion, prayer and other like interior acts: and this is the principal sacrifice. The second is his body’s good, which is, so to speak, offered to God in martyrdom, and abstinence or continency [sic]. The third is the good which consists of external things: and of these we offer a sacrifice to God, directly when we offer our possession to God immediately, and indirectly when we share them with our neighbor for God’s sake.” 111 ST II-II, q. 85, a. 4. 108 109 524 Kevin E. O’Reilly, O.P. selves signify the perfect surrender of his mind to God the Father. In other words, his subjection in his human nature to the Father is perfect. Joseph Ratzinger’s/Pope Benedict XVI’s comments on Christ’s prayer reflect Thomas’s understanding of the same: “The prayer ‘not my will but yours’ (Luke 22:42) is truly the Son’s prayer to the Father, through which the natural human will is completely subsumed into the ‘I’ of the Son. Indeed, the Son’s whole being is expressed in the ‘not I, but you’—in the total self-abandonment of the ‘I’ to the ‘you’ of God the Father.”112 As such, Christ’s prayer is the perfect expression of human freedom in actu. It is the fruit of a perfectly devout mind ready to do what concerns the service of God. In other words, Christ’s devotion informs the tenor of his prayer.113 As we have seen Thomas write, moreover, “the sacrifice that is offered outwardly represents the inward spiritual sacrifice, whereby the soul offers itself to God according to Ps 50:19, A sacrifice to God is an afflicted spirit, since . . . the outward acts of religion are directed to the inward acts.”114 Thus, to Thomas’s construal of Christ’s prayer can be applied the words of Ratzinger/Benedict: “He fashioned his death into an act of prayer, an act of worship.”115 This sacrificial tenor arguably pervades Thomas’s understanding of Christ’s prayer, partic Joseph Ratzinger/Pope Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth, Part II, From the Entrance into Jerusalem to the Resurrection (San Francisco: Ignatius, 2011), 161. 113 ST II-II, q. 82, a. 1. See ST II-II, q. 82, a. 1, ad 1: “The mover prescribes the mode of the movement of the thing moved. Now the will moves the other powers of the soul to their acts, and the will, in so far as it regards the end, moves both itself and whatever is directed to the end. . . . Wherefore, since devotion is an act of the will whereby a man offers himself for the service of God Who is the last end, it follows that devotion prescribes the mode to human acts, whether they be acts of the will itself about things directed to the end, or acts of the other powers that are moved by the will.” 114 ST II-II, q. 85, a. 2. Thomas’s account of the interior and exterior acts of religion is predicated upon a hylomorphic construal of human nature. In other words, as Hech puts it, they concern man “in his personal unity of reason and will as also of body and soul” (Hech, Der Begriff Religio, 169; my translation). 115 Benedict XVI, Behold the Pierced One, 22. For Thomas, worship and prayer are to be distinguished in that prayer is one of the acts whereby God is worshipped. Other acts whereby God is worshipped or which are ordered to such worship include devotion (ST II-II, q. 82), adoration (ST II-II, q. 84), sacrifice (ST II-II, q. 85), oblations and first fruits (ST II-II, q. 86), tithes (ST II-II, q. 87), vows (ST II-II, q. 88), and oaths (ST II-II, q. 89). Particularly noteworthy among these acts is sacrifice, since it can be offered to no one but God alone (ST II-II, q. 85, a. 2). For a consideration of the terminology connected with worship in Thomas, see Staudt, “Did Christ Worship the Trinity?” 236–43. 112 Christ’s Prayer in Gethsemane According to St. Thomas 525 ularly in the fourth article of question 21 of the tertia pars, where the prayer of Gethsemane is implicit in the sed contra. Fulfilling the will of God means accepting death on the Cross, a point that is implicit in the conformity of Christ’s will with God: “According to the will of reason, Christ willed nothing but what He knew God to will. Wherefore every absolute will of Christ, even human, was fulfilled, because it was in conformity with God; and consequently His every prayer was fulfilled.”116 Conclusion The position of the question on Christ’s prayer in the overall structure of the treatise on the mystery of the Incarnation is significant. After the first question on the fittingness of the Incarnation, this treatise is divided into two major sections: (1) qq. 2–26, which deal with the mystery of the Incarnation itself; and (2) qq. 27–59, in which Thomas reflects on all that Our Savior did and suffered during his earthly life. The first major section is itself subdivided into two parts, the second of which engages with “the consequences of the [hypostatic] union.”117 The question on Christ’s prayer finds its place in this section. The fact that Thomas regards Christ’s prayer as a consequence of the hypostatic union and does not leave its treatment to the section on all that Our Savior did and suffered during his earthly life is significant. It suggests that Christ’s prayer, rather than being simply one of the mysteries of his life, instead informs them all, even from his very conception.118 Christ’s prayer is thus not a contingent adjunct, but rather flows from the hypostatic union. Thomas quotes Damascene on this point, understanding prayer to be “the raising up of the mind to God”:119 “As Damascene says (De Fide Orth. iii, 24), the human mind of Christ did not need to rise to God, since it was ever united to God both by personal being and by the blessed vision.”120 The movement involved here “signifies the act of something perfect, i.e. something existing in act.”121 In ST III, q. 21, a. 4. ST III, q. 16, prol. 118 See ST III, q. 34. Thomas argues that, at his conception, Christ was sanctified “by reason of His own movement of the free-will towards God” (ST III, q. 34, a. 3). 119 ST III, q. 21, a. 1, obj. 3. This description of prayer is a quotation from Damascene’s De fide orth. 3.24. 120 Ibid. Thomas would agree with Benedict’s contention that “the entire person of Jesus is contained in his prayer” (Behold the Pierced One, 20). See note 65 above. 121 ST III, q. 21, a. 1, ad 3. 116 117 526 Kevin E. O’Reilly, O.P. this sense, Thomas argues, “the mind of Christ was always raised up to God, since He was always contemplating Him as existing above Himself.”122 In other words, it was perfectly devout. Christ’s prayer, as flowing from the hypostatic union, is therefore not a conglomeration of isolated events, however characteristic of his life they might be, but rather expresses a habitual attitude. His life can thus be described as a constant prayer and, as such, a perpetual sacrifice.123 His death on the Cross is the ultimate external expression of this perfect inward sacrifice. The position of the question on Christ’s prayer along with the questions on his subjection to the Father and on his priesthood is a structural expression of this same point. The placement of the question on Christ’s prayer and the prevalence of references to his prayer in Gethsemane indicate that, for Thomas, the Cross is understood to pervade the whole of Christ’s earthly life. Christ’s example clearly establishes prayer as a sine qua non in the life of the disciple. Imitating his example of prayer means that the disciple conforms himself to the eternal concept of Wisdom.124 This conformation is a consequence of the hypostatic union. In other words, the fact that the Person of the Son was personally united to human nature entails that his moral example, since it is ontologically grounded in his eternal procession from the Father, furnishes the most exalted manifestation of the ordering force of divine Wisdom in the unfolding of human knowing and loving. The logic of both question 21 and article 8 of question 3 in the tertia pars is ineluctable: imitation of Christ’s example of prayer entails a participation in his Cross. An adequate elaboration of this point must however await another article. N&V Ibid. See ST II-II, q. 85, a. 3, ad 2. 124 For an elaboration of this point, see Kevin E. O’Reilly, O.P., The Hermeneutics of Knowing and Willing in the Thought of St. Thomas Aquinas (Leuven, BE: Peeters, 2013), 111–21. 122 123 Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 15, No. 2 (2017): 527–546 527 Aquinas and Maritain on Whether Christ’s Habitual Grace Could Increase Andrew V. Rosato Thomas Aquinas College Santa Paula, California According to Thomas Aquinas , the habitual grace of Christ is perfect and infinite. Moreover, as Christ possessed this unsurpassable amount of grace from the first moment of his human existence, his human life was not marked by any growth in holiness. Jacques Maritain, however, in his last book, On the Grace and Humanity of Jesus, claims that Christ’s grace was able to increase during his earthly life. Maritain argues that he and St. Thomas disagree over this point because Aquinas held what Maritain calls a Platonist conception of human nature that ignores how the possibility for change and growth mark any truly human existence. According to Maritain, this conception of human nature led Aquinas to ignore the clear teaching of the Gospel of Luke which tells us that Christ grew in grace before God and men. In what follows, we will compare the different accounts of Christ’s grace that are found in Aquinas and Maritain. Our goal is to clarify the differences between Maritain and Aquinas on this topic and to argue for the superiority of Aquinas’s account over Maritain’s in three areas: in its understanding of human nature, in its explanation of why Christ possesses infinite habitual grace, and in its accord with the way that Christ is portrayed in the Gospels. St. Thomas on Christ’s Grace Before turning to what St. Thomas claims is unique about Christ’s grace, it will be useful to begin by considering briefly his general account of grace. Here we must consider what habitual grace is in itself 528 Andrew V. Rosato and how it is related to the infused virtues. As Aquinas notes, some theologians held that grace and the infused virtues are only conceptually distinct.1 According to Aquinas, however, we can see that this is not the case if we consider the relationship of acquired virtues to the soul. Acquired virtues presuppose that the human soul already exists. The human soul is something that, once it exists, can receive virtues in its various powers, and these virtues help to lead the soul towards the fulfillment of its nature. In a similar way, the infused virtues presuppose something also, but what they presuppose is not simply the human soul, but rather the human soul as healed of sin and elevated towards a supernatural end.2 It is habitual grace that brings about this healing and elevation. Once the soul exists in this state, infused virtues such as faith, hope, and charity can perfect the powers of the soul in accord with its supernatural orientation.3 It should be noted that, for Aquinas, this general account of grace does not uniformly apply to Christ. For example, grace did not heal Christ’s soul, since he was always without sin. Also, Christ did not receive the infused virtues of faith or hope, since he possessed the beatific vision from the first moment of his human existence. Although infused virtues are distinct from habitual grace, there is an important connection between habitual grace and virtue, for the infused virtues flow into the powers of the soul from habitual grace.4 This close connection between grace and infused virtues is important to keep in mind because, when Aquinas or Maritain discuss Christ’s habitual grace, they also often refer to the charity that flows from his grace. Thus, as we shall see below, one can discuss whether Christ has perfect grace by discussing whether he has perfect charity since perfect charity would imply his perfection in habitual grace. When Aquinas turns to a consideration of Christ’s grace, he distinguishes three ways of attributing grace to Christ. In one way, Christ’s grace refers to God’s gratuitous decision to unite a human nature to himself in the person of the Logos. This is called “the grace of the union” because, from the perspective of the human nature that is assumed by the Logos, the hypostatic union is a grace or gift of God.5 St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae (ST) I-II, q. 110, a. 3. All translations from ST are my own and are based on the Latin in Summa Theologiae Sancti Thomae Aquinatis, 3rd ed. (Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 1963). 2 Ibid. 3 Ibid., a. 4. 4 Ibid., a. 4, ad 1. 5 ST III, q. 2, a. 10. 1 On Whether Christ’s Habitual Grace Could Increase 529 In another way, grace refers to the habitual grace that is in Christ’s human soul.6 This is the grace that Christ possesses as an individual human being that elevates his soul to a supernatural state and leads to the infusion of charity into his soul. Finally, Aquinas speaks of Christ’s “grace of headship” by which he is the mediator of grace to the members of his body, the Church.7 In what follows, we will be concerned chiefly with Christ’s habitual grace and his grace of headship. These two graces are in reality one and the same. We speak of this single grace in different ways, however, depending on whether we are speaking of it as something that sanctifies Christ’s human soul and, so, perfects its powers or, instead, as something that is a principle of meriting grace for others. Thus, insofar as this grace sanctifies Christ, it is referred to as habitual grace, but as a principle of meriting for others, it is called the grace of headship.8 Like other qualities, grace can be possessed by someone in varying degrees. According to Aquinas, Christ possesses grace to such a degree that we can speak of him as possessing the fullness of grace.9 Aquinas is aware, however, that we speak of others besides Christ as also full of grace. Mary is called full of grace in the Gospel of Luke (1:28), and Stephen in the Acts of the Apostles (6:8).10 Yet, Aquinas argues that Christ is full of grace in a unique way. For, we can speak of the fullness of grace either with respect to the grace itself or with respect to the one who has grace.11 In the first way someone has the fullness of grace when he possesses it to an unsurpassable degree. Christ alone has the fullness of grace in this sense. When we turn from a consideration of the grace itself to a consideration of grace relative to the person who possesses grace, others besides Christ can rightly be called full of grace. This would be true of anyone who accepts and receives all the grace that God wills for a person relative to his or her own calling. As Aquinas writes of Mary and Stephen: The Blessed Virgin is not called full of grace on the part of grace itself because she did not have grace in its highest possible excellence. Also, she did not have grace in such a way that she Ibid., q. 7, a. 1. Ibid., q. 8, a. 1. 8 Ibid., q. 8, a. 5; q. 48, a. 1. 9 Ibid., q. 7, a. 9. 10 Ibid., q. 7, a. 10, obj. 1. 11 Ibid., q. 7, a. 10. 6 7 530 Andrew V. Rosato could produce all the effects of grace. She is said to be full of grace, however, because she had sufficient grace for that state for which God chose her, namely that she be the mother of God. Similarly, Stephen is called full of grace because he had sufficient grace to be a fitting minister and witness of God, the office for which he had been chosen.12 Aquinas also teaches that Christ’s grace has such fullness that it can even be called “infinite” in a certain sense. To explain how this is so, Aquinas distinguishes Christ’s grace as it is a being from his grace insofar as it is a specific instance of grace.13 As a being, Christ’s grace is finite since it is a created entity. Yet, as an instance of grace, it can be called “infinite” because in itself it is not limited in any way. Maritain on Christ’s Grace Aquinas distinguishes between two states in which Christ’s humanity existed during his earthly life. In some respects, Christ was a viator, someone who was still travelling toward his ultimate end. Christ’s non-glorified human body, for instance, is an example of how he remained a viator during his earthly life. In other respects, Christ was a comprehensor, someone at rest in his ultimate end. According to Aquinas, Christ possessed the beatific vision during his earthly life, and in this respect, he was a comprehensor. To speak of the ways that Christ did and did not improve during his earthly life, Maritain borrows Aquinas’s distinction between Christ as a viator and a comprehensor. According to Maritain, anyone who is truly human and who is a viator must also be able to grow in grace,14 and he finds support for this in the Gospel of Luke, where we read: “And Jesus advanced in wisdom, and age, and grace with God and men” (2:52). Maritain interprets Luke to be speaking about Christ’s habitual grace,15 and the implication seems to be clear: just as Christ grew in age, so also his habitual grace increased over time. For Maritain, Luke’s teaching confirms the reality of Christ’s human nature because “growth is characteristic of the verus homo in the state of way.”16 Ibid., q. 7, a. 10, ad 1. Ibid., q. 7, a. 11. 14 Jacques Maritain, On the Grace and Humanity of Jesus, trans. Joseph W. Evans (London: Burns & Oates, 1969), 54. 15 Ibid., 50–54. 16 Ibid., 52. 12 13 On Whether Christ’s Habitual Grace Could Increase 531 Maritain also affirms that, in some respect, Christ was a comprehensor during his earthly life. Like Aquinas, Maritain affirms that Christ was a comprehensor insofar as he possessed the beatific vision from the first moment of his human existence. Indeed, according to Maritain, as a comprehensor, Christ always possessed an infinite degree of grace through which he knows and loves God. When Maritain turns to explaining how, in one sense, Christ’s grace could be perfect or infinite and, in another sense, incomplete, he suggests that we apply the comprehensor-viator distinction to Christ’s grace itself. Maritain writes: “The idea that I propose to you therefore, is that, just as the human nature of Christ was at once under two different states, the state of comprehensor and the state of viator, so also the grace which perfects this nature, the habitual grace of Christ was also under these two different states of comprehensor and of viator. This is my fundamental presupposition.”17According to Maritain, then, Christ’s grace would have existed under two different states during his earthly life: the state of the comprehensor, in which it is infinite or perfect, and the state of the viator, in which it is finite and susceptible to growth. Maritain’s case for thinking that a single instance of habitual grace can exist under two different states begins with his explanation of how Christ’s soul can be divided into two different spheres: a sphere relative to his state as a comprehensor and a sphere relative to his state as a viator.18 To help us think about how the soul of Christ could be divided in this way, Maritain draws on the notion of the “unconscious” from modern psychology. Maritain writes: “There is a philosophical instrument which was lacking at the time of St. Thomas, and which is, I believe, indispensable: a psychological notion which, as we shall see, applies in the case of Christ in a transcendent and absolutely unique sense, but which it was necessary indeed to have disengaged first of all on the plane of the purely human and experimental analogate within our reach, I mean the explicit and explicitly elaborated notion of the unconscious in man.”19 In taking the notion of the unconscious from modern psychologists, Maritain is quick to point out that, when psychologists speak of the unconscious, what they describe would more properly be called the “infraconscious.” By the “infraconscious,” Maritain is referring to Ibid., 67. Ibid., 57. 19 Ibid., 48–49 [emphasis original]. 17 18 532 Andrew V. Rosato “the vast psycho-somatic unconscious of tendencies and of instincts, of sensations not yet elaborated in perceptions, of latent memories, etc.”20 Maritain draws on the concept of the unconscious in order to develop a notion that he calls the “supraconscious of the spirit.” He mentions the activity of the agent intellect as an example of something that occurs in this supraconscious realm.21 We are not conscious of the workings of the agent intellect, but what occurs unconsciously through the agent intellect is not something at some lower level of the human person, as is the case with the instincts, sensations, and memories of the infraconscious. Both the infraconscious and supraconscious carry on unnoticed by the person, but the supraconscious is a feature of our soul because of its spiritual dimension, while the infraconscious results from the connection of our soul to the body. Even though there is a realm of the supraconscious for all human beings, Christ’s supraconscious was unique because it was divinized by the beatific vision, even as he remained a viator in other respects.22 Although Maritain sharply distinguishes Christ’s grace as it is received in his supraconscious realm from how it is received in the conscious realm, there is an important connection between these two realms. Maritain uses the image of an oblique line that eventually touches a horizontal line to symbolize the relation between the two states of Christ’s grace. We can imagine the supraconscious realm of Christ’s soul as a horizontal straight line that is extended from the first moment of his human existence up to the present moment. This line represents the infinite grace that Christ possesses. His life as a viator is represented by an oblique line that “starting from below . . . rises towards the horizontal straight line, and signifies that ascensional movement, that growth, that progress of which St. Luke speaks to us, that growth in grace and in wisdom, as in age, which is an essential property of every verus homo.”23 It may seem that Maritain posits two instances of habitual grace in Christ—one that is perfect and one that is susceptible to growth—but this is not in fact the case. Maritain cautions us from thinking of the grace in the conscious realm of Christ’s soul as something that in itself can become greater. This is indeed precluded because of the perfec- Ibid., 55. Ibid., 49. 22 Ibid., 54–58. 23 Ibid., 75. 20 21 On Whether Christ’s Habitual Grace Could Increase 533 tion of grace that he enjoys as a comprehensor.24 Christ does grow in grace insofar as he is a viator, but strictly speaking, this is not because his habit of grace increases, but rather because his already perfect habit of grace as it exists in his divinized supraconscious gradually takes root more and more in the lower part of his soul over the course of his earthly life.25 A Defense of the Teaching of St. Thomas on Christ’s Grace As we have noted, Maritain invokes Luke 2:52 in support of his account of Christ’s grace. Aquinas sees that, on the surface, Luke’s passage contradicts his own position.Yet, for Aquinas, there is a passage from John that must also be taken into account when considering the biblical teaching on Christ’s grace.26 In John we read: “And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth” (1:14). John speaks here of the very act of the Incarnation wherein the Logos assumes a human nature to himself, and he also speaks of the Incarnate Logos as full of grace. He seems to indicate that Christ, in his humanity, possesses the fullness of grace from the beginning of the Incarnation, whereas Luke seems to suggest that Christ only grew towards this fullness over time. There is, then, on the surface, a tension in the Gospel’s own teaching about Christ’s grace. Aquinas and Maritain resolve this tension in different ways. Aquinas does so by distinguishing between two ways that someone might be said to increase in grace. This could be said when the very habit of grace increases, but it could also be said when the habit (without itself increasing) leads to the performance of greater and greater works. There is an increase in the effects of grace, but not in one’s grace itself. According to Aquinas, it is only in the latter sense that Christ increased in grace. As Aquinas writes: “[Grace could be said Ibid., 77: “When one says that grace, charity, wisdom, grew in the here-below of the soul of Christ-viator, one does not at all say that God infused into it there a grace, a wisdom, a charity which in themselves would have been more and more great. How would this have been possible, since in the paradise of His soul Jesus already had grace, charity, the gift of wisdom, at their sovereign and eternal degree, under the state of limitless plenitude due to the condition of a comprehensor possessing an infinite Beatific Vision.” 25 Ibid., 77–78. 26 For Aquinas’s use of John 1:14 to support his understanding of Christ’s grace, see ST III, q. 7, a. 12. In objection 3 of this article, Aquinas cites Luke 2:52, and in the sed contra, he cites John 1:14. See also Sermon 8 in Thomas Aquinas: The Academic Sermons, trans. by Mark-Robin Hoogland (Washington DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2010), 89. 24 534 Andrew V. Rosato to increase] with respect to its effects inasmuch as someone does more wise or more virtuous works. It was in this way that Christ advanced in wisdom and grace, just as he did in age. As he advanced in age, he accomplished more perfect works, so that he could demonstrate that he was true man, both in the things of God and in the things of man.”27 Therefore, Aquinas interprets Luke’s statement as referring to the multiplicity of works that Christ did over the course of his life that revealed more and more something about his identity. Maritain, however, offers an alternative way of harmonizing the passages from Luke and John about Christ’s grace. According to Maritain, John is speaking of the divinized supraconscious realm of Christ’s soul, whereas Luke is speaking of its conscious realm.28 Both Aquinas and Maritain offer plausible ways of harmonizing Luke 2:52 and John 1:14 so long as their respective presuppositions are kept in mind, and in order to determine which interpretation is more plausible, we must evaluate the principles on which each is based. Thus, we will first consider whether growth in grace is essential for being truly human. We will then turn to an examination of the different explanations of Maritain and Aquinas as to why Christ possesses infinite grace. Finally, we will ask how the biblical witness beyond Luke 2:52 and John 1:14 provides support for affirming or denying Christ’s perfection in grace. Maritain’s interpretation of Luke depends most crucially on his philosophical anthropology. As we have noted, Maritain claims that Aquinas’s interpretation of Luke was based on a deficient understanding of human nature because it overlooks the place of development or growth in the life of any true man.29 The difference between Maritain’s and Aquinas’s conception of human nature seems to be as follows: according to Aquinas’s understanding of human nature, someone can be a true man if he has and exercises the powers that are essential to man, whereas Maritain’s understanding of human nature adds to this that, in ordinary circumstances, every true man who is not entirely at rest in his ultimate end must also increase his ST III, q. 7, a. 12, ad 3. Maritain, On the Grace and Humanity of Jesus, 67–75 (especially 74n21, where Maritain claims that his understanding of Christ’s grace can account for John 1:14). 29 Ibid., 54: “In the next place, there was (and this was rather a mentality at a given epoch), the idea, tinged with Platonism, that in order to be truly man it sufficed to satisfy the non-temporal type of humanity,—the notion of development or of growth in time being left in the background.” 27 28 On Whether Christ’s Habitual Grace Could Increase 535 own ability to exercise these powers well over time. Increasing one’s ability to use one’s powers well necessarily involves the possibility for an increase in those virtues that perfect man’s essential powers. Thus, the possibility for growth in grace, as well as in knowledge and love, will ordinarily be a part of any truly human life. To support his claim that a capacity for growth is essential to being human, Maritain points to our ability to gain knowledge. He chooses this example because, on this point, St. Thomas seems to have seen the limits of what Maritain calls the Platonic conception of human nature. In his commentary on the Sentences, Aquinas had denied that Christ possessed any acquired knowledge, limiting his knowledge to beatific and infused knowledge.30 As Maritain suggests, Aquinas was moved to change his teaching out of a deeper understanding of what is implied in calling Christ truly human. Aquinas did come to realize that anyone who is truly human would necessarily have the capacity to engage in abstraction and (unless impaired in some way) would do so. Abstraction, by its very nature, is a process that takes time and leads to an increased understanding of the world around us. Growth and development are characteristic of how the human intellect performs its function well.31 Maritain believes that attributing to Christ growth in grace and the infused virtue of charity is a logical extension of what Aquinas came to realize about Christ’s knowledge.32 Maritain is correct to state that human knowing of its very nature requires the possibility for growth. Indeed, perhaps there is a sense in See In III Sent. d. 14, a. 3, qa. 5 and solutio (I draw on M. F. Moos’s 1933 edition). Even Aquinas’s mature treatment of Christ’s acquired knowledge has provoked many objections because of the manner in which Christ is said to have acquired knowledge (namely, without learning from others) and because of the depth of natural knowledge that Christ supposedly possessed. For a helpful analysis of these objections, see Simon Francis Gaine, O.P., “Christ’s Acquired Knowledge According to Thomas Aquinas: How Aquinas’s Philosophy Helped and Hindered His Account,” New Blackfriars 96, no. 1063 (May 2015): 255–68. 31 ST III, q. 12, a. 2. 32 Maritain, On the Grace and Humanity of Jesus, 52: “Along with this it is fitting to remark that what I am going to try to say goes in the very direction in which St. Thomas was advancing, and does but extend his movement of thought; for his theology tended to bring more and more completely to light, at the same time as the divinity of Jesus, the full reality of his humanity. . . . In any case, he was so preoccupied with the humanity of Christ in its essential exigencies that after having first admitted in Jesus infused science only, he taught the necessity of recognizing also in Him an experimental or acquired science.” 30 536 Andrew V. Rosato which all activities that are natural to man involve the potential for growth. We cannot, however, infer from this that any true man must also have the possibility for growth and progress in the supernatural realm of grace and the infused virtues. The way that we attribute human knowledge to Christ must rest on the very nature of the intellect. This will imply the possibility for growth and progress. Yet, in attributing grace to Christ or anyone else, we must first consider God’s purpose in granting grace, for it is God’s purpose in granting grace to someone that determines the degree to which grace and subsequent infused virtues are able to be received by that person. The only ways in which human nature could condition the reception of this grace are the two ways that Aquinas identifies: any grace will be finite in its esse, and any actions that grace and the infused virtues make possible will unfold progressively in time. Thus, with regard to the question of whether a true man could be perfectly confirmed in grace from the first moment of his existence, the assumptions that St. Thomas relies on when interpreting Luke 2:52 and John 1:14 seem more well-founded than those of Maritain.33 Maritain and Aquinas offer different explanations for why Christ possesses infinite grace in the first place. As we shall see, Aquinas’s attribution of infinite grace to Christ is based on soteriological principles in a way that Maritain’s is not. Considering this topic will provide further support for the contention that Aquinas’s treatment of In Did the Saviour See the Father? Christ, Salvation and the Vision of God (London: Bloomsbury, 2015), 165–68, Simon Gaine follows St. Thomas in upholding Christ’s perfection in habitual grace, but he does not believe that this implies that there was no genuine growth in grace in another sense. As Gaine points out, grace is at work not only when a habit is conferred on the soul but also when a person elicits whatever acts become possible after receiving habitual grace. As St. Thomas teaches, habitual grace provides a disposition to perform graced actions that is brought to realization through the additional grace of auxilium. According to Gaine, these considerations should make us hesitate before we say that there was no genuine growth in grace in Christ, but only a growth in grace’s manifestation. For, there can be growth in grace with reference to the graces that bring about the acts of grace without there being growth in habitual grace. Gaine is right to call our attention to how Christ’s life in grace is not static, but ongoing. Yet, from the addition of graces over the course of Christ’s life, it does not follow that Christ was able to grow in holiness (and it is this point that divides Maritain and Aquinas). For, he was perfected in grace from the beginning of his human existence. Thus, there is still a sense in which Christ’s growth in grace is a growth merely in manifestation, even though this manifestation requires additional graces that aid Christ in exemplifying his perfect holiness in different ways throughout his life. 33 On Whether Christ’s Habitual Grace Could Increase 537 Christ’s grace emphasizes in a special way God’s purpose in granting grace as the primary factor in determining the degree of grace that one possesses. According to Maritain, Christ had infinite grace as a comprehensor, even while he was a viator in other respects. Maritain explains why Christ possessed this infinite grace in the following way: “Let us recall that the Beatific Vision was not given to Christ as the fruit of a previously acquired merit. It was given to Him from the very first, as an exigency of the hypostatic union, and, so to speak, as a gift from the latter. From the moment that the Word becomes incarnate, it is necessary that His human nature participate in the Deity to the sovereign degree possible.”34 He continues: “To have a habitual grace infinite in its order or to the point of supreme and unsurpassable perfection . . . is thus a privilege unique to Christ, since every other man has a finite person, and since accordingly in every purus homo, even the consummated grace proper to the blessed, is also of finite mode, at a given degree of perfection which admits always above it the possibility of a greater degree.”35 For Maritain, the infinite degree of Christ’s participation in the beatific vision is an automatic consequence of the human nature of Christ being assumed by a divine person. Maritain takes this as Aquinas’s own teaching and one that he himself modifies only by limiting the infinitude of grace to the supraconscious realm of Christ’s soul during his time as a viator. Maritain can draw on passages from question 7 of the tertia pars of the Summa theologiae to support his interpretation of Aquinas. In this place, Aquinas writes: “Christ has the fullness of grace . . . because he has it in the highest degree according to the most perfect way in which it can be had. This is clear first from the nearness of the soul of Christ to the cause of grace. For it was said [a. 1] that the closer that something is to the outpouring of a cause, the more abundantly it receives. Therefore, the soul of Christ, which is conjoined more closely to God than any other rational creature, received the greatest outpouring of grace.”36 Aquinas elsewhere compares the cause of grace in Christ’s soul to the Maritain, On the Grace and Humanity of Jesus, 69. For an argument that Christ does not automatically possess the beatific vision because of the hypostatic union, but rather for soteriological reasons, see Guy Mansini, “Understanding St. Thomas on Christ’s Immediate Knowledge of God,” in The Word Has Dwelt Among Us: Explorations in Theology (Ave Maria, FL: Sapientia Press, 2008), 45–71. 35 Ibid., 70–71 [emphasis original]. 36 ST III, q. 7, a. 9. 34 538 Andrew V. Rosato way that the sun gives light: “Grace is caused in man by the presence of divinity, just as light is caused in air by the presence of the sun. . . . The presence of God in Christ is understood according to the union of the human nature to the divine person. Thus, the habitual grace of Christ is understood as following upon this union, just as brightness follows upon the sun.”37 These passages seem to support the claim that Aquinas teaches that the degree of Christ’s grace is an automatic result of his human nature being assumed by the Logos or, as Maritain puts it, “an exigency of the hypostatic union.”38 Yet, to draw this conclusion, one must read these passages outside of their proper context. The passages above come from question 7 of the tertia pars, and Aquinas tells us in his prologue to this question that he is now treating of those things that were “co-assumed” by the Son of God in his human nature. We must, therefore, keep in mind the distinction that Aquinas makes between what is “assumed” by the Logos in becoming man and what is “co-assumed.” Under the category of the “assumed” falls anything that automatically results from the assumption of the human nature by the Logos. Aquinas lists human nature and its parts—such as a human intellect and a physical body—as what the Logos assumes in the act of Incarnation. Under the category of the “co-assumed” are various perfections and defects that can accrue to human nature. As for what Christ co-assumes, Aquinas lists whatever perfections or defects are required for Christ to serve as our redeemer.39 A central aspect of Christ’s redemptive mission includes meriting grace for others. It is in virtue of receiving this grace that our justification and salvation can be accomplished. To carry out this aspect of his mission, Christ was given grace not only to elevate his own soul to a supernatural state but also to be the meritorious and effi Ibid., q. 7, a. 13. Maritain is not alone in interpreting Aquinas as holding that Christ has perfect grace because of the hypostatic union. More recently, for example, Marilyn McCord Adams has written the following about Aquinas’s teaching: “Because hypostatic union places Christ’s human nature as close as any creature can come to the Divine essence, fullness of habitual grace beams into His soul like splendor from the sun.” See What Sort of Human Nature? Medieval Philosophy and the Systematics of Christology, The Aquinas Lecture 1999 (Marquette, WI: Marquette University Press, 1999), 52. 38 Maritain, On the Grace and Humanity of Jesus, 35. 39 For more on the category of the “co-assumed” and Aquinas’s innovation in using it, see John F. Boyle, The Structural Setting of Thomas Aquinas’ Theology of the Grace of Christ as He is Head of the Church in the Summa Theologiae (PhD diss., Centre For Mediaeval Studies, University of Toronto, 1989), ch. 3. 37 On Whether Christ’s Habitual Grace Could Increase 539 cient cause of grace in others. As Aquinas writes, “the soul of Christ received grace in such a way that in some manner others receive grace because of it. Therefore, it was fitting that he had the greatest grace, just as fire, which is the cause of heat in all hot things is the hottest of all things.”40 Because of the unique role that God has allotted for him as head of the Church, Christ does not possess grace in the same way as any other viator. As head of the Church, Christ is the source of grace for others and merits an unlimited amount of grace for his members. One’s merit, however, is proportioned to the degree of one’s grace.41 Therefore, possessing an unlimited or infinite amount of grace is the foundation for his ability to merit an unlimited amount of grace for his members.42 Aquinas’s teaching on Christ’s headship highlights his precise reason for attributing an infinite degree of grace to Christ. Christ has any number of perfections that are required to carry out his mission, but his degree of grace is linked to his goal of meriting grace for others. If we were to imagine that Christ’s redemptive mission did not involve meriting grace for us, then pace Maritain, we would not have to posit infinite grace in Christ. Surely Christ would still need an extraordinary amount of grace to be able to give us an example of holiness, and he would surely still need to have the beatific vision to teach us about God with authority, but if his redemptive mission were limited to giving us a witness and a teaching, he would not need to possess an infinite amount of grace. We have argued that being truly human does not require that Christ be able to increase in grace. If this is correct, it undermines Maritain’s main reason for interpreting Luke 2:52 as he does. We have also argued that we should follow Aquinas’s teaching that we attribute grace to Christ in view of how possessing it serves his redemptive mission. Maritain, by contrast, does not draw on soteriological principles in attributing infinite grace to Christ. All of this would at least require that Maritain modify his account of Christ’s ST III, q. 7, a. 9. For Aquinas’s teaching on merit, see ST I-II, q. 114. See also Joseph Wawrykow, God’s Grace and Human Action: “Merit” in the Theology of Thomas Aquinas (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1995).Wawrykow analyzes Aquinas’s teaching on Christ’s merit on 101–29 and 233–47. See also William D. Lynn, S.J., Christ’s Redemptive Merit:The Nature of its Causality according to St. Thomas, Analecta Gregoriana 115 (Rome: Gregorian University Press, 1962). 42 ST III, q. 8, a. 1. 40 41 540 Andrew V. Rosato grace in certain ways. Perhaps Maritain could admit that growth in grace is not, strictly speaking, required for being truly human but that it is still in some way more fitting if Christ does increase in holiness over the course of his life. Maritain could also replace his explanation of why Christ possesses infinite grace with the one developed by Aquinas. Perhaps then we would be left with mutually exclusive, but individually plausible, accounts of Christ’s grace. Yet, Aquinas’s account should be preferred even to a modified version of Maritain’s because Aquinas’s account is more in accord with how Christ is portrayed in the Gospels. To see this, we need first to consider the different understandings of Christ’s earthly life that follow from the different accounts of his grace that we find in Maritain and Aquinas and then to compare them against biblical testimony about Christ. As we have noted, Maritain believes that the infinite grace of the supraconscious realm of Christ’s soul gradually takes root more and more in the conscious realm of his soul. Christ grows in grace progressively over the course of his earthly life as he continues to meet the challenges that his redemptive mission posed. These challenges reach their highest point on the Cross, which is exactly where his grace as a viator comes to be equal to his grace as a comprehensor.43 Maritain claims that Christ’s human nature could not endure such an intense act of love for more than a moment but that during that brief moment Christ elicits an infinite act of love that merits the redemption of the human race. Only at the very last moment of Christ’s life does the grace and charity in the conscious part of Christ’s soul come to be infinite, as it always was in the supraconscious part of his soul.44 While Maritain suggests that perfection in grace during his whole earthly life would hamper the efficacy of Christ’s redemptive work, Aquinas argues for the opposite. When examining how Christ could simultaneously experience beatitude and suffering during the Passion, Aquinas takes note of how the perfection of his knowledge and love increased rather than decreased his ability for redemptive suffering. According to Aquinas, Christ’s intellect, will, and imagi Maritain, On the Grace and Humanity of Jesus, 78n24, 127–44. Maritain is very specific about the moment in which Christ’s grace as viator meets his grace as a comprehensor. He writes that these two meet “exactly at the moment when Jesus utters on the Cross His sixth and His seventh words, declares that all is consummated and delivers up His soul into the hands of the Father. At this moment He is as viator at the same degree of grace and of charity at which He was, and will remain as comprehensor” (On the Grace and Humanity of Jesus, 75). 43 44 On Whether Christ’s Habitual Grace Could Increase 541 nation operate like any other viator who undergoes bodily suffering or experiences sorrow over the sins of others. Christ is aware of his suffering and understands its causes. His sorrow over this, however, was more intense precisely because he knew and loved God perfectly.45 For, on account of that perfection, Christ as a viator could understand like no one else the true horror of sin and grieve over it. As Aquinas writes, “Christ not only experienced sorrow because of the loss of his own bodily life, but also because of the sins of all others. This sorrow in Christ surpassed the pain of every contrite person, both because it proceeded from a greater wisdom and charity, from which the sorrow of contrition is increased, and because at the same time he experienced sorrow over each and every sin, according to Isaiah 53:4, ‘Truly, he carried our sorrows.’”46 According to St. Thomas, moreover, Christ’s wisdom and his perfection in grace and charity inform not only his Passion but also, indeed, his entire life.47 As a result, Aquinas’s account of Christ’s grace implies that Christ continually merits our salvation over the course of his whole life. In addition to contributing to our salvation through his teaching and the example of his holy life, he was at the same time acting as the cause of our very ability to imitate his life and heed his teaching. This aspect of Aquinas’s soteriology indicates the pervasiveness with which the end of the Incarnation—man’s salvation—permeated the entire life of Christ. Over and over again, Christ acted in such a way as to merit the grace for us that was necessary for bringing about our reunion with God.48 For an account of how Christ’s knowledge and love of God in the beatific vision could influence his knowing and willing as a viator that is based on, but goes beyond, the writings of St. Thomas, see Thomas Joseph White, O.P., The Incarnate Lord: A Thomistic Study in Christology (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2015), 236–74 (ch. 5). 46 ST III, q. 46, a. 6, ad 4. Gaine calls our attention to a related way in which Christ’s perfection in grace and knowledge enhances the value of his suffering in addition to enabling him to experience great sorrow and contrition over human sin. He notes that the beatific vision would enable Christ to know and love in his human intellect each person for whom he suffers and dies. As Gaine writes, “it was thus Christ’s vision of God that enabled him to love perfectly both God and those for whom he was to undergo his saving death, and so die for them out of this perfect love in his humanity, this immense beatific charity that would never be bettered” (Did the Saviour See the Father?, 177). 47 ST III, q. 1, a. 2. 48 Ibid., q. 48, a. 1, ad 2: “To the second objection, it must be said that, from the beginning of his conception, Christ merits eternal salvation for us.” 45 542 Andrew V. Rosato Thus, Maritain and Aquinas present us with different images of Christ’s life. In the case of Maritain, Christ is continually developing until the point where he finally has the internal qualities to serve as our redeemer, whereas in the case of Aquinas, Christ possesses those qualities from the beginning of his human existence and exercises them over and over again. Having seen the different images of Christ’s earthly life that result from Aquinas’s and Maritain’s accounts of Christ’s grace, we can now ask which image is better supported by how Scripture portrays Christ. It must be acknowledged that making a biblical case for St. Thomas’s teaching on Christ’s grace will be difficult, precisely because, by Thomas’s own teaching, Christ’s actions gradually reveal more and more something of his true identity and mission. Thus, this gradual unfolding could easily be interpreted as a result of a growth in grace and not simply as a new level of self-revelation. The series of passages in the Gospel of John in which it is claimed that “the hour” of Jesus has not yet come, for example, seem open to this type of ambiguity.49 Raymond Brown notes that “the hour” of Jesus is a technical term in John that refers to the period of Christ’s Passion, death, Resurrection and Ascension.50 Although Maritain does not consider the passages from John about “the hour,” perhaps they could support his developmental understanding of Christ’s perfection. Maritain could interpret them to imply that Jesus’s hour is not yet come because he is not yet sufficiently advanced in grace and wisdom to undergo a saving Passion and death. The arrival of Christ’s hour, then, would depend on whether the internal qualities of his soul have developed to such a point that he is able to undergo a saving Passion and death. In his Commentary on John, Aquinas argues for a different explanation of why Jesus, at various points in his earthly ministry, claimed that his hour was not yet come. Aquinas interprets “the hour” of Jesus as the time that God providentially willed Christ’s Passion and death to occur. Aquinas writes that the hour of which Jesus speaks is “the time for him to suffer, an hour not fixed by fate, but predetermined from all eternity by his own will. Thus Augustine says: ‘his hour had not yet come, not in which he would be forced to die, but in See John 2:4; 7:6; 7:30; 8:20. I thank the anonymous reader for suggesting that I consider these passages. 50 Raymond E. Brown, The Gospel according to John (i-xii) (New York: Doubleday, 1966), 99. 49 On Whether Christ’s Habitual Grace Could Increase 543 which he would not refuse being killed.’”51 That this hour has not yet arrived does not diminish Christ’s internal ability to undergo a saving a death, but it does limit when it would be appropriate to accept or refuse such a death. While the passages in John about “the hour” might be susceptible to interpretations that could be compatible with the Christology of either Maritain or Aquinas, there are some passages of Scripture that are incompatible with Maritain’s Christology. Consider, for example, one of the episodes in which Christ invites people to hand him over to death by promising that he will raise up the temple of his body in three days, if they would only destroy it. As Nicholas Lombardo writes about John 2: In the Gospels, Jesus does not merely interpret his death as integral to his mission; he also provokes it. In John’s Gospel, after the temple cleansing, he is asked for a sign to justify his actions. In response, he says, referring to the temple of his body, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up” ( John 2:19). This response contains layers of meaning. On one level, Jesus is saying that he can and will overcome their violence. But that is not all he is doing. On another level, like the temple cleansing itself, his words are deliberately provocative. They are a taunt. It should not be glossed over that Jesus is speaking in the imperative mood. He is not making a conditional statement about what will happen if the temple of his body is destroyed. He is goading his opponents to kill him.52 Christ’s taunt here presupposes that he is in fact ready to die and not simply gambling that he would come to be ready if his interlocutors happened to heed his command. Maritain’s account, however, does imply that Christ was not prepared to die at the moment he uttered these words. Consider also how Christ is described to the shepherds in the Gospel of Luke. The shepherds learn from the angels that the Messiah and Lord has been born. For Christ to be called Messiah and Lord, he Aquinas, Super Ioan 8, lec. 2 (Marietti no. 1163), in Commentary on the Gospel of John, Chapters 1–8, trans. Fabian R. Larcher, ed. The Aquinas Institute (Lander, WY: The Aquinas Institute for the Study of Sacred Doctrine, 2013), 443. 52 Nicholas Lombardo, The Father’s Will: Christ’s Crucifixion and the Goodness of God (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 117. 51 544 Andrew V. Rosato must have possessed at that time the grace of headship through which he acts for our salvation.53 As Matthew Levering writes, “from the moment of [Christ’s] conception, he enjoys this headship. Thus, the angel can rightly proclaim to the shepherds that ‘today in the city of David a savior has been born for you who is Messiah and Lord’ (Luke 2:11), not who will be Messiah and Lord.”54 There is one way in which Maritain’s Christology might seem to be in greater conformity with the Gospels than that of Aquinas. The Gospels portray the crucifixion as a unique and central moment in the unfolding of Christ’s redemptive work. Yet, Aquinas insists on the pervasiveness of Christ’s merit of our redemption throughout his entire earthly life, and this seems like a disadvantage of Aquinas’s account when compared to that of Maritain. For, on Maritain’s account, Christ possesses enough grace to merit our salvation only at the very end of his life, when he freely willed to suffer death on our behalf. Maritain’s account seems, therefore, to provide a better explanation of why Christ submitted to the Passion. Perhaps Aquinas’s account of Christ’s grace and merit renders the Cross superfluous to his redemptive work and, thus, not the unique and central moment it is in the Gospels. While Aquinas does indeed deny that Christ evinces greater charity in the Passion than he evinced in other parts of his life, he also teaches that Christ’s Passion and death do contribute something to his redemptive work that he had not already accomplished during his life.55 By suffering, Christ makes satisfaction for sin, and this had not been accomplished prior to his Passion.56 According to Aquinas, moreover, the making of satisfaction has an effect that Christ’s prior See Maritain, On the Grace and Humanity of Jesus, 63, for a statement that implies a denial that Christ exercises the grace of headship during his earthly life: “I confess that these reasons [for positing infinite grace in Christ prior to the last moment of his life] scarcely satisfy me: . . . perhaps because if I see well that all the graces received by men are participations in the grace of Christ, I see less well that from the earthly life of the latter it was thus because the grace of Christ would have caused them intentionally by its acts.” 54 Matthew Levering, Christ’s Fulfillment of Torah and Temple: Salvation according to Thomas Aquinas, (South Bend, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2002), 40. 55 ST III, q. 48, a. 1, ad 3: “The Passion of Christ had an effect that his preceding merits did not have, not because of a greater charity, but because it was the type of work that was more fitting for such an effect, as is clear from the arguments set out earlier regarding the fittingness of Christ’s Passion.” Those arguments are found in ST III, q. 46, aa. 1–4. 56 ST III, q. 48, a. 2. 53 On Whether Christ’s Habitual Grace Could Increase 545 meritorious acts on our behalf did not. Aquinas speaks of the opening of the gate of heaven as an effect of the satisfaction that he renders to God by freely submitting to the Passion.57 This is another way of saying that the last obstacle to full union with God is removed through Christ’s Passion, and only because of his Passion. Some people who lived before Christ were nonetheless united to him as head.58 While Christ’s headship extends even to people who lived before the Incarnation, it is only after Christ makes satisfaction for our sins on the Cross that those who were united to Christ could enter into heaven. Thus, through linking Christ’s Passion to making satisfaction and to the opening of the gate to heaven, Aquinas too has an explanation for why Christ’s Passion is a central and unique moment in his redemptive work, as Scripture teaches us. Conclusion Maritain’s account of Christ’s grace has an undeniable appeal. It allows one to interpret Luke 2:52 in its most natural sense. Moreover, it preserves some aspects of Aquinas’s teaching on Christ’s perfection in grace and his possession of the beatific vision alongside an understanding of Christ as viator that allows him to develop and grow in ways that are more akin to how other human beings are able to increase in grace. In this way, Maritain’s account seems to vindicate the reality of Christ’s humanity more than does Aquinas’s account. Attributing to Christ this balance between perfection and growth, however, rests on the claim that being truly human requires the possibility for growth in grace. This, however, requires that Maritain overlook the fundamental reasons for which any person has the degree of grace that he possesses, which ultimately lies not in any exigency of human nature, but in God’s purposes in granting grace. Maritain’s account also falters in the reason for which it attributes perfect grace to Christ as a comprehensor, since he takes it to be an automatic consequence of the hypostatic union rather than, as Aquinas argues, something co-assumed by the Logos for the purpose of carrying out his redemptive mission. Finally, John 2:13–22 and Luke 2:11 provide biblical support for attributing perfect grace to On Christ’s death and the opening of the gate to heaven, see ST III, q. 49, a. 5. For an analysis of how the Letter to the Hebrews shapes Aquinas’s understanding of this aspect of Christ’s redemptive work, see Matthew Levering, Paul in the Summa Theologiae (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2014), 70–71. 58 ST III, q. 8, a. 3. 57 546 Andrew V. Rosato Christ as a viator prior to his Passion. For these reasons, St. Thomas’s claim that Christ possesses perfect grace and exercises his grace of headship continually throughout his earthly life is to be preferred to N&V Maritain’s account that he does so only on the Cross.59 An earlier version of this article was presented at Thomas Aquinas College in February 2015. I would like to thank the members of the audience for their comments and questions, especially John Nieto. I would also like to thank an anonymous reader for questions and suggestions that have improved the paper in several ways. 59 Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 15, No. 2 (2017): 547–578 547 The Dictatorship of the Conscience1 Bernard N. Schumacher University of Fribourg Fribourg, Switzerland I am freeing men from the restraints of an intelligence that has taken charge; from the dirty and degrading self-mortifications of a chimera called conscience and morality, and from the demands of a freedom and personal independence which only a very few can bear. —Adolf Hitler2 My special thanks to my wife Michele M. Schumacher for her very insightful comments and to Michael J. Miller for his translation. 2 Hermann Rauschning, The Voice of Destruction [UK title, Hitler Speaks] (New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1940), 225; originally Gespräche mit Hitler (New York: Europa, 1940), 212: “Ich befreie den Menschen von dem Zwange eines Selbstzweck gewordenen Geistes; von den schmutzigen und erniedrigenden Selbstpeinigungen einer Gewissen und Moral genannten Chimäre und von den Ansprüchen einer Freiheit und persönlichen Selbständigkeit, denen immer nur ganz wenige gewachsen sein können.” With regard to the authenticity of what Rauschning describes, see Theodor Schieder, Hermann Rauschnings‚Gespräche mit Hitler’ als Geschichstquelle (Opladen: Westdeutscher, 1972). Whether or not these words are exactly as pronounced by the Führer does not change the thesis of the present contribution. These two citations are also found in Joseph Ratzinger, “Conscience in its Time: A Lecture Given to the Reinhold Schneider Society,” in Church, Ecumenism, and Politics: New Endeavors in Ecclesiology, trans. by Michael J. Miller (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2008), 160–72, at 160; originally “Das Gewissen in der Zeit,” in Kirche, Ökumene und Politik (Einsiedeln: Johannes, 1987), 153–64, at 153. 1 548 Bernard N. Schumacher Conscience is a Jewish invention. It is a [mutilation], like circumcision. . . . There is no such thing as truth, either in the moral or in the scientific sense.3 Hermann Rauschning , president of the Senate of Danzig during the years 1933–1934 thus records several remarks by Adolf Hitler, who stated that the “new man,” the one whose coming the Nazi Party wanted to see, has an obligation to liberate himself from the oppression of his moral conscience, as well as from an independent mind, by subjecting both to the conscience and mind of Hitler, and to him alone. He would then be the conscience of the Germans that would dictate what moral values to follow. As Hannah Arendt put it, he would then embody “the law of the land.”4 Hermann Göring explicitly and forcefully refers to an emancipation of this sort when he declares, “I have no conscience. My conscience is Adolf Hitler.”5 Although Göring demanded the implementation of the “final solution” with regard to the Jews, he was not the only one to subject his conscience to Hitler’s demands. Agreeing with the latter were a number of sympathizers who were not “outlaws, monsters, or raving sadists,” but rather, as Arendt explains, the “most respected members of respectable society,”6 such as Adolf Eichmann: even the man who implemented the Ibid., 223 (the English edition has the euphemism “blemish”); Gespräche mit Hitler, 252: “Das Gewissen ist eine jüdische Erfindung. Es ist wie die Beschneidung, eine Verstümmelung des menschlichen Wesens. . . . Es gibt keine Wahrheit, weder im moralischen noch wissenschaftlichen Sinne,” 252. 4 Hannah Arendt, “Personal Responsibility under Dictatorship,” in Responsibility and Judgment (New York: Schocken Books, 2003), 17–48, at 43: “for them, it was enough that everything happened according to the ‘will of the Führer,’ which was the law of the land, and in accordance with the ‘words of the Führer’, which had the force of law.” 5 Rauschning, Voice of Destruction, 78 (Gespräche mit Hitler, 77: “Ich habe kein Gewissen! Mein Gewissen heißt Adolf Hitler”). Rauschning reports the words of the Führer during a meeting in early summer 1934: “My first demand from you, therefore, is blind obedience.You are not the judges of what is to be done in your district. Neither shall I always be in a position to explain to you in detail what my intention is. Your obedience is the fruit of your trust in me” (Voice of Destruction, 145; Gespräche mit Hitler, 136: “Ich verlange daher als erstes blinden Gehorsam von Ihnen. Nicht Sie können beurteilen, was ich Ihrem Bereich zu tun ist. Ich werde Ihnen auch nicht immer sagen können, was ich im einzelnen zu tun beabsichtige. Ihr Gehorsam ist die Frucht des Vertrauens zu mir”). 6 Arendt, Responsibility and Judgment, 42–43. See the historical studies by Christopher Browning, Ordinary Men: Reserve Police Battalion 101 and the Final Solution in Poland (New York: Harper Collins, 1992). For a fictional approach, 3 The Dictatorship of the Conscience 549 plan ratified at the conference in Wannsee by organizing the deportation of the Jews to extermination camps can be numbered among these “ordinary” people. Moreover he later defended himself before the court in Jerusalem that would sentence him to be hanged on June 1, 1962, arguing that he had only obeyed his conscience, which had told him to follow the overriding principle that he should act in such a way that, if the Führer knew about it, he could only approve. Therefore he had chosen—on an impulse that resulted as much from an act of faith as from a process of shirking responsibility—to subject his personal judgment to that of the Führer, the symbolic figure of his country’s law. In other words, his conscience—just like Göring’s—had been deliberately subordinated to Hitler’s, who denied that a universal moral truth had any value on the pretext that such a morality would be “a mutilation” of man. Eichmann’s lawyer marvelously illustrated this thesis when he described what went on at Auschwitz as “a medical matter.” Put differently, ethics was ultimately only a matter of customs and subordinate to history and culture, and this, he claimed, refuted the accusation that his client erred at the level of his conscience and was consequently guilty, as Arendt explains: [Eichmann’s defense argued] to the effect that what had happened in Auschwitz and the other extermination camps had been “a medical matter.” It was as though morality, at the very moment of its total collapse within an old and highly civilized nation, stood revealed in the original meaning of the word, as a set of mores, of customs and manners, which could be exchanged for another set with no more trouble than it would take to change the table manners of a whole people.7 Many contemporaries, like Arendt, found the lawyer’s position “incredible,”8 and this incredulity originates in the assumption that there are such things as intrinsically evil actions that are not merely matters of opinion or custom and, at the same time, that there is such a thing as a moral conscience that forbids us to commit them. It would seem, then, legitimate to condemn Eichmann (who was also endowed with a conscience, even though he did not make immediate see Jonathan Littell, The Kindly Ones (New York: Harper Perennial, 2010); originally Les bienveillantes (Paris: Gallimard, 2006). 7 Arendt, Responsibility and Judgment, 43. 8 Ibid. 550 Bernard N. Schumacher personal use of it, since he subordinated it to someone else), just as it would be legitimate, by analogy, to condemn any person who had committed intrinsically evil acts, generally speaking. Does not the adoption of this point of view, however, in effect justify a “paternalistic” position that would dictate, regardless of the subject, his history, or his culture, what he should do from a moral perspective—which ultimately, according to the French philosopher Ruwen Ogien, would be opposed to “freedom of conscience” (la liberté de conscience)? 9 Would not the requirement to subject one’s conscience to a transcendent moral truth that is identifiable, at least in part, with the help of philosophical reason be analogous to the requirement to submit to what Hitler subjectively defined as morally good? In order to free ourselves somehow from a totalitarianism of this sort or, by analogy, from the paternalism that Ogien considered totalitarian, would we not ultimately have to refer, before acting, to what the subjective, autonomous moral conscience dictates? This position seems at first glance to agree with the primacy of personal conscience that John Henry Newman admirably defended in proposing his famous toast to his conscience in his letter to the Duke of Norfolk: “Certainly, if I am obliged to bring religion into after-dinner toasts (which indeed does not seem quite the thing), I shall drink—to the Pope, if you please,—still, to Conscience first, and the Pope afterwards.”10 A century later, the German theologian Joseph Ratzinger confirmed this position while explaining that there is a moral duty always to follow one’s conscience: “No one may act against his conviction. . . . It is never wrong to follow the conviction that one has reached.”11 Ruwen Ogien, La Morale a-t-elle un avenir? (Nantes, FR: Éditions Pleins Feux, 2006), 54. “In the name of ‘human dignity,’” which in this context is to be understood as a “transcendent reality” (ibid.), “some contest the right to choose freely the sort of life that one wishes to lead, and what one wants to do with one’s life and with one’s body (a right which includes the right to abort, for example). This is an idea that serves to justify paternalistic interventions” (ibid., 54–55 [“C’est au nom de la ‘dignité humaine’”–“réalité transcendante”–“qu’est contesté le droit de choisir librement le genre de vie qu’on souhaite mener, ce qu’on veut faire de sa vie et de son corps (droit qui inclut celui d’avorter par exemple). C’est une notion qui sert à justifier des interventions paternalistes.”]). 10 John Henry Newman, Letter to the Duke of Norfolk, December 27, 1874, in The Works of Cardinal Newman: Difficulties of Anglicans, vol. 2 (London: Longman Green, 1908), 261. 11 Joseph Ratzinger, “Wenn du den Frieden willst, achte das Gewissen jedes Menschen: Gewissen und Wahrheit,” in Wahrheit, Werte, Macht (Freiburg: 9 The Dictatorship of the Conscience 551 In the aftermath of the Second World War, it was commonly thought that one should be required in all circumstances to follow one’s personal conscience as the expression of one’s subjective autonomy and to delegate this discernment to no one, as though that could serve as a rampart against any emerging form of totalitarianism. Contrary to what Hitler declared, that “only a very few can bear”12 to exercise their autonomy, it was now assumed that everyone is capable to doing so.13 The appeal to subjective autonomy in order to counteract totalitarianism, however, has been radicalized in recent years so as to generate a concept of personal conscience that can be described as postmodern. Its object is a conscience that sets itself up as the sole foundation for moral acts. Postmodern Conscience The Appeal to Autonomy The concept of personal conscience to which Ogien refers highlights the importance, within the community of individuals, of respect for subjectivity at the moment of making moral choices. At the same time, it claims that subjective conscience is unquestionably the sole ethical authority. In other words, the moral content to which conscience submits originates in one’s own subjectivity or, possibly, from the community of moral persons to whom the subject has freely decided to belong. Such a concept of conscience presupposes a Sartrean sort of freedom that is understood as being simultaneously absolute, independent, and completely undetermined. This freedom shapes human nature—as proposed in the French philosopher’s famous statement that existence precedes essence. Not only is there no such thing as a predetermined, universal human nature, but even more importantly, the only justification values have is from the subject’s own freedom, given that there is no discernible heaven from which they could emanate. Universal values are imaginary, and the subject is his own legislator— he invents his own law. What are the consequences of this? Left to his own devices, the Herder, 1993), 25–62, at 58: “Niemand darf gegen seine Überzeugung handeln. . . . Es ist nie Schuld, der gewonnenen Überzeugung zu folgen.” 12 Rauschning, The Voice of Destruction, 225; Gespräche mit Hitler, 222: “von den Ansprüchen einer Freiheit und persönlichen Selbständigkeit, denen immer nur ganz wenige gewachsen sein können.” 13 See Isaiah Berlin, “Two Concepts of Liberty,” in Four Essays on Liberty (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1969), 118–72. 552 Bernard N. Schumacher individual no longer knows, with regard to his moral action, to what he should orient his freedom. His freedom “is anguished” because it is “the foundation of values while itself without foundation.” Sartre declared, “My freedom is the unique foundation of values and . . . nothing, absolutely nothing, justifies me in adopting this or that particular value, this or that particular scale of values. . . . My freedom is anguished at being the foundation of values while itself without foundation. . . . I do not have nor can I have recourse to any value against the fact that it is I who sustain values in being. . . . I have to realize the meaning of the world and of my essence; I make my decision concerning them—without justification and without excuse.”14 Sartre denies the existence of intrinsically evil or good moral acts. The moral character of the personal act is revealed in the freedom of the responsible, sincere subject along with the values that he has chosen for himself. Freedom as radical self-determination is the sole norm for moral acts. Hence, in this view, the individual not only can desire anything but also can do anything insofar as he takes responsibility for his actions. The contents of conscience are no longer to be sought in something objectively “other” that would dictate moral action, but rather in the subject himself. Charles Taylor emphasizes that such freedom detaches itself from the parameters of meaning by setting itself up as the ultimate authority at the source of meaning.15 Today, this idea of freedom is confused by some philosophers with the principle of autonomy. Now, the latter has connotations that, to some extent, are distinct from the meaning of the term that was developed in the eighteenth century by Immanuel Kant. For some writers, like Laurence Kohlberg, it is the sign of psychological maturity. For others, it designates a fundamental right of the person in the sense that the autonomous subject is the master of his life without Jean-Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness, trans. Hazel E. Barnes (London: Methuen & Co., 1957), 38–39; originally L’Être et le Néant: Essai d’ontologie phénoménologique (Paris: Gallimard, 1943), 76–77: “ma liberté est l’unique fondement des valeurs et que rien, absolument rien, ne me justifie d’adopter telle ou telle valeur, telle ou telle échelle de valeurs. . . . Et ma liberté s’angoisse d’être le fondement sans fondement des valeurs. . . . je n’ai ni ne puis avoir recours à aucune valeur contre le fait que c’est moi qui maintiens à l’être les valeurs . . . j’ai à réaliser le sens du monde et de mon essence: j’en décide, seul, injustifiable et sans excuse.” 15 See Charles Taylor, The Sources of the Self : The Making of the Modern Identity (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989). 14 The Dictatorship of the Conscience 553 undergoing external interference. Finally, for others, it signifies an absolute autonomy of freedom that decides the moral content of one’s personal actions independently of reason, which is no longer capable of establishing universal moral rules. This last is the particular sense in which a growing number of philosophers, especially within the context of the debate on bioethics, understand the notion of autonomy, a sense that denies all moral authority outside of the individual subject. Hence a person can decide autonomously to subject himself to an experiment that would result in his death or in serious damage to his personality or to kill himself with the assistance of others within the framework of assisted suicide or euthanasia. The same argument is made in the case of persons who exercised a degree of autonomy in the past but, for particular reasons, are no longer capable of exercising it, or else for persons who are not yet autonomous or who will never be capable of exercising their autonomy. In these particular cases, the individual’s autonomy is transferred to the autonomous persons who have responsibility for him or her, such as members of the immediate family. It is now their decision, the argument goes, whether or not to approve a possible experiment, such as the experimentation conducted currently on “surplus” human embryos resulting from in vitro fertilization for reproductive or research purposes. This approval for experimentation on human embryos should apply also—quite logically—to all other cases where a human being is deprived of the exercise of his autonomy. Think of the newborn, the profoundly mentally handicapped, and those suffering from dementia. Most persons, nevertheless, refuse to approve of experimentation in the latter cases. Relying remarkably on the notion of the social person, they argue that, paradoxically, there is such a thing as a person’s dignity apart from the subject’s autonomous choice. This would mean that moral conscience is not the sole ethical authority, that it has to subject itself to rationally-based universal values, particularly in matters concerning human dignity. Despite this commonly accepted reference to the notion of the dignity of the human person whereby one recognizes his or her rights and, above all, the right to life, some contemporary authors refuse to appeal to the concept of dignity, which they describe as “stupid” and “useless,” preferring the term autonomy understood in the sense of absolute freedom mentioned above. “‘Dignity’ is a squishy, subjective notion,” Steven Pinker explains, “hardly up to the heavy weight of 554 Bernard N. Schumacher the moral demands assigned to it.”16 Peter Singer stresses that the dignity of every human being is nothing but “fine phrases . . . the last resource of those who have run out of arguments.”17 Ruth Macklin, for her part, proposes banishing this term from bioethics on the pretext that it is tautological. In her view it expresses nothing but respect for the autonomy of persons. “Dignity,” she explains, “is a useless concept in medical ethics and can be eliminated without any loss of content.”18 Upon closer inspection, the real reason why Macklin wants to eliminate the term dignity is a change in the very meaning of this notion. She proposes a paradigm shift in bioethical discourse from respect for the person, which is independent of the subject’s free choice, to a respect for the subject’s absolute autonomy. This autonomy is understood as freedom that is subject to no constraint with regard to the universal moral “pseudo-laws” that would originate either in an intelligible Platonic heaven or in universal reason. Kantian autonomy of the individual subject would restrict Sartrean autonomy, for it could be exercised only within the limits of human dignity and would no longer be absolute in itself, which (by that very fact) would imply that dignity was somehow superior to it. This transference of the notion of dignity to the notion of autonomy is adopted by Ogien, who maintains that the concept of “human dignity” is a “pompous, intimidating expression,”19 a “useless and dangerous” concept,20 because it has “become, in contrast to its initial meaning, a purely paternalistic concept, serving to dispute the right of adults to control their life and their body freely.”21 He explains that Steven Pinker, “The Stupidity of Dignity,” The New Republic, May 28, 2008 (https://newrepublic.com/article/64674/the-stupidity-dignity, last accessed January 30, 2017). 17 Peter Singer, “All Animals are Equal,” in Applied Ethics, ed. Peter Singer (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986), 215–28, at 228: “Philosophers frequently introduce ideas of dignity, respect, and worth at the point at which other reasons appear to be lacking, but this is hardly good enough. Fine phrases are the last resource of those who have run out of arguments.” 18 Ruth Macklin, “Dignity is a useless concept,” British Medical Journal 327 (December 20, 2003): 1419–20. 19 Ogien, La Morale a-t-elle un avenir?, 16: “expression pompeuse et intimidante”. 20 Ruwen Ogien, La vie, la mort, l’État (Paris: Grasset, 2009), 87: “inutile et dangereux”. 21 Ogien, La Morale a-t-elle un avenir?, 15: “devenu, à l’opposé de sa signification initiale, un concept purement paternaliste, servant à contester le droit des adultes à disposer librement de leur vie et de leur corps.” 16 The Dictatorship of the Conscience 555 human dignity, understood as a transcendent reality, is opposed to the right to “freedom of conscience”22 insofar as it would no longer depend on any freedom whatsoever of the subject who is called to conform to it. Secular Ethics This understanding of subjective conscience as the sole ethical authority is also based on the assertion that human reason is incapable of establishing a universal moral discourse. Although it is commonly maintained that reason attains objectivity on the level of utility and experimentation, this capability is denied in the ethical and political spheres that, strictly speaking, structure the sphere of personal life. The American H. Tristram Engelhardt stresses that we must therefore be content with a formalist, procedural secular ethics that abandons the idea of ethical truth and sets up a general framework with no moral content, a framework constructed around the principles of consent, tolerance, permissiveness, and benevolence toward particular ethical systems. Every individual subject, as well as every community of subjects, lives according to his, her, or its own ethical principles without seeking to impose its own point of view. Engelhardt points out that such a secular ethics is necessarily permissive: “Perpetual peace in the absence of repression will likely come, if ever, when we are willing to endure the choices persons make with themselves, their private resources, consenting others, and in their communities however deviant, even when those choices are profoundly wrong.”23 According to the French philosopher Michel Onfray, secular ethics claims that everything is optional, that everyone is free to decide and to define his responsibilities as he wishes: “In the field of these new possibilities, nothing is obligatory and everything is optional. . . . The option of aborting is not compulsory and obliges no one, nor does the possibility of resorting to cloning or euthanasia. To increase the number of options forces no one to make a choice that goes against his morality.”24 Ibid., 54: “la liberté de conscience.” Tristram Engelhardt, The Foundations of Bioethics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 15. See also ibid., 16. 24 Michel Onfray, Féeries anatomiques (Paris: Grasset, 2003), 72: “Dans le champ de ces nouveaux possibles, rien n’est obligatoire et tout facultatif. . . . La possibilité d’avorter n’y contraint pas et n’oblige personne, celle de recourir au clonage ou à l’euthanasie non plus. Augmenter les possibilités ne force personne à effectuer un choix qui heurte sa morale.” 22 23 556 Bernard N. Schumacher This ethics implies the a priori impossibility of rationally establishing a hierarchy among the different concepts of good, which depend solely on the subjective or inter-subjective sphere. It would not be possible to settle a disagreement with the help of rational arguments.25 Insofar as a person has freely decided to perform a moral action, no one may take a stance about his choice (in other words, make a value judgment), under pain of being described as paternalistic and intolerant. Now there are several problems with this proposal—in particular, a certain inadequacy. Indeed, if philosophical reason was capable of establishing in truth the requirement of such a secular ethic in a general framework devoid of moral content, accompanied by a definition of the acting person defined by the exercise of personal conscience and moral action,26 it should also be capable, in principle, of establishing an analytical definition of a moral action and a good life. We are faced with an instance of begging the question that rejects a priori the possibility that philosophical reason can inform ethical discourse. Any reference to the concept of the dignity of the human person— which would presuppose a human nature independent of freedom and the possibility of a universal ethical philosophical discourse—would be tantamount, in the opinion of Olivier Cayla and Yan Thomas, authors of Du droit de ne pas naître (The Right Not To Be Born), to “denying in principle the heart of human rights from the perspective of modern political thought, in other words, to contesting radically the freedom of the individual in his ongoing relation with himself.”27 Engelhardt writes: “There are real differences among moral visions. They ground substantially different understandings of bioethics. These differences flow from the availability of different premises and rules of evidence for participants in a moral controversy, so that such disputes cannot be resolved by sound rational argument or by an appeal to a commonly acknowledged moral authority. . . . Only contentless general secular morality can reach across such gulfs and allow collaboration in the absence of content-full moral concurrence” (The Foundations of Bioethics, 81). 26 See Bernard N. Schumacher, “Tout être humain est-il une personne? Controverse autour de la définition de la personne dans la discussion éthique médicale contemporaine,” Laval Théologique et Philosophique 61.1 (2005) : 107–34, and “La personne comme conscience de soi performante au cœur du débat bioéthique. Analyse critique de la position de John Locke,” Laval Théologique et Philosophique 64.3 (2008) : 709–43. 27 Olivier Cayla and Yan Thomas, Du droit de ne pas naître: À propos de l’affaire Perruche (Paris: Gallimard, 2002), 13: “renier dans son principe le cœur des droits de l’homme du point de vue de la pensée politique moderne, c’est25 The Dictatorship of the Conscience 557 We find a similar statement penned by Mylène Botbol-Baum in her critique of the position developed by Jürgen Habermas, who opposes a liberal eugenics that would radically transform human nature. Habermas refers to the existence of a human nature belonging to the embryo, which he describes as being a “prepersonal”28 human being or a “second person”29 by virtue of an act of “anticipatory socialization”30 —in other words, by an act of anticipating what it will be: a person. Such a human life nevertheless possess, according to Habermas, a certain dignity that he identifies not with the dignity of the human person, but rather with the dignity of human cadavers. He denounces “the subjection of a living body and of life to biotechnology.”31 In doing so, he allies himself, according to Botbol-Baum, with “neo-Heideggerian views that attempt to discover the essence of what is human in a technophobic rejection of anything that could affect the sexed nature of the human being. This position leads him to a moralistic approach that is difficult to distinguish from an authoritarian, neo-conservative position which, in terms of human rights, may become unconstitutional. . . . There is a naturalization of morality in the concept of the human species.”32 à-dire à contester radicalement la liberté de l’individu dans la relation qu’il entretient avec lui-même.” A similar argument can be found in the writings of Claude Sureau, inventor of the electronic device that monitors fetal heartbeat, who maintains that one “cannot accept, either, recourse to legislative constraint in order to impose one’s own convictions on those who do not share them”; see Son nom est personne: Avant de naître, l’enfant est-il une chose, un amas de cellules ou un patient? (Paris: Albin Michel, 2005), 29: “[On] ne peut accepter, non plus, le recours à la contrainte législative pour imposer ses propres convictions à ceux qui ne les partagent pas.” 28 Jürgen Habermas, The Future of Human Nature, trans. Hella Beister and William Rehg (Cambridge, UK: Polity, 2003), 39; originally Die Zukunft der menschlichen Natur: Auf dem Weg zu einer liberalen Eugenik? (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2001), 72: “vorpersonalem menschlichem Leben.” 29 In the grammatical sense of a “thou” (Future of Human Nature, 69; Die Zukunft der menschlichen Natur, 120: “eine zweite Person”). 30 Future of Human Nature, 35 (Die Zukunft der menschlichen Natur, 66: “anticipatory socialization”). 31 This is a remark by Habermas cited by Henry Atlan and Mylène BotbolBaum, Des embryons et des hommes (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 2007), 73: “une soumission du corps vivant et de la vie à la biotechnologie.” 32 Atlan and Botbol-Baum, Des embryons et des hommes, 73–74: “des visions néo-heideggériennes, qui tenteraient de retrouver l’essence de l’humain dans un rejet technophobe de tout ce qui pourrait toucher à la nature sexuée de l’humain. Cette position le mène à un moralisme difficilement distinguable 558 Bernard N. Schumacher Insofar as a democratic State would prescribe only one particular theory of the good to the detriment of other concepts of the good— starting from the assumption that the various conceptions of the good are defined, in Ogien’s words, as “morally indifferent”33 —we would be facing a situation that Engelhardt describes as “a pre-Enlightenment position of [the state] wielding inquisitorial powers in the regulation of the private lives of citizens.”34 Any attempt to impose a particular point of view in a democratic state and within the framework of a secular ethics is described by Engelhardt as the “moral fanaticism” of “ideologues” or “fascists.”35 It is only right to explain that he thinks that such persons would be forcing others to adopt a certain concept of the good without their consent and, if need be, while relying on the power of the state to enforce it, or else, we might add, on manipulation, whether outright or disguised. For a postmodern thinker like Engelhardt, there is no rational criterion transcending subjectivity that could allow someone to assert that one particular concept of subjective or inter-subjective good is better than another. Thus, he agrees with Richard Rorty, who bases his views on an anthropology that rejects the existence of any human nature and defines the human being as a “flexible, protean, self-shaping animal”36 and defends a “cultural relativism” that is “associated d’une position autoritaire et néoconservatrice qui, en termes de droits des gens, peut devenir anticonstitutionnelle. . . . Il y a une naturalisation de la morale dans le concept d’espèce humaine.” The author continues, declaring that “since Rousseau, human freedom has claimed to be neutral; it is no longer connected with the ability to comply with a law inscribed in nature but rather with man’s perfectibility, with his potential to develop a moral world outside of nature, which has led . . . to the refusal to identify moral humanity and the human race” (ibid, 75: “depuis Rousseau, la liberté de l’homme se veut neutre; elle n’est plus liée à la capacité de se plier à une loi inscrite dans a nature mais à sa perfectibilité, à sa possibilité d’élaborer hors de la nature un monde moral, ce qui a amené . . . à refuser d’identifier humanité morale et espèce humaine.”) 33 Ruwen Ogien, La panique morale (Paris: Grasset, 2004), 28: “moralement indifférentes.” 34 Tristram Engelhardt, “Introduction,” in Abortion and the Status of the Fetus, ed. William B. Dondeson (Dordrecht: Reidel, 1983), xix.“Such a circumstance [the state’s imposing a particular moral or metaphysical viewpoint to the prejudice of other viewpoints] would return the state to a pre-Enlightenment position of wielding inquisitorial powers in the regulation of the private lives of citizens.” 35 Engelhardt, The Foundations of Bioethics, 81. 36 Richard Rorty, “Human Rights, Rationality, and Sentimentality,” in Truth and Progress, vol. 3 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 167–85, at 170. The Dictatorship of the Conscience 559 with irrationalism because it denies the existence of morally relevant transcultural facts,”37 including human rights. There is no such thing as a-historical truth or rationality,38 therefore, there is no criterion that would allow anyone to denounce ideas as irrational. A similar position is expressed strikingly by André Comte-Sponville. Rejecting the possibility of establishing a universal morality with the aid of reason, he opposes fascism and racism simply because he wants nothing to do with them, and therefore, by a simple subjective preference, he writes: “Fascism and racism . . . disgust me, and if I fight against them, it is not because some ‘truth’ condemns them objectively, . . . but simply because I want nothing to do with them.”39 A stance affirming that some actions are intrinsically evil would therefore be seen as an unacceptable attack against another’s freedom of thought and action. Perceived as an attempt to force someone else to adopt a specific point of view, it would also be contrary to the dignity of the person understood as absolute autonomy. This stance would be stigmatized and equated with an attitude that has been likened to “intolerance,” or even described as “antidemocratic,”40 Ibid., 171. See ibid., 176. 39 André Comte-Sponville, “Le bon, la brute et le militant,” published in Lettre internationale 11 (winter 1986–1987), reprinted in Une éducation philosophique (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1989), 121–44, at 140: “Le fascisme, le racisme, . . . cela me dégoûte, et si je me bats contre, ce n’est pas qu’une “vérité” les condamne objectivement, . . . mais, simplement, parce que je n’en veux pas.” He states additionally, “What we are witnessing, as this century draws to a close, is by no means the end of morality, but rather the disappearance of any foundation for it, in other words of any objective legitimacy. Everyone knows well, individually, what he judges to be good and, consequently, what he should do. But no longer does anyone have the means of making out of that a true universal morality (which would have compelling validity for all), because now no one has any absolute foundation, if not to propose (people will always find that), at least to prove,”; see ibid.: “Ce à quoi nous assistons, en cette fin de siècle, ce n’est aucunement à la fin de la morale, mais bien à la disparition, pour elle, de tout fondement, c’est-à-dire de toute légitimation objective. Chacun sait bien, solitairement, ce qu’il juge bon, et, en conséquence, ce qu’il doit faire. Mais nul n’a plus les moyens d’en faire en vérité une morale universelle (qui vaudrait impérativement pour tous), parce que nul n’a plus de fondement absolu, sinon à proposer (cela on en trouve toujours), du moins à démontrer.” 40 Ratzinger, Wahrheit,Werte, Macht, 67–68: “Der Begriff Wahrheit ist in die Zone der Intoleranz und des Antidemokratischen gerückt” (“The concept of truth has shifted into the zone of intolerance and antidemocratic ideology”). 37 38 560 Bernard N. Schumacher as in the passage from Botbol-Baum cited above, or as “arrogant”41 and, thus, incapable of any dialogue whatsoever. Comte-Sponville, lumping together “Plato, Stalin [and] John-Paul II,” declares that “practical dogmatism, which treats value as though it were truth, leads to clean consciences, complacency, exclusion of or contempt for others—it leads to intolerance.”42 A little further on, he explains that “pragmatic dogmatism always leads to intolerance, however attenuated. If values are true and known, they are not subject to discussion or choice. Those who do not share them are simply wrong.”43 Joseph Ratzinger, On the Way to Jesus Christ, trans. Michael J. Miller (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2004), 68–69: “Today it has become an irresistibly forceful prejudice to dismiss as simplistic and at the same time arrogant those who are reputed to believe that they ‘have’ the truth. Such people are supposedly incapable of dialogue and ultimately cannot be taken seriously”; originally Unterwegs zu Jesus Christus (Augsburg: Sankt Ulrich, 2004), 69: “Heute ist es zu einem Slogan von unwiderstehlicher Durchschlagskraft geworden, diejenigen als zugleich einfältig und arrogant abzuweisen, denen man nachsagen darf, sie glaubten, die Wahrheit zu ‘haben.’ Solche Leute, so scheint es, sind dialogunfähig und letztlich nicht ernst zu nehmen.” See also Ratzinger, Glaube, Wahrheit, Toleranz (Freiburg: Herder, 2005), 95: “Thus relativism immediately appears as the philosophical foundation of democracy, which indeed is based on the assumption that no one could possibly claim to know the right path. . . . A system of freedom must by its very nature be a system of relative positions that have come to an understanding, which moreover are dependent on a set of historical circumstances and must remain open to new developments. A society that enjoys freedom, according to this reasoning, is a relativistic society; only on that condition can it be free and remain open to the future.” (“Relativismus erscheint so zugleich als die philosophische Grundlage der Demokratie, die eben darauf beruhe, dass niemand in Anspruch nehmen dürfte, den richtigen Weg zu kennen. . . . Ein System der Freiheit müsse seinem Wesen nach ein System sich verständigender relativer Positionen sein, die überdies von geschichtlichen Konstellationen abhängen und neuen Entwicklungen offen stehen müssen. Eine freiheitliche Gesellschaft sei eine relativistische Gesellschaft; nur unter dieser Voraussetzung könne sie frei und nach vorne hin offen bleiben”). Just previously he states, “Thus in fact relativism has become the central problem for the faith in this hour” (ibid., 94: “So ist in der Tat der Relativismus zum zentralen Problem für den Glauben in unserer Stunde geworden”). 42 André Comte-Sponville, “Tolerance,” in A Small Treatise on the Great Virtues: The Uses of Philosophy in Everyday Life, trans. Catherine Temerson (New York: Henry Holt and Company, 2001), 167–68; originally Petit traité des grandes vertus (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1995), 251: “le dogmatisme pratique, qui pense la valeur comme une vérité, aboutit ainsi à la bonne conscience, à la suffisance, au rejet ou au mépris de l’autre—à l’intolérance.” 43 Ibid., 169 (Petit traité des grandes vertus, 253: “le dogmatisme pratique mène 41 The Dictatorship of the Conscience 561 The Dictatorship of Intolerance in the Name of Freedom The affirmation of moral relativism, in which all values have worth, and which is based on the absolute autonomy of the individual independent subject—on the fact that subjective conscience is the sole ethical authority—makes it impossible to say that a moral conscience can be in error per se, from the trans-cultural or trans-historical perspective. One might possibly condemn an autonomous conscience, but only by referring to its inauthenticity or insincerity—its bad faith—or its inconsistency with the values that it has freely chosen or with those of an inter-subjective community that the individual shares. Well, then, would it have been possible to find Eichmann guilty? Supposing, as Newman requires, that he sincerely followed what his conscience told him—even though in actual fact he subjected his conscience to Hitler’s—the condemnation of Eichmann would not have been justified, at least if we take the position underlying postmodern “conscience.” His condemnation would be the sign that one particular moral concept (the one that condemns him) had prevailed over another moral conception (Eichmann’s). The superiority of the first concept could not be demonstrated by reason, which has abdicated, but solely by force. Universal rational discourse would give way to arbitrariness and the principle that might makes right. The result would be that Eichmann’s condemnation would be a totalitarian act that negated the very principle of tolerance with regard to the thesis of the inviolability of the subjective moral conscience. The attitude of a particular community toward Eichmann—the community that condemns him—would be similar to that of the Nazi community with regard to the weak. We would be under the thrall of a new ideology that would, from a certain viewpoint, be similar to the one to which Eichmann voluntarily subjected himself. It follows from this logic that the demand, after World War II, to follow one’s moral conscience legitimately as a bulwark against the emergence of a new totalitarianism—commonly compared to Nazism, which considered conscience a figment of the imagination—turned out to pave the way for totalitarianism inasmuch as conscience is now understood several decades later as the sole ethical criterion. Indeed, postmodern moral conscience appears under “the toujours, fût-ce sous une forme atténuée, à l’intolérance. Si les valeurs sont vraies, si elles sont connues, on ne saurait ni les discuter ni les choisir, et ceux qui ne partagent pas les nôtres ont donc tort”). 562 Bernard N. Schumacher cloak of subjectivity”:44 “And what this worldview calls ‘conscience’ is—when examined in greater depth—a circumlocution for the fact that there is no real conscience, namely a shared consciousness of the truth. Everyone determines his standards for himself, and in the universal relativity no one can help anyone else do so, much less give him orders.”45 Such a conscience is altogether comparable to Eichmann’s because it rejects any possible challenge in the light of reason. Whereas the first type of conscience refuses to engage in authentic dialogue in the light of dialectical critical reason, the second type, out of convenience, conformism, or laziness, delegates to someone else (as Kant emphasized in 1785 in his famous work What is the Enlightenment?) its rational judgment relative to moral matters. This, Ratzinger notes, is postmodern conscience, “whereby the stubborn inability to mend one’s ways is justified as faithfulness to an inner voice. Conscience then becomes the principle of subjective self-will, taken as an absolute, whereas in the other case it becomes the principle of incapacitating the ego and substituting a generality or an outside ego.”46 Joseph Ratzinger, Wahrheit,Werte, Macht, 33: “Der Schutzmantel der Subjektivität.” 45 Ibid., 46: “Und was in solcher Weltsicht ‘Gewissen’ nennt, ist—tiefer betrachtet—die Umschreibung dafür, dass es ein eigentliches Gewissen, nämlich ein Mitwissen mit der Wahrheit nicht gibt. Jeder bestimmt sich selbst seine Maßstäbe, und in der allgemeinen Relativität kann auch niemand dem anderen dabei behilflich sein, noch weniger ihm Vorschriften machen.” He also writes that “the subjective ‘conscience’ becomes the sole arbiter of what is ethical,”; see Benedict XVI, Faith, Reason and the University: Memories and Reflections, in The Pope’s Regensburg Address, Special edition of Catholic World Report (October 2006), 6–8, at 8a; originally Glaube und Vernunft: Die Regensburger Vorlesung (Freiburg: Herder, 2006), 27: “das subjective ‘Gewissen’ wird zur letztlich einzigen ethischen Instanz.” 46 Joseph Ratzinger, “Conscience in its Time,” 164 (“Das Gewissen in der Zeit,”156: “bei der die trotzige Unfähigkeit zur Selbstkorrektur mit der Treue zur inneren Stimme gerechtfertigt wird. Gewissen wird dann zum Prinzip des absolut gesetzten subjektiven Eigensinns, wie es im andern Fall zum Prinzip der Entmündigung des Ich durch das Man oder durch ein fremdes Ich wird”). Eberhard Schockenhoff emphasizes that “without an obligatory reference to ethical principles and moral norms, conscience degenerates into a pathetic display of arbitrary subjectivity. The self-assertion that prevails under the cloak of democratic freedom of conscience no longer leads to a confrontation with the claim of moral truth; instead the reverse is true: it serves to legitimize individual plans of action and to make it resistant to external moral criticism. . . . The appeal to one’s own conscience serves instead to protect the self, to ward off doubts and to inflate momentary circumstances and events into a 44 The Dictatorship of the Conscience 563 Ratzinger points out that the thesis that moral conscience is based solely on the interests and preferences of the autonomous subject, while denying the possibility of rational discourse about moral truth, even partial truth, is “the real prerequisite for totalitarian followers and totalitarian rule.”47 A society that had somehow “liberated” itself from a rational universal morality under the cover of what Ratzinger depicts as a “dictatorship of . . . tolerance”48 —the ideological dominance of the opinion that everything is valid, as Philippe Bénéton develops it49 justification. It presupposes the right to make one’s own interests the point of departure for the solution of moral conflicts. . . . Someone who appeals to his conscience is, it seems, relieved of the obligation to justify his actions”; see Schockenhoff, Wie gewiss ist das Gewissen? Eine ethische Orientierung (Freiburg: Herder, 2003), 55–56 (“Ohne verbindliche Orientierung an ethischen Prinzipien und moralischen Normen verkommt das Gewissen zu einer pathetischen Bekundung subjektiver Willkür. Die Selbstbehauptung, die sich unter dem Deckmantel demokratischer Gewissensfreiheit durchsetzt, führt nicht mehr zur Konfrontation mit dem Anspruch der sittlichen Wahrheit; sie dient vielmehr umgekehrt der Legitimation individueller Handlungsentwürfe und ihrer Imprägnierung gegen moralische Kritik von außen. . . . Die Berufung auf das eigene Gewissen dient vielmehr dem Selbstschutz, der Abwehr von Zweifeln und der legitimatorischen Aufblähung momentaner Befindlichkeiten. Sie postuliert das Recht, die eigene Interessenlage zum Ausgangspunkt für die Auflösung moralischer Konflikte zu machen. . . . Wer sich auf sein Gewissen beruft, der ist, so scheint es, dem Zwang zur Rechtfertigung seines Handelns enthoben”). 47 Joseph Ratzinger, “Conscience in its Time,” 160: “The destruction of conscience is the real prerequisite for totalitarian followers and totalitarian rule” (“Das Gewissen in der Zeit,” 153: “Die Zerstörung des Gewissens ist die eigentliche Voraussetzung totalitärer Gefolgschaft und totalitärer Herrschaft”). 48 Joseph Ratzinger, God and the World: Believing and Living in Our Time: A Conversation with Peter Seewald, trans. by Henry Taylor (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2000), 454: “And I think the situation may absolutely develop here in which there must be resistance against the dictatorship of this apparent tolerance, which eliminates the scandal of the faith by declaring it intolerant. Here, in fact, the intolerance of the ‘tolerant’ really comes to the fore”; originally Gott und die Welt: Die Geheimnisse des christlichen Glaubens: Ein Gespräch mit Peter Seewald (München: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt, 2000), 390: “Und ich denke, hier kann es durchaus zu einer Situation kommen, in der sich Widerstand bilden muß, und zwar gegenüber einer Diktatur scheinbarer Toleranz, die den Anstoß des Glaubens dadurch ausschaltet, dass sie ihn als intolerant erklärt. Hier nämlich kommt dann wirklich die Intoleranz der, Toleranten’ zum Vorschein.” 49 Bénéton emphasizes that “in the name of relativism, the discussion is over: dogmatism follows. To a great extent the principle of tolerance, as it is understood today, acts as a censor: in its extreme form, someone who talks 564 Bernard N. Schumacher (and as the remarks of several philosophers cited above make very clear)—would ironically tend to become what has been called “a perfect tyranny”50 or “a form of totalitarianism.”51 Ratzinger goes so far as to maintain that the temptation to bring about such a society, “despite the changes in the names and the colors, has for anyone who looks deeper into the matter a frightening similarity, indeed, a unity with what only apparently lies behind us [specifically the Nazi regime].”52 Such a society is characterized by its refusal to engage in Socratic about talent, wisdom or virtue is showing signs of intolerance. The argument is therefore double-edged. On the one hand (the relativist aspect), it tends to neutralize traditional intellectual and moral distinctions: that my conduct is my own concern; this teaching is as good as the others; those cultures are equal. . . . Correlatively (the dogmatic aspect), it sets up prohibitions: anyone who speaks otherwise lacks tolerance or fails to be egalitarian. The process works like a machine that sorts authorized judgments from non-authorized judgments under the appearance of liberty. The new morality advances while wearing a mask”; see Philippe Bénéton, “L’homme démocratique et l’emprise de l’opinion,” in L’humain et la personne, ed. François-Xavier Putallaz and Bernard N. Schumacher, preface by Pascal Couchepin, President of the Swiss Confederation (Paris: Cerf, 2008), 297–410, at 406–07; original: “au nom du relativisme, la discussion est close: le dogmatisme suit. Dans une large mesure, le principe de tolérance, tel qu’il est aujourd’hui entendu, fonctionne comme une censure: à la limite, celui qui parle de talent, de sagesse ou de vertu fait preuve d’intolérance. Le mécanisme est donc à double détente. D’un côté (versant relativiste), il tend à neutraliser les distinctions intellectuelles et morales traditionnelles: telle conduite, c’est son affaire; telle discipline, elle vaut les autres; telles cultures, elles sont égales. . . . Corrélativement (versant dogmatique), il dit des interdits: quiconque parle autrement manque de tolérance ou manque à l’égalité. Le processus fonctionne comme une machine à trier les jugements autorisés et les jugements non autorisés derrière l’apparence de la liberté. La nouvelle morale s’avance masquée.” 50 Joseph Ratzinger, Church, Ecumenism, and Politics, 196 (“Das Gewissen in der Zeit,” 186: “eine perfekte Tyrannei”). See also ibid., 205: “Liberation from morality, by its very nature, can only be liberation for tyranny” (“Das Gewissen in der Zeit,” 194: “Die Befreiung von der Moral kann daher ihrem Wesen nach nur Befreiung zur Tyrannis sein”). 51 Pope John Paul II, Evangelium Vitae, §20, in The Gospel of Life (Boston: Pauline Books & Media, 1995), 38. 52 Joseph Ratzinger, Church, Ecumenism, and Politics, 161 (“Das Gewissen in der Zeit,” 154: “Darüber hinaus wage ich zu behaupten, dass die Versuchung, der wir heute ausgesetzt sind, bei allem Wechsel der Namen und der Farben für den tiefer Zusehenden eine erschreckende Ähnlichkeit, ja Einheit mit dem aufweist, was nur scheinbar hinter uns liegt”). See also Church, Ecumenism, and Politics, 161–62 (“Das Gewissen in der Zeit,” 155). The Dictatorship of the Conscience 565 maieutic dialogue and its distinctive feature of which is that it destabilizes by calling into question in the light of argumentative reason that aims at knowing “the truth of things.”53 Socrates calls this dismissive attitude misology,54 the hatred of thought, which André Glucksmann, explicitly referring to postmodern thought, describes as “the contemporary euthanasia of reason” or “the suicide of Socratic reasoning.”55 Reason despairs of arriving at real knowledge, even partial knowledge, that transcends the individual subject or the historical, cultural community of subjects. It is reduced to the expression of a particular world or to a singular cultural expression. It follows that, on the ethical level, everything is merely a matter of subjective or inter-subjective preferences—in short, of customs—as Eichmann’s lawyer emphasizes, or of table manners, to use Arendt’s expression: “Both in the National-Socialist and in the Communist dictatorship there was no human act that was regarded as bad in itself and always immoral. Whatever furthered the goals of the movement or the party was good, however inhumane it might be. Thus for decades the moral sense was being trampled, which necessarily led to utter nihilism at the moment when none of the previous goals was valid any more and the only remaining possibility was to do anything that can make an empty life thrilling and interesting for a moment.”56 In reducing the theoretical ethical convictions of the self-centered subject (who is deaf to radical otherness) to subjective or inter-subjec See Josef Pieper, The Truth of All Things, in Living the Truth, trans. Lothar Krauth (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1989), 9–105; originally “Wahrheit der Dinge,” in Werke in acht Bänden, ed. by Berthold Wald, vol. 5 (Hamburg: Felix Meiner, 1997), 99–179. 54 Plato, Phaedo 89d, trans. Benjamin Jowett (South Australia: eBooks@Adelaide, University of Adelaide, 2014). The English text describes the sort of the soul that is “accustomed to hate and fear and avoid the intellectual principle [logos].” 55 André Glucksmann, “Le spectre de Typhon,” Dieu sauve la raison (Paris: Desclée de Brouwer, 2008), 87–102, at 99 and 101: “euthanasie contemporaine de la raison”; “le suicide de la raison socratique.” 56 Joseph Ratzinger, Wahrheit, Werte, Macht, 21: “In der nationalsozialistischen wie in der kommunistischen Diktatur gab es keine Handlung, die als in sich schlecht und immer unmoralisch angesehen worden wäre. Was den Zielen der Bewegung oder der Partei diente, war gut, wie unmenschlich es auch sein mochte. So ist schon über Jahrzehnte hin ein Zertreten des moralischen Sinnes vor sich gegangen, das zum vollständigen Nihilismus werden muß in dem Augenblick, in dem keines der vorherigen Ziele mehr galt und Freiheit nur als Möglichkeit stehenblieb, alles zu tun, was ein leer gewordenes Leben einen Augenblick spannend und interessant machen kann.” 53 566 Bernard N. Schumacher tive preferences, postmodern man agrees with the thesis that there is no such thing as intrinsically evil acts, or even, as Glucksmann points out, with the thesis that postulates “the relativity of evil.”57 Different sorts of moral conduct possess the same value within the framework of a secular ethics. They elude any prioritization independent of the subject or of a particular community. “The transcendental subject,” Jean-François Mattéi notes, “has no alternative but to escape into generalized relativism,”58 in which everything is valid and absolutes vanish and, as Taylor emphasizes, one sinks into “the relatively colourless subjectivist talk of ‘values.’”59 Mattéi describes this crisis as “interior barbarity,”60 and states that it “attacks [1] the idea of truth, in its theoretical necessity, and consequently [2] the idea of a human life endowed with meaning, in its practical demands, for there is no longer any good reason to impose a goal on humanity which has fragmented into irreducible communities.”61 As Glucksmann notes, it follows that “reason that renounces enunciation renounces denunciation and yields to arbitrariness.”62 Eberhard Schockenhoff too emphasizes that, “at the point where all of men’s fragmentary and divergent strivings for the truth are replaced by social planning, the ultimate reason for our mutual recognition also vanishes.”63 Glucksmann, “Le spectre de Typhon,” 99: “la relativité du mal.” Jean-François Mattéi, La crise du sens (Nantes: Éditions Cécile Defaut, 2006), 43: “Le sujet transcendantal, dénué de transcendance n’a pas d’autre issue que la fuite dans un relativisme généralisé.” 59 Taylor, The Sources of the Self, 507. 60 See Jean-François Mattéi, La barbarie intérieure: Essai sur l’immonde moderne (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1999; édition Quadrige, 2004). 61 Jean-François Mattei, La crise du sens, 105: “atteint l’idée de vérité, dans sa nécessité théorique, et, par contrecoup, l’idée d’une existence humaine douée de sens, dans son exigence pratique, parce qu’il n’y a plus lieu d’imposer une direction à l’humanité éclatée en communautés irréductibles.” Taylor notes that “a total and fully consistent subjectivism would tend towards emptiness: nothing would count as a fulfillment in a world in which literally nothing was important but self-fulfillment”(The Sources of the Self, 507). 62 Glucksmann, “Le spectre de Typhon,” 100: “raison qui renonce à énoncer renonce à dénoncer et cède devant l’arbitraire” (to paraphrase without the wordplay: Reason that refuses to make definite statements also refuses to denounce what is wrong). 63 Schockenhoff, Wie gewiss ist das Gewissen?, 43: “Dort, wo alles fragmentarische und untereinander divergierende Streben der Menschen nach Warhheit durch soziale Planung ersetzt wird, entschwindet auch der letzte Grund unserer Anerkennung voneinander.” See also ibid., 57. 57 58 The Dictatorship of the Conscience 567 The Foundation of Moral Conscience The Dialectical Element of Moral Conscience The condemnation of acts having moral significance committed by a person who says that he followed his conscience can be considered just, and not merely random, only if we defend, in an initial step, the possibility of an authentic argumentative, rational dialogue allowing us to pass a judgment as to the veracity of the facts. The purpose of this dialogue is not to know—as Thomas Aquinas would have put it—“what others have thought,” but rather “what is the truth of things.”64 In other words,“Don’t worry about Socrates,”65 or even about the pope (to return to Newman’s toast), but first and foremost about the truth that these thinkers express.66 However, resorting in this way to Josef Pieper, No One Could Have Known: An Autobiography, the Early Years, 1904–1945, trans. Graham Harrison (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1987), 62; originally Noch wusste es niemand: Autobiographische Aufzeichnungen 1904–1945, in Werke, Supplement 2 (2003), 26–231, at 76: “Ich will nicht wissen, was andere gedacht haben, sondern wie die Wahrheit der Dinge sich verhält.” Pieper takes the last part of his sentence from the commentary by Thomas Aquinas on Aristotle’s De caelo 1.22. 65 Cf. Socrates’ remark to Simmias and Cebes in Phaedo 91c: “Cease to mind then about this [their concern for Socrates]!” 66 Ratzinger’s urgent appeal to turn to reason and, especially, to broaden the concept of reason is addressed to all Christian believers and, more particularly, to Catholics. Indeed, some of them are demanding a fideist return to pure biblical faith in the proclamation of Christ’s divinity and Resurrection. Thus, they substitute orthodoxy (understood as the right profession of faith) for orthopraxy (understood as right praxis). For some believers, the latter certainly can be accompanied by some use of reason, which is nevertheless reduced to the form given to it by the catechism or certain manuals, which can be described as toolboxes. In this view, nevertheless, unaided reason as such is not capable of attaining universal truth. As they distance themselves “from the taste for reflection” these believers consider philosophical reason as a waste of time, or at most as a mere instrument that might propose reasons along a predetermined line of thought; see Pope Benedict XVI, “Awakening the Eloquent Voice of Conscience,” Address to the Participants in the General Assembly of the Pontifical Academy for Life (February 24, 2007). Such an attitude, which can be described as fideism and which is indeed present among believers today, is extolled in the name of spirituality. In reality, it profoundly distorts the human person, who is defined by the very use of reason in his own autonomy, by proposing a faculty of judgment that, unlike the Enlightenment concept of reason, is illumined for the believer by faith and the tradition of the Church and, ultimately, by listening to and obeying the Word made flesh. The fideist attitude of rejecting authentic autonomous thought elaborated in the light of 64 568 Bernard N. Schumacher the philosophical logos does not reduce it to “an academic knowledge which no longer concerned man and was unable to illuminate reality as a whole,”67 to quote Heidegger.This attitude became common at the turn of the twenty-first century. To philosophize, in this view, is principally to conduct an analysis of a thinker’s sources, of the context for the emergence of his ideas, of the consistency of his thought through his works; in short, philosophy would be confined to a historical museum, whereas the question about the truth of his thought would be bracketed.68 Philosophy would no longer exist, Philippe Lacoue-Labarthe comments, except in the form of a “henceforth closed tradition,” which is to say that the term philosophy “from now on designates only commentary on philosophy.”69 The abandonment of the search for truth for its own sake in favor of what Mattéi labels the relativistic and “historicist diktat,”70 within which all positions are valid, runs the risk of reducing reason to a merely instrumental activity. Such a reduction brings rational ethical discourse down to the level of preferences— which are subjective and, therefore, relative—by elaborating a secular ethic devoid of moral content and based on the principle of tolerance toward particular ethics, as proposed by Engelhardt, for example. Universal reason seems to have resigned from the ethical and political sphere; she is henceforth demoted to the status of instrumental reason. The “liberation” of reason, which is no longer expected to tend toward the truth, including moral and anthropological truth, is, as Ratzinger stresses, “liberation for tyranny” 71 and, we might add, for faith—whether out of fear, out of laziness, for convenience’s sake, or as a result of a disincarnate spirituality—leads the person to adhere to convictions in a non-rational way that is mixed with sentimental moralism. 67 Martin Heidegger, What is a Thing?, trans. W. B. Barton, Jr. (Chicago: H. Regnery, 1967), 98; originally Die Frage nach dem Din: Zu Kant’s Lehre von den transzendentalen Grundsätzen (Frankfurt am Main:Vittorio Klostermann, 1984), 99: “sie [Philosophie] erstarrte in ein Schulwissen, das den Menschen nichts mehr anging and ausserstande war, die Wirklichkeit im Ganzen zu durchleuchten.” 68 Following C. S. Lewis, we could describe this attitude from the “historical perspective”; see The Screwtape Letters, rev. ed. (New York: McMillan/Collier Books, 1982), 128–29. 69 Philippe Lacoue-Labarthe, La fiction du politique (Paris: Christian Bourgeois éditeur, 1987), 14: “ne désigne plus désormais que le commentaire de la philosophie.” 70 Jean-François Mattéi, “Préface,” in Josef Pieper, De la divine folie (Geneva: Ad Solem, 2006), 5–10, at 8: “diktat historiciste.” 71 Ratzinger, Church, Ecumenism, and Politics, 205: “Liberation from morality, by its very nature, can only be liberation for tyranny” (Church, Ecumenism, and The Dictatorship of the Conscience 569 the law of the jungle and of arbitrariness. It is, in fact, the absence of any true critical moral judgment, which Arendt describes as “sheer thoughtlessness” (as opposed to stupidity), which (incidentally) allowed Eichmann to become what he was, “one of the greatest criminals of that period.” 72 On the other hand, opposition to the inauguration of a totalitarian system is based on the possibility of a rational judgment in an authentic interior dialogue characterized by a de-centering of the ego toward an other that transcends it. Rational knowledge should aspire to the truth, and the dialogue of the conscience should tend toward that knowledge. This concern must be ranked “higher than any social authority or any sort of personal taste,” 73 inasmuch as “it is not identical with one’s own desires or one’s own taste; it does not coincide with what is socially more beneficial, with group consensus, with the claims of political or social authority.” 74 A conscience that rejects a priori any authentic self-criticism that referred to a trans-subjective other—a conscience expressed in the opinion that everything is valid—may be a sign of bad faith that assumes the guise of “a pseudo-rational certainty fabricated out of self-righteousness, conformism and laziness.” 75 This attitude may be the result of “a mere reflection of the social surroundings and of the opinions widespread therein” 76 or, as Bénéton puts it, of Politics, 194: “Die Befreiung von der Moral kann daher ihrem Wesen nach nur Befreiung zur Tyrannis sein”). 72 Hannah Arendt, “Postscript,” in Eichmann in Jerusalem (New York: Penguin Books, 2006), 287–88: “He [Eichmann] was not stupid. It was sheer thoughtlessness—something by no means identical with stupidity—that predisposed him to become one of the greatest criminals of that period. And if this is ‘banal’ and even funny, if with the best will in the world one cannot extract any diabolical or demonic profundity from Eichmann, that is still far from calling it commonplace. . . . That such remoteness from reality and such thoughtlessness can wreak more havoc than all the evil instincts taken together which, perhaps, are inherent in man—that was, in fact, the lesson one could learn in Jerusalem.” 73 Ratzinger, Wahrheit, Werte, Macht, 44–45: “die höher stehen muss als jede soziale Instanz und als jede Art von persönlichem Geschmack.” 74 Ibid., 45: “Es fällt nicht zusammen mit den eigenen Wünschen und dem eigenen Geschmack; es fällt nicht zusammen mit dem, was das sozial Günstigere ist, mit dem Konsens der Gruppe, mit den Ansprüchen politischer oder sozialer Macht.” 75 Ibid., 39: “einer schein-rationalen Sicherheit, die aus Selbstgerechtigkeit, Konformismus und Trägheit gewoben ist.” 76 Ibid., 37: “blosser Reflex des sozialen Umfelds und der dort verbreiteten Meinungen sein.” 570 Bernard N. Schumacher “conformism . . . that feeds the desire to be included or mental laziness or intellectual timidity,” 77 which Schockenhoff describes as “soft manipulation.” 78 Hence, the foundation of authentic freedom with respect to the ideology that might makes right—which paradoxically implies subjugated freedom—would allow us to justify trans-historically and trans-culturally the condemnation of an erroneous conscience like Eichmann’s. Such a foundation, however, can be established only on the basis of a broadening of the very notion of human reason so that it applies again to the political and ethical spheres, while claiming that it hopes to attain a truth that nevertheless would not set itself up as a system. Moral Consciousness and the De-centering of Self The call since the end of World War II to focus legitimately on the subjective personal conscience by deemphasizing a conscience of the impersonal “we” or of a foreign “I” (exemplified by Hitler) that subjugates the individual must, however, be accompanied, in a second step, by a de-emphasis of the individual in favor of an other who enables him to justify the contents of his conscience. Some, nevertheless, may claim that such a shift is a flight from the interiority of the subject into the generalized opinion (“they say . . .”), curiosity, distraction, instability, and restlessness that Heidegger subtly analyzed. For example, the subject looks at reality not to grasp the truth of the world or “to come to a being toward it, but only in order to see.”79 Heidegger goes on to explain that curiosity seeks novelty only to leap from it again to another novelty. The care of seeing is not concerned with comprehending and knowingly being in the truth, but with possibilities of abandoning itself to the world. Thus curiosity is characterized by a specific not-staying [Unverweilen] with what is nearest. Consequently, Philippe Bénéton, Les Fers de l’opinion (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 2000), 17: “conformisme . . . que nourrit le désir de s’intégrer ou la paresse d’esprit ou la timidité intellectuelle.” 78 Schockenhoff, Wie gewiss ist das Gewissen?, 46: “sanfte Manipulation.” See also ibid., 56. 79 Martin Heidegger, Being and Time, trans. Joan Stambaugh (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2010), 166; originally Sein und Zeit (Tübingen: Max Niemeyer, 1986), 172: “nicht um das Gesehene zu verstehen, das heisst in ein Sein zu ihm zu kommen, sonder nur um zu sehen.” 77 The Dictatorship of the Conscience 571 it also does not seek the leisure of reflective staying, rather it seeks restlessness and excitement from continual novelty and changing encounters. In not-staying, curiosity makes sure of the constant possibility of distraction. Curiosity has nothing to do with the contemplation that wonders at being, . . . it has no interest in wondering to the point of not understanding. Rather, it makes sure of knowing, but just in order to have known. The two factors constitutive for curiosity, not-staying in the surrounding world taken care of and distraction by new possibilities, are the basis of the third essential characteristic of this phenomenon, which we call never dwelling anywhere. Curiosity is everywhere and nowhere. This mode of being-in-theworld reveals a new kind of being of everyday Dasein, one in which it constantly uproots itself.80 This multitude of furtive glances leads to a superfluity of images that tends to monopolize the whole life of the individual. The rapid “surfing” that is typical nowadays in the use of television, internet, or social media is the best example of this superficial looking, this hypertrophied curiosity with regard to what the neighbors are saying and doing. This is how a human being turns away from his deepest being, so to speak, or even stifles it. Such a life at the periphery of oneself is described by Josef Pieper as a flight “into the hurly-burly of work-and-nothing-else, into the fine-spun exhausting game of sophistical phrase-mongering, into incessant ‘entertainment’ by Heidegger, Being and Time, 166 (Sein und Zeit, 172–73: “Sie [Neugier] sucht das neue nur, um von ihm erneut zu Neuem abzuspringen. Nicht um zu erfassen und um wissend in der Wahrheit zu sein, geht es der Sorge dieses Sehens, sondern um Möglichkeiten des Sichüberlassens an die Welt. Daher ist die Neugier durch ein spezifisches Unverweilen beim Nächsten charakterisiert. Sie sucht daher auch nicht die Muße des betrachtenden Verweilens, sondern Unruhe und Aufregung durch das immer Neue und den Wechsel des Begegnenden. In ihrem Unverweilen besorgt die Neuheit die ständige Möglichkeit der Zertreuung. Die Neugier hat nichts zu tun mit dem bewundernden Betrachten des Seienden . . . ihr liegt nicht daran, durch Verwunderung in das Nichtverstehen gebracht zu werden, sondern sie besorgt ein Wissen, aber lediglich um gewußt zu haben. Die beiden für die Neugier konstitutiven Momente des Unverweilens in der besorgten Umwelt und der Zerstreuung in neue Möglichkeiten fundieren den dritten Wesenscharakter dieses Phänomens, den wir die Aufenthaltslosigkeit nennen. Die Neugier ist überall und nirgends. Dieser Modus des In-der-Welt-seins enthöllt eine neue Seinsart des alltäglichen Daseins, in der es sich ständig entwurzelt”). 80 572 Bernard N. Schumacher empty stimulants—in short, into a no man’s land which may be quite comfortably furnished, but which has no place for the serenity of intrinsically meaningful activity, for contemplation, and certainly not for festivity.”81 Although he paradoxically believes that he is free, a person existing at the periphery of his being defines himself according to what “they” say, what “they” think, and what “they” do. This dictatorship of the impersonal “they” relieves him of the obligation to live authentically what he can be, an attitude that Heidegger describes as “decline” (Verfallen). This flight into the sphere of “they” is accompanied by a process that empties words of their original reference that is rooted in the very constitution of reality in order to assign to them a relative sense that can go so far as to praise an intrinsically evil act. From then, discourse is nothing but the expression of a subjective creation, a tool for manipulation and power, as Phillipe Breton emphasizes.82 Within this discourse, the interlocutor is no longer perceived as an alter ego and a partner, but ultimately as an “object” to be convinced, manipulated, and dominated. Discourse detached from the norms of reality is not only indifferent to truth but also deprived of any interlocutor. Such an art would be expressed, as Pieper remarked in 1964, through the language of the media: “Public discourse, the moment it becomes basically neutralized with regard to a strict standard of truth, stands by its nature ready to serve as an instrument in the hands of any ruler to pursue all kinds of power schemes. Public discourse itself, separated from the standard of truth, creates on its part, the more it prevails, an atmosphere of epidemic proneness and vulnerability to the reign of the tyrant.”83 Josef Pieper, In Tune with the World: A Theory of Festivity, trans. Richard and Clara Winston (South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press, 1999), 28; originally Zustimmung zur Wel: Eine Theorie des Festes in Werke in acht Bänden, ed. Berthold Wald, vol. 6 (Hamburg: Felix Meiner, 1999), 217–85, at 238: “in den taubmachenden Lärm des Nichts-als-Arbeitens, in die anspruchsvolle Geschäftigkeit sophistischer Wortmacherei, in die pausenlose ‘Unterhaltung’ durch leere Reizdinge—mit einem Wort, in ein Niemandsland, das möglicherweise recht komfortabel eingerichtet ist, aber keinesfalls Raum lässt für die Ruhe eines in sich selbst sinnvollen Tuns, für die Kontemplation und erst recht nicht für das Fest”). 82 See Breton, La parole manipulée (Paris: La Découverte, 1997). 83 Josef Pieper, Abuse of Language, Abuse of Power, trans. Lothar Krauth (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1992), 30–31; originally Missbrauch der Sprache—Missbrauch 81 The Dictatorship of the Conscience 573 Pieper emphasizes, twenty years after the end of World War II and before the rise of moral relativism, that the attitude of the sophists is terrifyingly relevant today inasmuch as “the general public is being reduced to a state where people not only are unable to find out about the truth, but also become unable even to search for the truth because they are satisfied with the deception and trickery that have determined their convictions, satisfied with a fictitious reality created by design through the abuse of language.”84 Genuinely overcoming self-centeredness by opening oneself to another requires breaking with the impersonal “they,” and also with the assertion that words are only fictitious expressions, in order to endorse the attitude of “madness.”85 Plato describes it as taking der Macht, in Werke in acht Bänden, 6:132–51, at 145–46: “Das publizistische Wort, wenn es einmal prinzipiell neutralisiert ist gegen die Wahrheitsnorm, ist nicht nur von Natur das zubereitete Werkzeug, das darauf wartet, von einem Machhabe in der Hand genommen und für beliebige Gewaltzwecke ‘eingesetzt’ zu werden. Vielmehr schafft es auch selbst, von sich aus, je mehr Boden es gewinnt, eine Atmosphäre epidemischer Krankheitsbereitschaft und Anfälligkeit für die Gewaltherrschaft.” Explicitly citing Pieper’s Abuse of Language, Abuse of Power, Ratzinger explains that “being resigned to agnosticism about man’s capacity for truth leads first to a purely formalistic use of words and concepts. The unavailability of meaning in turn leads to a pure formalism of judgment, then as now. . . . Here we have reached the really crucial point: When meaning no longer counts, when sheer praxeology acquires dominion, the ability to do something becomes the highest criterion. But that means might becomes the category that prevails over all else”; see Wahrheit, Werte, Macht, 47–48 (“Die Resignation gegenüber der Wahrheitsfähigkeit des Menschen führt zunächst zu einem rein formalistischen Gebrauch von Worten und Begriffen. Das Ausfallen der Inhalte wiederum führt zu einem reinen Formalismus des Urteilens, damals wie heute. . . . Hier sind wir am eigentlichen Brennpunkt angelangt: Wo die Inhalte nicht mehr zählen, wo die reine Praxeologie die Herrschaft übernimmt, wird das Können zum obersten Kriterium. Das aber bedeutet: Die Macht wird zu alles beherrschenden Kategorie”). 84 Pieper, Abuse of Language, Abuse of Power, 34–35 (Missbrauch der Sprache—Missbrauch der Macht, 148: “für den Durchschnittsmenschen die wirkliche Welt und der wirkliche Mensch nicht bloß unauffindbar werden, sondern unaufsuchbar. Nicht einmal die Frage kommt mehr auf – weil die Fiktion überzeugt und genügt, die perfekte Fiktion von Realität, durch absichtsvollen Missbrauch der Sprache eigens hergestellt”). 85 See Josef Pieper, “Divine Madness”: Plato’s Case Against Secular Humanism, trans. Lothar Krauth (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1995), originally Göttlicher Wahnsinn: Eine Platon Interpretation (Ostfildern/Stuttgart: Schwabenverlag, 1989). This text is reprinted in an expanded version in Begeisterung und göttlicher 574 Bernard N. Schumacher leave of oneself, during which the subject renounces his autarchic self-sufficiently and allows himself to be ravished by the otherness of reality for the purpose of trying to know “the ultimate, all-embracing divine foundation of the world.”86 This abandonment to contemplative receptivity is exemplified by poetry or eros—the foundation of which comes from elsewhere, as Jean-Luc Marion emphasizes87— and is different from lazy receptivity, exemplified by “activism” and by “amusement for amusement’s sake,” along with an overvaluation of “work for work’s sake,” which becomes the supreme norm of a flourishing personal life. The appeal to endorse the attitude of Platonic “madness,” this rapture that springs from genuine leisure and from festivity,88 is perceived by the “life technician”89 and the “culture” of amusement as “something totally unforeseen, something completely alien, without rhyme or reason . . . as a synonym, in fact, for idleness and laziness.”90 Wahnsinn: Über den platonischen Dialog ‘Phaidros’ in Werke in acht Bänden, ed. Berthold Wald, vol. 1 (Hamburg: Felix Meiner, 2002), 248–331, at 286. 86 Pieper, “Divine Madness,” 35 (Begeisterung und göttlicher Wahnsinn, 304: “zum letzten, alles umgreifenden, göttlichen Grunde der Welt”). 87 See Jean-Luc Marion, The Erotic Phenomenon, trans. Stephen E. Lewis (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008), originally Le Phénomène érotique (Paris: Grasset, 2003). 88 See Pieper, In Tune with the World: A Theory of Festivity. 89 See Josef Pieper, Begeisterung und göttlicher Wahnsinn: Über den platonischen Dialog ‘Phaidros’, in: Werke in acht Bänden, 1:248–331, at 305: “. . . that mania, being beside oneself, and enthusiasm do not contradict the dignity of human nature but rather are an essential part of a truly human existence. He already opposed the apparent reasonableness of the ‘life expert’ who smiles condescendingly at enthusiasm and is intent on nothing more than satisfying human needs, whether they be of an economic, carnal or even ‘spiritual’ nature, in a way that is ‘successful’ and above all manageable and safeguarded as much as possible against unforeseen factors” (“. . . daß mania, Außer-sich-sein, Enthusiasmus nicht nur der Würde des Menschenwesens nicht widerstreiten, dass sie vielmehr zu einem wahrhaft menschlichen Dasein hinzugehören. Er hat sich bereits gegen die scheinbare Vernünftigkeit des ‘Lebenstechnikers’ gestellt, der die Begeisterung überlegen belächelt und auf nichts weiter bedacht ist als auf eine ‘erfolgreiche’ und vor allem handhabbare, gegen das Unvorhergesehene möglichst abgesicherte Befriedigung der menschlichen Bedürfnisse, seien sie nun ökonomischer oder triebhafter oder auch ‘geistiger’ Natur”). 90 Josef Pieper, Leisure and Culture, trans. Gerald Malsbary (South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press, 1998), 27; originally Muße und Kult, in Werke in acht Bänden, 6:1–44, at 20]: “wie etwas ganz und gar nicht Vorgesehenes erscheinen, wie etwas völlig Fremdartiges Ungereimtes, ja Unsinniges, moralisch gesprochen: wie etwas Ungehöriges, wie ein anderes Wort für Müssiggang und Trägheit.” The Dictatorship of the Conscience 575 The predominance of servile activities that give rise to a “new culture” of utilitarian performance that abolishes the difference between feast days—associated with a contemplative attitude—and work days—associated with the practical transformation of the world—was described by Ratzinger, in the wake of Pieper, as “the tribulation of our age” and also as “its most lethal threat.”91 Heidegger also stresses the danger—which he considers elsewhere as being the greatest danger after the threat of an atomic third World War— of negating meditative thought in favor of an attitude of indifference thereto in the name of instrumental or pragmatic “calculating thought.”92 Heidegger claims that it alone can be allowed to exercise itself, which results, as Pieper notes, in “a special form of intellectual subjection.”93 The latter adds that: As the claim of the purely utilitarian to absolute dominion over our lives increasingly threatens to engulf all of existence . . . man has an ever-growing need of opportunities to escape, from time to time, the auditory and visual pandemonium which surrounds him, the ceaseless blare of demands and appeals (Buy this, drink that, eat this, vote for him, amuse yourself here, demonstrate for or against that!) and to enter a place where silence reigns, so that it becomes possible to really listen and to hear that Reality on which our existence is founded and by which it is continually nourished and renewed.94 Joseph Ratzinger, Im Anfang schuf Gott: Vier Predigten über Schöpfung und Fall, new ed. (Einsiedeln: Johannes Verlag Einsiedeln, 1996), 43: “was die Bedrängnis unserer Zeit ist”; “seiner tiefsten Gefährdung ausgesetzt.” 92 Martin Heidegger, Gelassenheit (Pfullingen: Günther Neske, 1959), 25: “das rechnende Denken.” 93 Josef Pieper, “Erkenntnis und Freiheit,” in: Werke in acht Bänden, ed. Berthold Wald, vol. 8.2 (Hamburg: Felix Meiner, 2008), 436–43, at 441: “eine besondere Form der geistigen Unfreiheit.” 94 Josef Pieper, “What is a Church? Preliminary Reflections on the Theme of the ‘Sacred Building,’” in Problems of Modern Faith: Essays and Addresses, trans. Jan van Heurck (Chicago: Franciscan Herald Press, 1985) 87–115, at 109–10; originally in Werke in acht Bänden, ed. by Berthold Wald, vol. 7 (Hamburg: Felix Meiner, 2000), 537–58, at 555: “Je mehr der Absolutheitsanspruch des bloß Nutzenden die gesamte Existenz mit Beschlag zu belegen droht, desto mehr bedarf der Mensch, um eines wahrhaft menschlichen Lebens willen, dieser Chance, aus dem akustischen und optischen Getöse (kauf dies, trink das, iss jenes, amüsiere dich hier, demonstriere für oder gegen), aus diesem pausenlosen Angeschrieenwerden immer wieder einmal heraustreten zu können in 91 576 Bernard N. Schumacher What is understood in the course of Platonic rapture, or “madness,” must, however, be based on argumentative rational discourse in order to be truthful. If such a foundation should prove to be impossible, we would not be in a position to differentiate between true discourse and lying discourse. We would no longer be capable of declaring definitively that someone’s conscience is erroneous. In other words, we would be compelled to say that every human act is ultimately legitimate. We would be abandoning the moral sphere for a world of despotic rule where might makes right. We could no longer consider “incredible” the statement by Eichmann’s lawyer reducing morality to customs dependent on the individual or on a community.95 Conclusion The rampart set up after World War II against the temptation to succumb to a new totalitarianism is effective only if we follow Newman and continue the urgent appeal to follow our conscience whatever the circumstances may be. However, in order to avoid falling into the totalitarianism of subjectivity (understood as the sole ethical authority), this appeal must be accompanied by two equally necessary ideas. On the one hand, an end of self-centeredness is needed that is brought about by means of silent listening to the otherness of the world, exemplified in the Platonic “madness” that does not allow itself to be swallowed up by instrumental reason. This meditative thought, however, is not sufficient. The case of Heidegger, who defended the importance of such meditative thought yet was affiliated with the Nazi Party, is revealing in this regard. And so, on the other hand, there is an urgent need to get out of the habit of “delegating thought,”96 as Emmanuel Mounier einen Raum, in welchem Schweigen herrscht und also wirkliches Hören möglich wird, das Vernehmen der Realität, auf welcher unser Dasein ruht und aus der es sich immerfort nährt und erneuert.” Ratzinger cites Pieper explicitly several times. He cites this passage in Dogma und Verkündigung (Munich/ Freiburg: Erich Wewel Verlag, 1973), 270; in English in Dogma and Preaching, trans. Michael J. Miller and Matthew J. O’Connell (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2011), 234. Concerning this thesis that “the word issued from the fullness of silence, and that this legitimizes it”; see Gabriel Marcel, “Preface,” in Max Picard, Le Monde du silence (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1954), xii; French translation of the German original, which has been republished more recently as Die Welt des Schweigens (Munich: R. Pieper, 1988), although without Marcel’s preface. 95 Arendt, Responsibility and Judgment, 43. 96 Emmanuel Mounier, Manifeste du personnalisme (Paris: Aubier, Montaigne, 1936), 99: “la morne habitude de penser par délégation.” The Dictatorship of the Conscience 577 remarks, so as to acquire a certain rigor of thought and judgment and to bring about an authentic rational dialogue in the hope of attaining some knowledge of the truth. It is not easy to overcome self-centeredness in this way. In his search for the truth, the individual embarks on a “path along a mountain ridge”97 on a venture that involves “toil and drudgery,”98 as the Platonic allegory of the cave gives us to understand. This search also extends to the ethical and political domains, which are preeminently personal and existential. The appeal for the ongoing conversion of personal conscience so as to oppose totalitarianism nevertheless runs up against a real difficulty, exemplified by the case of Martin Heidegger: the problem lies in the power of the sphere of the impersonal “they” and of public discourse as it was manipulated by the Nazi regime. Plato describes a similar situation when he gives an account of Socrates’ attitude toward Thrasymachus and Callicles. The latter says that anyone who puts Socrates’ philosophical position into practice becomes “worse than before”;99 he “deserved blows”;100 and one has “the right to hit him on the head with impunity,”101 or even to put him to death. He is considered a fool and an idiot, like Apollodorus in Plato’s Symposium, or Thales in the Theaetetus. Socrates’s attitude nevertheless expresses the humility of reason that hopes to attain the truth in a social setting in which the content of words is defined by the individual subject and the ideology of illusion procured thereby is all-powerful. The pseudo-dialogue between Thrasymachus and Socrates in the first book of The Republic marvelously depicts the rhetor’s refusal to listen authentically to reality, since he is so caught up with the force possessed by words that lead to political power. What is to be done about such tyranny? Socrates chooses to be what he is, humbly setting himself up as the model martyr for the logos who defies the winds and the waves to affirm the ability of human reason to allow itself to be seized by the truth, “to be determined,” Pieper explains, “in speech and thought by what is real.”102 His refusal to submit to the Ratzinger, Wahrheit, Werte, Macht, 59: “Höhenweg.” Ibid.: “Mühsal.” 99 Plato, Gorgias 486b. 100 Ibid. 485c. 101 Ibid. 486c. 102 Pieper, Abuse of Language, Abuse of Power, 17 (Missbrauch der Sprache—Missbrauch der Macht, 138: “Schließlich heißt Wahrheit nichts anderes als Bezug zur Realität”). See also ibid., 18: “Truth . . . amounts to . . . the orientation toward reality,” 18. 97 98 578 Bernard N. Schumacher dictates of historicism and of power, his perseverance in his laborious, reasonable, and hopeful quest to know the truth about the world and about the human being lead him to become a martyr for the logos and, by that very fact, a witness to conscience. After declaring, as we mentioned, that the twenty-first century faces the “temptation” to implement a situation that is similar or even identical to that of the Nazi regime, Ratzinger emphasizes that “only someone who is blind (or complacently wants to be blind) can overlook the fact that the threat of totalitarianism is a question of this hour. And to that extent this is an hour of conscience. Therefore, the men who, in those days, in obedience to their conscience and in the freedom of their conscience, resisted that totalitarian ‘liberation’ again have something quite new to say to us today.”103 N&V Joseph Ratzinger, “Conscience in its Time,” in Church, Ecumenism, and Politics, 162 (“Das Gewissen in der Zeit,” in Kirche, Ökumene und Politik, 155: “Nur der blind ist oder aus Bequemlichkeit sein will, kann übersehen, dass die Drohung des Totalitären eine Frage unserer Stunde ist. Und insofern ist dies eine Stunde des Gewissens. Deshalb gehen uns die Männer, die damals im Gehorsam gegen das Gewissen bei der Freiheit des Gewissens gegen die totalitäre ‚Befreiung’ ausgehalten haben, heute wieder ganz neu an”). We find a similar conviction in the writings of the philosopher Georges Cottier, who, while continuing to call for the education of the conscience of the culture and of judgment, affirms the importance of “the presence of authentic, responsible individuals who are consistent in their fidelity to the fundamental values that are vitally essential to culture and also to society. What is important is the witness of true moral persons”; see Questions de la modernité (Paris: Fac-éditions, 1985), 69–70: “la présence d’authentiques personnalités, responsables, cohérentes dans la fidélité aux valeurs fondamentales dont vit la culture et, avec elle, la société. Ce qui importe, c’est le témoignage de vraies personnalités morales.” 103 Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 15, No. 2 (2017): 579–613 579 Ressourcement in the Age of Migne: The Jesuit Theologians of the Collegio Romano and the Shape of Modern Catholic Thought1 C. Michael Shea Seton Hall University South Orange, NJ Giovanni Perrone and the nineteenth-century theological movement he initiated known as the Roman School assume at best only a meager place in histories of modern Roman Catholicism. Both, however, were of major and even defining significance for the development of the contemporary Church. Perrone was responsible for the first Roman theological curriculum designed to teach Church leaders a theological method for responding to intellectual and social changes that swept through Europe during the nineteenth century. Perrone and students of his curriculum dominated papal congregations involving doctrine from the 1840s until the early pontificate of Leo XIII. Members of the Roman School played seminal roles in the development of magisterial teaching on the Church, papal authority, the Immaculate Conception of Mary, faith, reason, revelation, tradition, and a number of issues relating to the Church’s relationship to the modern world. The Roman School provided Roman Catholics with a comprehensive response to ground-shifting developments in the social, I wish to thank Professors Frédéric Gabriel, Dominique Iogna-Prat, and Alain Rauwel for their generous invitation to present a version of this work at the École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales in Paris on December 3, 2015, as part of their seminar “Ecclésiologie: éléments pour l’histoire d’une discipline (XVIIIe–XXe s.).” I also wish to thank Fr. Guy Mansini, O.S.B., at St. Meinrad Seminary for his help translating some of the more difficult Latin passages used in this article. 1 580 C. Michael Shea religious, political, and intellectual landscape of the post-revolutionary West. These changes would have a profound impact upon modern Catholicism as a global institution. Yet, the Roman School numbers among the most neglected movements in modern Catholicism. One of the goals of this article will be to show that Perrone and the movement he inaugurated were no less important than, for example, Baroque Scholasticism, Jansenism, the Neoscholastic Revival, or la Nouvelle Théologie for the formation of contemporary Catholicism. The following pages offer an overview of Perrone’s thought and the Roman School under four headings. The first sketches the basic features of the Roman School, including the movement’s main figures, institutions, and questions of periodization and geographical expanse. The second offers an outline of the Roman School’s major theological themes and priorities. The third section explores Giovanni Perrone’s theological curriculum, the Praelectiones Theologicae, and shows how the curriculum provided a framework for subsequent representatives of the Roman School. These younger members of the Roman School also made significant contributions to theology and magisterial teaching and are covered in the fourth section. The fifth and final section traces features of the Roman School’s influence in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and offers suggestions for future study. Historiography It will be helpful to trace a few features of the Roman School from a historiographical perspective at the outset, since the term itself was first used in the twentieth century and calls for certain qualifications. The first scholar to employ the term “Roman School” was Heribert Schauf in his 1938 study, Carl Passaglia und Clemens Schrader: Beitrag zu Theologiegeschichte des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts, which Schauf completed as a doctoral dissertation under Sebastian Tromp at the Gregorian University in Rome.2 Walter Kasper later used the term in 1961 in his important Habilitationsschrift under Josef Geiselmann at the University of Tübingen, Die Lehre von der Tradition in der Römischen Schule.3 Since then, the category has slowly come into use among a small number of Heribert Schauf, Carl Passaglia und Clemens Schrader: Beitrag zu Theologiegeschichte des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts (Rome: Typis Pontificiae Universitatis Gregorianae, 1938). 3 Walter Kasper, Die Lehre von der Tradition in der Römischen Schule (Freiburg: Herder, 1961; repr. 2011). 2 Ressourcement in the Age of Migne 581 specialists focusing on this period.4 However, even today, the category remains underutilized outside of German and Italian historiography and is almost unknown in English and French scholarship.5 The term “Roman School” must be understood in both a narrow and broad sense. It refers specifically to a group of influential Jesuits who taught dogmatic theology at the Collegio Romano—today called the Pontifical Gregorian University—during the middle decades of the nineteenth century: Giovanni Perrone (1794–1876), Carlo Passaglia (1812–1887), Clemens Schrader (1820–1875), and Johann Baptist Franzelin (1816–1886). More broadly, though, the “Roman School” must also be understood to include theologians and Church leaders who trained in Rome during this period—especially at the Collegio Romano, the Collegium Germanicum, and the Propaganda— for many of these figures impacted the Church well beyond Italy and Rome. These “foreign representatives” of the Roman School included Joseph Kleutgen, Matthias Scheeben, Heinrich Denzinger, Franz Hettinger, and Willibald Maier in Germany; 6 Henry Manning and William George Ward in England; Jean-Baptiste Malou in Belgium; and to some extent also Archbishop George Darboy in France (as well as a host of less-prominent figures).7 Karl Neufeld, “‘Römische Schule’: Beobachtungen und Überlegungen zur genaueren Bestimmung,” Gregorianum 63 (1982), 677–99. 5 The degree to which Anglophone scholarship remains adrift from German and Italian historiography can be observed in Oliver Rafferty’s recent article “The Thomistic Revival and the Relationship between the Jesuits and the Papacy, 1878–1914,” Theological Studies 75.4 (2014): 746–73, which remains dependent upon Gerald McCool’s unbalanced Nineteenth-Century Scholasticism: The Search for a Unitary Method (New York: Fordham University Press, 1977). Compare Rafferty’s work with a German scholar’s recent overview of the Neoscholastic movement: Peter Walter, “‘Den Weltkreis täglich von Verderben bringenden Irrtümern befreien’ (Leo XIII): die Internationalisierung der theologischen Wissenschaftswelt am Beispiel der Neuscholastik,” in Transnationale Dimensionen wissenschaflicher Theologie, ed. C. Arnold, and J. Wischmeyer (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013), 319–53. 6 Karl Neufeld, “Zur ‘Römischen Schule’ im deutschen Sprachraum,” in Geist und Kirche: Studien zur Theologie im Umfeld der beiden Vatikanischen Konzilien, Gedenkenschrift für Heribert Schauf, ed. H. Hammans, H–J. Reudenbach, and H. Sonnemans (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 1991), 323–40; Augustin Kerkvoorde, “La formation théologique de M. J. Scheeben à Rome, 1852– 1859,” Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanienses 22 (1946): 174–93; Aidan Nichols, Romance and System: The Theological Synthesis of Matthias Joseph Scheeben (Denver, CO: Augustine Institute, 2010), 6–9. 7 Charles Shea, “Giovanni Perrone’s Theological Curriculum and the First Vatican Council,” Revue d’histoire ecclésiastique 110.3–4 (2015): 790–816. 4 582 C. Michael Shea Periodization for the Roman School can also be regarded in both a broad and a narrow sense. Although the first of the Roman School’s theologians, Giovanni Perrone, began teaching at the Collegio Romano in 1824, an initial date for the Roman School as a movement might best be placed in 1835, the year of the publication of Perrone’s influential theological curriculum, the Praelectiones Theologicae. One could reasonably date the end of this movement either in 1879, the year of Leo XIII’s encyclical Aeterni Patris, or in the year of Johann Baptist Franzelin’s death, 1886. This periodization can be projected forward, however, to include certain aspects of the Roman School’s influence upon theologians and Church leaders who would otherwise be regarded as associated with the Neoscholastic Revival. These include figures like Leo XIII, Louis Billot, Martin Grabmann, Sebastian Tromp, Heribert Schauf and others who, in their own ways, helped to spread the Roman School’s influence beyond the 1880s and into the twentieth century. The precise limits and influence of the Roman School pose challenges from a historiographical standpoint. By the early 1850s and beyond, it is important to recognize a host of complex relationships between the Roman School and the Neoscholastic Revival that partially overlapped with the movement and ultimately surpassed it. There were significant differences between these two currents of thought in priorities of theological sources, methodology, training, and style. There were also generational differences in mindset involving complex relations to political developments on the Italian Peninsula and in Europe. Furthermore, there were shifting generational disparities between the two theological movements in terms of institutional representation within the Church. By the late 1850s, for example, studies at the Collegio Romano itself underwent comprehensive reform to bring the instruction there into closer alignment with the thought of Thomas Aquinas.8 Yet, at the First Vatican Council in 1870, the Roman School’s theological vision remained predominant. Between the 1850s and 1870s, there were also representatives of the Roman School, such as Johann Franzelin at the Collegio Romano, who shared certain traits in common with the Neoscholastic Revival, and others, such as Joseph Kleutgen and Matthias Scheeben, who could be said to belong to both movements in equal measure. Pontificia Università Gregoriana, L’Università Gregoriana del Collegio Romano, nel primo secolo dalla restituzione (Rome: Tipografia Cuggiani, 1924), 24–25. 8 Ressourcement in the Age of Migne 583 Major Themes of the Roman School The major theological themes of the Roman School differed markedly from other movements of the period. For the sake of manageability, the following discussion focuses on its central representatives who taught at the Collegio Romano: Giovanni Perrone, Carlo Passaglia, Clemens Schrader, and Johann Baptist Franzelin. A few preliminary clarifications are needed, however, in order to orient this discussion toward the Roman School’s relationship to the Neoscholastic revival, which is often conflated with the movement and comes closest to it in time, geographic, and institutional representation. First, one can indeed characterize the Roman School as “scholastic” in a general sense. The major theologians of this group produced a body of writings that was largely in question-and-answer or thesis form, and the social context and purpose of much of these theologians’ work reflected concerns of maintaining ordered theological formation in a time of great intellectual experimentation and social change. It would be incorrect, however, to characterize the Roman School as merely conservative theologians who were concerned to preserve or revive a specific theological tradition within the Church. The distinctive features of this movement were more complicated. On the one hand, the theologians of the Roman School were all broadly Thomistic on the question of faith and reason. Yet they were open to interpreting Aquinas creatively, and in virtually every other theological question, the Dominican provided only one authority among many others.9 The Roman School could be referred to broadly as a movement of eclectic scholasticism, since their representatives drew upon figures like Juán de Lugo, Francisco Suárez, Denys Pétau, Louis Thomassin, and Johann Adam Möhler just as readily as they drew upon the fathers of the Church or the schoolmen of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Yet this characterization also leaves out certain features that could be said to make up the heart of the movement and that distinguished the Roman School from proceeding, contemporary, and subsequent currents in Roman Catholic thought. Three major themes need to be recognized in order to grasp the distinct contours of the movement adequately: 1) The Roman School was an apologetic and ecclesiocentric movement that emphasized the authority of the Church and, in particular, that of the papacy. 2) Heribert Schauf, Die Einwohnung des Heiligen Geistes: Die Lehre von der nichtappropriierten Einwohnung des Heiligen Geistes als Beitrag zur Theologiegeschichte des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der beiden Theologen Carl Passaglia und Clemens Schrader (Freiburg: Herder, 1941), 30. 9 584 C. Michael Shea The Roman School was also a movement of positive theology that emphasized creative retrieval of the past, particularly of the patristic period. These two features culminate in the third major characteristic, arguably the most distinct and lasting contribution of the movement: 3) a robust renewal and expansion of the theology of tradition. Each of these features deserves elaboration in turn. First, the Roman School was an apologetic and ecclesiocentric movement, emphasizing the authority of the Church and the papacy. From a certain vantage point, the Roman School represents a continuation and heightening of anti-Protestant apologetics found among classic authors of the post-Tridentine period such as Bellarmine and Bossuet.10 Like these figures, the representatives of the Roman School emphasized that Scripture alone was insufficient for establishing a stable rule of faith for individual Christians or Christian communities. In breaking away from the authority of the universal Church, Protestants raised the individual believer to the status of ultimate judge in matters of truth in practice and in principle. This exultation of the individual led, in consequence, to endless ecclesial divisions and social and political strife. Theologians of the Roman School drew upon this classical anti-Protestant view and developed a more elaborate and abstract approach to apologetics for the nineteenth century. They attempted to account not only for Protestantism but also for Enlightenment rationalism, atheism, religious indifferentism, and secular democratic and social movements, which they regarded as threats to Christian faith and civilization. According to theologians of the Roman School, the perilous features of the nineteenth century could be traced directly to the Protestant Reformation and to Protestantizing tendencies among Roman Catholics in places like Germany and France. The key issue for the Roman School was the question of divine authority and how that authority was mediated to the human race. According to Perrone and his students, Enlightenment rationalism, religious indifferentism, and democratic liberalism were formally identical to Protestantism, even if they differed in the contents of For remarks on this apologetic tradition, see: Stefania Tutino, Empire of Souls: Robert Bellarmine and the Christian Commonwealth. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010),13–30; Sylvio de Franceschi, “Bossuet ultramontain: Le centre et l’unité de l’Église: saint Pierre dans l’oeuvre bossuetienne,” Les amis de Bossuet 36 (2009): 14–35; and Frédéric Gabriel, “Politique, puissance ecclésiastique, et nature de l’institution chez Bossuet,” Les amis de Bossuet 36 (2009): 36–61. See also Avery Dulles, A History of Apologetics, 2nd ed. (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2005), 150–73. 10 Ressourcement in the Age of Migne 585 their beliefs. Each raised the human individual to the level of ultimate judge in matters of religious faith. Such tendencies had been present in various forms in and outside of the Church during the early modern period. But in an age of increasing social and political disenfranchisement of the Church, these same tendencies were combated from Rome and reflected upon with renewed urgency and depth. New questions of authority’s center and periphery, of regional ecclesiastical authority, of faith’s relation to modern philosophy and science, and of the Church’s relationship to secular political power placed pressure on the Church from all sides and forced dogmatic reflection upon a number of issues that once had been within the domains of canon law, diplomacy, and local custom. Second (2 above), the Roman School was a movement of positive theology that emphasized creative retrieval of the past, and in particular the patristic period. The term “positive theology” or “positive theologian” has roots in sixteenth-century humanism and was used among some of the Roman School’s contemporaries to contrast the movement with representatives of the Neoscholastic revival. The term “positive theology” implies an emphasis on the sources of theology, such as Scripture, tradition, and the study of history and philology, as opposed to the approach of “speculative theology,” which tends to prioritize the development of a conceptually rigorous and cohesive vision of the Christian faith.11 This positive-theological approach had roots in the broader context of early nineteenth-century Rome. Until recently, scholars have paid little attention to Rome of the 1820s and 1830s, when the major features of the Roman School first took shape. Most European contemporaries considered Rome as intellectually retrograde during this period, especially in the popular press, and this perception persisted into later literature in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. However, more recent research has shown that Rome during this age was in fact enjoying a renaissance of sorts in the fields of archeology, classics, philology, oriental studies, and the arts.12 Gregory XVI (r. 1832–1846) encouraged these developments and raised Fernando Dominguez, “Positive Theologie,” in Lexikon für Theologie und Kirche (Freiburg: Herder, 1999), 8:447. 12 Christopher Korten, “Converging Worlds: Paul Cullen and the World of Mauro Capellari,” in Paul Cullen and His World, ed. D. Koegh and A. McDonnell (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2011), 34–46. See also the contributions in Gregorio XVI: tra oscurantismo e innovazione, ed. R. Ugolini (Rome: Fabrizio Serra, 2012); and Philippe Boutry, “Papauté et culture au xixe siècle: Magistère, orthodoxie, tradition,” Revue d’histoire du xix siècle 28 (2004): 31–58. 11 586 C. Michael Shea a number of intellectuals to positions of prominence in recognition of their scholarly achievements (Antonio de Luca, Angelo Mai, Giuseppe Mezzofanti, Gaetano Moroni, Nicholas Wiseman, and others).13 The development of these fields had a significant impact upon the approach to theology that germinated in the Roman School during this period. Representatives of the Roman School stressed the importance of history, languages, and philology, both in the practice of theology and in their methodological reflections on the subject. Some of its members stated that theology was primarily an inductive science of God’s word as a fact or φαινομένον that must always begin and end with an investigation of the sources of Christian faith.14 In approaching the published works of the Roman School, one will be struck by their extensive use of biblical and patristic sources in their original languages. For Passaglia and Franzelin this sometimes included references to works in Arabic and Syriac. The Roman School’s broad positive-theological approach can be seen practically in the earliest works from the School from the 1830s, after which it developed systematically in the 1840s and was expounded in the 1850s in explicit contradistinction to the burgeoning Neoscholastic revival. The Neoscholastic movement would retain elements of the Roman School’s view of apologetics, yet the principled approach to theology as a fundamentally positive science was largely set aside. The Roman School’s priority of history, tradition, and the sources of faith most clearly distinguished the movement from the nineteenth- and twentieth-century Neoscholastic revival. The Roman School was, in fact, a self-conscious, eclectic, and largely successful movement of theological ressourcement during the age of Migne. Finally (3 above), these two distinguishing features of the Roman School—an emphasis on ecclesial apologetics and on positive theology—culminate in a third feature of defining significance: a robust and ecclesiocentric theology of faith and tradition. The Roman School’s passionate interest in history and ecclesiology was grounded Korten, “Converging Worlds,” 40–41, and Philippe Boutry, Souverain et pontife: recherches prosopographiques sur la curie romaine à l’âge de la restauration (1814– 1846) (Rome: École Française de Rome, 2002), 410, 427, 688, 767. For a lively view of the Roman theological scene from a contemporary’s perspective, see Nicholas Wiseman, Recollections of the Last four Popes and of Rome in their Times (London: Hurst and Blackett, 1858), 435–51. 14 Carlo Passaglia and Clemens Schrader, “Editorum Praefatio,” in Dionysii Petavii Aurelianensis e Societate Iesu Opus de Theologicis Dogmatibus, 2 vols. (Rome: Propaganda Fide, 1857), 1:iii–v, at iii. 13 Ressourcement in the Age of Migne 587 in the conviction that the Church, as a social and sacramental institution, was the living continuation of the body of Christ in history. This conviction governed the way in which the theologians of the Roman School approached theology. In fact, it would not be an exaggeration to claim that, for the Roman School, the Church constituted the locus locorum of theological inquiry and Christian life. There were different expostulations of sacred tradition within the Roman School, but these contributions shared a number of defining themes. In keeping with the movement’s positive theological approach, the theologians of the Roman School emphasized that faith rested upon the trustworthiness of the deposit of revelation as speech or as an historical phenomenon or fact revealed by God. Since the deposit of revelation was ultimately grounded in a divine person, the theologians of the Roman School understood the depositum to be certain, sufficient, and infallible. These qualities, moreover, extended by necessity to the medium of the Church, which communicated revelation, and to the custodians entrusted with safeguarding the Christian deposit. Thus, the teaching office of the Church was regarded as integral to tradition in history and the individual act of faith was understood as oriented toward the magisterial structures of the visible Church. Although Scripture enjoyed a certain ontological and methodological priority in the theology of the Roman School, the contemporary magisterium was understood as the extension of theological tradition and functionally the ultimate arbiter of Christian truth. Perrone and the Praelectiones Theologicae To understand how these three major themes of the Roman School figured cohesively into their theological vision, one has to take note of the movement’s historical origins and development. Walter Kasper briefly summarized the relationship between the central representatives of the Roman School in his 1961 study. He referred to Perrone as a precursor who set forth the fundamental conditions for the Roman School and regarded Passaglia and Schrader as the movement’s central representatives. Franzelin he considered a transitional figure who belonged within the sphere of the Roman School but also shared affinities with the Neoscholastic revival.15 Kasper, Die Lehre von Tradition, 9. For a contemporary appraisal of Franzelin as a transitional figure between Perrone and Billot, see Lorenzo Bedeschi, La curia romana durante la crisi modernista: episodi e metodi di governo (Parma, IT: Ugo Guanda Editore, 1968), 67n75. 15 588 C. Michael Shea Kasper’s characterization of the Roman School has been followed in subsequent scholarship and is accurate enough as a basic description. To grasp the complexity of the movement, however, one must also recognize certain asymmetrical relationships between these thinkers and their theological contributions. In my own work, I have come to regard Giovanni Perrone and his theological curriculum, the Praelectiones Theologicae, not only as a precursor to the Roman School but also as a normative context for the movement’s intellectual development.16 Perrone’s curriculum served a key social and institutional function. As a central component of a social ritual, the curriculum provided a longstanding and repeated set of authoritative parameters and heuristics for ascertaining theological orthodoxy and also a driving reactionary ethos that shaped the intellectual atmosphere within which the theologians of the Roman School approached their work.17 The curriculum and an abridged version of the text went through more than eighty editions in the nineteenth century.18 Thus, any adequate treatment of the Roman School or of this period of Roman For recent literature on Perrone with bibliographic references, see Charles Shea, “Giovanni Perrone’s Theological Curriculum,” 790–816; Shea, “Faith, Reason, and Ecclesiastical Authority in Giovanni Perrone’s Praelectiones Theologicae,” Gregorianum 95.1 (2014): 159–77; and Jérôme Rousse–Lacordaire, “La cabale au service du christianisme au xixe siècle,” Revue de sciences philosophiques et théologiques 96.4 (2012): 703–49. 17 Relatively little methodological reflection has been done on how the reciprocal relationships between ideas and institutions manifest themselves in rule-infused rituals such as seminary lectures, ecclesiastical court cases, etc. Such reflection will be useful in bringing research in intellectual history into deeper engagement with seminal contributions in the institutional history of modern Catholicism that have appeared in recent years—such as Carlo Fantappiè’s Chiesa romana e modernità giuridica (Milan, IT: Giuffrè Editore, 2008) and François Jankowiak’s La curie romaine de Pie IX à Pie XI: le gouvernement central de l’Église et la fin des États Pontificaux, 1846–1914 (Rome: École Française de Rome, 2007)—and with Geistesgeschichtliche approaches such as in Manuel Borutta’s Antikatholizismus: Deutschland und Italien im Zeitalter der europäischen Kulturkämpfe (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011). A few schematic reflections related to the subject include Gunnar Schuppert, Verflochtene Staatlichkeit: Globalisierung als Governance–Geschichte (Frankfurt: Campus Verlag, 2014), 28–35; Giuseppe Lorini, “Meta-Institutional Concepts: A New Category for Social Ontology,” Rivista di Estetica 56 (2014): 127–39; and Françoise Waquet, Parler comme un livre: l’oralité et le savoir (XVIe – XXe siècle) (Paris: Albin Michel, 2003), 72–112. 18 Giacomo Martina, Storia, 62; Carlos Sommervogel, Bibliothèque de la Compagnie de Jesus. Nouvelle Édition, 12 vols. (Paris: Alphonse Picard, 1890–1932), 6:558–72, at 558–60. 16 Ressourcement in the Age of Migne 589 Catholic thought more generally must involve a substantial discussion of Perrone’s curriculum. Perrone’s Praelectiones Theologicae first appeared in published form in 1835 and was divided into four years. The curriculum devoted considerable space to traditional doctrines such as de Deo Uno et Trino and de Sacramentis in the first two years. But it is the second half of the curriculum and the broader structure of the Praelectiones as a whole that are important for understanding the Roman School’s distinctive priorities and departure points in theological inquiry.19 Perrone introduced the Praelectiones Theologicae with a lengthy prolegomena entitled Tractatus de vera religione contra incredulous et heterodoxos that often appeared as a separate text and sometimes in vernacular translation during this period.20 In this prolegomena, Perrone outlined the philosophical and theological assumptions of the Praelectiones as a whole. The first portion of the treatise argued for the probability of revelation as a historical and external fact on the basis of external signs and miracles.21 The second section, Contra hereticos, argued for the necessity of the Church as the medium and custodian of revelation in history.22 Perrone held revelation to be beyond the reach of any individual interpreter to determine and insufficient in itself for providing a stable basis for Christian belief.23 The Church therefore was required for the correct understanding of revelation and, in fact, functioned as the ambit in which potential believers came into contact with faith’s motives of credibility. These themes that inaugurated the Praelectiones Theologicae also structured the curriculum as a whole. The third and fourth years of the curriculum were devoted to theological methodology, or de locis theologicis, in conscious retrieval of Melchior Cano’s treatise of the same name in the sixteenth century.24 Perrone’s version of de locis The edition of Perrone’s curriculum cited for present purposes will be Praelectiones theologicae, quas in Collegio Romani habebat, Johannes Perrone e Societate Jesu in eod. Coll. Theol. Prof., 2 vols. (Paris: Montrouge, 1841–1842). English translations are my own. 20 For overviews of the treatise, see Peter Walter, Die Frage der Glaubensbegründung als innerer Erfahrung auf dem I. Vaticanum, die Stellungnahme des Konzils vor dem Hintergrund der Zeitgenössischen römischen Theologie (Mainz: Matthias– Grünewald, 1980), 19–27; and Kasper, Die Lehre von Tradition, 29–32. 21 Perrone, Praelectiones Theologicae, 1:17–164. 22 Ibid., 1:163–232. 23 Ibid., 1:20. 24 Melchior Cano, Reverendissimi D. Domini Melchioris Cani Episcopi Canariensis, Ordinis Praedicatorum, et Sacrae Theologiae Professoris, ac Primariae Cathedrae in 19 590 C. Michael Shea theologicis departed from Cano’s in key ways, for it placed explicit emphasis upon tradition, the Church, and the papacy in providing a set of governing principles for the practice of theology. Cano’s Tractatus de locis theologicis had an impact upon theological instruction at the Collegio Romano.25 By the nineteenth century, Perrone considered Cano’s treatise to be of universal importance for Catholic theology, yet he also regarded it as insufficient for the nineteenth century and revised it almost completely.26 Perrone’s reconfiguration of Cano’s work simplified the treatise and provided it with a rigorous internal logic. Cano’s treatise, for example, offered ten theological loci with relatively minimal order. These included seven argumenta propria: 1) the authority of sacred Scripture, 2) apostolic tradition, 3) the authority of the Catholic Church, 4) the authority of councils, 5) the authority of the Church of Rome, 6) the authority of saints, and 7) the authority of doctors of the schools. To these seven, Cano added three additional loci that he referred to as argumenta aliena: 1) arguments from natural reason, 2) the authority of philosophers, and 3) the authority of human history.27 Cano’s schema involved a certain degree of methodological order, since he understood argumenta aliena, such as arguments from history and natural reason, as serving an auxiliary function to argumenta propria, such as church councils and the authority of saints. There was also some degree of precedence in Cano’s treatise, since Scripture and tradition held first and second place in the treatise, followed by the authority of the Catholic Church. However, aside from this minimal order, there was little in Cano’s treatise to clarify the relationship between theological loci and how these loci were to be applied collectively in the practice of theology. Canos’s Tractatus provided a handbook of sorts for theologians, but no clear point of departure and method. Perrone regarded this schematic character of Cano’s work as a significant deficiency in the nineteenth century.28 Academia Salamantinensi olim Praefecti, De Locis Theogicis Libri duodecim (Salamanca, ES: Mathias Gastius, 1563). 25 Juán Belda–Plans, La escuela de Salamanca y la renovación de la theología en el siglo XVI (Madrid, ES: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 2000), 853–61. 26 Perrone, Praelectiones Theologicae, 2:687. 27 A succinct overview of Cano’s treatise can be found in Juán Belda–Plans, “Introducción general histórico–teológica,” in Melcho Cano, De Locis Theologicis, trans. and ed. J. Belda–Plans (Madrid, ES: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 2006), lxxxiii–lxxxix. 28 Perrone, Praelectiones Theologicae, 2:687. Ressourcement in the Age of Migne 591 The third and fourth years of the Praelectiones Theologicae were devoted to offering a new version of Cano’s treatise that would meet the needs of Church leaders in the age of revolutions. In Perrone’s version of De locis theologicis, four themes stand out, which the reader will likely recognize as having significant roles to play in the First Vatican Council in 1870: 1) the authority of the Church—especially the papal magisterium, 2) the authority of Scripture, 3) tradition, and 4) the role of faith and reason in theological inquiry. Perrone’s version of theological loci assumed the following order: [third year] Part I) the Authority of the Church and the Roman Pontiff; Part II) the Authority of the Word of God Written, and On Tradition; and [fourth year] Part III) The Analogy of Reason and Faith. The order of these theological loci was of great significance for Perrone’s curriculum. The text was clear that the Church—specifically the Church’s anterioritas—provided the basis for all theological inquiry.29 This was the case because the Church acted as mediator and custodian of the Word of God. Hence, the individual act of faith, regarded from its human side, was understood as a response to divine authority mediated by and manifested within the Church. It is in Perrone’s theology of faith that one can best observe his commitment to theology as a positive science and his view of the mediated and historically concrete nature of authority. Perrone’s definition of faith began with God as revealer: he defined faith as an intellectual assent, aided by grace, to God’s Word as divinely revealed.30 Yet faith’s formal motive was divine authority mediated by the Church. In this way, Perrone could create the impression that Christian faith itself was little more than a system of authority.31 As a textbook for training priests, the Praelectiones arguably lacked balance in its almost singular focus on authority. However, it would be misleading to characterize Perrone’s thought—or the Roman School as a whole—as promoting an exclusively top-down vision of the Church. Because authority assumed such a central role in Perrone’s curriculum, it was of key importance to explore the variegated dynamics of authority in the Church in addition to its mechanisms and limits. Perrone’s treatment of the Church in the Praelectiones attempted to balance its institutional and juridical emphases by proposing two foundational dimensions of the Church Ibid., 2:688–89. Ibid., 2:1360–01. 31 Ibid., 1:277. 29 30 592 C. Michael Shea to be held in unison. Perrone’s vision of the Church first built upon traditional Bellarminian doctrines of institutional authority and structure, but the curriculum also incorporated a renewed emphasis on patristic sources that envisioned the Church from the standpoint of the mystical body of Christ. These two dimensions of the Church—the institutional and the mystical—were presented as a polar, co-supporting synthesis in Perrone’s curriculum. On the one hand, the Church was a society of believers instituted by Christ as the medium of human salvation.32 This society was governed by the successor of Peter and hierarchically ordered as a sacramental expression of Christ’s relationship to the world. Yet, Perrone also claimed that, “the society of the Church constitute[d] an organic unity.”33 This unity was fundamentally multi-centered and relational in character, and had to do with the relationship between priests, laypersons, bishops, and the papacy. Each constituent participated actively in the Church’s life by the inner motive of obedience and faith.34 This obedience and faith was also an orientation to the Church as a whole according to one’s place within the Church’s mission and the body of Christ. “Since from this mutual commerce, life may flourish,” he wrote, “unity too flourishes, in just the way that the unity of the person, or of the individual in a human supposit, and life flow forth from the mutual commerce of soul and body.”35 This ecclesial orientation involved the vicar of Christ prominently as head of the universal Church. The Praelectiones Theologicae taught that the commercium mutuum of head and members in the Church constituted the Church’s essence and life.36 There was, however, relatively little middle ground between head and members in Perrone’s curriculum, and one could legitimately question whether the vision of the Church in the text provided meaningful space for the magisterial activity of individual bishops, synods, or councils. While this may be a genuine deficiency of the Praelectiones, it is clear that Perrone’s view of how ecclesial authority was to be exercised in practice was more balanced. John Henry Newman’s famous “Essay on Consulting the Faithful” from 1859, in fact, began with a six-page exegesis of Ibid., 2:691–97. Ibid., 2:713–14. 34 Ibid., 2:733. 35 Ibid., 2:734. See also ibid., 2:722–27, 739. 36 Ibid., 2:733–35. 32 33 Ressourcement in the Age of Migne 593 Perrone’s subsequent work on how the magisterium consults the laity in teaching so that doctrine arises ultimately from a conspiratio pastorum et fidelium.37 Although the Praelectiones’s language of the Church as a commercium mutuum stressed the functional distinction between head and members, the notion of active reciprocity on the part of all members implied a dynamic and multi-centered reality.38 Perrone’s synthesis of the juridical, institutional, doctrinal, and mystical dimensions of the Church was an important moment in the development of modern ecclesiology. One can legitimately claim that Perrone’s theology of the Church provided a model for dogmatic developments concerning papal authority in the later nineteenth century and also served as a precursor to communio ecclesiologies in the century to follow.39 Perrone’s curriculum reinforced and elaborated aspects of the early modern ultramontane theologies of papal authority while providing the framework for a politically disestablished and non-territorial exercise of ecclesiastical authority and Catholic identity. The political disestablishment of the Church in nineteenth-century Europe helped to inaugurate the centralization, or Romanization, of Catholicism as a modern global institution. Perrone’s curriculum helped the Church to navigate this shift with a comprehensive pedagogy that involved intense methodological reflection on the theological plane. These developments facilitated the de-identification of modern Catholic praxis and belief with local commitments and provided a renewed governing ideal of the Church as the Body of Christ, a sacramental reality that transcended political and territorial imaginaries. This formulation can be traced directly back to Perrone’s writings; see Charles Shea, “From Implicit and Explicit Reason to Inference and Assent: The Significance of John Henry Newman’s Seminary Studies in Rome,” The Journal of Theological Studies 67.1 (2016): 143–71. 38 It merits suggesting that the dual ecclesiological emphasis of (a) authority/ obedience and (b) individual agency may emerge in part from Perrone’s experience as a Jesuit. This hypothesis would be difficult to substantiate on the basis of Perrone’s published work, but a study relying on unpublished materials may shed significant light on the role of Jesuit spirituality in the development of Catholic doctrine in the nineteenth century. Perrone’s personal papers and correspondence can be found in the Archivio Pontificia Università Gregoriana (APUG 105 I–IV). 39 Peter Walter made a similar case for Perrone’s student Carlo Passaglia in “Carlo Passaglia: auf dem Weg zur Communio-Ekklesiologie,” in Theologen des 19. Jahrhunderts: eine Einführung, ed. P. Neuner and G. Wenz (Darmstadt: Wissenschafliche Buchgesellschaft, 2002), 165–71. 37 594 C. Michael Shea Other Members of the Roman School Perrone’s Praelectiones exercised a decisive influence upon the subsequent representatives of the Roman School at the Collegio Romano: Carlo Passaglia, Clemens Schrader, and Johann Baptist Franzelin. Each of these theologians went through Perrone’s course of study and lectured from the text at certain points in their careers. The imprint of this formation is also evident in the writings of these theologians, and each figure stands out in contributing individually to the theological achievement of the Roman School as a whole. The two figures responsible for developing the methodology and ecclesiological vision of the Roman School in its most unique direction were Perrone’s students at the Collegio Romano during the 1830s and early 1840s: Carlo Passaglia and his protégée Clemens Schrader.40 These Jesuits of a younger generation worked together closely on a number of theological projects during the late 1840s and 1850s, and they can be said to have taken Perrone’s ecclesiological vision in a more mystical and devotional direction that was increasingly distinct from Neoscholastic approaches to theological instruction, which gained influence as the century progressed. Passaglia and Schrader worked together on a massive and unfinished treatise, De Ecclesia Christi commentariorum libris quinque.41 Here, much in alignment with the basic contours of Perrone’s thought, one encounters a vision of the Church that alternated between visible and invisible dimensions. Yet it was the mystical dimension that captured these authors’ imaginations. Passaglia and Schrader provided space for the historical origins of the institutional Church and spent numerous pages in book 1 (Liber I: Εισαγωγικός, Ecclesiae Hypotiposis) exploring For bibliographic references on Passaglia, see Gianluca Carlin, L’eccesiologia di Carlo Passaglia 1812–1887: Mit einer deutschen Zusammenfassung (Münster: Lit Verlag, 2000), 296–378. For literature on Schrader, see Gabriel Andriányi, “Die Mitarbeit des Dogmatikers Clemens Schrader S.J. an der Provinzialsynode zu Kalocsa 1863,” Annuarium Historiae Conciliorum 44 (2012): 95–104; and Heribert Schauf, “Die Unfehlbarkeit der Kirche: die Lehre des Konzilstheologen Clemens Schrader,” in Bestellt zum Zeugnis: Festgabe für Bischof Dr. Johannes Pohlschneider zur Vollendung des 75. Lebensjahres und zur Feier des 50 järigen Priesterjubiläums, ed. K. Delahaye, E. Gatz, and H. Jorissen (Aachen: Einhard-Verlag, 1974), 339–54. 41 For vols. 1 and 2, see Carlo Passaglia and Clemens Schrader, De Ecclesia Christi Commentariorum Libri Quinque (Regensburg: G. Iosephus Manz, 1853). Vol. 3 was published in 1856 in the same series, and vols. 4 and 5 were never completed. 40 Ressourcement in the Age of Migne 595 Hebrew and Greek and imagery from Scripture.42 They then spent the bulk of their labor describing the Church simultaneously as the Temple of God indwelt by the Holy Spirit and as the Body of Christ (Θεάνθροπον), consisting of head and members. As they claimed, “the Church [is] aptly and admirably called the mystical body of Christ— that is, the assembly of all those in which Christ manifests himself, and interprets his life, through which he visibly lives among men, and through which he so offers and continues the work of the economy of salvation, that through it [the assembly] he frees men from captivity, teaches them the truth, justifies them, and leads them to an eternal crown.”43 The individual believer’s membership in the Church was understood as an active participation in Christ’s salvific mission. This membership was also seen correlatively as a spousal and Marian participation in Christ’s dynamic relationship to the Father and the Holy Spirit.44 Passaglia and Schrader adopted Perrone’s idea of the Church as a commercium mutuum as a point of departure, but they elaborated this vision along a Trinitarian horizon that emphasized theological relationships between divine hypostases in correlation with the economy of salvation.45 The various strands of their reflections converged upon the Church as the incarnation of Christ and provided a framework for a rich and multivalent theology of history and tradition. After a lengthy discussion of scriptural analogies of the Incarnation and of the Church as historia Christi et apostolorum, Passaglia and Schrader summarized their vision of Christ and the Holy Spirit in history, which implied a dynamic, lived reality: And is this not of course true when at first the Only Begotten, made flesh, ἐσχἡνωσεν ἐν ἡμίν, dwelt among us? Or when first he could be seen by the eyes, perceived, and touched with hands? Not before He was conceived in Mary by the power of the Spirit coming upon and overshadowing her, might the Ibid., 1:1–29. “Ecclesiam apte luculenterque vocari corpus Christi mysticum, id est eorum omnium coetum in quo se Christus manifestat, suamque vitam explicat, per quem conspicuus inter homines degit, et per quem salutaris oeconomiae opus ita profert atque continuat, ut per eum homines a captivitate liberet, veritatem doceat, iustitia donet, et ad sempiternam coronam perducat” (ibid., 1:30–38, at 38). 44 Ibid., 1:70–80. 45 Ibid., 2:107–25. See also especially 3:1–26. 42 43 596 C. Michael Shea holy Offspring come into the light. If therefore the history of Christ, the history of the Head, the history of the First Born, can be thought analogously [ἀναλόγως] to be a paradigm [παράδειγμα] for all Christians, for all members, for all second-born brethren, then it seems to me not unreasonable to be able to conclude that no man has access to the Church, to the mystical body of Christ, and to the communion of saints, before a kind of breath of the Spirit should have blown on him, and drawn him out of darkness, and, by the font of light and truth, in some way at length joined him to God.46 Passaglia and Schrader developed these Marian and Christological themes in book 2 (Liber II: Πραγματικός, De Ecclesiae Existentia) to articulate a theology of the visible Church that regarded apostolic functions as expressive of the theandric and pneumatological missions of divine persons in history.47Apostolic tradition, the life of Christ, and the temporal and eternal missions of Christ and the Spirit were regarded here as distinct but related spheres forming a single life. The approach taken in De Ecclesia Christi presupposed that the most appropriate way of exploring the Church was to recognize Christ as παράδειγμα and, indeed, to presuppose a genuine communication of idioms between the Church and Christ.48 Schrader and Passaglia developed these themes further in book 3 (Liber III: Αιτιολογικός, De Ecclesiae Causis), which explored the relationships between the Church as visible societas and as corpus mysticum. This section of De Ecclesia Christi investigated these relationships in terms of various modes of causality (efficient, instrumental, exemplary, formal, material, and final) in relation to Trinitarian missions and temporal dimensions of the Church. Book 3 is a work of extraor “Et re sane vera quando primum Unigenitus caro factus ἐσχἡνωσεν ἐν ἡμίν, habitavit in nobis? aut quando primum videri oculis potuit, perspici, manibusque contrectari? Non antea quam virtute supervenientis in Mariam Spiritus, illamque obumbrantis conciperetur, conceptusque sanctus in lucem veniret. Si ergo historia Christi, historia capitis, historia primogeniti censeri ἀναλόγως potest παράδειγμα cuiusque christiani, cuiusque membri, fratrisque minoris; mihi videor colligere non inepte posse, nullum antea hominibus ad ecclesiam, ad mysticum Christi corpus, communionemque sanctorum aditum patere, quam illos aura quaedam Spiritus afflaverit, e tenebris secreverit, et cum Deo lucis veritatisque fonte aliquo tandem pacto coniunxerit” (ibid., 2:34; emphasis original). 47 Ibid., 2:83–91. 48 Ibid., 1:35. 46 Ressourcement in the Age of Migne 597 dinary detail and cannot be adequately summarized here, but some illustration of the authors’ vision in the book will provide a sense of the depth and originality of De Ecclesia Christi as a whole. The book opens with a discussion of the Church according to three dimensions of efficient causality: the Father, as principle motive cause of the economy of salvation; the Son, as the principle cause through whom the Church exists; and the Holy Spirit, as the principle cause by which the Church was drawn together, nourished, and perfected.49 Passaglia and Schrader develop the meaning and connotations of each type of causality through elaborate philological commentary upon scriptural and patristic writings and then circle back upon these Trinitarian dimensions in subsequent chapters, each time along a different plane of causality and temporal expression, so that the visible and invisible dimensions of the Church elucidate one another from a kaleidoscopic array of vantage points. The various institutional and historical features of the visible Church thus emerge recursively from within a biblical and Trinitarian vision.50 For example, Liber III discusses the formal cause of the Church as the power or principle drawing the various members of the Church into unified activity and then approaches this causality from distinct but interrelated sub-perspectives.51 Passaglia and Schrader regarded the Trinity as the “interior” formal cause of the Church, taking revelation as their point of departure: Again, if the Scriptures are consulted, it is plain that men are joined to the Church and made her members in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. But just as men are added [to the Church in the name of the Trinity], so also they compose the Church in the name of the Trinity: in this way the Church herself is the tabernacle and temple of the Trinity. Indeed we read, “For do you not know that you are the temple of God and that the Spirit of God dwells in you? If one will then violate the temple of God, God will ruin him; the temple of God is indeed holy, and you are [that temple].” We read, “You indeed are the temple of the living God.” We read, “for you will know I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you.” We read, “If one loves me and will keep my word, my Father will love him, and Ibid., 3:3–26. See for example, the discussion of Peter (ibid., 3:237–58). 51 Ibid., 3:801–02. 49 50 598 C. Michael Shea we will make a dwelling with him.” And on the contrary we read, “I pray so that all may be one, as you Father are in me and I in you, so that they may be one in us. I in them, and you in me, so that they may be consummated in one.”52 Yet, for Passaglia and Schrader, the Trinity is no less the formal interior cause of the Church than the Word of God made flesh. Christ, as son of the Father and of Mary, manifested the inner commercium of the Trinity within the temporal order and drew the societatem fidelium together into a united activity of obedience, charity, and worship. Passaglia and Schrader marshaled an impressive field of scriptural and patristic evidence to illustrate their case, ranging from Christ as head, body, spouse, and life of the Church, to the one in whom all fullness of divinity dwelt.53 They further developed this line of approach to highlight the Holy Spirit, whose mission was united with Christ’s during his temporal life and who was later sent to guide the Church into the perfection of unity and truth.54 Passaglia and Schrader then returned upon the subject of the Trinity and the various causes of the Church in order to incorporate this pneumatic dimension: And so there can be no fuller harmony between the efficient and first cause of the Church and her internal formal cause. For just as the efficient cause is God the Trinity and particularly the Word made flesh and his Spirit, to whose divine power the origin and the growth of the Church are most indebted, so also the “Porro consultis Scripturis, palam est adiungi homines ecclesiae, eiusque membra effici in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus-sancti. Quemadmodum vero ecclesiae adiunguntur homines, ecclesiamque componunt in nomine Trinitatis; ita ecclesia ipsa tabernaculum est templumque Trinitatis. Legimus enim: ‘Nescitis quia templum Dei estis, et Spiritus Dei habitat in vobis? Si quis autem templum Dei violaverit, disperdet illum Deus; templum enim Dei sanctum est, quod estis vos.’ Legimus: ‘Vos enim estis templum Dei vivi.’ Legimus: ‘Cognoscetis quia ego sum in Patre meo, et vos in me, et ego in vobis.’ Legimus: ‘Si quis diligit me, sermonem meum servabit, et Pater meus diligit eum, et mansionem apud eum faciemus.’ Ac rursum legimus: ‘Rogo ut omnes unum sint, sicut tu Pater in me et ego in te, ut et ipsi in nobis unum sint. Ego in eis, et tu in me, ut sint consummati in unum’” (ibid., 3:803; emphasis original). The authors paraphrased 1 Cor 3:16–17, 19; 2 Cor 6:16; John 14:20, 23 and 17:20–24 of the Latin Vulgate respectively, along with commentary upon the Greek text in the footnotes. 53 Ibid., 3:804–17. 54 Ibid., 3:820–22). 52 Ressourcement in the Age of Migne 599 Trinity is what fills the temple of the Church by its divinity; Christ is he who, with the Church—as a head with his body and as a bridegroom with his bride and by his own flesh—come together into a certain extraordinary kind of unity; and the Spirit is the one who by the sharing and influx of himself and of his gifts makes the Church grow and fashions her and raises her up to an almost heavenly preeminence.55 Passaglia and Schrader then circled back to discuss “external formal causes” of the Church, which they delineated according to four distinct regulae (fidei, actionis, communionis, rituali ac liturgica). They described each regula in social and historical terms according to the Church’s various functions of evangelical proclamation, charity, obedience, and sacramental participation.56 Thus, De Ecclesia Christi exhibits a basic openness to an elaboration of the Church’s visible dimensions. The specific institutional functions of the Church—such as the authority of bishops and the papacy—were not set aside altogether in Passaglia’s and Schrader’s work, but such features were presented in close view of their final causes and without the same degree of development in practical institutional matters, as in Perrone’s curriculum.57 Nonetheless, in De Ecclesia Christi, Passaglia and Schrader offered a paradigm for conceiving of Christian revelation, tradition, ecclesiastical offices, and individual life that was of arresting grandeur and drew deeply from biblical sources and the broad course of Christian tradition. The vision of De Ecclesia Christi would provide a theological foundation for a number of the Roman School’s later contributions. Even though the unfinished treatise is nearly forgotten today, it undoubtedly ranks among the most extraordinary ecclesiological works in the modern era. The achievement of Passaglia and Schrader in De Ecclesia Christi offers a captivating example of how a specific vision of the Church “Itaque plenior nequit esse concentus inter efficientem principemque ecclesiae caussam, et internam eiusdem causam formalem. Sicut enim illa est Deus Trinitas, ac nominatim Verbum caro factum, eiusque Spiritus, quorum divinae virtuti origo, incrementaque ecclesiae in acceptis maxime referuntur; ita Trinitas est quae ecclesiae templum suo numine replet, Christus est qui cum ecclesia, tamquam caput cum suo corpore et sponsus cum sua sponsa, suaque carne in eximium quoddam unitatis genus concurrit, et Spiritus est qui suimetipsius suorumque munerum communicatione et illapsu ecclesiam vegetat, fingit et ad praestantiam fere caelestem extollit” (ibid., 3:824–25; emphasis mine). 56 Ibid., 3:827–29. 57 See also ibid., 3:124–72. 55 600 C. Michael Shea can develop along divergent paths under the influence of personality and circumstance. It is significant that both authors began expostulating their work on the Church while in exile from Rome during the Republican Revolution between 1848 and 1850.58 While the return of Pius IX and the Jesuits to the city marked a clear shift in the political and theological atmosphere in Rome for the next several decades, reactions to this shift took different forms. Figures like Perrone, Passaglia, and Schrader tended, during the 1850s, to focus on more properly dogmatic or theological questions in theology, which was a turn that largely began in exile in England and Belgium. Others, such as the theologians who founded the journal La Civiltà Cattolica in 1850 or members of the new generation like Joseph Kleutgen and Henry Manning, emphasized philosophical, pedagogical, and practical questions. These shifts in the political atmosphere in Rome after the revolutions of 1848 did not occur without friction among members of the Roman School. It was in part due to these shifts that Passaglia and Schrader began work on a new edition of the seventeenth-century French Jesuit Denys Pétau’s (1583–1652) Opus de Theologicis Dogmatibus.59 They believed that Pétau’s work offered a model of their positive-theological approach and a wide-ranging introduction to patristic theology. In a programmatic introduction to the edition, Passaglia and Schrader offered a defense of their theological method, and it is here that one finds the closest attempt at a self-conscious articulation of the distinctive positive-theological approach of the Roman School.60 The collaborative labors of Passaglia and Schrader were interrupted in 1857 when their Jesuit Superior, Pieter Beckx, transferred Pietro Galletti, Memorie storiche intorno alla Provincia Romana della Compagnia di Gesù, dal’anno 1814 all’anno 1914, vol. 1, 1814–1849 (Prato, IT: Tipografia Giachetti, Figlio, E. C., 1914), 548–61. 59 Denys Pétau, Dionysii Petavii Aurelianensis e Societate Iesu Opus de Theologicis Dogmatibus, ed. C. Passaglia [and Clemens Schrader] (Rome: Propaganda Fide, 1857). 60 See Christoph Beginner, “Die pneumatologisch–anthroplogischen Ansätze in der Trinitätslehre des Dionysius Petavius und ihr Einfluss auf die ‘Römische Schule’ um Carlo Passaglia und Johann Baptist Franzelin,” Münchener theologische Zeitschrift 62 (2011): 343–55. The most concise summary of the Roman School’s theological method can be found in Catalino Arevalo, Some Aspects of the Theology of the Mystical Body of Christ in the Ecclesiology of Giovanni Perrone, Carlo Passaglia, and Clemens Schrader:Theologians of the Roman College in the Mid– Nineteenth Century (Rome: Pontificiae Universitatis Gregoriana, 1959), 3–8. 58 Ressourcement in the Age of Migne 601 Schrader to Vienna, where he remained until 1867.61 Schrader’s move took place over the objections of both theologians, and Passaglia’s fiery temperament caused problems for his standing in the Church before and after the event. Shortly after Schrader’s departure, Passaglia resigned from his chair of theology at the Collegio Romano, and in 1859, he left the Jesuit order altogether.62 The two theologians’ lives and theological activities shifted markedly after these events, and their subsequent writings can be regarded as two distinct paths along which the theology of the Roman School could develop. Schrader’s appointment in Vienna was designed to bring clerical instruction there in line with the increasingly ultramontane atmosphere of Rome. His success in the city was debatable, but the work he accomplished clearly reflected the Roman interests during a time of increased assertiveness of secular powers, which included the Austrian Empire.63 Schrader’s two-volume theological lectures, De Unitate Romana Commentarius, published in 1862 and 1866, represent the fullest development of the Roman School’s understanding of papal authority in relation to the Church.64 In the first book (Liber I: Διδακτικός), Schrader retained the same Christocentric point of departure from his days working on De Ecclesia Christi with Passaglia in the 1850s, but he refocused this approach primarily for the purpose of expounding upon the Church as a visible institution: But if the foundation is guarded by statute law and rule, so that the society of men be human, the form and exemplar is prescribed by catholic and Roman unity, namely the God-Man [ὁ Θεάνθροπος], so that it should be more perfect and noble, so that it should be a Christian society. For if the natural society of men follows the analogy of a human body physically [φυσικώς] Carlin, L’eccesiologia di Carlo Passaglia, 29–45. Giacomo Martina, Storia della Compagnia di Gesù in Italia, 1814–1983 (Brescia, IT: Morcelliana, 2003), 147–51. 63 See Laurence Cole, “The Counter-Reformation’s Last Stand: Austria,” in Culture Wars: Secular-Catholic Conflict in Nineteenth-Century Europe, ed. C. Clark and W. Kaiser (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 285–312; and the various contributions in Kulturkampf in Tirol und in den Nachbarländern: Akten des Internationalen Kolloquiums des Tiroler Geschichtsvereins (Sektion Bozen) im Kolpinghaus Bozen, 9 November 2012, ed. G. Pfeifer and J. Nössing (Innsbruck, AT: Universitäts Verlag Wagner, 2013). 64 Clemens Schrader, De Unitate Romana Commentarius. Liber I: Διδακτικός. (Freiburg: Herder, 1862); Schrader, De Unitate Romana Commentarius. Liber 2:Πραγματικός (Vienna, AT: Sumptibus Mayer & Soc., 1866). 61 62 602 C. Michael Shea animated, and therefore of a human composite, then nothing is [more] manifest than that Christian society is to be completed after the analogy [ἀναλογίαν] of Christ the man in whom dwells bodily the whole fullness of divinity, and therefore after the analogy [ἀναλογίαν] of that composed hypostasis, so that it may truly be what it is called. But then the association of human society with Roman unity will be no more harmful to it than it is harmful to human nature if it be drawn into the intimate association of divinity by the eternal Word.65 Schrader’s second volume (Liber II: Πραγματικός) developed the juridical dimensions of the Church and offered a lengthy compendium of biblical, patristic, medieval, early modern, and magisterial sources in support of a nearly uncompromising version of ultamontane papal authority. At over seven hundred pages in total and covering every age of Christianity, the treatise was the most formidable elaboration of ultramontane ecclesiology written during this period. Carlo Passaglia’s path was quite different from that of his younger collaborator. After leaving the Society of Jesus, Passaglia moved to Turin where he joined the cause of Italian unification and employed his creative skills as a writer to that end. Although most of Passaglia’s writings during this period were brief or ad hoc, the vision of the Church found in this work remained in alignment with the Trinitarian focus of his earlier writings. Passaglia stressed the spiritual claims and beauty of the Church while emphasizing that the pope’s temporal authority remained only accidental to his office as pastor of the faithful and guardian of the deposit of faith.66 “Verum custodito per statutam legem ac normam fundamento, ut hominum societas esse humana possit, ab unitate catholica eaque romana simul etiam praestituitur forma atque exemplar, ὁ Θεάνθροπος, ut perfectius illa et nobilius, ut christiana societas sit. Si enim naturalis hominum societas humani corporis animati φυσικώς, humanique adeo compositi ἀναλογίαν sequitur: nihil manifestus est, quam societatem christianam ad ἀναλογίαν hominis Christi in quo habitabat omnis plenitudo divinitatis corporaliter, adeoque ad ἀναλογίαν compositae illius hypostaseos esse exigendam, ut vere sit quae vocatur. Sed tum consociatio humanae societatis cum romana unitate non minus illi nocebit, quam humanae naturae nocuit, ut a Verbo aeterno in intimum divinitatis consortium attraheretur” (ibid., 1:41–43). 66 See for example, Carlo Passaglia, Il pontifice ed il principe, ossia la teologia, la filosofia, e la politicà messe d’accordo in ordine al principato civile del papa. dialoghi (s.l.: s.n., 1860); and Passaglia, La Causa di sua Eminenza Reverendissima il Cardinale Girolamo D’Andrea, Vescovo Suburbicario di Sabina, Abate Ordinario di Subiaco. (Turin: Tipografia Torinese, 1867). This latter text summarized books 1–3 of 65 Ressourcement in the Age of Migne 603 Passaglia was suspended of his priestly faculties on account of these political activities for the rest of his career, but he was undeterred by the measures and went on to criticize the Syllabus of Errors and aspects of the burgeoning Neoscholastic movement.67 His writings nonetheless never crossed over into heterodoxy, and he openly accepted the definitions of the First Vatican Council and was reconciled to the Church a few months before his death in 1887.68 The last central representative of the Roman School was Johann Baptist Franzelin, who became a Professor of Oriental Languages at the Collegio Romano and later replaced Passaglia as Chair of Dogmatic Theology in 1858.69 Franzelin made a lasting impact upon Roman Catholic thought on tradition in the wake of the Vatican Council. His 1870 Tractatus de Divina Traditione et Scriptura70 was described by Yves Congar in 1960 with ambivalent admiration as “almost a classic work” that inspired numerous other writers between the First and Second Vatican Councils.71 Franzelin has been somewhat accurately regarded as a transitional figure, falling between the currents of the Roman School and the Neoscholastic Revival.72 This has to do, in part, with the fact that Franzelin’s 1858 appointment in Dogmatic Theology was part of a broader initiative to bring the Collegio Romano’s curriculum more into alignment with the thought of Thomas Aquinas.73 A recent article by Hector Scerri has shown in what ways Franzelin’s published reflections on God and the sacraments, which came out of this appointment, were indebted to Aquinas’s thought in both structure De Ecclesia Christi Commentariorum (1853,1856) on pp. 61–104. The rest of the treatise (on pp. 105–470) was devoted to articulating elaborate distinctions regarding the limits of papal authority and the rights of bishops. 67 Carlin, L’eccesiologia di Carlo Passaglia, 223–25. 68 See Passaglia’s published articles from 1880 (listed in Carlin, L’eccesiologia di Carlo Passaglia, 377). 69 For a sketch of Franzelin’s life and thought, see Peter Walter, Johann Baptist Franzelin 1816–1886, Jesuit, Theologe, Kardinal (Bozen, IT: Verlaganstalt Athesia, 1987); for his concept of tradition and bibliographic references, see Franz Gaar, Das Prinzip der göttlichen Tradition nach Joh. Baptist Franzelin (Regensburg: Joseph Habbel, 1973), 339–52. 70 Ioannis Bapt. Franzelin, Tractatus de Divina Traditione et Scriptura. (Rome: Typis S. C. de Propaganda Fide, 1870). 71 Yves Congar, La tradition et les traditions, 2 vols. (Paris: Cerf, 1960; repr. 2010), 2:251–52. 72 Kasper, Die Lehre von Tradition, 70–71. 73 Pontificia Università Gregoriana, L’Università Gregoriana del Collegio Romano, 24–27. 604 C. Michael Shea and content. Yet, for Scerri and virtually every other reader of Franzelin’s work, the theologian remained a patristic thinker at heart.74 A mere glance at the footnotes throughout Franzelin’s work reveals an abiding fascination with the Eastern patristic writers and a prodigious facility in oriental languages. Franzelin’s work also falls squarely within the sphere of the Roman School on the question of faith and tradition. His Tractatus de Divina Traditione et Scriptura, in particular, brings the Roman School’s themes of faith, reason, authority, history, the Church, and the primacy of the sources of revelation into an impressive synthesis. The treatise represents the culmination of the movement’s contributions to the theology of tradition. Franzelin began the treatise with a prolegomena on the positivity of divine revelation and the necessity of the believer’s response of faith. Revelation, according to Franzelin, originated with God’s Word and the divine initiative of grace.75 As such, faith’s origin enjoyed a supernatural certitude that was distinct from natural forms of knowledge, and the contents of faith fell into the natural domain only in part. The human act of faith ( fides qua) was an assent to this Divine Word with the aid of grace. Similar to Perrone’s work, however, the discursive credenda of Christian belief, such as the three persons of the Trinity, constituted only the material object of faith.76 Faith’s formal motive was the human will’s grace-assisted response to divine authority. In this way, faith as an act had no necessary relationship to premises of human reasoning. Authority was understood rather as recognized with the aid of grace and, as such, authority invested the Christian message with an epistemically self-warranting dimension.77 The act of faith in Franzelin’s work had as much to do with obedience as it did with intellectual assent. Moreover, in Franzelin’s treatise, faith fundamentally involved the Church. The certitude and objective infallibility that faith enjoyed had its origin in God’s power and trustworthiness. Yet, in order for this certitude to go beyond an abstract ideal and extend to the contents of faith in a meaningful way, the same certitude and infallibility needed to extend to the Church, the medium through Hector Scerri, “The Revival of Scholastic Sacramental Theology after the Publication of Aeterni Patris,” Irish Theological Quarterly 77.3 (2012): 265–85, at 276. 75 Franzelin, Tractatus de Divina Traditione et Scriptura, 23. 76 Ibid., 520–23. 77 Ibid., 526–33. 74 Ressourcement in the Age of Migne 605 which faith was presented to believers in each age.78 This infallibility applied to the whole Church not only by a certain functional necessity but also by Christ’s promise. However, Franzelin drew distinctions regarding the dynamics of this feature. The Church as a whole enjoyed what he referred to as the infallibilitas passiva, since the Church remained safeguarded by Christ’s promise and the active guidance of the Holy Spirit.79 This infallibility could also express itself in an active way, however, through the magisterium. For these reasons, Franzelin regarded the proclamation of the Church as the supreme norm for the interpretation of Scripture.80 Franzelin referred to these ecclesial features of faith, authority, and obedience as the “internal principles” of tradition, which were inextricably bound with the objective integrity and continuance of Christian faith through history.81 Hence the act of assenting intellectually to the Christian message involved a concrete response to divine authority manifested in the contemporary magisterium. There was, as Franzelin argued, an “intrinsic nexus between the principles of tradition and the properties of Christian religion,” as well as a necessary relationship between the Church and the deposit of revelation as an integral whole.82 The Roman School and Modern Catholicism This overview of Perrone’s work and of the main proponents of the Roman School has only covered a handful of their most important and representative contributions and, so far, has not included a discussion of their wide-ranging influence in the nineteenth century and beyond. The impact of the Roman School is too broad to be covered in a single article, but since very little research has been done on this legacy, a few general remarks are necessary. Any discussion of the Roman School’s influence needs to begin with the diffuse contemporary impact of Perrone’s theological curriculum. The Praelectiones Theologicae and an abridged version of the text went to over eighty editions during the nineteenth century.83 This figure is all the more striking when one considers that the Praelectiones Ibid., 23, 28–32. Ibid., 94–95. 80 Ibid., 182–93. 81 Ibid., 37–49. 82 Ibid., 37. 83 Martina, Storia della compagnia di Gesù in Italia, 62; Sommervogel, Bibliothèque de la Compagnie de Jesus, 6:558–72, at 558–60. 78 79 606 C. Michael Shea was an expensive, multi-volume Latin text that was not intended for general consumption. The places where the curriculum was in use were also significant. The Collegio Romano alone trained over three hundred bishops during the nineteenth century, and the curriculum was also employed in other educational centers in the city such as the Germanicum and the Propaganda.84 In addition to widespread use in Italian seminaries, Perrone’s curriculum spread to other parts of Europe by way of those who studied in Rome. Nicholas Wiseman used the curriculum for training Oxford Movement converts, for example, and George Darboy used the text after he became Archbishop of Paris.85 The curriculum was also used in other important theological centers such as Würzburg, Innsbruck, and Louvain.86 The Roman School’s direct influence upon magisterial developments in the nineteenth century was not unrelated to the status of the Praelectiones and was highly significant. Perrone published several important works against the followers of Georg Hermes in the 1830s, and he was later involved in the scrutiny directed toward Louis Bautain’s work. This theological labor quickly became instantiated in papal teachings and formed precedents for definitions later in the century.87 The Roman School’s work for the definition of the Immaculate Conception of Mary emerged from central themes in the movement’s theology of tradition and the Church and was also decisive. Perrone published the first major treatise on the definability of the Immaculate Conception in 1847 at the request of Pius IX. The treatise was designed to precede the Pope’s encyclical Ubi Primum (1849), which surveyed the world’s bishops on the possibility of a new definition and had an impact upon their responses. Perrone’s Latin treatise went through eleven editions between its first appearance in October of 1847 and the definition of the dogma in December of 1854. Perrone and Carlo Passaglia produced schemata for the preparatory commission that was responsible for drafting the Shea, “Giovanni Perrone’s Theological Curriculum,” 800–01. Ibid., 811. 86 For Innsbruck, see Neufeld, “Zur ‘Römischen Schule’ im deutschen Sprachraum,” 323–40; for Louvain, see Johan Ickx, La Santa Sede tra Lamennais e San Tomasso d’Aquino: la condanna di Gerard Casimir Ubaghs e della dottrina dell’Università Cattolica di Lovanio, 1834–1870 (Vatican City: Archivio Segreto Vaticano, 2005), 80–87, and Leo Kenis, De Theologische Faculteit te Leuven in de negentiende eeuw, 1834–1889 (Brussels, BE: Paleis der Academiën,1992), 221. 87 Walter, Die Frage der Glaubensbegründung als innerer Erfahrung, 17–44. 84 85 Ressourcement in the Age of Migne 607 definition, and their work played an important role in shaping the final decree.88 It was in the years preceding and immediately following the definition of the Immaculate Conception that the Roman School was at the height of its social prestige. In 1849, John Henry Newman reflected on his time in Rome as a recent convert and claimed that Perrone practically represented the highest theological authority in Rome.89 Heinrich Denzinger, a student of Perrone and Passaglia, began publishing his famous Enchiridion Symbolorum in 1854 and included the propositions that Perrone drafted for the fideist writer Louis Bautain to sign in the 1856 edition.90 These propositions remain in Denzinger to this day, in its forty-third edition. It was around this time that Perrone was referred to in a French edition of his work as the “prince of contemporary theologians.”91 The Neoscholastic movement increasingly gained influence after the return of the Jesuits to Rome in 1850, and by the end of the decade, the movement began to overtake the Roman School’s influence in the theological instruction of aspiring priests. However, the influence of the Neoscholastic revival involved primarily younger generations whose formative experiences were the revolutions of 1848 and the loss of most of the territory of the Papal States in 1859 and 1860. By the end of the 1860s, those holding offices of power in the Church were still predominately those formed by Perrone’s curriculum and by other representatives of the Roman School, and Perrone’s schema for the bull Ineffabilis can be found in La solenne definizione del Dogma dell’Immacolato Concepimento di Maria Santissima: Atti e documenti II, ed. Vincenzo Sardi, 2 vols. (Rome: Tipografia Vaticana, 1905), 2:22–38. His influence on the decree of the Immaculate Conception is covered in Giulio da Nembero, La definibilità dell’immacolata concezione negli scritti e nell’attività di Giovanni Perrone, S.J.. (Milan, IT: Centro Studi Cappuccini Lombardi, 1961). See also Charles Shea, “Father Giovanni Perrone and Doctrinal Development in Rome: An Overlooked Legacy of Newman’s Essay on Development,” Journal for the History of Modern Theology / Zeitschrift für neure Theologiegeschichte 20.1 (2013): 85–116, at 110–16. 89 See Shea, “From Implicit and Explicit Reason to Inference and Assent,” p.66. 90 Heinrich Denzinger, Enchiridion Symbolorum quae de rebus fidei et morum a conciliis oecumenicis et summis pontificibus emanarunt, 3rd edition (Würzburg: Sumptibus Stahelianus, 1856), no. 123. Denzinger’s theological formation in Rome is treated in Joseph Schumacher, Der “Denzinger”: Geschichte und Bedeutung eines Buches in der Praxis der neueren Theologie (Freiburg: Herder, 1974), 56–59, 83–88. 91 Frédéric–Édouard Chassay, “Notice bibliographique,” in Giovanni Perrone, Le protestantisme et la règle de foi, trans. A. Peltier (Paris: Louis Vivès, 1854), vi. 88 608 C. Michael Shea although the Neoscholastic movement was beginning to reach its early height at the time of the First Vatican Council, the Roman School still enjoyed nearly hegemonic influence in circles nearest to the Pope in the years preceding the event. The Roman School’s impact upon the decrees of the First Vatican Council was in fact decisive. It would be no exaggeration to claim that the First Vatican Council represented the Church’s de facto enshrinement of Perrone’s and the Roman School’s theology in magisterial teaching, even if that appropriation was cut short when the Council was adjourned in the summer of 1870 and remained an incomplete expression of the Roman School’s overall theological vision. I have made a broad case for the Roman School’s impact upon the Council elsewhere, but a few remarks will serve to illustrate this influence here.92 The Theological Preparatory Commission for the First Vatican Council was established in 1867 and dominated by members of the Roman School and their former students. This commission was charged with producing the schemata that would ultimately become, with relatively minor changes, the documents defined at the Council in 1870. Perrone, Franzelin, Schrader, and two of their students, Joseph Kleutgen (1811–1883) and Franz Hettinger (1819–1890), would play important roles in this commission’s work, for they each produced and redacted schemata that formed the foundation for texts proposed and ultimately adopted on the floor of the Council. The Constitution on the Catholic Faith, Dei Filius, was originally drafted by Franzelin and later redacted by Kleutgen, who was charged with only altering the presentation of the original schema.93 The final For more detailed treatments of the Roman School’s influence on the Vatican Council, see Shea, “Giovanni Perrone’s Theological Curriculum and the First Vatican Council”; José Vallar, “La Escuela Romana y la const. Pastor Aeternus de Concilio Vaticano I,” Annuarium Historiae Conciliorum 35 (2003): 104–49; Schauf, “Die Unfehlbarkeit der Kirche,” 339–54; José Gómez-Heras, “La constitution Dei Filius y la teología del cardinal J.B. Franzelin” Revista española de teología 23 (1963): 137–90; Gómez-Heras, “La constitution Dei Filius y la teología del cardinal J. B. Franzelin (continuación),” Revista española de teología 25 (1965): 79–114; and Gómez-Heras, “La constitution Dei Filius y la teología del cardinal J.B. Franzelin (continuación),” Revista española de teología 27 (1967): 375–97. 93 For the sake of accessibility, citations from the officially promulgated texts will come from Heinrich Denzinger, Enchiridion symbolorum definitionem et 92 Ressourcement in the Age of Migne 609 version of Dei Filius closely conformed to Kleutgen’s revised schema and to the Roman School’s theological vision.94 The text assumed a positive-theological stance on the deposit of faith,95 highlighting divine authority and the Church’s role in maintaining the integrity of revelation and providing the context in which the act of faith was possible.96 The words of Dei Filius are worth citing in full: “In fact, it is to the Catholic Church alone that belong all those signs that are so numerous and so wonderfully arranged by God to make evident the credibility of the Christian faith. In fact, the Church by herself, with her marvelous propagation, eminent holiness, and inexhaustible fruitfulness in everything that is good, with her catholic unity and invincible stability, is a great and perpetual motive of credibility and an irrefutable testimony of her divine mission.”97 Dei Filius was explicit about the necessity of receiving faith through the teaching authority of the Church, but the text did not go into detail regarding the precise dynamics of faith as a divine and human act.98 Even a cursory reading of the document and its overall structure, however, demonstrates its indebtedness to the labors of the Roman School on these matters. The Vatican Council’s constitution Pastor Aeternus equally demonstrated the influence of the Roman School and, in particular, the vision of the papacy set forth in Perrone’s Praelectiones Theologicae. In the Praelectiones, the authority of the papacy was treated independently from the authority of the Church on account of the subject’s importance, which was a procedure also followed in the declarationem de rebus fidei et morum, ed. P. Hünermann, 43rd Latin–English ed., trans. R. Fastiggi, and A. Nash (San Francisco, CA: Ignatius 2012), and will be abbreviated DS and numbered according to sections standardized in recent editions. The Latin editions used for the Vatican Council in Denzinger come from Sacrorum conciliorum nova et amplissima collection, ed. I. Mansi, et al., 53 vols. (Leipzig: H. Welter, 1758–1927), 51:430–6 (Dei Filius) and 52:1330–4 (Pastor Aeternus), and are normally the preferred texts among specialists. 94 For a side–by–side comparison of Franzelin’s and Kleutgen’s schemata with the final text of Dei Filius, see “Anhang V–VI,” in Hermann Pottmeyer, Der Glaube vor dem Anspruch der Wissenschaft: Der Konstitution über den katholischen Glauben “Dei Filius” des Ersten Vatikanischen Konzils und die unveröffentlichten theologischen Voten der vorbereitenden Kommission (Freiburg: Herder, 1968), 478–98. 95 DS, no. 3008. 96 Ibid. 97 Ibid. 98 Ibid. 610 C. Michael Shea dogmatic preparatory commission. One of Perrone’s students, Franz Hettinger, completed the first schema for the decree in April of 1869, and it largely followed the lines of Perrone’s votum presented earlier in the year.99 Clemens Schrader then revised the schema into nearly the form it assumed at the early stages of the Council. The question of papal infallibility, however, was reserved for the Council itself.100 During the Council, a further student of the Roman School and translator of Perrone’s work, Willibald Maier (1823–1874), who was Ignaz of von Senestrey’s peritus, was responsible for producing the final caput addendum on papal infallibility (April 1870).101 Although Maier’s contribution would be debated intensively by the Council participants, the broad contours of the final text conformed strikingly with Perrone’s teaching on papal authority from the third year of the Praelectiones Theologicae. The Council taught that the pope receives his authority directly from Christ by virtue of his promise to Peter (Praelectiones, 2:920). This authority, when exercised ex cathedra for the definition of faith and morals, is also infallible (ibid., 2:1018– 21), since the certitude of revelation itself requires the infallibility of its safeguards and instruments (ibid., 2:929). The pope finally exercises this authority through the power of his office, not from the consent of the Church (ibid., 2:974). In short, the First Vatican Council’s dogmatic teachings on faith, reason, tradition, and papal authority represented an adoption of central themes from the third and fourth years of Perrone’s theological curriculum while including further nuances from the influence exerted on the preparatory commission and later deputations by representatives of the Roman school, most importantly Schrader, Franzelin, Joseph Kleutgen, Franz Hettinger, and Willibald Maier. The definitions of the First Vatican Council clearly stand as one of the Roman School’s most significant contributions to modern Roman Catholicism, but this achievement has been largely forgotten today. To some degree, this was because the prominence of the Roman School was quickly losing ground at that time to the José Maria Gómez–Heras, Temas Dogmaticos del Concilio Vaticano I: Aportación de la Comisión Teológica preparatoria a su obra doctrinal, votos y esquemas inéditos, 2 vols. (Vitoria: Eset, 1971), 2:562–63; for Perrone’s votum, see document A–8c (ibid., 2:661–74); for Hettinger’s schema, see document A–8i (ibid., 2:777–84). 100 Ibid., 2:564. 101 Klaus Schatz, Vaticanum I, 1869–1870, 3 vols. (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 1992–1994), 3:19. 99 Ressourcement in the Age of Migne 611 Neoscholastic Revival, and by the end of the century, Perrone’s work had been virtually abandoned in Roman circles.102 Yet, even despite this rapid eclipse, the achievement of the Roman School continued to shape the Church in important and subtle ways. For example, Gioacchino Vincenzo Pecci, the future Pope Leo XIII (r. 1878–1903), can be regarded as expanding the Roman School’s vision in magisterial teaching. As a seminarian (1824–1832), Pecci studied under Perrone at the Collegio Romano103 and went on to use the Praelectiones Theologicae as archbishop of Perugia.104 At the First Vatican Council he also headed a group of bishops in examining an important schema on the Church produced by the Theological Preparatory Commission.105 Scholars have observed recently that Pecci later consulted drafts from the Vatican Council and that these drafts played a significant role in his magisterial teaching as Pope.106 In particular, Leo’s encyclical on the Church, Satis Cognitum (29 June 29, 1896), strikingly displays the theological achievements of the Roman School on the Church, the magisterium, tradition, the act of faith, and papal authority.107 The encyclical can be interpreted as filling in the largely implicit ecclesiological lineaments that connected Dei Filius and Pastor Aeternus, but the intellectual roots of Satis Cognitum have never been studied.108 Though it seems likely that the Roman School had This is according to a student at the Germanicum, Konrad Gröber, in Klaus Schatz, Geschichte der deutschen Jesuiten (1814–1983), 5 vols. (Münster: Aschendorff, 2013), 2:165. 103 Benno Kühne, Unser heiliger Vater Papst Leo XIII: in seinem Leben und Wirken (Einsiedeln: Karl & Nikolaus Benzinger, 1880), 21–23. 104 Acta et Decreta Sacrorum Conciliorum Recentionum. Collecio Lacensis, 6 vols. (Freiburg: Herder, 1870–1892), 6:761. 105 Bruno Bellone, I vescovi dello Stato Pontificio al Concilio Vaticano I (Rome: Pontificia Università Lateranense, 1966), 158–60. The schema “Decretum et canones de ecclesia Christi” can be found in Gómez–Heras, Temas Dogmaticos del Concilio Vaticano I, 2:466–78. 106 John Dick, Jürgen Mettepenningen, and Karim Schelkens, Aggiornamento? Catholicism from Gregory XVI to Benedict XVI (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 59. 107 Acta Sanctae Sedis, XXVI2:708–39; English translation can be found in Claudia Carlen, The Papal Encyclicals 1878–1903 (Raleigh, NC: Pierian Press, 1990), 387–404. 108 For an overview of research, see Giovanni Tangorra, “Il concetto di Chiesa in Leo XIII,” Lateranum 76 (2010): 293–317; and Philippe Levillain, “L’historiographie du pontificat de Léon XIII,” in Le pontificat de Léon XIII. Renaissances du Saint–Siège? ed. P. Levillain and J–M.Ticchi (Rome: École Française de Rome, 2006), 9–33. 102 612 C. Michael Shea a significant impact upon Leo’s teaching, this impact will never be traced fully until the background of his thought is explored in greater detail. It is probable that the influence of the Roman School in the twentieth century was also significant, but this question remains untouched in the scholarship. Sebastian Tromp, for example, was known to have worked extensively with the ecclesiological writings of the Roman School in the Gregorian University archives, and these writings formed an important part of Tromp’s classroom instruction during the 1930s.109 As many readers of this journal will be aware, Tromp is widely regarded as the primary author behind Pius XII’s encyclical Mystici Corporis Christi ( June 29, 1943) and, as secretary of the Theological Preparatory Commission, played a significant role in the composition of Lumen Gentium at the Second Vatican Council.110 Tromp’s student Heribert Schauf was the first major scholar of the Roman School in the twentieth century and a peritus at the Second Vatican Council. He worked closely with Tromp in the Theological Preparatory Commission at the Council and worked on Lumen Gentium and Dei Verbum.111 Schauf also prepared editions of previously unpublished ecclesiological works from Passaglia and Schrader in 1959 and 1961, which was early enough to have had an impact upon discussions among preparatory commission members or general session participants.112 The contributions of both Tromp and Schauf remain largely untreated in the literature on Vatican II,113 and the Heribert Schauf, intro. to De Corpore Christi mystico sive de ecclesia Christi theses: die Ekklesiologie des Konzilstheologen Clemens Schrader S.J., an Hand seines veröffentlichen und unveröffentlichen Schrifttums, ed. H. Schauf (Freiburg: Herder, 1959), Einführung, 7. 110 Stefano Alberto,“Corpus Suum mystice constituit” (LG 7): La Chriesa Corpo Mistico di Cristo nel primo capitolo della “Lumen Gentium”: storia del testo dalla “Mystici Corporis al Vaticano II con referimenti alla attività conciliare del P. Sebastian Tromp, S.J. (Regensburg: Friedrich Pustet, 1996), 49–54. 111 Personenlexikon zum zweiten Vatikanischen Konzil, ed. C. Carl, M. Quisinsky, and P. Walter (Freiburg: Herder, 2012), 239. 112 Heribert Schauf, De Corpore Christi mystico sive de ecclesia Christi theses; Schauf, De conciliis oecumenicis: theses Caroli Passaglia de conciliis deque habitu quo ad Romanos Pontifices referuntur (Freiburg: Herder, 1961). 113 Tromp’s diary of the Council, for example, was edited only recently in Sebastian Tromp, S.J., Konzilstagebuch mit Erläuterungen und Akten aus der Arbeit der Theologischen Komission II. Vatikanisches Konzil, ed. A. von Teuffenbach, 2 vols. (Rome: Pontificia Università Gregoriana, 2006). Schauf ’s three-volume diary remains unedited in the Domarchiv in Aachen with a photocopy version in the Archiv der Hochschule St. Georgen, Frankfurt am Main. 109 Ressourcement in the Age of Migne 613 legacy of Perrone and the Roman School up until our own time will never be known fully until their contributions are better explored. Particularly in the French- and English-speaking worlds, Perrone and the Roman School have been almost completely lost in the collective memory of scholars. Yet it remains undeniable that their influence upon the development of modern Catholicism was of defining significance. The movement served as a driver for the development of Roman Catholic doctrine on the act of faith and its relationship to ecclesiastical authority and tradition during an age of great transformation on all levels of society. In meeting the challenges of the nineteenth century, the Roman School built upon early modern contributions but also embarked upon a monumental collective project of theological ressourcement. Without their renewed exploration of the Fathers of the Church and other ages of the Christian past, the movement’s contributions to tradition, papal authority, Mariology, and the theology of faith and reason would hardly be imaginable. These contributions had a broad and lasting impact upon the Church as a modern institution. The Roman School helped to establish a new balance of center and periphery in the Church and helped to reorient the juridical and magisterial functions of the papacy for the Church to meet the challenges of an era that was and remains increasingly pluralistic, global, and multi-centered in outlook. In attempting to meet these needs, the Roman School provided the Church with a broad constellation of principles and conceptual tools for navigating the modern world intellectually and as a social institution, and these contributions remain important features that shape Catholic thought up into our own time. Perrone and the Jesuits of the Collegio Romano may be almost forgotten in the twenty-first century, but it would be difficult to envision the Church today without their achievements. N&V Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 15, No. 2 (2017): 615–651 615 “Be Imitators of God” (Eph 5:1): Aquinas on Charity and Satisfaction Daria Spezzano Providence College Providence, RI “Be imitators of God, as beloved children. And walk in love, as Christ also loved us and handed himself over for us, an oblation and a victim to God in an odor of sweetness.” (Eph 5:1–2) Many scholars have noted Thomas Aquinas’s emphasis on the role of Christ’s charity in satisfying for sins by the Passion. In one way or another, they have argued that, as Fr. Romanus Cessario puts it, “Love, not punishment, dominates Aquinas’s account of the efficacy of the Passion.”1 Matthew Levering has shown that, for Aquinas, Christ’s Passion fulfils the ceremonial, moral, and judicial precepts of the Mosaic Law, inaugurating the New Law of love. He argues that Aquinas moves away from a more juridical interpretation of satisfaction by his focus on “the personal act of Christ as mediator and priest, whose actions are motivated by supreme charity.”2 Rik Van Nieuwenhove points out that, for Aquinas, “‘punishments’ are not inflicted by God for their own sake, ‘as if God delighted in them,’ but for something Romanus Cessario, O.P., “Aquinas on Christian Salvation,” in Aquinas on Doctrine: A Critical Introduction, ed. Thomas Weinandy, Daniel Keating, and John Yocum (New York: T&T Clark, 2004), 117–137, at 124. See also Cessario, The Godly Image: Christ and Salvation in Catholic Thought from Anselm to Aquinas (Petersham, MA: St. Bede’s Publications, 1990). 2 Matthew Levering, Christ’s Fulfillment of Torah and Temple: Salvation according to Thomas Aquinas (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2002), 57–58. 1 616 Daria Spezzano else, namely redirecting creatures toward their true goal. It is this that Aquinas has in mind when he talks of the right order of the universe.”3 While Thomas works with traditional categories derived from scriptural and theological teaching on debt, punishment, and justice in his treatment of satisfaction, these authors and others agree that his central concern is not to present a theory of vindictive justice, but rather to show in more relational terms how sinners may be restored to right order through Christ’s charitable suffering for human salvation and, so, be reconciled to God.4 In this essay, I will look more closely at how Thomas thinks this works; that is, why charity is so central to his account of Christ’s satisfaction and how it communicates the benefits of that satisfaction to us. In the background here is the complex picture of medieval theories of atonement, which include Anselm’s argument in Cur Deus Homo that God became human in order to offer satisfaction for sin and restore the order of justice by his voluntary death, a satisfaction that “none but God could make, and none but man ought to make.”5 It also includes Peter Abelard’s argument in his Commentary on Romans that it is not the death of the innocent Son that pleases the Father and justifies us, but rather that our redemption comes about through the demonstration of God’s love for us in the Passion, which kindles in us a salvific love for God and gives us a model to follow.6 Modern Van Nieuwenhove is quoting the Summa contra gentiles (hereafter, SCG) III, ch. 144, no. 10; see “Bearing the Marks of Christ’s Passion,” in The Theology of Thomas Aquinas, ed. Rik Van Nieuwenhove and Joseph P. Wawrykow (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2005), 277–302, at 289. Van Nieuwenhove argues that satisfaction, for Aquinas, is not a “legalistic transaction.” Christ satisfies for our sins because of the charity of his Passion, and by incorporation in him, we are changed so as to share in the divine life (291). I discuss this essay further below. 4 Eleonore Stump, too, argues that for, Aquinas, “the aim of any satisfaction (including vicarious satisfaction) is not to make debts and payments balance but to restore a sinner to harmony with God”; see Aquinas (New York: Routledge, 2005), 437. 5 Cur Deus Homo 2.6, in St. Anselm: Basic Writings, ed. S. N. Deane (LaSalle, IL: Open Court Classics, 1962; repr. 1994), 259. 6 Commentary on Romans 3.26 (book 2.117–18), in Peter Abelard: Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans, trans. Steven Cartwright, Fathers of the Church Series, Medieval Continuation 12 (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2011), 167–68. Abelard was vehemently, if perhaps unjustly, attacked by William of Thierry and Bernard of Clairvaux, who accused him of teaching that Christ died for nothing; see Cartwright, Peter Abelard, 44 and William of St. Thierry, Disputatio Adversus Petrum Abaelardum, ed. Paul Verdeyen, CCCM 3 Aquinas on Charity and Satisfaction 617 commentators sometimes call Abelardian-type views of atonement “moral” or “subjective,” since they focus on the human response to the Passion. Satisfaction theories like Anselm’s, which focus on the efficacy of Christ’s sacrifice itself in offering a recompense on behalf of humanity, can be classified as “objective.” 7 The value of classical objective theories of satisfaction has been questioned—or rejected altogether—by some recent theologians such as Robert Daly and Stephen Finlan on the grounds that such theories inherently perpetuate a harmful narrative of legal transaction and divine violence. In Daly’s extensive treatment, Sacrifice Unveiled, he argues that Christ’s sacrifice must be understood as a “self-offering response” of the Son within a Trinitarian dynamic of mutual self-giving.8 Daly emphasizes that Christ’s suffering in his humanity was contingent on this self-offering but his love was not.9 In saying that Christ’s suffering was not absolutely necessary, he claims something similar to Aquinas, but does not really answer, as I think Aquinas does, why Christ did suffer in God’s plan of providence—that is, how Christ’s suffering, as human, actually played some positively salvific role in his self-offering response to the Father and was not merely its unfortunate by-product. Finlan, in his book Problems with Atonement, argues more stringently than Daly that, while the Incarnation is a central Christian doctrine, atonement itself is not and proposes that, instead of attempting to salvage ideas of atonement, with their harmful baggage, we should focus on salvation as theōsis, or divinization, with “a more mature concept of the Divine Parent” who “needs no sacrifice or payment.”10 89A, (Turnhout, BE: Brepols, 2007), 7; Bernard of Clairvaux, Epistola 190. Epistulae, ed. J. LeClercq, C. H. Talbot, and H. M. Rochais, Opera 7–8 (Rome: Editiones Cistercienses, 1957) 8.22, 9.25 (also in PL, 182:1070C–10702C). This accusation seems allied to concerns about Abelard’s theology of grace, in which some saw a “pelagian” denial of the need for auxiliary grace; cf. Cartwright, Peter Abelard, 42, William of Thierry, disp. 6; Bernard, Epistle 190, 9.23–24 (also in PL, 182:1071A–1072A). 7 For instance, Gustaf Aulén refers to this common distinction in his influential systematization of ideas of atonement, in which he argues for the retrieval of a third “classic” view, the Christus Victor model, see Christus Victor: An Historical Study of the Three Main Types of the Idea of Atonement, trans. A. G. Herber (London: SPCK, 1931; New York: Macmillan, 1969). 8 Robert Daly, Sacrifice Unveiled: The True Meaning of Christian Sacrifice (New York: T&T Clark, 2009; repr. 2011), 11. 9 Daly, Sacrifice Unveiled, 106, 236. 10 Stephen Finlan, Problems with Atonement (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2005), 124; cf., 62. Finlan has been criticized, however, by Michon Matthieson (I think justly), for speaking as if the “spiritual maturation” of divinization 618 Daria Spezzano I will argue that Aquinas, by foregrounding charity in his account of satisfaction, achieves two main things that help to address these objections. First, he is able to reconcile, synthesize, and go beyond the objective and subjective views of the salvific role of the Passion that he received from the tradition by showing how Christ, through his filial charity, is both the cause and model of our own satisfaction.11 Although sometimes only the objective “Anselmian” elements of his thought are emphasized,12 Thomas understands satisfaction in the context of filial/paternal love—that is, interpersonally—whether in relation to Christ or to us. Secondly, in the context of his mature teaching on charity, Thomas places satisfaction itself into its proper role as an integral step towards deification in his larger picture of the journey of rational creatures to beatitude by conformation to Christ through the Holy Spirit as God’s adopted children. In this, Thomas shows how satisfaction truly gives God honor by manifesting that the goodness of his wise plan of providence justly orders all things to their end. In doing these things, I think, Thomas helpfully addresses some of the valid concerns of contemporary objectors such as Daly and Finlan while offering a strong and coherent account of how Christ’s sacrificial suffering in the Passion is just, fitting, and truly a manifestation of the divine goodness. Thomas’s treatment is founded not on a narrative of divine violence, but on the basic Christian insights that “God is love” and that Christian life is a Spirit-led journey in imitation of the filial love of Christ for the Father. And yet, it is precisely in Christ’s sacrificial suffering as priest, victim, and Son could take place for sinful humans without suffering; see Matthieson, Sacrifice as Gift: Eucharist, Grace, and Contemplative Prayer in Maurice de la Taille (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2013), 24. Both Finlan and Daly draw on René Girard’s argument about the religious role of violence against “sacred scapegoats”; see Girard, La violence et le sacré (Paris: Bernard Grasset, 1972). 11 The notion that Christ was both cause and model of salvation in his Passion was not original to Thomas. For instance, it is stated by Peter Lombard in III Sentences d. 28, ch. 5. But Thomas makes distinctive use of this idea in the context of his teaching on the saving mysteries of the Incarnation, as will be discussed below. 12 In Daly’s brief treatment of Aquinas, he argues that the sophistication and influence of Aquinas’s “basically Anselmian satisfaction theory” contributed to the undervaluing of Abelard’s advanced insights until the nineteenth century (Sacrifice Unveiled, 114). However, Cessario notes that, in his early Scriptum super Libros Sententiarum, Thomas already draws from both Anselmian- and Abelardian-type models for the redemption, the latter influenced by the pseudo-Augustinian Liber ecclesiasticorum dogmatum (The Godly Image, 77–78). Aquinas on Charity and Satisfaction 619 that Thomas presents him as the cause and model of satisfaction by filial charity. I will argue that this is so especially because our own satisfaction must involve some penitential suffering. So, while the Passion is an objectively satisfactory priestly act by Christ as the head of the body, it is also the cause and model of our own acts of satisfaction. Such satisfaction is offered in the exercise of the charity-infused virtue of religion, which allows us to render justice to God by giving to him the honor that is due and, so, enables us to participate in and subjectively appropriate the benefits won for us by Christ’s priestly satisfaction as head of the mystical body. The Satisfactory Sacrifice of Christ’s Passion In question 48 of the tertia pars of the Summa theologiae (ST), Thomas discusses the various ways or modes by which the Passion brought about human salvation. I will focus on articles 2 (on satisfaction) and 3 (on sacrifice), but all six articles examine, from different interrelated perspectives, the Passion’s work in restoring fallen humanity to union with God through the instrumentality of Christ’s humanity united to the Godhead.13 In article 2, Thomas argues that Christ brought about our salvation per modum satisfactionis: the Passion satisfied for human sins by offering recompense (recompensatio) for the offense of sin. Thomas begins by saying that to properly satisfy for an offense one must give to the offended party something he loves equally or more than he hated the offense: “by suffering out of love and obedience Christ gave more to God than was required as recompense for the offense of the whole human race.” He goes on to say that Christ’s Passion “not only sufficiently but superabundantly satisfied” for human sins for three reasons: the magnitude of his charity, the dignity of the life he laid down as God and man, and the greatness of the pain he endured. This pain, Thomas had earlier argued, was greater than any other, in body and soul, in part because of Christ’s “grief at the one time for all sins” that flowed from his perfect charity and wisdom.14 Thomas does not evade the ST III, q. 48, a. 6. Unless otherwise noted, translations from the Latin are my own, although the English translation of ST by the Fathers of the English Dominican Province (New York: Benzinger Brothers, 1948; repr., Christian Classics, 1981) provided assistance at many points. For translations of the ST, I consulted the Leonine edition (vols. 4–12, 1888–1906) and the Ottawa edition (Instituti Studiorum Medievalium Ottaviensis, 5 vols. [Ottawa: Commissio Piana,1953]). The Corpus Thomisticum website (www.corpusthomisticum. org) gave invaluable assistance for this project (incorporating the Index Thomisticus of Roberto Busa, S.J.). 14 ST III, q. 46, a. 6, ad 4. 13 620 Daria Spezzano notion that satisfaction for sin involves suffering that removes the debt of punishment—indeed, he even underlines the greatness of Christ’s suffering in proportion to the magnitude of the offense. However, as quickly becomes evident in the next article, he contextualizes this apparent necessity of suffering with the idea of true sacrifice in mind; what God loves and accepts as satisfaction for human sins, the sacrifice that gives him honor and appeases him, is not Christ’s suffering per se, but Christ’s suffering out of love and obedience. Christ, of course, did not need to make satisfaction for himself because he was without sin; his will was perfectly ordered to God by grace (that is, by charity) from the moment of his conception.15 So, the first objection asks, if Christ was sinless, what satisfaction would he offer by his suffering? Thomas answers by explaining the ratio of Christ’s vicarious satisfaction, his charity and union with his members: “The head and members are as one mystical person. Christ’s satisfaction belongs to all the faithful as his members. And also, insofar as two are one in charity, one can satisfy for the other.”16 There are two related reasons here. As head of the mystical body, Christ communicates to his members all that belongs most eminently to him.17 Christ’s satisfaction is objectively superabundantly efficacious for the salvation of all. And Christ’s vicarious satisfaction is a special instance of the more general possibility of taking satisfactory punishment on oneself for another with whom one is “one in will by the union of love,” something Thomas has explained in his earlier treatment of the debt of punishment.18 This possibility, which Thomas discusses in a number of his works, depends upon the friendship between the one offering satisfaction and the one for whom he satisfies. Because the two are as one person in love, one can make satisfaction to God through the other, and this accords with the order of justice.19 Indeed, satisfactory punishments voluntarily accepted on behalf of another have spiritual benefit for the innocent one who ST III, q. 34, a. 3. ST III, q. 48, a. 2, ad 1. 17 ST III, q. 8, a. 1, a. 5. 18 ST I-II, q. 87, a. 7. 19 Compendium theologiae I, ch. 226: “Since . . . what we do or suffer through our friends, we ourselves are considered in some fashion to do or suffer (inasmuch as love is a mutual force that in a way makes two lovers one), the order of justice is not violated if a person is set free by the satisfaction his friend offers for him” (my own translation from vol. 42 of the Leonine edition, 1979). 15 16 Aquinas on Charity and Satisfaction 621 suffers and a penal character for the friend for whom he suffers.20 Thomas says in the Summa contra gentiles (SCG) that this is because “the punishment that a friend suffers for oneself, one regards as if it were suffered by oneself. Thus, one does not escape punishment, provided one suffer along with a suffering friend—and all the more so, the more one is the cause of his suffering.”21 Furthermore, “the love of charity in the person who suffers for a friend makes his satisfaction more acceptable to God than if he suffered for himself, for in the one case it is prompted by charity; in the other, by necessity.”22 Thomas asserts that Christ’s suffering does objectively and justly offer satisfaction to God, that this vicarious satisfaction depends on his love for the Father and for us, and that, in order to actually receive the benefits of that satisfaction, his members must be joined to him in charity and share his suffering (a point I will take up later). Thomas continues this theme of charity and unity in article 3 of the same question (48), where he argues that Christ’s Passion worked for our salvation per modum sacrificii—as a true and perfect sacrifice. In the sed contra, he uses Ephesians 5:2 (a text he quotes numerous times in the context of discussions about satisfaction and sacrifice in the ST and other later works): “Christ . . . handed himself over for us, an oblation and a victim [hostiam] to God for an odor of sweetness.”23 In his scriptural commentary on this text, he calls this self-offering of Christ the “immense sign of God’s charity.”24 At the beginning of the ST III, q. 87, a. 8. Thomas does not fully explain in q. 87 how exactly this satisfaction has a penal character for the guilty, except that they are somehow “one” with the innocent. An example he gives is a child punished for its parents who is “one” with them because he is something belonging to them (res eorum). He remarks in q. 87, a. 8, ad 3 that, in addition to the punishment of those near to us redounding to us somehow, “domestic examples and domestic punishments are more moving.” 21 SCG III, ch. 158, no. 7. Drawing from Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics 3.3.1112b 28, he explains that “‘the things that we can accomplish through the efforts of our friends we seem to do ourselves,’ for friendship makes two persons one in love, and especially in the love of charity. And so, just as a person can make satisfaction to God by himself, so also can he do it through another person, especially in case of necessity” (all translation of SCG is my own from the Marietti edition, vols. 2–3, ed. P. Marc, C. Pera, and P. Caramello [1961]). 22 Ibid. 23 The Vulgate Latin text of Ephesians 5:2 used by Thomas has hostiam rather than sacrificium. 24 Super Eph 5, lec. 1 (Marietti no. 268). All English translation from Super Eph is my own from the Marietti edition. 20 622 Daria Spezzano response in article 3, Thomas gives a definition of sacrifice as “something done for the honor properly owed to God,” and so far, this sounds similar to his discussion, earlier in ST, of sacrifice as an act of the virtue of religion. Here in the context of the Passion, though, he adds that sacrifice is offered to God “in order to appease him [ad eum placandum].” In support of this definition, Thomas offers a quote from Augustine’s City of God: “a true sacrifice is every good work done in order that we may ‘cling to God in holy fellowship,’” and that refers us to eternal happiness. Thomas then argues that Christ’s voluntary self-offering for us in the Passion fits this definition: it was “maximally acceptable to God, as coming from charity,” and therefore clearly a true sacrifice. He indicates here that what primarily gives God due honor and appeases or is acceptable to him is the inward sacrifice or self-offering flowing from charity that unites humans to God and refers them to eternal happiness—and Christ’s charity above all. This too has its foundation in his earlier treatment of the virtue of religion, where he also refers to the City of God to establish that outward sacrifices are offered to represent one and direct one to offer the inward sacrifice of devotion to God, a devotion caused and fed by charity.25 The focus on charity and unity with God as the substance and fruit of Christ’s sacrifice continues as Thomas ends his response with a quote from Augustine’s De Trinitate IV: “This one true Mediator reconciling us to God through the sacrifice of peace would remain one with Him to whom He offered it, and make one in himself those for whom He offered it, and Himself be the one who offered, and that which He offered.” Sacrifice and satisfaction are closely related concepts here, for it is by sacrifice that the recompense of satisfaction is offered.26 Christ’s voluntary sacrifice appeased God by offering the satisfactory recompense of his perfect human love and obedience. His inward self-offering of love, expressed outwardly in the sacrifice of his Passion, satisfied objectively for the offense of sins. In the answer to the first objection, Thomas argues that the Passion was, in fact, a “most perfect sacrifice,” going beyond the figural foreshadowing of the ST II-II, q. 86, a. 2, a. 4; cf. q. 81, a. 7. The Passion reconciled us to God, Thomas says in q. 49, a. 4, not only by taking away sin, but by his “most acceptable sacrifice,” which “was such a good act that, because of its being found in human nature, God was appeased for every offense of the human race with regard to those who are made one with the crucified Christ,” as head of the body. In this, Christ offered “a more acceptable recompense” to God (ad 2). 25 26 Aquinas on Charity and Satisfaction 623 Old Law: besides being human, mortal, and sinless, he says, it was perfect because “it was acceptable to God on account of his charity in offering his own flesh.” Here Thomas draws again from Augustine’s De Trinitate with an allusion to the Eucharist: “What could be so pleasingly offered and received as the flesh of our sacrifice, made the body of our priest?”27 Christ’s pleasing good work of self-offering in the priestly sacrifice of the Passion unites not only himself in his humanity but also us to God in holy fellowship and directs us with him to beatitude. The Immensae Caritatis Signum But why does the Father require satisfaction at all, and why through Christ’s suffering? This objection to a divine parent who requires payment for sins is of course what motivates contemporary scholars who would reject an objective model of satisfaction, which seems to make legal opponents of the Father, Son, and human sinners. Thomas thinks that we as humans need to offer satisfaction for sins for our own good (as I will discuss in the next section), but in a more objective sense, he clearly holds that the recompense of satisfaction does set right an imbalance or inequality in the order of justice, and he states this in his discussion of the debt of punishment, arguing that “God does not delight in punishments for their own sake, but he does delight in the order of his justice, which requires them.”28 So, “the act of sin makes one deserving of punishment, insofar as he transgresses the order of divine justice, to which he cannot return unless he pay some sort of penal compensation, which restores him to the equality of justice.”29 Taken out of context, statements such as these might suggest that Thomas is indeed proposing a simple legalism in which satisfaction for sin is governed by a somewhat impersonal law of justice rather than involving restoration of good relationship between humans and God. An examination of what Thomas means by the order of justice, however, indicates quite the opposite: God “delights in it” because it is founded in the divine love, which extends to all creatures. Thomas discusses God’s justice together with his mercy as divine attributes, in question 21 of the prima pars of ST, right after the question on God’s love. This gives an indication that he views both attributes as rooted in God’s loving will, which orders all things to the end of ST III, q. 48, a. 3, ad 1. ST I-II, q. 87, a. 4, ad 3. 29 Ibid. q. 87, a. 6. 27 28 624 Daria Spezzano the divine goodness—that is, to himself.30 God’s plan of providence, the “type of the order of things toward their end” existing eternally in the divine mind, includes the ordering of each creature.31 Besides the good of existing in a certain substance, each creature also receives the gift of order, being directed to the last end of divine goodness. This being ordered is thus a good in itself that manifests God’s own goodness.32 God’s justice and mercy are seen in this good ordering of the universe and of each creature. As ruler of all, God is debtor to none, but is just to himself in carrying out the plan of wisdom he wills in creatures and just to creatures in giving them what that plan requires for the nature and condition in which he wills them to exist. Within that plan, he justly gives them what they need to reach the end he intends for them.33 God’s justice thus “establishes things in the order conformable to the rule of his wisdom, which is the law of justice.”34 As Levering points out, creation itself is therefore the foundational context for a coherent understanding of atonement, for “the created order is imbued with justice.”35 Mercy and justice are closely related because they are different aspects of the communication of perfections that belongs, absolutely speaking, to the divine goodness. God is just in bestowing perfections proportionately and merciful in bestowing them to expel defects. Mercy is therefore not opposed to justice; God, in acting mercifully, does not overturn his justice but goes beyond it to give more than is proportionate.36 Indeed, God’s justice begins and ends in mercy, for the gift of good order is given to a creature who exists only by the unwarranted goodness of God, a creature to whom God “out of the abundance of his goodness” gives even more than is needed to preserve the order of justice. This is especially clear in the case of the justification of the ungodly, “when God remits sins on account of love, though he has himself mercifully infused that love.”37 For Thomas, then, the “order of justice” is not a legal system governing the payment of debts. Rather, it describes the primacy ST I, q. 19, a. 2; q. 20, a. 2. Ibid., q. 22, a. 1, a. 2. 32 Ibid., q. 22, a. 1. 33 Ibid., q. 21, a. 1. 34 Ibid., q. 21, a. 2 35 Matthew Levering, “Creation and Atonement,” in Locating Atonement: Explorations in Constructive Dogmatics, ed. Oliver D. Crisp and Fred Sanders (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2015) 43–70, at 59. 36 ST I, q. 21, a. 3, corp. and ad 2. 37 Ibid., q. 21, a. 4, corp. and ad 1. 30 31 Aquinas on Charity and Satisfaction 625 of divine causality proportionately ordering all things according to God’s plan of wisdom and will, and it therefore manifests God’s goodness and love. The goodness of God’s justice is shown in rational creatures especially by the gift of free will proportionate to their nature, inclining them towards the good, with the potential to be raised by grace and charity to union with God himself, although they can turn away from this highest end. Levering notes that Thomas thinks rational creatures also owe something to God, “a debt of worship and service to the Creator” that is “both a debt of justice and a debt that rightly calls forth love.”38 This means that sin is not only a moral but an existential betrayal. Human beings whose wills are rightly ordered to God are living within the order of justice because they are aligned with the good order willed for them by God: their wills are united with God’s will for them. Yet, the sinner, who misuses his free will by turning it away from God, still does not escape the order of justice, for God’s will as the universal cause of this order is always fulfilled. So, “that which seems to depart from the divine will in [the order of particular causes] returns to it in [the order of the universal cause]; as does the sinner, who by sinning falls away from the divine will as much as lies in him, yet falls back into the order of that will, when by its justice he is punished.”39 Sin incurs a debt of punishment because, while it disturbs the right-ordering of the sinner as a particular cause, it cannot disrupt the overall order intrinsic to the good of the universe itself willed by God. So, according to the order of divine justice, “he who has indulged his will more than he should, acting against the commandment of God . . . suffers, either willingly or unwillingly, something contrary to what he wishes.”40 When penance is willing, as I discuss below, it is not only satisfactory but also medicinal on a subjective level, healing the disorder of sin by opposing it. But Thomas also thinks that, objectively, all penal compensation, willing or unwilling, restores the equality of justice precisely because it manifests the right order that is an aspect of God’s goodness. To put it another way, on the level of the sinner as particular cause, the only thing that can fully restore his own good of order is that his will be reordered to God by voluntary satisfaction. On the level of God as the universal cause of good order, Levering, “Creation and Atonement,” 60–61. Levering refers to Thomas’s discussion of the virtue of piety, closely related to the virtue of religion, which gives to God the honor that is due to him (ST II-II, q. 81, a. 2; q. 101, a. 1). 39 ST I, q. 19, a. 6. 40 ST I-II, q. 87, a. 6. 38 626 Daria Spezzano even punishment of the unwilling can serve to manifest the divine goodness and justice, giving example to others.41 In either case, “the fact that sins are punished . . . does not imply that God’s mercy is subject to an external law of justice. The opposite is the case: the order according to which sin is punished and goodness is rewarded is a manifestation of God’s goodness and justice.”42 Thomas’s understanding of the objective order of justice rooted in the divine nature and providential activity frames the question of satisfaction not as a matter of an impersonal legal rectification of disorder, but as one of the right ordering of human wills toward the end of God’s goodness—that is, in terms of love and obedience as objectively making one exist in conformity with the will of God. Grave sins, which destroy charity, incur a debt of eternal punishment because they destroy the very principle by which one’s will is subject to God, and such a disorder “considered in itself, is irreparable, although it is possible to repair it by the power of God.”43 Because of original sin, all humans find themselves in this situation of eternal debt, “deprived of grace, without which there is no remission of sins.”44 Sin has thus created a deficit of the love for him that God wills to exist in his rational creatures, which they have freely rejected and which ultimately can be restored only by God himself as the source of love. Christ, as both God and human, redresses this deficit on a cosmic scale through his voluntary self-offering, since his satisfactory sacrifice was a perfectly just act with unlimited efficacy, restoring for all the possibility of being rightly ordered to the divine goodness by union with God’s will. Thomas’s treatment of God’s justice and mercy is therefore complete only in light of what he has to say about the reasons for Christ’s Passion. In fact, Thomas thinks, God hypothetically could have forgiven sins without Christ offering any satisfaction by suffering at all, and this would not have contradicted the order of justice, for as we have seen, mercy does not overturn justice. As the “sovereign and common good of the whole universe,” God’s complete pardon of fault against himself would not be unjust but merciful.45 We know from Thomas’s discussion of God’s mercy that this would not mean simply leaving sinners in a sinful state (which would not satisfy the order of justice), Ibid., q. 87, a. 3, ad 2. Van Nieuwenhove, “Bearing the Marks of Christ’s Passion,” 285. 43 ST I-II, q. 87, a. 3. 44 Ibid., q. 87, a. 5, ad 2. 45 ST III, q. 46, a. 2, ad 3. 41 42 Aquinas on Charity and Satisfaction 627 but rather the bestowal of perfections to expel defects even beyond what is proportionate to their state.46 However, God did will for the human race to be delivered by Christ’s Passion, and Thomas argues that this actually most greatly shows both God’s mercy and his justice. God’s justice is shown because Christ’s Passion did in fact make satisfaction for sins, and so, “humans were set free by Christ’s justice.”47 In “suffering out of love and obedience,” Christ restored the order of justice for the entire human race by the perfect ordering of his human will to the end of divine goodness, to perfect union with the divine will. And because God, rich in mercy, “on account of his exceeding charity” (Eph 2:4), gave his only Son to satisfy for human sins, his mercy is even more abundantly shown than if he had required no satisfaction at all.48 The Passion is a kind of icon manifesting God’s goodness, justice, and mercy, for it reveals the love of both Father and Son and the union of wills between Christ and the Father for the salvation of the world. Thomas’s account of the causes of Christ’s Passion in question 47 of the tertia pars focuses on this union of wills seen in the filial obedience of Christ and the causal love of the Father. Here he addresses a question framed in Peter Lombard’s Sentences, one he first treated in his Scriptum on the Sentences, about whether the Father handed Christ over to death.49 While similar elements can be found in the two accounts, he makes his expanded treatment in the ST the occasion for separate articles on Christ’s voluntary suffering, his obedience to the Father, and the Father’s gift of his Son, as well as on Christ’s persecutors as instrumental causes of his death.50 In the ST, too, as is often the case, ST I, q. 21, a. 3, ad 2. Cessario notes here a shift from the Scriptum, in which the younger Aquinas’s treatment is still more like that of Anselm, for whom “the thought of God forgiving sin without punishment necessarily implies a disorder.” The shift can be attributed to Aquinas’s later placement of satisfaction into a “schema of final causality” in which the whole treatment of the Incarnation takes place in the context of a consideration of the divine goodness (Cessario, “Aquinas on Christian Salvation,” 122). 47 ST III, q. 46, a. 1, ad 3. 48 Ibid. 49 In III Sent. d. 20, ch. 5, Lombard draws in turn from Augustine’s commentary on 1 John 4:9 (In I Ioannis 7.7). 50 In the Scriptum (In III Sent. d. 20, q. 1, a. 5), two quaestiunculae focus on whether the Father handed Christ over and whether the Passion was good, and in his answers, Thomas underlines the charity of Christ and his voluntary suffering. See also In III Sent. d. 20, q.1, a. 3, where he deals with the satisfactory value of the Passion. 46 628 Daria Spezzano Thomas provides much more connection to Scripture, reflecting his intervening work on scriptural commentaries. Christ himself was the cause of the Passion in that he died voluntarily, suffering the violence inflicted on him though he could have prevented it (a. 1). Christ died because of obedience (a. 2), and by his obedience “the many shall be made just (Rom 5:19), and so we are reconciled to God by the death of his Son” (Rom 5:10). In his Scripture commentary on this last verse, Thomas points out that Christ’s death was not acceptable to God simply because it was a death or because of the action of Christ’s killers, but rather because Christ “became obedient to death” (Phil 2:8), and “handed himself over out of love” (the “immense sign of God’s charity” in Ephesians 5:2, again).51 Thomas goes on to say in article 2 of question 47 that Christ willed to suffer out of both charity and obedience, because he “was obedient, out of love, to the Father’s command.”52 Obedience is better than all sacrifices, so “Christ’s death was a most acceptable sacrifice to God, according [again] to Ephesians 5:2: ‘He delivered himself for us an oblation and a victim to God.’” Furthermore, according to article 3, the Father “did not spare his own Son, but delivered him up for us all” (Rom 8:32). The Father was the cause of the Passion in that he preordained it for the deliverance of the human race, he inspired (inspiravit) Christ’s human will to suffer for us through the infusion of charity, and he permitted Christ’s persecutors to kill him. This was not cruel, Thomas says in answer to an objection, because it was not against Christ’s will. Thomas repeats again that the Father inspired Christ with the will to suffer for us and that, in this, not only his severity against sin but also “his goodness shines forth.”53 ST places emphasis here on two things that arguably differ from Thomas’s treatment in the Scriptum: first, the manifestation of God the Father’s goodness in the Passion, as well as that of the Son; 54 second, Super Rom 5, lec. 2 (Marietti no. 403). All translation from Super Rom are my own from the Marietti edition . 52 ST III, q. 47, a. 2, ad 3. 53 Ibid., q. 47, a. 3, ad 1. 54 Cf., In III Sent. d. 20, q. 1, a. 5, qa. 2, where the focus is only on the goodness of Christ’s action (and the evil action of his persecutors): “If therefore the passion is considered according to all the circumstances of what is in the sufferer, namely, Christ’s charity and its efficacy, it can be called good simply speaking. If, however, it is considered only as a passion, namely inasmuch as it takes away life, nothing else being considered, it is evil . . . so it can be called good simply speaking, and evil in a qualified sense” (my own translation). 51 Aquinas on Charity and Satisfaction 629 the “inspiration” of Christ’s will by the Father.55 With regard to the latter, I will argue below that, in the ST, Thomas lays emphasis on the movement of Christ’s human will by the Holy Spirit. Christ as God was one in will and action with the Father, and as human, his will was perfectly obedient to God. Therefore, “the Father delivered Christ, and Christ surrendered himself, from charity, and so both are praised.”56 Christ’s satisfaction restores the order of justice not as exacted from him by a vindictive divine parent, but (on the contrary) because he is perfectly united with his Father in love, manifesting God’s praiseworthy goodness in the divine plan. Thomas clearly proposes an objective model of Christ’s sacrifice offering satisfaction for sins, which emphasizes that, in his loving obedience, he gave the most acceptable recompense for sin, in union with the Father’s will, for the members of his body. Interwoven with this objective model, though, is a more subjective one. This is especially clear among the arguments Thomas makes to explain why Christ satisfied for sins precisely by his suffering. As we have seen, Thomas argues in the first article of question 46 (of ST III) that there was actually no absolute necessity for Christ to suffer, even to satisfy for sin; it was necessary only in the sense that it was preordained by Cf., In III Sent. d. 20, q. 1, a. 5, qa. 1, ad 1, where Thomas simply says that the Father handed Christ over without cruelty, “by giving him the will, and the charity, by which he willed to suffer” (“voluntatem dando, et caritatem, ex qua pati voluit”). 56 ST III, q. 47, a. 3, ad 3. So, even Christ’s cry of dereliction on the Cross (Mark 15:34; Matt 27:46) can be understood in the context of a union of wills between Christ and the Father for human salvation. Thomas Joseph White, O.P., draws on Aquinas to argue convincingly that, as Christ possessed the beatific vision even in his Passion, filling him with intense charity and longing for the salvation of sinners, “the final cry of Christ on the Cross cannot be interpreted as a cry of either despair or spiritual separation from God. By contrast, it must be understood theologically as a prayer of desire related to Christ’s abandonment to the Father and his hope to introduce humanity into the eschatological gift of redemption”; see The Incarnate Lord: A Thomistic Study in Christology (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2015), 310; 336–38. Bruce Marshall, responding to modern theologians who would conclude from Christ’s cry of abandonment that God must be passible, demonstrates the essential role of an orthodox Christology and doctrine of the Trinity for a coherent understanding of Christ’s suffering and death on the Cross in his human nature (“The Dereliction of Christ and the Impassibility of God,” in Divine Impassibility and the Mystery of Human Suffering, eds. James F. Keating, Thomas Joseph White, O.P. [Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2009], 246–98). 55 630 Daria Spezzano God.57 In article 3 of the same question, Thomas explains further why, nevertheless, there was no more fitting way for God to liberate the human race.58 Christ, as head of the body, actually merited our eternal salvation by his charity from the moment of his conception, but “there were some impediments on our part to receiving the effects of his preceding merits; consequently, in order to remove these impediments, it was fitting for Christ to suffer.”59 In addition to his arguments for the objective efficacy of Christ’s Passion, many of the reasons Thomas gives for the fittingness of Christ’s suffering on the Cross focus on how it removes impediments on our part by eliciting a subjective response in us and providing a model for us to follow. The first reason given in article 3 sounds like Abelard: “By this, man knows how much God loves him, and is provoked to love God in return, and in this the perfection of human salvation consists; Rom 5:8: ‘God commends his charity towards us, for when we were sinners, Christ died for us.’” In his commentary on Romans, he remarks that this verse “indicates a certain immensity of the divine love.”60 In article 1 of question 49, Thomas also quotes Romans 5:8 and combines objective and subjective explanations for how the Passion causes the forgiveness of sins, to which satisfaction contributes: it (objectively) does so by the efficacy of Christ’s humanity as instrument of the Godhead, and by his redemptive work as head for his members, but the first reason given is again that it (subjectively) “provokes our charity,” by which sins are forgiven. Thomas may have adopted this more subjective theme from Lombard, who perhaps was drawing on Abelard, as he often does in the Sentences.61 Lombard quotes the same text from Romans 5:8 and argues that one reason we are freed from sins by Christ’s death is that God’s charity toward ST III, q. 46, a. 1–2. Aidan Nichols notes that the reasons Aquinas gives for the fittingness of Christ’s Passion indicate that “liberation from sin is not the whole of salvation”; understood positively, “it is gracious reunion with God”; see “St. Thomas Aquinas on the Passion of Christ: A Reading of Summa theologiae IIIa, q. 46,” Scottish Journal of Theology 43 (1990): 447–59, at 449. 59 ST III, q. 48, a. 1, ad 2. 60 Super Rom 5, lec. 2 (Marietti no. 399). 61 Although, Lombard was not the only possible source. Ian Levy points out that Bruno the Carthusian writes of Christ’s Passion “in what we might call ‘Abelardian’ terms, although many decades before Peter Abelard composed his own Romans commentary c. 1137”; see Levy, “Bruno the Carthusian: Theology and Reform in His Commentary on the Pauline Epistles,” Analecta Cartusiana 300 (2013): 5–61, at 43. 57 58 Aquinas on Charity and Satisfaction 631 us while we were still sinners is so greatly manifested that “charity is excited in our hearts” towards God in return: Christ’s death elicits charity in us, and we are justified and freed from sins by that charity.62 Christ’s Passion also provides a model for us to follow. The questions in ST on Christ’s Passion, death, Resurrection, and exaltation are the culmination of Thomas’s unique treatment of the mysteries of Christ’s life, which is his presentation, organized with reference to scriptural sequence, of “all the things the Incarnate Son of God did or suffered in the human nature united to him,”63 all of which, Thomas says, “were done for our instruction.”64 In article 3 question III Sent. d. 19, ch. 1: “But how were we released from sins by his death? Because ‘by his death’ as the Apostle says, ‘God’s charity to us is commended’ (Rom 8); that is, the excellent and commendable charity of God towards us is seen, in that he handed over his own Son to death for us sinners. As so great a pledge of love towards us was shown, we are moved and enkindled to loving God, who has done so much for us, and by this we are justified; that is, released from sin we are made just. So, the death of Christ justifies us, as by it charity is excited in our hearts” (my own translation from PL, 192:795A). In Thomas’s commentary on this text, he is careful to distinguish between faith and charity excited by the Passion as efficient causes of the removal of sins, on the one hand, and the “true sacrifice” of Christ’s death as the sufficient cause, on the other (In III Sent. q. 1, a. 1, qa. 1, ad 4). Cf., Lombard, Commentary on Romans 5:8 (PL, 191:1384A) and Abelard’s own commentary on Romans 5:8 (2.155–56), where he repeats the idea that Christ “died for the wicked that charity might be poured out in our hearts” (Peter Abelard: Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans, 206–07). Thomas was surely aware of medieval accusations against Abelard by Bernard of Clairvaux and others that, by his emphasis on the role of Christ’s death in eliciting and modeling charity, he undervalued its objective power to satisfy for sins (see note 6 above). I have not found any direct reference to this dispute in Thomas’s writing, but he does quote in several places a saying attributed to Bernard, that “minima gutta sanguinis Christi suffecisset ad redemptionem humani generis [The least drop of Christ’s blood would suffice for the redemption of the human race]” (e.g., Questiones quodlibetales II, q. 1, a. 2, and the Adoro te devote; my own translation), the source of which in Bernard seems to be unknown, but which may derive from his Epistle 190 (against Abelard) 8.22: “The blood that was shed was so powerful for pardoning that it wiped away that greatest sin itself, by which it was shed” (my own translation form PL, 182:1070C). Perhaps Thomas, aware of the controversy, preferred to remain crypto-‘Abelardian’. 63 ST III, q. 27, prol. 64 See e.g., ST III, q. 40, a. 1, ad 3. Cf., Richard Schenk, “Omnis actio Christi nostra est instructio: The Deeds and Sayings of Jesus as Revelation in the View of Thomas Aquinas,” in La doctrine de la révélation divine de saint Thomas d’Aquin, ed. Leo J. Elders, Studi Tomistici 37 (Vatican City: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 1990), 104–31. 62 632 Daria Spezzano 46 (ST III), Thomas goes on to say that Christ gave an example of all the virtues needed for salvation in his Passion, such as obedience and humility, “leaving an example that you should follow in his steps” (1 Pet 2:21). Christ’s Passion also merited grace and glory that bring us to that salvation, teach us to refrain from sin and give greater dignity to human nature. These reasons for the fittingness of the Passion, reminiscent of the reasons Thomas gives for the fittingness of the Incarnation itself, point to a contextualization of human healing and liberation from sin within the larger picture of the whole journey to glory for the children of God.65 In his death on the Cross in particular, Christ shows us how to live righteously and is our teacher, and Thomas here quotes Augustine’s dictum (more poetic in Latin): “The tree on which were fixed the members of him suffering, was the chair of the Master teaching.”66 Thomas also writes of Christ crucified as a model of charity in his commentary on our text from Ephesians 5:1–2 (“Be imitators of God as beloved children, and walk in love as Christ loved us and handed himself over for us”), and in these verses, Thomas says, the author first “sets down the way to imitate God, which is in charity; second, he shows the immense sign of charity [immensae caritatis signum],” in Christ’s self-offering on the Cross.67 He echoes here what he said at greater length in his beautiful exegesis of Ephesians 3:19: “To ‘know the charity of Christ’ is to know all the mysteries of Christ’s Incarnation and Redemption, which have poured out from the immense charity of God,” and he describes the height, depth and breadth of this charity measured by the dimensions of the Cross, chosen by Christ out of love, and imitated in the virtue of the saints.68 The love kindled by the Passion thus brings about conforma ST III, q. 46, a. 3; cf. III, q. 1, a. 2. Ibid., q. 46, a. 4, quoting Augustine, In Ioannis 119: “Lignum in quo fixa erant membra patientis, etiam cathedra fuit magistri docentis” (my translation from PL, 35:1950). 67 Super Eph 5, lec. 1 (Marietti no. 268). This Ephesians text appears only once in the Scriptum (In III Sent. d. 20, q. 1, a. 5, qa. 2, sc 1), evidently because Lombard had used it in the question under discussion, that of who handed Christ over in the Passion. By contrast, the verses, separately or together, appear at least ten times in ST, and many more in other later works, especially the Scripture commentaries, in the context of discussions about sacrifice, satisfaction, charity, and divine filiation, e.g., Super Ioan 21, lec. 2 (Marietti no. 2599). 68 Super Eph 3, lec. 5 (Marietti no. 178–80). Thomas draws in his exegesis from a traditional interpretation by Augustine (see the latter’s Sermon 53.16). Augustine’s interpretation was recorded, among others, in the Glossa Ordinaria on this passage. 65 66 Aquinas on Charity and Satisfaction 633 tion to Christ in the Passion. While Christ’s satisfaction is objectively superabundantly sufficient for human salvation, it seems that, for it to have its full effect in us, we must imitate, and indeed participate in, Christ’s charitable satisfaction as God’s beloved children by our own filial sacrifice of loving obedience, which must involve the cross—that is, some temporal suffering for us—as part of the journey to holiness. Christ’s Satisfaction and Ours Why is this needed? Is Christ’s satisfaction not enough? Thomas establishes in the first question of his treatment of the Incarnation, in agreement with Anselm, that the infinite efficacy of Christ’s satisfaction was a reason that God became human.69 And yet, in saying this, Thomas makes an interesting qualification. In answer to an objection that it seems humans should be able to satisfy for sin themselves, he begins to outline how Christ’s satisfaction is actually realized for each individual. Because of the union, Christ’s satisfaction is “condign, as adequate recompense for the fault committed,” in a way the satisfaction of a mere human being cannot be because of both the corruption of all human nature and the offense against the infinity of God’s majesty. However, Thomas says, even an ordinary human being can offer an imperfectly sufficient satisfaction that God accepts in light of Christ’s condign satisfaction.70 Although Thomas does not term our imperfect human satisfaction “congruous” here, there is a similarity to his discussion of condign and congruous merit, where he argues that, because grace internally moves the human free will through its own acts of charity, both the condign merit of the Holy Spirit and the congruous merit of the free will can be attributed to the human creature on its way to beatitude.71 In effect, the condign merit of divine action makes the congruous merit of human action possible in the context of God’s ordination in his plan of providence for rational creatures; they are fittingly rewarded for using well the limited powers he gives them.72 There is a similar relationship between Christ’s satisfaction and ours: “Because everything imperfect presupposes something perfect, by which it is sustained, so every satisfaction of a mere human has efficacy from the satisfaction of Christ.”73 Christ not only satisfies objectively ST III, q. 1, a. 2; cf. a. 3. Ibid., q. 1, a. 2, ad 2. 71 ST I-II, q. 114, a. 3, a. 4. 72 Ibid., q. 114, a. 1. 73 ST III, q. 1, a. 2, ad 2. 69 70 634 Daria Spezzano for sin but also is a kind of efficacious principle for the possibility of individual humans to cooperatively offer satisfaction. Our offering of congruous satisfaction, although imperfect, becomes part of the divinely initiated plan of salvation in Christ. Thomas’s treatment of the virtue and sacrament of penance makes clear that it is not only possible but also necessary to cooperatively offer one’s own satisfaction, imperfect as it is, for post-baptismal sins. The forgiveness of sins includes both the forgiveness of guilt and the remission of the debt of punishment for which satisfaction is required. Christ’s Passion suffices to remove the guilt of sin and all debt, both of eternal punishment for turning away from God, and of temporal punishment for turning inordinately to temporal things.74 However, each person is released from the debt “according to the mode in which he participates the power of Christ’s Passion.”75 In baptism, Christ’s satisfaction removes the whole debt of eternal and temporal punishment from the one who receives the sacrament in faith, “just as if he himself had offered sufficient satisfaction for all his sins,” because baptism is a total participation in the power of Christ’s Passion, as Paul teaches in Romans 6.76 Therefore, no works of satisfaction are required for the newly baptized, as this would “do injustice to the Passion and death of Christ, as if it were insufficient for the plenary satisfaction” of their sins.77 In the subsequent sacrament of penance, however, one “shares in the power of Christ’s Passion according to the measure of his own acts,” and the debt of punishment is not fully remitted until the three acts of the penitent—contrition of the heart, confession in words, and satisfaction in deeds—have been completed.78 These three human actions, which constitute the matter of the sacrament, are the fruits of the virtue of penance moving the will to detest past sin as an offense to God with the intention to make amends by cooperating with his grace.79 The sinner is justified by the Ibid., q. 86, a. 4, ad 2–3. Both eternal and temporal punishment are due for mortal sin; for venial sin, temporal punishment is due (I-II, q. 87, a. 5). 75 Ibid. 76 ST III, q. 69, a. 2; III, q. 86, a. 4, ad 3. 77 Ibid., q. 68, a. 5. 78 Ibid., q. 86, a. 4, ad 3; cf. I-II, q. 113; III q. 90, a. 2. That is, insofar as this remission is an effect of the acts of the penitent (the matter), which are subordinated to the power of the keys (the form) (III, q. 86, a. 6). In this sacrament, the power of Christ’s Passion “operates through the priest’s absolution and the acts of the penitent, who cooperates with grace for the destruction of his sin” (III, q. 84, a. 5). 79 ST III, q. 85, a. 2. 74 Aquinas on Charity and Satisfaction 635 will’s double movement away from sin (by penance) and toward God (by faith and charity), and this is the effect of operating grace, since God alone can turn the heart to himself.80 Given God’s divine initiative, and by the power of Christ’s Passion, this conversion is sufficient for the forgiveness of the guilt of mortal sin and the remission of the debt of eternal punishment, since by it, “the aversion of the mind to God is taken away.” The remission of the eternal debt is therefore the effect of operating grace.81 However, there still remains the material element of the sin: an “inordinate turning to a created good, for which some temporal punishment is due.”82 The remission of the latter “belongs to co-operating grace, insofar as one, by bearing punishment patiently with the help of divine grace,” is released from the temporal debt.83 So, the full debt of punishment is not completely removed until “satisfaction in deeds,” the final act of the penitent that completes the matter of the sacrament, has been freely offered in cooperation with grace, even when one has already been reoriented by the first movement of penance and charity to God.84 ST I-II, q. 113; cf. q. 111, a. 2. While God alone can bring about this conversion and, so, is the first principle of the habit of penance, its act results when we “cooperate with God operating” by servile fear, faith, hope, and love, and finally filial fear, prompting us to make amends for the offense against God (III, q. 85, a. 5). 81 ST III, q. 86, a. 4. Bruce Marshall points out that, in Thomas’s understanding of justification, the remission of sins involves, on God’s part, not only the will to bestow grace that transforms the penitent but also “the element of a purely forensic disposition” whereby God “covers” or forbears to punish us for past sinful acts that, though forgiven, can never be undone. So, “Aquinas cannot . . . be summoned as a chief witness for a transformational theology of justification, in opposition to a dispositional and forensic one. For him the two evidently are not opposites”; see “Beatus vir: Aquinas, Romans 4, and the Role of ‘Reckoning’ in Justification,” in Reading Romans with St. Thomas Aquinas, ed. Matthew Levering and Michael Dauphinais (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2012), 216–37, at 229, 234, 236–37. Marshall’s conclusion provides a corollary to one of the arguments of this essay, that Aquinas synthesizes objective and subjective models of satisfaction: objectively, God graciously wills to forgive sins on account of Christ’s satisfaction; subjectively (but also by the transforming gift of grace won by Christ on the Cross), we cooperate with God’s initiative by our own charity and obedient satisfaction. 82 ST III, q. 86, a. 4. 83 Ibid., q. 86, a. 4, corp. and ad 2. 84 Ibid., q. 86, a. 4, ad 3. Thomas allows, though, that sometimes, as with Mary Magdalen, God “turns the human heart with such power” that all effects of sin are completely removed (q. 86, a. 5, ad 1). The Supplement, drawing from In 80 636 Daria Spezzano It is necessary for us to cooperate in offering temporal satisfaction because not only are we restored to the equality of justice by this—as in all penal compensation, willing or unwilling—but through the voluntary right ordering of our will, we imitate Christ’s charity and become more like him through suffering. As we have seen in the case of Christ, what pleases God and satisfies above all is the charity and obedience of the one who offers. Penitential temporal satisfaction is offered by one who seeks with a good will to repair their relationship with God. It is offered voluntarily out of love for God and sorrow for sin, for “charity demands that one should grieve for an offense committed against his friend, and that he should seek to make satisfaction to that friend.”85 This makes temporal penance very different from the punishment that is exacted unwillingly by retribution, even though both belong to justice, for in penance, “we seek not only the restoration of the equality of justice, as in vindictive justice, but also and still more the reconciliation of friendship, which is accomplished by the offender making satisfaction according to the will of the person offended.”86 Punishment voluntarily taken upon oneself or patiently accepted from God’s hand is satisfactory; indeed, satisfaction even “loses somewhat of the nature of punishment” because it is willingly offered.87 Yet, human penitents, unlike Christ, have sinned, and so satisfaction also has a remedial aspect, helping to heal the disorder of sin by acting contrary to it.88 The penitent is existentially in a situation that must be put right for friendship with God to reach its fullest dimension. Even after justification, his or her will is still afflicted with the remnants of sin, inordinately directed to temporal things. Van Nieuwenhove argues that, while Aquinas shares with Anselm the view that “satisfaction excludes punishment,” he more greatly emphasizes its medicinal character as a corrective to the disorder created by sin, in line with his “sophisticated theological psychology.”89 Aquinas IV Sent. d. 17, q. 2, a. 5, qa. 2, states that this can occur because of the intensity of the acts of charity and penance in perfect contrition. Ordinarily, though, “one cannot be sure that his contrition suffices for the remission of both punishment and guilt,” and true contrition should lead him to confess and make satisfaction in any case (ST Supp., q. 5 a. 2 co. and ad 1). 85 ST III, q. 84, a. 5, ad 2. 86 Ibid., q. 90, a. 2; q. 85, a. 3. 87 ST I-II, q. 87, a. 6. 88 Ibid., q. 87, a. 6, ad 3. 89 Van Nieuwenhove, “Bearing the Marks of Christ’s Passion,” 282, 286, 289. Aquinas on Charity and Satisfaction 637 understands sin as an illness of the soul that the punishment of suffering can heal by redirecting the will back to God, and it is in light of this redirection that the restoration of the order of justice, emphasized by Anselm, takes place for Aquinas.90 That is, freely accepted temporal suffering helps to counteract the inordinate movement to temporal things, and restores to the will the right order to the last end intended by God for rational creatures. Van Nieuwenhove examines Aquinas’s most complete discussion of satisfaction in SCG, noting that his teaching, far from promoting any notion of penal substitution, is grounded instead in the participation of the faithful in Christ.91 By “our incorporation in Christ” in the mystical body, individual temporal suffering “may acquire a ‘satisfactory’ value,” so that “through Christ’s satisfaction we begin to participate in God’s redeeming work: satisfaction is an inchoative participation in our abiding with God.”92 We saw in the questions on the Passion in ST that Thomas argues that Christ’s vicarious satisfaction is extended to others only insofar as they are joined to him in the mystical body and in charity.93 It is as head of the mystical body that Christ is “a propitiation for our sins, and not for ours only, but for those of the whole world” (1 John 2:2). Yet, only those who are united to Christ in faith and charity are actually fully members of his body; all others are members only in potentiality. Even those who have been incorporated into Christ by baptism but have lost charity by mortal sin are actual members “only in an imperfect sense,” by formless or dead faith.94 To actually share the benefits of Christ’s satisfaction, one must return by penance to a share in the charity by which he satisfies—that is, be “one in will [with him] by the union of love.” Christ’s vicarious satisfaction, while sufficient and superabundant objectively speaking, must nevertheless be appropriated to each individual through their own graced offering of satisfaction, and it makes that subjective satisfaction possible. Satisfaction is something only Christ’s friends can offer, and that they must offer, paying the debt of temporal punishment by which they actively cooperate with grace and are transformed by it. So Christ’s satisfaction avails only for those who receive and cooperate with the gifts he bestows as head. Ibid. 286. Ibid. 290. 92 Ibid. 291. See SCG IV, ch. 55, no. 29. 93 ST III, q. 48, a. 2. 94 Ibid., q. 8, a. 3, ad 2. 90 91 638 Daria Spezzano But as we have also seen, Christ, in his Passion, helps his members to do so by giving them the example of his own sacrificial suffering. This not only elicits their charity but also teaches them how to offer their own satisfaction for post-baptismal sin in the sacrament of penance, following his sacrificial pattern. And this makes sense. For those whose wills are weak and passions disordered, satisfaction, insofar as it requires turning away from temporal attachments, must involve some suffering, even if voluntariness mitigates its penal character. As Thomas says in the Compendium of Theology, a human “can satisfy only by feeling pain in himself, and loss in external goods.”95 And to put it simply, we cannot suffer as well as Jesus. We need him to show us how and to inspire us and help us to do so. This helps us to understand why Thomas emphasizes that, although charity was the substance of Christ’s true inward sacrifice, and although, because of the greatness of that charity, he merited human salvation from his conception, it was not only objectively but also subjectively important for us that he did suffer to satisfy for our sins. So, Christ’s suffering removed the impediments on our part that “impeded us from receiving the effect of his preceding merits.”96 Satisfaction and Deification The objective and subjective ways in which the Passion effects satisfaction are linked at the deepest level because both ultimately derive from the initiative of divine love by which God conforms humans to Christ by grace as his adopted children, rightly ordering them to final union with himself. That is why Thomas’s teaching on satisfaction cannot be fully understood outside of his larger picture of the deifying journey to God for the rational creature in God’s wise plan of providence. From the outset of his treatment of the Incarnation in ST, Thomas emphasizes its dual role not only as a remedy for sin, removing humans from evil, but also as a principle of deification, promoting them in the good. These two roles of the Incarnation correspond to the two roles of grace outlined in the prima secundae: grace, which flows from the Incarnate Word, both heals and elevates.97 When he argues for the fittingness of the Incarnation, Thomas puts the latter role first: the Incarnation confers “the full participation of divinity which is true human beatitude and the end of human life . . . for ‘God became man Compendium theologiae I, ch. 226 (my own translation; see note 19 above). ST III, q. 48, a. 1, ad 2. 97 ST I-II, q. 109, a. 2. 95 96 Aquinas on Charity and Satisfaction 639 so men might become God.’” Secondly, it causes our liberation from the servitude of sin by Christ’s satisfaction for the whole human race.98 Christ not only satisfies for sin but also deifies, and it could be said that one is the necessary preamble to the other in the divine plan of providence that allowed the evil of sin yet brought out of it a greater good.99 Christ’s satisfaction works in his members to free them from all debt of punishment: “yet so we first receive in our souls the ‘spirit of adoption of sons’ . . . and afterwards, configured to the sufferings and the death of Christ, are led to immortal glory (Rom 8).”100 In thinking about satisfaction in ST,Thomas always has in mind God’s plan to deify his adopted children and lead them to beatitude in spite of the obstacle presented by corrupt nature. As head of the body, Christ not only offers satisfaction for his members but also gives them a participation in his own fullness of habitual grace.101 Grace is bestowed on Christ’s human soul “as on a universal principle for bestowing grace on human nature, according to Ephesians 1 (5–6): ‘He has graced us in his beloved Son.’”102 The Incarnation is therefore a principle of perfection in every way for human nature.103 In ST, Thomas presents this perfection in terms of a progressive participation in divinity by conformation to Christ.104 ST III, q. 1, a. 2. The quote from Pope Leo that Thomas provides at the end of the corpus makes the final point that Christ is both cause and model for human salvation because of the union: “Were he not true God, he could not provide the remedy; were he not true man, he could not set an example.” 99 ST III, q. 1, a. 3, ad 3. Cessario points out that in the Scriptum, Thomas “subordinates the incarnation to the requirements placed on the human race by original sin,” whereas in ST, his discussion is controlled by a consideration of the divine goodness (The Godly Image, 124). In the Scriptum (e.g., In IV Sent. d. 15, q. 1, a. 1, qa. 3) and the SCG III, ch. 158, Thomas defines satisfaction in terms of compensation for past sins and preservation from future ones, but there is no such clear connection to deification. 100 ST III, q. 49, a. 3. 101 Ibid., q. 8, a. 5; cf., III q. 7, a. 9: “For the soul of Christ so received grace, that in a manner, it is poured out from it upon others. And so it behooved him to have the greatest grace; as fire which is the cause of heat in other things, is of all things the hottest.” In Christ’s “fullness of grace,” of which “we have all received” (John 1:16), he fulfills the role of “mediator of God and men” (1 Tim 2:5) (III, q. 7, a. 1). 102 ST III, q. 7, a. 10. 103 Ibid., q. 1, a. 6. 104 See ST I, q. 12, a. 5; q. 43, a. 5; q. 93, a. 4; I-II, q. 112, a. 1; III, q. 23, a. 3, among other loci in ST related to this theme. Recent studies have underlined the importance of deification (and its relationship to adopted sonship) in Thomas’s 98 640 Daria Spezzano The grace that Christ possesses in fullness and gives to others as head, according to Thomas’s mature definition in ST, is a participation in the divine nature that deifies its recipients and perfects them in the divine image.105 This grace gives Christ’s members a new relationship to God: Christ bestows on others a participation in his own sonship,106 making them God’s adopted children, their intellects and wills elevated by the infused virtues and gifts that all depend on charity for their operation.107 A closer look at what charity is according to Thomas sheds further light on why it plays such a key role in his understanding of how Christ’s satisfaction and ours bring us to the end of deification, rightly ordering us to God. It also reveals the important role of the Holy Spirit in satisfaction, which might otherwise go unnoticed. In ST, Thomas describes charity repeatedly in two ways: as a friendship founded on God’s communication of beatitude to us that calls us into the fellowship of his Son,108 and as a participation in the Holy Spirit that is an infused created virtue of the will.109 These two ways of understanding charity are closely related: charity is the virtue of adopted sons that directs them to union with God in beatitude because their wills are so conformed to the Holy Spirit as to be ordered to the object of God’s own love, God himself. God communicates a share in his beatitude to his adopted children through the created habitus of charity precisely by causing their wills to participate in the divine procession of Love that has God as end.110 By the gift of charity, then, God causes in us a love that moves us in freedom toward himself by a participation in the divine likeness that deifies understanding of sanctification. For instance, see Luc-Thomas Somme, O.P., Fils adoptifs de Dieu par Jésus Christ: La filiation divine par adoption dans la Théologie de saint Thomas d’Aquin (Paris: J. Vrin, 1997); A. N. Williams, The Ground of Union: Deification in Aquinas and Palamas (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999); Daniel Keating, “Justification, Sanctification and Divinization in Thomas Aquinas,” in Aquinas on Doctrine: A Critical Introduction, ed. Thomas G. Weinandy, Daniel A. Keating, and J. P. Yocum (New York: T&T Clark, 2004), 139–58; Daria Spezzano, The Glory of God’s Grace: Deification according to St. Thomas Aquinas, Faith and Reason Studies in Catholic Theology and Philosophy (Ave Maria, FL: Sapientia Press, 2015). 105 ST I, q. 93, a. 4; I-II, q. 110, a. 3. 106 ST III, q. 23, a. 1, ad 2; a. 4. 107 Charity is the root and form of the virtues, directing them to the last end (ST II-II, q. 23, a. 8), and the source of the gifts of the Holy Spirit (I-II, q. 68, a. 5). 108 E.g., ST II-II, q. 23, a. 1; q. 24, a. 2. 109 ST II-II, q. 23, a. 2, ad 1; q. 24, a. 2; a. 5, ad 3; a. 7. 110 Cf. ST I, q. 43, a. 5, ad 2. Aquinas on Charity and Satisfaction 641 the will. Charity, therefore, conforms our will to God’s will.111 Charity and obedience to God are closely allied, Thomas says, because “friends have the same likes and dislikes.”112 And from charity flow the gifts of the Holy Spirit that help us to be moved more perfectly by the grace of the Spirit toward the end of beatitude.113 To have the virtue of charity, then, is to have a will assimilated to the Holy Spirit and capable of being led by the Holy Spirit so as to be moved by the Holy Spirit in docility.114 This is an active docility that allows the person to cooperate fully with the movement of grace. Christ is the cause and model of both satisfaction and deification because he is not only the cause of grace for others but also himself the perfect model of a graced human nature in operation. In his fullness of grace, he has the fullness of the virtues and gifts.115 His human will is perfectly deified by participation in the Holy Spirit and, so, is perfectly ordered to God by charity, and it is therefore united to the divine will, in obedience even unto death. This obedience makes of Christ’s human will a perfect instrumental cause of human salvation.116 As Corey Barnes notes, Thomas’s view of Christ’s satisfaction as mediator secundum quod homo in ST depends upon his mature conception of the instrumental efficient causality of Christ’s human nature. The free activity of the divine Word’s human will must be given its full import, for “only Christ’s human will can freely will the passion as sacrifice to make satisfaction.”117 Thus, Thomas places ST I-II, q. 19, a. 10. Jean-Pierre Torrell, O.P., notes that of the 236 places where Thomas uses the vocabulary of “conformity” in his works, “the overwhelming majority (175) is found in the context of the conformity of our wills to God”; see “Imitating God as His Beloved Children: Conformity to God and to Christ in the Works of St. Thomas Aquinas,” in Christ and Spirituality in St. Thomas Aquinas, trans. Bernhard Blankenhorn, O.P. (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2011), 110–25, at 111. 112 ST II-II, q. 104, a. 4. Here, obedience to God is in fact demanded by natural law: since God is the first mover of wills, “all wills, by a kind of necessity of justice, are bound to obey the divine command.” Sin, of course, disrupts this order of justice. Religion too is a natural virtue, and the internal sacrifice of a devout mind obedient to God is required of all. 113 ST I-II, q. 68, a. 2, a. 5. 114 Cf. Super Rom 5, lect. 3 (Marietti nos. 635–420), on Romans 8:14: “For whoever are led by the Spirit of God are the children of God.” 115 ST III, q. 7, a. 2, a. 5. 116 Ibid., q. 19, a. 1. 117 Corey Barnes, Christ’s Two Wills in Scholastic Thought (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 2012), 278. Theophil Tschipke argues for a development in Thomas’s view of the instrumentality of Christ’s humanity: in 111 642 Daria Spezzano “a remarkable stress on the role of Christ’s human will in salvation. A perfect human will in obedience to God is the (instrumental) cause of salvation, crowning the fittingness of the Incarnation as the wisest means for redemption.”118 I would only add that this perfection is wrought by Christ’s charity giving to his human will a fullness of freedom as instrument. God the Father infused such charity into Christ’s soul from his conception that, as we have seen, “he inspired [inspiravit] Christ with the will to suffer for us” in the Passion.119 This language of “inspiration” seems to indicate that Thomas is thinking of the instinctus of auxiliary grace working on a will made docile by the Spirit’s gifts.120 Indeed, in his Commentary on Hebrews, he says that the shedding of Christ’s blood “was by the Holy Spirit, through whose movement and instinct, namely, by the love of God and neighbor, he did this.”121 In Thomas’s treatment of charity itself, he argues that charity in a wayfarer increases by being reduced more to its act of fervent love, and so it participates more perfectly in the likeness of the Holy Spirit.122 This reduction to act is the work of auxiliary grace.123 Christ’s will, perfectly active in charity as a comprehensor, was perfectly moved by auxilium. So, his human will, conformed to the Holy Spirit and led by the Spirit, was a perfectly operating conjoined instrument with the divine will in his suffering. the Summa Thomas underlines that Christ’s humanity, as an instrument that shares in the power of his divinity, is an efficient instrumental cause of human salvation, L’humanité du Christ comme instrument de salut de la divinité (PhD diss., Albert-Ludwigs-Universität de Freiburg im Breisgau, 1939), introduction by B. D. de La Soujeole, trans. P. Secretan, Studia Friburgensia, n.s. 94. (Fribourg: Academic Press, 2003). 118 Barnes, Christ’s Two Wills, 283. 119 ST III, q. 47, a. 3. Cf., Super Ioan 3, lec. 3 (Marietti no. 478): The Father gave the Son for the death of the Cross both because “as the Son of God he willed for eternity to assume flesh and die for us, and he had this will from the Father. Second, because the soul of Christ was inspired by God with the will to suffer” (my own translation from the Marietti edition). 120 For a discussion of Thomas’s use of the notion of the instinctus of the Holy Spirit, especially in his later works, see Jean-Pierre Torrell, Saint Thomas Aquinas, vol. 2, Spiritual Master, trans. Robert Royal (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2003), 206ff. 121 Super Heb 9, lec. 3 (my translation from the Marietti edition). Thomas is commenting on Hebrews 9:14 to explain why “the blood of Christ, who through the Holy Spirit offered himself unstained to God” is more efficacious than that of Old Testament sacrifices. 122 ST II-II, q. 24, a. 4, ad 3; a. 5, corp. and ad 3. 123 Cf. ST I-II, q. 111, a. 2. Aquinas on Charity and Satisfaction 643 In this docility to the Spirit, Christ models for the faithful a union of wills with the Father that satisfies for sin and restores a rightly ordered relationship with God so that they live according to the order of justice. The penitent who “walks in love,” imitating Christ in offering satisfaction as one of “God’s beloved children” (Eph 5:1), unites his will to God again in friendship, which union is God’s will for him. This right ordering gives justice to God by rendering the honor that is due him precisely by freely conforming to the divine will for his salvation. As Levering points out, “God wills that rational creatures intimately share in his justice by sharing perfectly in his divine will,” which orders the universe—that is, in his divine charity.124 Conformity to God’s wise plan gives him honor, most fundamentally, by manifesting the divine goodness. Sin hides God’s goodness by withdrawing one from the order of that goodness of which he is the source, but graced conformity to the divine ordination reveals it, giving glory and praise to God.125 So, the virtue of penance in initial conversion is a kind of justice that can even be called a sacrifice in its act. “Insofar as it proceeds from reverence for God,” it, like the sacrifice of obedience, is governed by the virtue of religion, which gives due honor to God.126 Christ’s Priesthood as Model of the Virtue of Religion Here one can see the close connection in the children of God between sacrifice, satisfaction, charity, and the virtue of religion, which gives honor to God, restoring the order of justice lost by sin and, so, giving God worship and praise.127 Sacrifice, one of the external acts of religion, is the outward expression of its essential internal acts of prayer Matthew Levering, “Juridical Language in Soteriology: Aquinas’ Approach,” Angelicum 80 (2003): 309–26, at 321. 125 Cf., ST III, q. 1, a. 1, ad 3. R. Jared Staudt argues that, for Aquinas: sin is a “personal offense” to God, disrupting the rightly ordered obedience that is one’s deepest personal obligation to him; all sin fundamentally works against the virtue of religion; it is related to idolatry, which honors something other than God, rather than living in “the friendship created by obedience”; see “Sin as an Offense against God: Aquinas on the Relation of Sin and Religion,” Nova et Vetera (English) 9.1 (2011): 195–207, at 195–96 and 201. 126 ST III, q. 85, a. 4. Cf. II-II, q. 81, a. 4, ad 1; q. 104, a. 3, ad 1. 127 ST II-II, q. 80; q. 81, a. 1, ad 4. Religion is a potential part of justice in that it offers God the special honor due him, although it cannot render all that is due. It offers honor according to a kind of justice of proportion, similar to what Thomas says about merit (cf. I-II, q. 114). 124 644 Daria Spezzano and devotion. Prayer subjects the intellect to God out of reverence.128 It is a filial act, dependent on faith and charity, and most perfectly expressed in the Lord’s Prayer, for when we call God “Our Father,” we excite confidence in God’s goodness by considering his charity towards us.129 Devotion is “the will to give oneself readily to things concerning the service of God,”130 and it is related to obedience, for one prefers God’s will to one’s own. Charity is the principle of religion and works through religion as a medium, causing one to worship God in order to adhere to God: “charity causes devotion (since love causes one to serve one’s friend) and feeds on devotion. All friendship is safeguarded and increased by the practice and consideration of friendly deeds.”131 The greatest of all such friendly deeds is, of course, Christ’s self-offering out of love on the Cross, and so, as we have seen, it provides the greatest example for practical imitation, as well as the greatest object for consideration. Anticipating his treatment of the Passion, Thomas says in the earlier questions on religion that Christ’s humanity is the chief incentive to devotion that leads to the love of God, especially the “consideration of Christ’s Passion,” which brings both sorrow for sin and joy in “God’s loving-kindness to us in giving us such a deliverance.”132 The acts of religion directed to God as Father are like those of the virtue of piety for parents, although more excellent,133 and the reverence for God shown by the virtue of religion is perfected by the gift of filial fear,134 the fear of separation from God, which makes one grow in humility, increases in proportion to charity, and is perfect in heaven.135 Christ, who, as the Letter to the Hebrews says, “was heard by God because of his reverence,” perfectly exemplifies this filial dimension of the virtue of religion elevated by the gift of fear: his soul “led by the Holy Spirit . . . had this act of ST II-II, q. 83, a. 3, ad 3; a. 15, ad 3. It depends on faith and charity for its efficacy. 129 Ibid., q. 83, a. 9, ad 5. 130 Ibid., q. 82, a. 1. 131 ST I-II, q. 82, a. 2, ad 1–2. The theological virtues, whose object is God, command the acts of religion, which give honor to God, and also direct all of the other moral virtues to this end. Throughout the questions on religion, Thomas examines the way in which, under the influence of grace, religion is elevated in the context of Christian faith and, so, offers the greatest honor and true sacrifice to God. 132 ST II-II, q. 83, a. 3, ad 2; a. 4, ad 1. 133 Ibid., q. 101, a. 3, ad 2. 134 Ibid., q. 81, a. 2, ad 1. 135 Ibid., q. 19, a. 10; a. 11. 128 Aquinas on Charity and Satisfaction 645 reverence towards God in a fuller sense and beyond all others.”136 Christ in his Passion is thus, as the cause and model of salvation, also the model of the filial virtue of religion: he teaches us to act like true children of God. Thomas’s treatment of Christ’s priesthood in question 22 of the tertia pars of ST presents Christ precisely in this way, as both the objective cause of satisfaction and deification and the model of the virtue of religion for the children of God. Christ’s priesthood is a specification of his headship, by which, in his humanity, he is “mediator between God and men” (a. 1). As priest, Christ accomplishes two primary things: he “bestows divine things” on the people—that is, the gift of grace, which, Thomas repeats here, confers a participation in the divine nature—and he makes satisfaction to God for sins.137 In other words, Christ both satisfies and deifies specifically through his priesthood, as head of the body. In article 2 of the question, Thomas considers Christ’s sacrifice, as he does later in article 3 of question 48, on Christ’s Passion. Here too, he begins by quoting from Ephesians 5:2—“Christ loved us and handed himself over for us, an oblation and a victim to God in an odor of sweetness”—and he refers to the City of God to establish that Christ’s outward sacrifice was a sign of his inward sacrifice, connecting here as well to the idea of sacrifice as an external act of the virtue of religion. In question 48, Thomas will focus on how the sacrifice was acceptable to God because of Christ’s obedient charity, but here his attention is on the effects that it causes in us and the way in which Christ’s sacrifice as both priest and victim is a model of the perfect religion of the New Law. Christ conferred on us all the effects of the sin offerings, peace offerings and burnt offerings of the Old Law named in Leviticus, fulfilling them in a more perfect way. Through him, sins were remitted, grace was given to us to cling to God, “in which peace and salvation consists,” and we acquire the perfection of glory, in which we will be completely united to God.138 This perfection is signified by the total holocaust of the burnt offering, which, Thomas explains in his treatment of the ST III, q. 7, a. 6. Ibid., q. 22, a. 1. 138 Ibid., q. 22, a. 2. There is perhaps a hidden link here to Thomas’s Commentary on Ephesians, where, discussing Ephesians 5:2, he remarks (also with reference to Leviticus) that Christ was an “oblation and a sacrifice” in that he accomplished by the “sweet-smelling oblation” of his body what was commanded to be offered in the Old Law for sin and peace-offerings (Super Eph 5, lec. 1 [Marietti no. 270]). 136 137 646 Daria Spezzano Old Law, especially shows reverence to God, love of his goodness, and total subjection to him.139 The priesthood of Christ “has full power for expiating sins” both because “by its virtue grace is given” to convert the sinner’s heart and remove the stain of sin and because it removes the debt of punishment by fully satisfying for sin.140 It is specifically as priest and victim, then, that Christ, the head, offers satisfaction and confers all the deifying gifts needed for the journey to beatitude—the forgiveness of sins, grace, and glory. And by bringing about the exercise of the New Law of grace in us by his sacrifice, his eternal priesthood far surpasses Old Law worship. A look at the structural context of question 22 further supports the idea that Christ’s priestly sacrifice is the model for the perfect exercise of the virtue of religion. This question falls in a section on Christ’s relation in his humanity to the Father and to us. Question 22, on Christ’s priesthood, comes after two questions on Christ’s subjection to the Father (q. 20) and his prayer (q. 21). By this placement, Thomas seems to be drawing an intentional parallel with questions on the virtue of religion discussed above. Religion itself “denotes properly a relation to God,” giving God honor as one’s source and end: by reverent worship of God, “the mind is subjected to him, wherein its perfection consists,” and so from religion comes obedience to God.141 Question 20 treats Christ’s relation of subjection, as human, to his Father, not only on account of the derived goodness and power of that nature itself, but especially because of his perfect obedience unto death. Question 21, on Christ’s prayer, seems to echo the questions on religion’s internal acts of devotion (the will to give oneself readily to serve God) and prayer (a filial act directing the intellect to God out of love).142 Christ, as God, did not need to pray, but as human, he did so for our instruction, to give us an ST I-II, q. 102, a. 3, ad 8: “This kind of sacrifice was offered to God specially to show reverence to His majesty, and love of His goodness: and typified the state of perfection as regards the fulfillment of the counsels. Wherefore the whole was burnt up: so that as the whole animal by being dissolved into vapor soared aloft, so it might denote that the whole man, and whatever belongs to him, are subject to the authority of God, and should be offered to Him.” 140 ST III, q. 22, a. 3. I do not address here the important question of the relationship of Christ’s priesthood to the ordained priesthood, but see Jean-Pierre Torrell, O.P., “Le sacerdoce du Christ dans la Somme de théologie,” trans. Robert Williams, Revue Thomiste 99 (1999): 75–100, and references therein. 141 ST II-II, q. 81, a. 1 and a. 7; q. 104, a. 3, ad 1. 142 Ibid., qq. 82–83. 139 Aquinas on Charity and Satisfaction 647 example.143 And all of his prayers were fulfilled because his will was in perfect conformity with the Father’s.144 Christ as priest and victim in question 22, then, can be seen as the perfect example of religion’s external acts of oblation and sacrifice, flowing from internal devotion and prayer, in filial subjection to God.145 Immediately prior to this section, Thomas establishes that Christ, as head, in his humanity, can efficaciously merit for others, sharing with them the grace of salvation.146 Immediately after the question on priesthood comes question 23, on Christ’s sonship and our divine adoption as a participation in Christ’s natural filiation by which we share in Christ’s union with the Father through grace and charity.147 Question 24 treats his predestination (and so his exemplarity for us as predestined). Questions 25 and 26 treat our adoration of Christ and his role as mediator. The consideration of Christ’s sacrifice in question 22 is set firmly in the context of the communication of deifying grace and offering of satisfaction for the members of his body through his own Spirit-led exemplary practice, as Son, of the virtue of religion. This section thus provides an illuminating bridge between questions 7 and 8 of the tertia pars, on Christ’s grace of headship, and the later questions on his Passion. The effects of Christ’s priestly sacrifice are communicated to the faithful in all of the sacraments, which “derive their power from Christ’s Passion” as conjoined instruments of his humanity. Because Christ both delivered us from sin and “inaugurated the rites of the Christian religion by ‘offering himself, an oblation and victim’ (Eph 5:2)” by his Passion, sacramental grace both heals the guilt of past sins and elevates the soul, “perfecting [it] in things pertaining to divine worship in regard to the Christian religion.”148 That is, the sacraments communicate the two (healing and elevating) effects of grace bestowed by the Incarnate Word specifically for the exercise of New Law religion, itself made possible by a participation in Christ’s priesthood conferred by baptismal character. In the questions on the Eucharist especially, the interrelationship Thomas has established between Christ’s priestly sacrifice, charity, satisfaction, and deification comes to fruition. Baptismal grace is directly ordained for the remission of sins (by forgiveness of guilt and satisfaction for debt) and ST III, q. 21, aa. 1–3. Ibid., q. 21, a. 4. 145 ST II-II, qq. 85–86. 146 ST III, q. 19, a. 4, ad 3. 147 Ibid., q. 23, a. 3. 148 Ibid., q. 62, a. 5. 143 144 648 Daria Spezzano incorporation into Christ by the power of his Passion: the focus in the questions on Baptism is its healing effect. But this power is united to his members in a special way in the Eucharist, for “the sacrifice which is offered every day in the Church is not something other than the sacrifice which Christ himself offered, but is its commemoration.”149 As the sacrament of Christ’s priestly sacrifice, the Eucharist both satisfies and deifies.150 As the “sacrament of charity,” it is specifically ordained for the perfection and spiritual nourishment of the faithful through union with Christ, who is truly present, a union that will be complete in heaven. So, Thomas foregrounds the Eucharist’s elevating effects—grace and glory—before its power for the forgiveness of sins.151 The Eucharist’s satisfactory effect for those who receive the sacrament is secondary, produced by “a kind of concomitance” from the fervor of charity in those who are spiritually united to Christ by it.152 It can satisfy for venial sins because it excites the act of charity in the recipient, but it is not a remedy for those in mortal sin, so long as they remain cut off from charity’s union with God.153 As in the sacrament of penance, one participates in the effects of the Eucharist according to the measure of one’s own acts. Christ’s Passion, offered up in the Eucharist as a memorial sacrifice, is itself sufficient to remit all sins and bring all to grace and glory, but just as “it has no effect except in those who are conjoined to Christ through faith and charity; so also this sacrifice, which is the memorial of the Lord’s Passion, has no effect except in those conjoined to this sacrament through faith and charity.”154 The Eucharist’s satisfactory power depends— for those who offer it and for the recipients, those for whom it is offered—on “the measure of one’s devotion,” the internal act of the virtue of religion flowing from the fervor of charity.155 Received with devotion, it is “the consummation of the spiritual life,” for charity is the inner reality of this sacrament, “making one perfect in union with Christ who suffered.”156 In Thomas’s treatment of the Eucharist, ST III, q. 22, a. 3, ad 2. Cf. ST III, q. 79, a. 5; a. 8, sc. 151 ST III, q. 79, a. 5 (note the order of articles in this question). 152 Ibid. 153 Ibid., q. 79, aa. 3–4. 154 Ibid., q. 79, a. 7, ad 2. 155 Ibid., q. 79, a. 5 156 Ibid., q. 73, a. 3, ad 3. Reinhard Hütter examines the important role for Thomas of almsgiving as a second “pillar of the restored arc of charity” after the sacraments in those who are united to Christ’s priestly sacrifice. Almsgiv149 150 Aquinas on Charity and Satisfaction 649 even more than in that of the Passion, charity comes to the fore as the way in which the faithful can be conformed to Christ crucified, who ordered his whole self in loving obedience to the Father as cause and model for human satisfaction and deification. Conclusion In spite of the theological and historical importance of the idea of atonement, no creed or council has formulated one exclusive interpretation of its meaning, and so, “it is possible for there to be a variety of interpretations, all of which count as orthodox.”157 This seems especially true in recent times, when debate about atonement has taken on a new vigor, but it was also true for Thomas Aquinas and his contemporaries, who drew on diverse models of atonement, both objective like Anselm’s satisfaction theory and more subjective like that of Abelard. Among scholars today who accept the notion of atonement at all, many are suspicious of classical objective models that foreground the idea of Christ’s satisfaction through his suffering on the Cross. The notion that the Passion could provide compensatory payment for sin to restore the order of justice, more widely accepted in the Middle Ages, often seems to modern sensibilities to perpetuate a legalistic, impersonal, and ultimately violent view of redemption. Underlying some of these objections, perhaps, is disagreement about what it means to say that there is an order of justice in the first place.158 Thomas offers the widest possible perspective: the law of justice describes God’s own wise and loving ordering of the universe, to which creatures must be conformed in order to reach their proper end. Far from opposing God’s mercy, God’s justice reveals a further aspect of the divine goodness, and this is nowhere more clearly seen than in the doctrine that Christ has won salvation by his superabundant satisfaction, allowing sinners to cooperate secondarily by loving penance in their own redemption. Any Christian doctrine of atonement that is orthodox and robust must meet many theological demands, accounting at least for scriptural claims of the centrality of Christ’s Passion in attaining human ing with charity is an act of both mercy and justice; see Hütter, “The Debt of Sin and the Sacrifice in Charity: A Thomistic Echo to Gary Anderson’s Sin: A History,” Nova et Vetera (English) 9.1 (2011):133–48, at 145–46. 157 Eleanor Stump, “Atonement and Eucharist,” in Locating Atonement: Explorations in Constructive Dogmatics, ed. Oliver D. Crisp and Fred Sanders (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2015), 209–25, at 210. 158 I am grateful to an anonymous reviewer for encouraging me to develop this point. 650 Daria Spezzano salvation, the gravity of human sin, and the unlimited scope of God’s justice and mercy. I have argued that Thomas’s placement of charity at the core of his doctrine of satisfaction makes a significant contribution to this tradition of reflection, giving deeper insight into the generosity of God’s plan for fallen humanity. Thomas takes seriously the existential cost of sin, for it disturbs the gift of good order in which human persons are created to flourish. The disorder sin creates is not cheaply remedied, either by Christ or by us, not because of the vengefulness of an angry divine parent, but because sin willfully and tragically averts us from God, destroying our very capacity to return to him, and because God, in the Incarnation and Passion, chooses radical means to restore us to right order again. Therefore, a theology of human sanctification cannot focus on deification alone but must take account of sin’s damage. Thomas’s arguments for the fittingness of Christ’s satisfactory suffering in spite of its non-necessity, are, I think, most significant in this regard. That God could have forgiven sins without requiring satisfaction but willed nevertheless that Christ should suffer “most greatly shows God’s mercy and justice” because, in the priestly sacrifice of his Passion, the incarnate Word shows that satisfaction is, in the end, an expression of love directed against the disorder that would separate humans from God. Integrating elements of both objective and subjective models of atonement, Thomas places satisfaction into the larger picture of the rational creature’s deification by grace in God’s justly ordered plan to communicate his goodness and so draws out its doxological purpose. In this, his doctrine is truly orthodox, giving right worship to God. In his charitable sacrifice, Christ is both the objective cause of satisfaction and the model for our subjective imitation, an imitation made possible only by the power of God’s own gift of grace and charity. In this, the Son restores the right order of justice, manifesting God’s goodness so that we can too. For Thomas, at least, the notion of satisfaction is not tied to a legalistic or impersonal narrative of divine violence. God the Father’s love and forgiveness is not grudgingly given, nor is satisfaction vindictively exacted. But the Father wants the obedient love of his children, for their own good, and for the revelation of his goodness, and this obedience carries a cost of suffering for those who are sinners on the way to salvation. And so, in God’s own providence, Christ, as head of the body, “loved us and handed himself over for us” as the “immense sign of God’s charity,” offering the satisfaction of obedient filial love perfectly on our behalf, Aquinas on Charity and Satisfaction 651 stirring us to love and praise God, and giving us a model of how too to offer satisfaction and so be deified by imitating him, as “God’s N&V beloved children.” Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 15, No. 2 (2017): 653–673 653 Infideles et Philosophi: Re-Reading ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3 Jeffrey M. Walkey Marquette University Milwaukee, WI He who thinks about things otherwise than as they are, is wrong. —Aristotle, Metaphysics Θ1 In 1967, Victor Preller published his “reformulation” of Thomas Aquinas’s account of God and religious language in his Divine Science and the Science of God.2 In it, he pushed back against many of the more traditional interpretations of Aquinas regarding, for instance, the quinque viae and divine naming. One of Preller’s more significant emphases, and the primary concern of the present article, is his suggestion that Aquinas, rather than defending natural theology apart from the grace of faith, denied its effectiveness, going so far as to deny that pre-Christian pagan philosophers can be said to know that God exists at all. He states, “The proposition, ‘God exists,’ . . . takes on such utterly new significance for faith that Aquinas is willing to say that the pagans . . . cannot be said to believe in God.”3 Metaphysics 9. 1051b3–4, taken from Aquinas, Commentary on Aristotle’s Metaphysics, trans. John P. Rowan (Notre Dame, IN: Dumb Ox Books, 1995), 626. All citations from the Commentary on Aristotle’s Metaphysics in English are taken from Rowan. 2 Victor Preller, Divine Science and the Science of God: A Reformulation of Thomas Aquinas (Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock Publishers, 2005). The book was originally published by Princeton University Press, 1967. 3 Preller, Divine Science, 228. For his close reading of Summa Theologiae [ST] II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3, see Divine Science, 226–71; see especially 226–37, in which he 1 654 Jeffrey M. Walkey In support of such an interpretation, Preller and others direct us to the Summa Theologiae II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3. This particular passage seems to function, for Preller and others, as a smoking gun (if not the smoking gun) showing that Aquinas did not hold that Pre-Christian pagan philosophers, such as Plato or Aristotle, could be said to know that God exists. Bruce Marshall maintains that this passage “was the point of departure for my analysis of Aquinas.”4 The impact of this reading of Aquinas is far reaching. It is present—explicitly and implicitly—in the writings of, to name a few, George Lindbeck, Stanley Hauerwas, Marshall, Eugene Rogers, and D. Stephen Long.5 One might get the impression, given the list of scholars above, that the acceptance and appropriation of Preller’s interpretation of Aquinas here is a largely Protestant and/or Barthian phenomenon.6 Yet, this interpretation is utilized—with and without reference to Preller—by Roman Catholic Thomists as well. Fergus Kerr states, “The interesting point for us . . . is that Thomas clearly thinks that the proposition ‘God exists,’ held as true by a non-Christian, on the basis of theistic proofs, does not mean the same as the proposition ‘God exists’ held by a believer.” 7 With respect to this ST passage and Preller’s influgives a more detailed account of the threefold distinction within the one act of faith, between credere Deum, credere Deo, and credere in Deum. 4 Bruce Marshall, “Thomas, Thomisms, and Truth,” The Thomist 56 (1992): 499–524. 5 See George Lindbeck, The Nature of Doctrine: Religion and Theology in a Postliberal Age (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1984), 48; see also 70n3, in which Lindbeck cites ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3. See also Stanley Hauerwas, With the Grain of the Universe (Grand Rapids: Brazos, 2001); Hauerwas, “Connections Created and Contingent: Aquinas, Preller, Wittgenstein, and Hopkins,” in Grammar and Grace: Reformulations of Aquinas and Wittgenstein, ed. Jeffrey Stout and Robert MacSwain (London: SCM Press, 2004), 76; Bruce Marshall, “Aquinas as Postliberal Theologian,” The Thomist 53 (1989): 353–402; Marshall, “Thomas, Thomisms, and Truth”; Marshall, “Faith and Reason Reconsidered: Aquinas and Luther on Deciding What is True,” The Thomist 63 (1999): 1–48; Eugene Rogers, Thomas Aquinas and Karl Barth: Sacred Doctrine and the Natural Knowledge of God (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1995); and D. Stephen Long, Speaking of God: Theology, Language, and Truth (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2009). 6 Note that Marshall has since become Roman Catholic. 7 Fergus Kerr, After Aquinas: Versions of Thomism (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers, 2002), 67. In his discussion of Preller and Aquinas here, Kerr notes, “Pagans, or methodologically atheist philosophers, may believe on rational grounds that ‘God exists’; but this would not be believing truly that ‘God exists,’ since they do not hold this belief sub his conditionibus quae fides determi- Infideles et Philosophi: Re-Reading ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3 655 ence, Kerr observes, “Victor Preller brought this remark to the fore.”8 More recently, John P. O’Callaghan marshalled this same passage in order to argue that the existence of the “God” (proper name) of faith cannot be philosophically demonstrated.9 The claim by these and other scholars is quite strong. As Frederick Crosson observed, “It’s not just that [the philosopher, e.g., Aristotle] in fact failed to [know God to exist], but that he couldn’t have done so.”10 Apart from faith, one does not and cannot know that God exists; insofar as one assents to the proposition “God exists,” as Preller and others have argued, apart from faith, it means something “radically different.”11 Given the work that this ST passage does for those who—like Preller, Marshall, Kerr, and others—argue that Aquinas denies that the pagan philosophers believed that God exists, it is crucial to have interpreted Aquinas rightly here. But have they done so? In this article, I will argue that, in fact, Preller and the others have misinternat,” and, “[Thomas’s] point is . . . that even the proposition ‘God exists’ means something radically different when held on the basis of philosophy and ‘under the conditions that faith determines.’” 8 Ibid. 9 O’Callaghan, without any reference to Preller, makes use of the same kind of reading of ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3. His remarks were offered in “Can We Prove the Existence of God? A Problem About Names,” presented on July 19, 2014, at A Dominican Colloquium: What Has Athens to Do with Jerusalem? Dialogue between Philosophy and Theology in the 21st Century, July 16–20, 2014, which appears in Nova et Vetera (English) 14.2 (2016). O’Callaghan’s essay was a wonderful consideration of the role of names in Aquinas’s discussions of knowledge of God. More specifically, he drew attention to the distinction between common and proper names and especially how the name “God” sometimes functions as a common name, while at other points it is a proper name. Ultimately, the pagan philosopher, if I understand O’Callaghan correctly, can be said to have proven the existence of “a god” (common name) but not the “God” (proper name) of Christian faith. Although I have some concerns regarding the analysis offered by O’Callaghan, a discussion of this sort is beyond the scope of the present essay. Here, I am primarily interested in his—and others’—interpretation and utilization of ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3, to lend support to the claim that pre-Christian pagan philosophers did not and could not have known of the existence of the God of Christian faith. Much more is required in order to address O’Callaghan’s full presentation. 10 Frederick J. Crosson, “Reconsidering Aquinas as Postliberal Theologian,” The Thomist 56 (1992): 481–98. In this essay, Crosson is responding in particular to the interpretation of Aquinas offered by Marshall. For another response specifically to Marshall, see also Louis Roy, “Bruce Marshall’s Reading of Aquinas,” The Thomist 56 (1992): 473–80. 11 Preller, Divine Science, 226. 656 Jeffrey M. Walkey preted the ST passage. Aquinas does not have pagan philosophers in mind at all. They are not even on the radar. Rather, the infidels in question are simply heretics and the like: those who are said to hold that God exists, otherwise than by faith, while also holding other false opinions about God and matters of faith. Furthermore, I will argue that the common interpretation of the passage from Aristotle’s Metaphysics in which deficient cognition of a simple thing is said to be ignorance of that thing has also been misinterpreted and mis-utilized to buttress the broader misinterpretations about pre-Christian pagan philosophers. The discussion will be fivefold: (1) I will present a brief discussion of the act of faith as it is articulated by Aquinas; (2) I will present the “Prellerian” interpretation of the relevant text; (3) I will offer my own exegesis of the relevant texts in order to identify more clearly the “unbelievers” (infideles) to which Aquinas refers; (4) I will briefly consider the meaning of defectus cognitionis as it is discussed in Aquinas’s commentary on Metaphysics 9; and lastly, (5) I will offer some concluding remarks that intend to state more compactly the position presented here.12 Actus Fidei: Belief according to Thomas Aquinas In his considerations of the act of faith and its object, Aquinas makes the well-known threefold distinction between “to believe in a God” (credere Deum), “to believe God” (credere Deo), and “to believe unto God” (credere in Deum). The first of these pertains to the intellect’s assent, by command of the will, to the material object of faith (materiale obiectum fidei): God or anything referred to God (ad Deum pertinent). The second—credere Deo—pertains to the formal aspect of the object of faith (formale obiectum fidei) in relation to the intellect: God as the First Truth (veritas prima); as Preller observes, “The believer submits to the teaching authority of God himself.”13 And lastly, the third aspect It is important to acknowledge that a wholly adequate interpretation of ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3 would require a great deal more than I am able to present in this article. For instance, it would be important to engage with several other works of Aquinas, most notably his Commentary on the Gospel of John, especially the lectures on chapters 1, 4, and 17. Also, a consideration of De veritate 14, as well as a more thorough discussion of his commentaries on Romans and Hebrews, sheds further light on the character of unbelief and the situation of the pagan or Gentile philosopher. Such a discussion must be left for another day. 13 Preller, Divine Science, 229. 12 Infideles et Philosophi: Re-Reading ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3 657 pertains to the will’s adherence to the object of faith as the good (bonum) or end (finis) of human existence: God as beatitude.14 Aquinas states, “[F]or since to believe is an act of the intellect assenting to the truth at the command of the will, two things are required that this act may be perfect: one of which is that the intellect should infallibly tend to its object, which is the true; while the other is that the will should be infallibly directed to the last end, on account of which it assents to the true. And both of these are to be found in the act of living faith.”15 As we can see, then, the perfect act of faith has distinct aspects involving both the intellect and the will. The will moves the intellect to assent to the truths of faith as to an end based on the authority of God as the First Truth. Although both the intellect and the will are involved, Aquinas reminds us that the faith primarily pertains to the intellect. He notes, “Now since faith is a perfection of the intellect [perfectio intellectus], that pertains directly to faith, which pertains to the intellect.”16 Furthermore, because the act of faith—that is, belief in the relevant sense—has the intellect as its subject, only what is true can fall under its material object. Aquinas maintains, “For it belongs to the very essence of faith that the intellect should ever tend to the true, since nothing false can be the object of faith [ fidei non potest subesse For his discussion of this distinction, see ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, resp.; see also ST II-II, q. 1, a. 1, resp.; q. 1, a. 6, ad 2; and q. 2, a. 1, ad 3. Unless otherwise noted, all citations from the Summa theologiae in English are taken from the translation of the Fathers of the English Dominican Province (New York: Benzinger, 1948). See also Super Rom 4, lec. 1 (Mariettie no. 327), and Super Heb 11, lec. 1 (Marietti no. 553). For his remarks concerning the broader notion of credere or faith—i.e., belief or assent based on authority—see, Super Heb 11, lec. 1: “oportet credere cum sibi traduntur a magistro” (Marietti no. 557); “fide communiter” (Marietti no. 559). 15 ST II-II, q. 4, a. 5, resp.: “Cum enim credere sit actus intellectus assentientis vero ex imperio voluntatis, ad hoc quod iste actus sit perfectus duo requiruntur. Quorum unum est ut infallibiliter intellectus tendat in suum bonum, quod est verum, aliud autem est ut infallibiliter ordinatur ad ultimum finem, propter quem voluntas assentit vero. Et utrumque invenitur in actu fidei formatae.” 16 ST II-II, q. 4, a. 4, resp.: “Cum autem fides sit perfectio intellectus, illud per se ad fidem pertinent quod pertinent ad intellectum.” See also ST II-II, q. 10, a. 2, sc: “Things which are contrary to one another are in the same subject. Now faith, to which unbelief is opposed, resides in the intellect. Therefore unbelief also is in the intellect [contraria sunt in eodem subiecto. Sed fides, cui contrariatur infidelitas, est in intellectus sicut in subiecto. Ergo et infidelitas in intellectus est].” 14 658 Jeffrey M. Walkey falsum].”17 Additionally, because the formal aspect of the object of faith is the First Truth, only truth to the exclusion of that which is false falls under faith. Aquinas observes, “The faith of which we are speaking is based on the Divine Truth, which is infallible, and consequently its object cannot be anything false.”18 Both materially and formally, then, the act of faith pertains to what is true, to the exclusion of any and all falsehood. Insofar as the act of faith involves the assent of the intellect, moved by command of the will, the believer is one who believes and is willing to believe all that faith entails. Disbelief in any one article of faith, if due to obstinacy of the will, indicates the complete absence of the formal aspect of the object of faith and, consequently, the lack of faith. Aquinas states, “Just as mortal sin is contrary to charity, so is disbelief in one article of faith contrary to faith. Now charity does not remain in a man after one mortal sin. Therefore neither does faith after a man disbelieves one article.”19 As Bruce Marshall nicely remarks, “[E]pistemically, the articles of Christian faith are for Thomas strictly a package deal.”20 Thus far, then, we have noted that, for Aquinas: (1) the act of Christian faith or belief primarily and directly pertains to the intellect, with an appropriate willingness to believe what is true; (2) insofar as faith is grounded in God as the First Truth, it pertains to nothing false, but only what is true; and (3) truths or articles of faith are a “packaged deal,” so to speak. In short, belief in the strict sense is a perfection of the intellect that is concerned only with truth and must be maintained in its entirety—or at least, there must be a willingness to assent to all that faith teaches. Given this account, who might count as an “unbeliever” (infidelis)? In the next section, we will ST II-II, q. 4, a. 5, resp.: “Nam ex ratione ipsius fidei est quod intellectus semper feratur in verum, quia fidei non potest subesse falsum.” See ST II-II, q. 1, a. 3, resp.: “Nothing false can come under faith [fidei non potest subesse aliquod falsum].” 18 ST II-II, q. 4, a. 5, ad 2: “fides de qua loquimur innititur veritati divinae quae est infallibilis, et ita non potest ei subesse falsum.” 19 ST II-II, q. 5, a. 3, sc: “Peccatum mortale contrariatur caritati, ita discredere unum articulum contrariatur fidei. Sed caritas non remanet in homine post unum peccatum mortale. Ergo neque fides postquam discredit unum articulum fidei.” See ST II-II, q. 5, a. 3, resp. 20 Marshall, “Faith and Reason Reconsidered,” 9. Marshall also maintains that “the beliefs that God is and is one are true on Thomas’s account, it seems, only when they are held true together with the rest of the articles of faith (‘under the conditions faith defines,’ as Thomas puts it)” (ibid., 10). 17 Infideles et Philosophi: Re-Reading ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3 659 consider one prominent interpretation, as well as some of its broader implications for the pre-Christian pagan philosophers. The Ignorance of Pre-Christian Pagan Philosophers As noted above, for Preller and others, the pre-Christian pagan philosophers cannot be said to truly believe that God exists. And again, much of the heavy lifting in support of this interpretation is provided by ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3. There, Aquinas considers and responds to the following objection: “That which can be said of unbelievers [non fidelibus], cannot be called an act of faith [actus fidei]. Now unbelievers [infidelibus] can be said to believe in a God [credere Deum]. Therefore it should not be reckoned an act of faith.”21 How can something that an unbeliever does also be said to be an aspect of the Christian act of faith? Because they are said “to believe” that God exists, do they, then, have the theological virtue of faith? Aquinas responds, “Unbelievers cannot be said ‘to believe in a God’ [credere Deum] as we understand it in relation to the act of faith [actus fidei]. For they do not believe that God exists under the conditions that faith determines [sub his conditionibus quas fides determinat]; hence they do not truly believe in a God [nec vere Deum credunt], since, as the Philosopher observes (Metaph. ix, text. 22) ‘to know simple things defectively is not to know them at all [in simplicibus defectus cognitionis est solum in non attingendo totaliter].’”22 It seems rather straightforward. The unbeliever, who is said to believe that God exists, has a deficiency of cognition with respect to the metaphysically simple God and, therefore, by virtue of the relevant Aristotelian maxim, cannot be said to truly believe that God exists. The believer, on the other hand, has no such deficiency and, thus, can be said to truly believe that God exists (credere Deum). For Preller and others, the proposition “God exits” and the assent to its truth mean something “radically different” when held by Christians and non-Christians.23 Because the conditions for the act of ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, obj. 3: “Illud quod convenit etiam non fidelibus non potest poni fidei actus. Sed credere Deum esse convenit etiam infidelibus. Ergo non debet poni inter actus fidei.” 22 ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3: “Quod credere Deum non convenit infidelibus sub ea ratione qua ponitur actus fidei. Non enim credunt Deum esse sub his conditionibus quas fides determinat. Et ideo nec vere Deum credunt, quia, ut philosophus dicit, IX Metaphys., in simplicibus defectus cognitionis est solum in non attingendo totaliter.” 23 Preller, Divine Science, 226. See also Kerr, After Aquinas, 67. 21 660 Jeffrey M. Walkey Christian faith do not obtain in the pre-Christian pagan philosopher, they must be counted among those unbelievers who do not truly believe that God exists. Although the pagan might be said to have attained to the material object of faith—namely, God’s existence24 — because they believe neither by virtue of the authority of God as the First Truth nor by the command of the will, the pagan cannot be said to believe in the God of Christian faith. In fact, due to this deficiency with respect to belief in the metaphysically simple God, the pagan, by virtue of the Aristotelian maxim, is said to be entirely ignorant. The nature of the deficiency with respect to the conditions of faith is not uniformly identified by our interpreters. Preller suggests, “It is not a question of how many ‘facts’ we know about God,”25 while Marshall appears less concerned with the specificity of the deficiency, suggesting, “The degree or type of defectus seems not to affect the outcome; error even in minimo precludes the knowledge of God totaliter.”26 Long argues, “Because any defect in cognition of things perverts altogether understanding them, the defect in any knowledge of God that lacks the formal object and the will’s movement, finally lacks true knowledge of God altogether.”27 Although such differences appear, the interpretations at issue seem to agree among themselves that, if nothing else, the lack of the formal aspect of the object of faith contributes to—or is—the defectus cognitionis named by Aquinas. Without the grace of Christian faith, the pre-Christian pagan philosopher has neither the capacity nor the categories to attain to true knowledge of God. Again, the claims are rather strong. As quoted in the introduction, Frederick Crosson observed, “It’s not just that [the philosopher, e.g., See Long, Speaking of God, 139. As far as I can tell, Aquinas does not hold that the philosopher who has demonstratively proven the existence of God “believes” in the relevant sense. That is to say, I do not think that the philosophers who know God exists through demonstration attain to the first aspect of the act of faith—namely, the material object. They do not “believe” that God exists (credere Deum); rather, insofar as they have demonstrated the truth of the proposition “God exists,” they “know” that God exists (scire Deum), at least in a qualified sense by quia-demonstration. More might be said, but for the sake of brevity I will leave that to another day. 25 Preller, Divine Science, 230. Of course, Preller proceeds to deny that we know anything properly about God. Rather, we speak of God by means of what he calls “appropriate equivocation” (ibid., 243). 26 Marshall, “Thomas, Thomisms, and Truth,” 503. 27 Long, Speaking of God, 141. 24 Infideles et Philosophi: Re-Reading ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3 661 Aristotle] in fact failed to [know God to exist], but that he couldn’t have done so.”28 Are such claims consistent with the rest of Aquinas’s corpus? Does this interpretation render Aquinas incoherent? What are we to make of the following three passages? In the Summa contra gentiles (SCG), he writes, “There are some truths which the natural reason also is able to reach. Such are that God exists, that He is one, and the like. In fact, such truths about God have been proved demonstratively by the philosophers, guided by the light of natural reason.”29 In his Roman commentary on Lombard’s Sentences, he states, “What is per se known is not demonstrable, but the philosophers demonstrated that God exists.”30 And in the commentary on Hebrews, he says, “We believe that there is one God, a fact which is demonstrated by philosophers.31 Crosson, “Reconsidering Aquinas as Postliberal Theologian,” 484. Summa contra gentiles [SCG] I, ch. 3, no. 2: “Quaedam vero sunt ad quae etiam ratio naturalis pertingere potest, sicut est Deum esse, Deum esse unum, et alia huiusmodi; quae etiam philosophi demonstrative de Deo probaverunt, ducti naturalis lumine rationis.” See SCG I, ch. 9, no. 3 ; III, ch. 39, nos. 1 and 39, 6. All citations from the Summa contra gentiles in English are taken from Saint Thomas Aquinas, Summa Contra Gentiles, bks. I (trans. Anton C. Pegis) and III (trans. Vernon J. Bourke) (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1975). 30 Scriptum super libros Sententiarum Revised Text, d. 3, q. 1, a. 1, sc: “Illud quod est per se notum non est demonstrabile. Sed philosophi demonstraverunt Deum esse” (English translation is my own). This is quoted in Anna Bonta Moreland, Known by Nature: Thomas Aquinas on Natural Knowledge of God (New York: Herder & Herder, 2010), 186n3. See also Scriptum super libros Sententiarum Revised Text, d. 3, q. 1, a. 2, sc 2: “Whatever is the conclusion of a demonstration is not self-evident. But God’s existence is demonstrated by the philosophers too [Quidquid est conclusio demonstrationis non est per se notum. Sed Deum esse demonstratur etiam a philosophis].” 31 Super Heb 11, lec. 1 (Marietti no. 560): “Credimus esse Deum unum, quod tamen demonstratur a philosophis.” All citations from the Commentary on the Letter of Saint Paul to the Hebrews in English are taken from the translation prepared by Fabian Richard Larcher (Lander, WY: The Aquinas Institute, 2012). Later in this section, Aquinas has the opportunity to reject philosophical knowledge of this kind, but instead, simply notes, “To the objection [regarding philosophers knowledge that God exists] based on demonstration, the answer is that nothing prohibits one thing being seen by one person and believed by another [Ad istud de demonstration, dicendum est quod nihil prohibit aliquid esse visum uni quod est creditum alteri]”; see Super Rom 1, lec. 7 (Marietti no. 123): “The truth of God was known by the gentiles [veritatem Dei fuisse a gentibus cognitum].” See, also, Super Rom 1, lec. 7 (Marietti no. 127), which seems to take for granted such affirmations of gentile knowledge of God, 28 29 662 Jeffrey M. Walkey In light of the interpretation of the ST II-II passage offered by Preller, Long, Marshall, Kerr, and others, how are we to take such explicit statements affirming the demonstrative knowledge of God by the philosophers seriously? Can we? Should we interpret Aquinas to be saying, “The philosophers knew that God exists . . . but not really?” Is this satisfactory? I do not think that it is. In fact, the above reading of the secunda secundae passage does not seem to be the more obvious interpretation at all. What follows, then, will be a closer look at certain components of the relevant passage, which leads to an interpretation involving fewer difficulties and underwrites a more consistent understanding of Aquinas’s position with respect to pre-Christian pagan philosophical knowledge of God. Infideles: Defining Our Terms and Re-Reading Our Text To determine the extent to which Preller, Long, Marshall, Kerr, and the others have or have not interpreted ad 3 of article 2 in question 2 accurately, it is paramount that we clarify the meaning of two terms in particular: (1) “unbelievers” and (2) “deficiency.” In this section, we will consider the former, while the latter is left for the next section. First, given his overall analysis of faith, it is clear that “unbelievers” (infideles) is not a general term, but a specific, technical term. Furthermore, in this context, Aquinas distinguishes between unbelief as a mere absence of faith and unbelief as opposition to faith. The latter is, according to Aquinas, unbelief in its primary sense—it is the sin of unbelief. He states, “Unbelief may be taken in two ways: first, by way of pure negation [puram negationem], so that a man be called an unbeliever, merely because he has not the faith [ex hoc solo quod non habet fidem]. Secondly, unbelief may be taken by way of opposition to the faith [contrarietatem ad fidem]; in which sense a man refuses to hear the faith, or despises it. . . . It is this [latter unbelief] that completes the notion of unbelief, and it is in this sense that unbelief is a sin.”32 He clarifies further, suggesting 32 although noting the subsequent perverse forms of worship that follow. All citations from the Commentary on the Letter of Saint Paul to the Romans in English are taken from the translation prepared by Fabian Richard Larcher (Lander, WY: The Aquinas Institute, 2012). ST II-II, q. 10, a. 1, resp.: “Infidelitas dupliciter accipi potest. Uno modo, secundum puram negationem, ut dicatur infidelis ex hoc solo quod non habet fidem. Alio modo potest intelligi secundum contrarietatem ad fidem, quia scilicet aliquis repugnat auditui fidei, vel etiam contemnit ipsam. . . . Et in hoc proprie perficitur ratio infidelitas. Et secundum hoc infidelitas est peccatum.” Infideles et Philosophi: Re-Reading ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3 663 that “dissent” is “the act proper to unbelief.”33 Unbelief in the relevant sense is not simply lacking faith, but resistance or opposition to the truths of faith. Also, insofar as the act of faith—that is, belief—pertains primarily and directly to the intellect as its subject and truth as its good, so too unbelief pertains primarily and directly to the intellect and opposition to truth as its terminus. Aquinas observes, “Things which are contrary to one another are in the same subject. Now faith, to which unbelief is opposed, resides in the intellect. Therefore unbelief also is in the intellect [infidelitas in intellectu est].”34 Recall, furthermore, that assent in the act of belief has the character of assent to what is true. As Aquinas maintains, “No virtue that perfects the intellect is related to the false. . . . Now faith is a virtue that perfects the intellect. . . . Therefore nothing false can come under it,”35 and also, “It belongs to the very essence of faith that the intellect should ever tend to the true, since nothing false can be the object of faith.”36 Unbelief, then, in the relevant sense, is to intellectually dissent from the truths of faith, which is nothing else than intellectually assenting to what is false. It is not simply a lack of knowledge, a lack of “enough” bits of information, but rather the explicit and willful resistance to the truth. The question remains, then, about who can be said to “unbelieve” in this sense. Who has opposed the truth of the faith, holding to what is false with respect to the simple God and matters of faith? Aquinas’s account presents us with numerous possibilities. At various points within the “treatise on faith” in the secunda secundae, he mentions, for instance, those with lifeless faith ( fides informis), heretics (haerecticus), those in error (error), apostates (apostata), demons (daemonum), and philosophers (philosophi).37 In this section, we will briefly discuss each. First, consider the situation of those with lifeless faith. Aquinas suggests, “Lifeless faith, though it is not simply perfect with the ST II-II, q. 10, a. 2, resp.: “Dissentire . . . est proprius actus infidelitatis.” ST II-II, q. 10, a. 2, resp.: “Contraria sunt in eodem subiecto. Sed fides, cui contraratur infidelitas, est in intellectu sicut in subiecto. Ergo et infidelitas in intellectu est.” 35 ST II-II, q. 1, a. 3, sc: “Nulla virtus perficiens intellectum se habet ad falsum. . . . Sed fides est quaedam virtus perficiens intellectum, ut infra patebit. Ergo ei non potest subesse falsum.” 36 ST II-II, q. 4, a. 5, resp.: “Nam ex ratione ipsius fidei est quod intellectus semper feratur in verum, quia fidei non potest falsum.” 37 Strictly speaking, in the treatise on faith, Aquinas does not include a discussion of the philosophi as unbelievers. This, in itself, seems to speak against their inclusion among the infideles of ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3. 33 34 664 Jeffrey M. Walkey perfection of a virtue, is, nevertheless, perfect with a perfection that suffices for the essential notion of faith [i.e., the assent of the intellect].”38 Most helpfully in this regard, he explicitly maintains that “he who receives faith from God without charity [i.e., lifeless faith], is healed from unbelief [sanatur ab infidelitate], not entirely (because the sin of his previous unbelief is not removed) but in part, namely, in the point of ceasing from committing such and such a sin.”39 That he qualifies the character of this healing from unbelief might give us pause, but it need not. It is true, insofar as the fault or blame (culpa) of previous unbelief remains, the healing is partial. With respect to the present assent of the intellect, however, those with lifeless faith are healed of unbelief. It is clear, given his descriptions of them, that Aquinas does not count those with lifeless faith ( fides informis) among the unbelievers who cannot be said to believe that God exists. Rather, as he remarks, those with lifeless faith, though imperfect with respect to the perfection of the virtue, are nonetheless perfect with respect to the intellect, having been “healed from unbelief.” They quite simply are not, according to Aquinas, unbelievers in the strict sense. The heretic (haereticus), however, is one who has rejected some aspect of the faith. By opposing the truths of the faith, then, that one assents to certain falsehoods. Further, the heretic holds to such falsehoods obstinately, betraying a will that lacks the formality of faith. Aquinas states, “[The heretic] holds what he chooses to hold, and rejects what he chooses to reject, . . . [he] no longer adheres to the teaching of the Church as to an infallible rule, but to his own will.”40 Moreover, their dissent from the truths of faith, which is assent to that which is false, has the character of corruption: “[Heretics] resist ST II-II, q. 6, a. 2, ad 1: “Fides informis, etsi non sit perfecta simpliciter perfectione virtutis, est tamen perfecta quadam perfectione aquam sufficit ad fidei rationem.” See, also ST II-II, q. 4, a. 4, resp.: “[W]hat pertains to the will, does not pertain directly to faith…But the distinction of living from lifeless faith is in respect of something pertaining to the will, i.e., charity, and not in respect of something pertaining to the intellect [Quod autem pertinent ad voluntatem non per se pertinent ad fidem. . . . Distinctio autem fidei formatae et informis est secundum id quod pertinent ad voluntatem, idest secundum caritatem, non autem secundum illud quod pertinent ad intellectum].” See also ST II-II, q. 4, a. 5, resp. 39 ST II-II, q. 6, a. 2, ad 3: “Ille qui accipit a Deo fidem absque caritate non simpliciter sanatur ab infidelitate, quia non removetur culpa praecedentis infidelitatis, sed sanatur secundum quid, ut scilicet cesset a tali peccato.” 40 ST II-II, q. 5, a. 3, resp.: “[Haerecticus] quae vult tenet et quae vult non tenet, non iam inhaeret Ecclesiae doctrinae sicut infallibili regulae, sed propriae voluntati.” See also ST II-II, q. 10, a. 1, ad 2. 38 Infideles et Philosophi: Re-Reading ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3 665 that faith by corrupting it.”41 To the extent that a heretic does affirm certain truths of the faith (e.g., God exists, God is one, God became incarnate), that person’s intellectual assent is not based on the authority of God as the First Truth or moved by the will informed by grace. Rather, as Aquinas notes, such a one holds to those articles of faith “otherwise than by faith,” and “by his own will and judgment,” and moreover, with “many false opinions.”42 And note, again, “unbelief ” in the relevant sense is not “pure negation” or “mere absence,”43 but rather involves resistance to and rejection of that which is true, which are nothing but the acceptance of that which is false. Heretics, then, are to be counted among the unbelievers in the proper sense. The unbelief that characterizes heresy is, for Aquinas, distinct from what he simply considers “error.” He recognizes that those who dissent from this or that article of faith but do so because they are unaware that such dissent is against the faith are different from those who dissent obstinately, from heretics. Aquinas states, “It is evident that a heretic who obstinately disbelieves one article of faith, is not prepared to follow the teaching of the Church in all things; but if he is not obstinate, he is no longer in heresy, but only in error [solum errans].”44 The volitional component of unbelief is further highlighted when Aquinas notes that explicit belief in all articles is not necessary for the habit of faith, but rather the willingness to believe. He observes, “A man who obstinately disbelieves a thing that is of faith, has not the habit of faith, and yet he who does not explicitly believe all, while he is prepared to believe all, has the habit.”45 According to Aquinas, those simply in error are those who assent to what is in fact false, but through ignorance or poor formation and not by virtue of willful dissent. As such, then, they are not, in the technical sense, counted among those infideles who are guilty of the sin of unbelief. In his treatment of belief and unbelief, Aquinas also discusses the situation of both apostates (apostata) and the demons (daemonum). ST II-II, q. 10, a. 6, resp.: “ei renituntur corrumpentes ipsam.” Respectively: ST II-II, q. 5, a. 3, resp.: “aliomodo . . . quam per fidem” (note also ST II-II, q. 5, a. 3, ad 1 and ad 2); ST II-II, q. 5, a. 3, ad 1: “propria voluntate et iudicio”; and ST II-II, q. 10, a. 5, ad 1: “diversas falsas sententias.” 43 See ST II-II, q. 10, a. 1, resp., and ST II-II, q. 10, a. 6, resp. 44 ST II-II, q. 5, a. 3, resp.: “Et sic manifestum est quod haereticus qui pertinaciter discredit unum articulum non est paratus sequi in omnibus doctrinam Ecclessiae (si enim non pertinaciter, iam non est haereticus, sed solum errans).” 45 ST II-II, q. 5, a. 4, ad 1: “Quod ille qui pertinaciter discredit aliquid eorum quae sub fide continentur non habet habitum fidei, quem tamen habet ille qui non explicite omnia credit, sed paratus est omnia credere.” 41 42 666 Jeffrey M. Walkey Apostasy can be understood in different ways: (a) with respect to the religious life or holy orders, (b) with respect to the commandments of God, and (c) with respect to the faith itself. Aquinas maintains, “Though man may apostatize in both the [first and second], he may still remain united to God by faith.”46 That is to say, one can remain “healed of unbelief ”47 with respect to faith even though that one has given up the religious life or “[rebelled] in his mind against the Divine commandments.”48 The apostate, on the other hand, has forsaken the faith completely. Aquinas remarks, “Apostasy simply and absolutely is that whereby a man withdraws from the faith, and is called ‘apostasy of perfidy.’ In this way apostasy, simply so called, pertains to unbelief.”49 Unlike heresy, however, apostasy is not the rejection of this or that article of faith while maintaining others, but rather the complete rejection of the faith as such. Aquinas argues, “Now apostasy regards unbelief as the term ‘whereto’ of the movement of withdrawal from the faith, wherefore apostasy does not imply a special kind of unbelief, but an aggravating circumstance thereof.”50 Both heretics and apostates represent, strictly speaking, what Aquinas intends by the term infideles.51 Concerning demons (daemonum), Aquinas states, “Now, that the will moves the intellect to assent, may be due to two causes. First, through the will being directed to the good, and in this way to believe is a praiseworthy action. Secondly, because the intellect is convinced that it ought to believe what is said, though that conviction is not based on objective evidence.”52 Demons are said ST II-II, q. 12, a. 1, resp.: “Quibus duabus apostasies existentibus, ad hoc potest remanere homo Deo coniunctus per fidem.” 47 See ST II-II, q. 6, a. 2, ad 3. 48 ST II-II, q. 12, a. 1, resp.: “per mentem repugnantem.” 49 ST II-II, q. 12, a. 1, resp.: “Et ideo simpliciter et absolute est apostasia per quam aliquis discredit a fide, quae vocatur apostasia perfidae. Et per hunc modum apostasia simpliciter dicta ad infidelitatem pertinet.” 50 ST II-II, q. 12, a. 1, ad 3: “Apostasia autem respicit infidelitatem ut terminum ad quem est motus recedentis a fide. Unde apostasia non importat determinatam speciem infidelitatis, sed quondam circumstantiam aggravantem.” 51 See ST II-II, q. 10, a. 9, resp.: “those unbelievers who have forsaken the faith they once received, either by corrupting the faith, as heretics, or by entirely renouncing the faith, as apostates [illorum infidelium qui a fide suscepta deviant, vel corrumpendo fidem, sicut haeretici, vel etiam totaliter a fide recedendo, sicut apostatae].” 52 ST II-II, q. 5, a. 2, resp.: “Quod autem voluntas movent intellectum ad assentiendum potest contingere ex duobus. Uno modo, ex ordine voluntatis ad bonum, et sic credere est actus laudabilis. Alio modo, quia intellectus 46 Infideles et Philosophi: Re-Reading ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3 667 to believe in the second sense. Further, he observes, “[Demons] see many evident signs, whereby they recognize that the teaching of the Church is from God, although they do not see the things themselves that the Church teaches, for instance that there are three Persons in God, and so forth.”53 Like the faithful believer’s intellect, the demon’s “intellect assents to that which he believes, not because he sees it either in itself, or by resolving it to first self-evident principles, but because his will commands the intellect to assent.” Unlike the faithful believers, however, the demons are compelled to recognize the divine reality that lay behind the Church, not because of “having a certain affection for the good” but by “evidence of signs.”54 The demons are said “to believe” and “to have faith,”55 being compelled to believe by signs that God is speaking through the Church. They attain to the articles of faith (material objects) based on the authority of God in the Church (formal aspect of the object)—that is to say, not out of love for God, but by compulsion brought by signs. This faith is neither “praiseworthy” nor given through grace,56 yet it is described by Aquinas as a kind of faith or belief. Lastly, let us now consider the philosophi as they appear in the treatise on faith. Ironically, given the Prellerian interpretation of the ST II-II passage (q. 2, a. 2, ad 3), one of the only mentions of the philosophers occurs in the sed contra of article 4 of the same question. Without later negating what is stated, Aquinas there observes, “It is necessary to believe that God is one and incorporeal: which things philosophers prove by natural reason [quae naturali ratione a philosophi probantur].”57 Such statements fit well with the other affirmations of pagan philosophical knowledge of God found elsewhere in the corpus. For instance, in his Commentary on the Letter to the Hebrews, convincitur ad hoc quod iudicet esse credendum his quae dicuntur, licet non convincatur per evidentiam rei.” 53 ST II-II, q. 5, a. 2, resp.: “Vident enim multa manifesta indicia ex quibus percipient doctrinam Ecclesiae esse a Deo; quamvis ipsi res ipsas quas Ecclesia docet non vident, puta Deum esse trinum et unum, vela liquid huiusmodi.” 54 Respectively: ST II-II, q. 5, a. 3, ad 2: “aliquem affectum boni”; ST II-II, q. 5, a. 3, ad 1: “signorum evidentia.” 55 Respectively: ST II-II, q. 5, a. 3, resp.; ST II-II, q. 5, a. 3, ad 2: “fides quae est in daemonibus” 56 ST II-II, q. 5, a. 2, ad 1: “non pertinent ad laudem voluntatis ipsorum quod credunt”; ST II-II, q. 5, a. 3, ad 2: “fides quae est in daemonibus non est donum gratiae.” 57 ST II-II, q. 2, a. 4, sc: “Est quia necesse est Deum credere esse unum et incorporeum, quae naturali ratione a philosophi probantur.” 668 Jeffrey M. Walkey Aquinas remarks, “We believe that there is one God, a fact which is demonstrated by philosophers [philosophis].”58 Here, as well as in the treatise on faith in ST II-II, the philosophers seem of little or no concern to Aquinas in his treatment of belief and unbelief. Further, in the strict sense, the pre-Christian pagan philosophers as such are not in principle guilty of the sin of unbelief. According to Aquinas, an “unbeliever” in the strict sense is not simply a non-believer; unbelief is neither “pure negation” nor “mere absence”59 of faith. Aquinas explicitly argues that unbelief in the relevant sense is not the same thing as non-belief. Against what has been put forth, Preller, Long, and company seem to presuppose that the designation “unbelievers” in ST II-II passage under consideration is at least inclusive of pre-Christian pagan philosophers. Yet, is this plausible given the definitions and distinctions made by Aquinas? I do not think it is. I do not doubt that individual pagan philosophers since the time of the Incarnation can be said to have heard and opposed the faith, and consequently, dissenting from its truth, such can be counted among the unbelievers who assent to that which is false. Pre-Christian pagan philosophers, however, are entirely different. As suggested above, at no point in the treatise on faith does Aquinas consider the pre-Christian pagan philosophers as unbelievers. In fact, he explicitly denies that unbelief in the relevant sense was even obtained prior to the Incarnation. In his discussion of whether unbelievers may have dominion over Christians, he responds to an objection by noting that “the authority of Caesar preceded the distinction of faithful from unbelievers.”60 This seemingly unrelated remark clearly limits the notion of unbelief to those persons who could have even potentially encountered and rejected the faith. Pre-Christian pagan philosophers, then, by definition, “preceded the distinction of faithful from unbelievers.” There was no possibility of unbelief understood as intellectual dissent from the faith. Because they preceded the very distinction between the believer and unbeliever, the pre-Christian pagan philosophers cannot be counted among those “unbelievers” discussed in the ST II-II passage. As Crosson observes, I think rightly, “It is possible to classify the pre-Christian philosophers as ‘unbelievers’ only if the term is taken in a large and improper sense, i.e., as meaning simply non-believ Super Heb. 11, lec. 1 (Marietti no. 560). See ST II-II, q. 10, a. 1, resp.; q. 10, a. 6, resp. 60 ST II-II, q. 10, a. 10, ad 2. 58 59 Infideles et Philosophi: Re-Reading ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3 669 ers.”61 But, as we have seen, Aquinas has a much more specific sense of “unbeliever,” one that involves not simply the absence of faith, but also opposition to faith in the form of assent to falsehoods. The “unbelievers” who are said to believe that “God exists,” then, are not pre-Christian pagan philosophers, but rather, they are heretics, apostates, and the like. Individual pre-Christian pagan philosophers could and, more than likely, did assent to falsehoods with respect to God. In this sense (and this sense only), then, one might argue that the pre-Christian pagan philosopher did not know that God exists. This lack of knowledge is not due to the absence of the formal aspect of the object of faith, but due to their assent to what is false materially. They are not “unbelievers” in some loose sense on account of being pre-Christian pagan philosophers without the grace of faith, but rather because they held what is true to be false or what is false to be true. What has been shown adequately specifies the meaning of infideles as it appears in the ST II-II passage. Yet, even if one is able to adequately determine the referent of “unbelievers,” a discussion of the deficiency from which they suffer requires further specification and will offer further support to the interpretation being offered. To this end, we turn to Aquinas’s commentary on the relevant sections of Aristotle’s Metaphysics. Defectus Cognitionis: Aquinas’s Commentary on Metaphysics Θ In his lectio 11 of book 962 of the Commentary on Aristotle’s Metaphysics, Aquinas offers us his interpretation of the maxim utilized in the ST II-II passage (q. 2, a. 2, ad 3): “to know simple things defectively is not to know them at all.” In this context, the primary concern is to relate truth and falsity to act and potency. Aquinas notes, first of all, that “truth follows being . . . the structure of things in being and truth is the same.”63 Consequently, composition in being grounds the possibility of composition in thought and speech. Importantly, however, the composition in question pertains to the composition of act and potency. But, as Aquinas observes, “in the case of [simple things] . . . such as immaterial substances, truth or falsity is not present in them as a result of any combination or separation which occurs in reality, but arises because Crosson, “Reconsidering Aquinas as Postliberal Theologian,” 448. Often cited as book Θ, as well. 63 Sent. meta. 9, lec. 11, no. 1903: “Verum autem consequitur ens . . . eadem est disposition rerum in esse et in veritate.” 61 62 670 Jeffrey M. Walkey their quiddity is known or not known.”64 He maintains further that “all simple substances are actual beings and are never potential ones” and that “[simple beings] do not contain falsity, but only truth.”65 With respect to what is metaphysically simple, containing no potency but only actuality, the question does not concern “how much” one does or does not know about that being, but rather whether what is said to be known is actual, whether it attains to the being as it is. Aquinas observes, “Not to come in contact [attingere] with them [i.e., simple beings] is not to know them.”66 To come in contact with a simple being is what it means for the intellect to be true. There is no potency about which the intellect could at one time be false and another time true,67 but rather, the intellect, if it has attained to the simple being, says of the simple being what is always the case, that is to say, the intellect attains to the actuality that the simple being is. Aquinas notes, “To come in contact with a simple thing through the intellect, in such a way as to apprehend what it is ‘and to express it,’ that is, to signify this simple thing by a word [voce], constitutes the truth present in simple things.”68 To attain to the quiddity of a thing is not about comprehensively knowing its entire quiddity, but rather, it pertains to holding in thought and speech what is in act in reality. According to Aquinas, “[I]t is unfitting that there should be error or falsity in all those things Sent. meta. 9, lec. 11, no. 1901: “Dicen, quod circa incompositio et simplicia, cuiusmodi sunt substantiae immateriales, non est verum vel falsum per compositionem aut divisionem quae fit in rebus, sed per hoc quod cognoscitur quod quid est, aut non cognoscitur.” See also Sent. meta. 9, lec. 11, no. 1902: “there is no composition in simple things by reason of which, when we express affirmatively that it is so, its composition is signified [Non est in simplicibus compositio, ita quod cum dicitur de eo affirmative quod sit, significetur eius compositio].” See also Sent. meta. 9, lec. 11, no. 1909: “[Simple quiddities are] not composed of many parts in the combining and separating of which falsity can arise [non enim eorum quod quid est, est compositum ex pluribus, circa quorum compositionem vel divisionem possit accidere falsum].” 65 Respectively: Sent. meta. 9, lec. 11, no. 1911: “Omnes substantiae simplices sunt actu entes, et nunquam entes in potential”; and ibid., no. 1910: “In substantiis vero simplicibus ex eo quod non est in eis falsum, sed tantem verum.” 66 Sent. meta. 9, lec. 11, no. 1906: “Non attingere est ignorare.” 67 This is to say that simple things are not subject to generation and/or corruption, through which there might be a potency that is at some time actualized and at another not so. 68 Sent. meta. 9, lec. 11, no. 1904: “Attingere enim mente ad ipsum simplex, ut scilicet apprehendatur quid est, et dicere idest significare voce ipsum simplex, hoc est verum, quod est in simplicibus.” 64 Infideles et Philosophi: Re-Reading ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3 671 which are actual only . . . they must either be understood if they are grasped [attingantur] by the intellect, or not be understood at all if they are not grasped [non attingantur] by the intellect.”69 This is stated differently shortly after: “Truth exists . . . if ‘what is truly a being,’ that is, the quiddity or substance of a simple thing, is as it is understood to be; but if it is not as it is understood to be, no truth exists in the intellect. Thus truth consists in understanding these things; but concerning them there is neither falsity nor error in the intellect, . . . but ignorance; for if one does not grasp [attingere] the quiddity of a thing, one does not know that thing in any way at all.” 70 And here we have the application of the Aristotelian maxim under discussion. To think that what is in act-being-truth is in potency-nonbeing-falsity is to be in error; it is to assent to falsity. With respect to a simple being, it is not a matter of one’s having comprehensively grasped the quiddity, and under a certain formal aspect; in fact, the formal aspect of cognition is not even mentioned in Aquinas’s discussion of Metaphysics 9. Rather, the deficiency pertains to holding what is false to be true or what is true to be false, which is, with respect to a simple being, an indication of one’s complete ignorance of the being in question. That is to say, the deficiency of cognition is not, for instance, the absence of the proper formal aspect,71 and nor is it a materially incomplete grasp of the being, such as knowing that God is and that God is one without also knowing God as triune. Rather, the deficiency of cognition with respect to their cognition of the simple Sent. meta. 9, lec. 11, no. 1912: “Quaecumque sunt talia, quae sunt solum in actu, et sunt id quod vere aliquid est, quia sunt quidditates et formae, circa ea non convenit decipi, aut esse falsum. Sed oportet ut intelligantur si mente attingantur, vel penitus non intelligantur si mente non attingantur.” 70 Sent. meta. 9, lec. 11, no. 1915: “Verum est . . . si id quod est vere ens, idest quod est ipsum quod quid est, idest substantio rei simplex, sic est sicut intelligitur. Si vero non est ita sicut intelligitur, non est verum in intellectu. Et sic est verum intelligere ipsa, sed falsum non est ibi, neque deceptio, ut expositum est, sed ignorantia. Quia si non attingit ad quod quid est, penitus ignorat rem illam.” 71 Interestingly, in his response to John O’Callaghan’s paper, Michael Sherwin notes that the presence or absence of a particular formal aspect by which some material content is known is not determinative. That is to say, the same material object can in principle be known by means of two distinct formal objects, e.g., by sight or by testimony; see Sherwin’s response published in the same issue—14.2 (2016)—of Nova et Vetera (English). O’Callaghan notes, however, and I think rightly, that this discussion does not bear directly on the main thrust of his paper (see his response to Sherwin and others in the same issue). Nonetheless, Sherwin’s is a crucial observation, one that does a great deal of work in the debate concerning how to interpret ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3. 69 672 Jeffrey M. Walkey God and simple faith is intellectual assent to what is false as true and/ or what is true as false with respect to a simple being. This interpretation of defectus cognitionis is confirmed, it seems to me, by the Summa contra gentiles (SCG), where, in chapter 118 of book III, Aquinas notes that it pertains to divine law “to exclude false opinions about God and matters concerned with God.” 72 Further, he states, “[the believer] is subject to God as far as intellect is concerned through believing; not, of course, by believing anything that is false. . . . he who believes something false does not believe in God.”73 Consequently, for Aquinas, holding to what is false as though it were true “cannot happen in reference to simple beings; instead, any error at all completely excludes knowledge of the being. Now, God is most simple. So, whoever is in error concerning God does not know God, just as the man who thinks that God is a body does not know God at all, but grasps something else in place of God.”74 As we see, Aquinas again utilizes—at least, by allusion—the Aristotelian maxim regarding knowledge and ignorance of simple beings. The deficiency, much like it is for the heretic or the apostate, is that of holding to be true what is false and/or holding to be false what is true. Concluding Remarks In this article, I have argued that pre-Christian pagan philosophers, specifically those who, according to Aquinas, have demonstratively proven that God exists, are not the unbelievers in ad 3 of the second article of question two of ST II-II. “Unbelief ” in that context is the technical term for the act by which one resists or rejects the truths of faith, corrupting or renouncing them and assenting to what is false. Among the “unbelievers,” Aquinas lists primarily heretics and apostates. His only mention of the philosophi is his affirmation that they have demonstrated that God exists and the like. Moreover, Aquinas explicitly notes that “unbelief ” in the relevant sense is not the “pure negation” or “mere absence” of faith. Rather, it is the willful dissent from the truths SCG III, ch. 118, no. 5: “Ergo ad eam pertinent falsas opiniones de Deo, et de his quae sunt Dei, excludere.” 73 SCG III, ch. 118, no. 3: “Ita subditur Deo credendo quantum ad intellectum. Non autem credendo aliquid falsum . . . unde qui credit aliquod falsum, non credit Deo.” 74 SCG III, ch. 118, no. 4: “In simplicibus autem hoc non potest accidere, sed quilibet error totaliter excludit cognitionem rei. Deus autem est maxime simplex. Ergo quicumque errat circa Deum, sed apprendit aliquid aliud loco Dei.” 72 Infideles et Philosophi: Re-Reading ST II-II, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3 673 of faith. None of this requires one in principle to count the pre-Christian pagan philosophers among those whom Aquinas would consider “unbelievers” who do not truly know that God exists.75 Furthermore, I have maintained that the defectus cognitionis of the ST II-II passage is not the absence of the formal aspect of the object of faith or an incomplete or non-comprehensive knowledge of the metaphysically simple God. Rather, it is the more general deficiency in which one holds what is false to be true or what is true to be false of the purely actual and simple God. That is to say, the deficiency with respect to knowledge of simple things is not a lack of enough knowledge or the appropriate formal aspect, but rather to think of what is in act-being-truth as if it were potency-nonbeing-falsity. Such assent does not somehow negate a knowledge that was had or lead to ignorance. Rather, to assent to what is non-actual with respect to a simple being is to betray one’s ignorance; it is to show that that one does not and did not know that the simple being—that is, God—exists totaliter. Insofar, then, as the pre-Christian pagan philosophers had truly and demonstratively proven the existence of God by the light of natural reason (which is to think about God what is true and actual in reality), they have judged rightly; they have truly attained to God. To hold what is actual—namely, what is true—is to have knowledge of the simple being in whom there is no potency, no falsity, and in whom no non-being is found. On the other hand, to the extent that pre-Christian pagan philosophers did assent to that which is false with respect to God, they must be said to be entirely ignorant, for one cannot be in error regarding a simple being who is pure actuality, pure truth. Yet, this is not because they are pre-Christian pagan philosophers without the grace of faith and the relevant formal aspect of the object of that very act of faith, but N&V because they are wrong. 75 Though much more would need to be said, even the mention of Gentiles in ST II-II, q. 10, a. 6, does not automatically implicate the philosophi. Such a distinction matters, and it has implications here, as well as in the Commentary on John, among other places. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 15, No. 2 (2017): 675–704 675 Book Reviews Hans Urs von Balthasar and the Critical Appropriation of Russian Religious Thought by Jennifer Newsome Martin (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2015), 310 pp. Jennifer Newsome Martin’s Hans Urs von Balthasar and the Critical Appropriation of Russian Religious Thought is an incredible achievement. It serves both as an elegant scholarly study of controverted yet ill-explored areas of Balthasar’s work and as a crucial evaluation of the very foundations of Balthasar’s theological speculations. For Martin, to have achieved both at once is remarkable and ought to be praised as such. More concretely, Martin has provided scholars with a portrait of Balthasar often hidden amid recent controversy and old generalizations. Says Martin, “these chapters venture to characterize Balthasar’s method as constitutively orthodox, but thoroughly probative, phenomenological, literary-critical, aesthetic-hermeneutic, and—despite his perhaps unjustly earned reputation as arch-conservateur—quintessentially non-nostalgic” (2). Martin wants to look at Balthasar’s decisions when he himself reads Christian and non-Christian thinkers and, thereby, to learn how to read him. Her task is immense. What she is determined to uncover is the interior dynamism that draws scholars to Balthasar, rather than the reactions that violently critique and praise. Balthasar and Russian Religious Thought offers a sober account of Balthasar’s intellectual engagement with four figures: Vladimir Soloviev, Nikolai Berdyaev, Sergei Bulgakov, and F. W. J. Schelling. The first three are members of the “Russian school,” and Schelling plays an important philosophical role as a resource for all three, as well as for Balthasar (1, 11–21). “Schelling constellates a point of triangulation between Balthasar and the Russians,” Martin writes (19). That is to say, Martin is interested in the complex layers of interpretation provided to the Russians by the ways they each uniquely adjust 676 Book Reviews Schelling and in Balthasar’s critical evaluations of Schelling in both his own work and that of the Russians. Much of Martin’s work is devoted to this complex task of “constellating” all five thinkers at various angles. Rather than taking apart each thinker one by one, Martin divides her chapters according to themes: “beauty and aesthetics” in chapter 2 (39–78), “freedom, theogony, myth, and evil” in chapter 3 (79–116), “thanatology and traditional eschatology from an anthropological point of view” in chapter 4 (117–59), and “apocalyptic Trinitarianism” in chapter 5 (160–97) (thematic arrangement discussed in 3). She begins her study with beauty, continues forward into freedom amid its various contexts, draws together beauty and freedom through a realized eschatology, and super-excessively completes all three movements with the truth of the self-revealing Trinity. Martin’s later chapters bear the weight of an increasingly complex task, for this is not only a study of Balthasar on various thinkers, but also a study of how Balthasar methodically (and methodologically) interacts with Christian and non-Christian thought. Her efforts maintain the same steady tone throughout, which is vital because flickering amid five thinkers can be overwhelming and confusing for a reader. Martin’s opening narrations in each chapter become rafts to which to cling in the rush of information. It is hard to criticize her for the possibility of losing her reader given the compound nature of her questions, but it still must be said that this is a constant risk. Readers who are not diligent will find themselves drowning. Balthasar and Russian Religious Thought makes its demands from the perspective of profound research made elegant and seamless. Here is Martin’s unspoken skill, as she holds the sinews of her study together with a careful, building narrative. That is, the book is a coherent whole. That whole is as follows: “Balthasar can and does tolerate as well as enact an experimental, probative mode of theologizing, but, like Bulgakov, his profound devotion to and respect for the tradition are what allow him to do so” (196), and, from Balthasar himself, “the paradox must be allowed to stand: in the undiminished humanity of Jesus, the whole power and glory of God are made present to us” (quoted on p. 183). So, Balthasar’s speculative theology and fearless engagement with the Russians are rooted in devotion to Christian tradition and in Christ himself. This twinned whole needs to be shaded in, but for now, we can note that Martin foreshadows her synthesis already in Balthasar’s theological aesthetics, which flows out from a serious consideration of Christ as the concretized archetype Book Reviews 677 of all things (67), a consideration given to Balthasar by the tradition (66–67), and which leads Balthasar to bear “simultaneous commitment to (and simultaneous ambivalence toward) Classical forms and Romantic forms” (69). Balthasar’s commitment and his ambivalence are rooted in Christ, especially the “metaphysics of the saint.” The saint re-concretizes and re-presents Christ through personal, “foolish” holiness that is both recognizable, thanks to the tradition, and distinctly new, because of it (71–73). Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s works are essential testimony to the holy fool, and he both foretells the unity of Martin’s work and concludes it (71–73, 174–75). Dostoyevsky not only confronts the Russians Balthasar is interested in (namely Soloviev) but also struggles with freedom and beauty in light of the Cross. Dostoyevsky uncovers false eschatons, unveils the Antichrist, as when the latter takes the shape of a false Christianity that would bear “total power” while authentic Christianity bears the gift of powerlessness (175). That is to say, Dostoyevsky is sensitive to the ways that speculation within and without Christianity can mimic authenticity without in fact being so. Beauty is legitimately redemptive because it is real (cf. 55), and Dostoyevsky sees how tearing beauty away from the true and the good makes it “an awful, devilish thing,” even demonic (cf. 56). When beauty is wrested from the true and the good, it becomes terrifyingly disincarnate—terrible because it is so enticing and disincarnate because it retreats to pure idea. Creative speculation in the Christian tradition is and must be beautiful, lest it become a pantomime of the beautiful. In the first chapter, Martin argues for a “subterranean” exploration of Balthasar’s thought, a search beneath the surface of Balthasar’s writing to the perspective that informs it. Here is the Rilkean “wonderful mine” that Martin references at the beginning of her chapter, and which she wants to descend into and study. Rilke is a continual guide for Martin at the opening of each chapter. What is true for Rilke is true for Balthasar and his conversation partners: beauty is not a mere interest or addition, but thoroughly involving. Here (ch. 2) is where we see Balthasar’s firm devotion to “classical” aesthetic understanding while he also looks to the modern. Martin rehearses Balthasar’s basic aesthetic perspective, stressing valuable aspects in contrast with Schelling and the Russians. Schelling is fatally monistic, collapsing the analogy of being into an identitas entis (63). Yet, Balthasar often resonates with his interlocutors, whether in direct commentary or elsewhere, and shares their concerns. Soloviev and Balthasar place the Incarnation at the very center of their aesthetics (66), and indeed, all 678 Book Reviews five figures share a desire to reject rationalism on aesthetic grounds (4–6). For Rilke, who again opens the chapter, beauty needs to be transformative as well as interesting. This is what Martin calls her “Rilkean clause” (“there is no place that does not see”) that guides her as she moves forward (75–76). In chapter 3, we see that Balthasar seeks to maintain real “drama” at all points, and that finite human beings are founded in the brilliant darkness of the infinite God, as ultimately unveiled in the bodily resurrection. “You darkness, where I come from,” says Rilke. This is often what Schelling and the Russians (especially Berdyaev) lose (see esp. 97–98). Bodily resurrection leads into Balthasar’s theocentric, Trinitarian eschatology (ch. 4). This is Rilke’s “real green, real sunshine, real wood.” In other words, bodily resurrection and eschatology are not opposed. In this, Martin is able to emphasize Balthasar’s complex view of time, which is ultimately harmonized in Christ (esp. 155–56), keying his eschatology to the anthropological and simultaneously rejecting Joachimite theologies (166–68). All is fulfilled in the self-revelation (apocalypse) of the Trinity on the Cross (ch. 5). That is, the poverty of God on the Cross, the powerlessness, reveals itself as true wealth and true omnipotence. Poverty is “luminous,” as Rilke says at the opening of the chapter. Here, Martin studies Balthasar’s commitment to theological hope (cf. 165), which is ultimately made sensible through a strong affirmation of divine simplicity, immutability, and impassibility (cf. 183). The chapter excavates Balthasar on one of his most controverted topics, which is the “hope” for all to be saved. Martin’s work convincingly reveals Balthasar’s “principles of generosity” or “protocols for licit speculative theology,” which she names: epistemic reserve before the mystery of God (200), knowledge of God as always to be “located in its properly Christian context” (200), employing and being cautious toward a plurality of voices (201), and allowing the “mediatory capacity of cultural products” like the arts to function in theology (201–02). These are the characteristics that make Balthasar “as relentlessly uncompromising as he is generous” (199). For Martin, a fundamental analogue for Balthasar is Origen (21, 25–26, 202): both are steadfastly loyal to the Christian tradition and yet creative with it when they speculate. Martin argues that Balthasar shows us that “there is a direct rather than inverse relation between fidelity to tradition and the capacity for creative, speculative thought” (37). In other words, the more Book Reviews 679 faithful to (and versed in) Christian tradition a theologian is, the more creative he or she is able to be. This upsets typical expectations, which often part ways with tradition in order to be creative. Martin’s work also continually challenges typical expectations—in her case, those regarding Balthasar. She shows us how Balthasar’s project is founded on the desire to “[rehabilitate] a sense of the suppleness and fluidity of tradition” (2). Again, this is also what Martin’s book achieves through its careful attention to its task. Though indeed demanding, Martin’s book is immensely valuable for scholars looking to understand, evaluate, and expand the theology of Hans Urs von Balthasar. It is also a remarkable work of scholarship, simultaneously unveiling Balthasar’s relationships to the Russian school and Schelling and unveiling Balthasar’s theological method. By integrating the two, Martin avoids the temptation to create method out of instinct or wishful thinking. She is ever concrete in her study, engaging with Balthasar as he engages with others. What she reveals is the beauty of theology for Balthasar and in his work, and beyond his work. I give her the last word: “for Balthasar the theological task is simply to be as capacious as the Holy Spirit. It is structurally open, fundamentally creative, resolutely brave, and certainly not precious” N&V (204). Anne M. Carpenter Saint Mary’s College of California Moraga, CA The Mystery of Union with God: Dionysian Mysticism in Albert the Great and Thomas Aquinas by Bernhard Blankenhorn, O.P. (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2015), xxxiii + 495 pp. The Dionysian pedigree of high medieval mysticism is often noted but seldom detailed. Bernhard Blankenhorn’s debut The Mystery of Union with God meets this lack with an accomplished analysis of Dionysian mystical union as adopted and adapted by the most prominent of its Dominican inheritors, Albert the Great and Thomas Aquinas. The book bills itself as a work of historical theology; it is the right description, after all, just to the extent that Blankenhorn advances an argument by curating a section of the theological archive without becoming entombed therein. The section is, as the title suggests, 680 Book Reviews Dionysian mystical union in the thought of two of its thirteenth-century Dominican scions. And the argument? Attention to Blankenhorn’s archival redisplay reveals that he thinks the intellectualist representation of Dionysian mysticism embroidered by Albert and Thomas—for whom Dionysius’s “union beyond mind” is finally and principally intellective, as opposed to affective—the most elegant. The Mystery of Union with God unfolds in three asymmetrical parts. The first part begins with an expositional engagement with the Corpus Dionysiacum (hereafter, CD) on themes of anthropology, epistemology, divine naming, and mystical union. These are the nodes around which subsequent chapters on the Dominican Dionysius will coil. Among the book’s greatest virtues (there are many) is the historiography displayed in the second chapter. There Blankenhorn lucidly traces the CD’s migration from its early Byzantine commentators—namely John of Scythopolis and Maximus Confessor—westward to its Latin translators and glossers. It is here that the book’s argument, until now slinking in the subtext, begins to surface. Following others, Blankenhorn argues that Eriugena’s translation of the CD into Latin (inadvertently?) inaugurates the affective reading that will come to typify the Victorine-Franciscan axis. “None of this can be found in Dionysius,” Blankenhorn hastens to add. This “major transformation” acts to “radically reshape” the Mystical Theology in particular and “sharply contrasts with the historical Dionysius” in general (43; 46; 45; 444). Enter Albert the Great, whose thought occupies part II. Chapter 3 assays doctrines apposite to mystical union in the Parisian Albert’s work, itself a vertigo-inducing synthesis of Aristotelian, Augustinian, Dionysian, Avicennian, and Averroist patterns of thought. Forged in the heat of polemics issuing from the 1241 condemnations at Paris, Albert’s position on the visio Dei integrates Dionysian axioms into a broadly Augustinian frame. This introduces the category of created theophany and, so, a created lumen gloriae, “the keystone that fuses what he holds to be of lasting value in the Greek and Latin patristic traditions” (106). This innovation, along with his emphasis on created grace, allows the early Albert to interpolate active modes of cooperation into Dionysius’s largely passive grammar of union. Blankenhorn next arranges an exhaustive analysis of mystical union texts within Albert’s Cologne-era commentaries on the CD. A deeper conversion to Dionysian theology marks this era—and this “in conscious opposition to the dominant, more kataphatic Augustinianism of [Albert’s] day” (206). But Albert’s commentaries foreground human coopera- Book Reviews 681 tion by means of the theological virtues and collapse “union beyond mind” into divine naming. To that extent, the argument runs, Albert’s interpretation still indulges a chastened kataphaticism. With Albert in full view, Blankenhorn turns to Thomas. The first chapter of part III treats pillars of Thomistic anthropology, epistemology, and psychology. Playing Averroës to Albert’s Avicenna, Thomas de-Platonizes many of his teacher’s doctrines, even as he systematizes his own. Chapter 6 considers grace and its concomitants in Aquinas, and Blankenhorn stresses the fundamentally Trinitarian shape of mysticism in Thomas, whose defense of the intellect’s stayed presence in union is of a piece with his defense of filioque. The next chapter contributes to the literature on question 13 of the prima pars of the Summa theologiae with a comparison of relevant texts in Dionysius and Albert. The eighth and final chapter offers a sprawling, 124-page gloss on mystical union bits across Thomas’s corpus, a sweep that resists the summary distortions of a reviewer. Blankenhorn shows that Thomas’s kataphatic revisions of Dionysius do not just disclose Aristotelian anxieties. Rather, they betray the anxieties of a systematic theologian for whom the nature-grace and faith-reason distinctions cannot be abrogated. There’s much to admire in Blankenhorn’s subtle portraiture of Thomas’s Dionysius. Perhaps most attractive is his careful attention to the historical development of Aquinas’s theology throughout. An inherent risk proper to the kind of story Blankenhorn tells is the temptation to render one’s protagonists the stronger by flattening other characters. If there exist any imperfections in his presentation, they are where he sometimes yields to this temptation. I offer two examples. The first has to do with Blankenhorn’s invocation of Maximus Confessor, whose undisputed texts are, by my lights, never substantively consulted (the footnotes suggest near total reliance upon the Scholia co-written with John of Scythopolis and secondary literature). Maximus’s name appears alongside Albert’s and Thomas’s absent concrete references to his texts. This risks attenuating the threat that the fiercely Christological and vigorously apophatic Maximian Dionysius poses to the Dominican one, as recourse to Ambigua 5, 15, and 21 or Questions to Thalassius 22 might reveal. A second worry concerns Thomas Gallus, the veritable pied piper of the “Affective Dionysianism” Blankenhorn so distrusts. Gallus spent his intellectual efforts almost exclusively and obsessively commenting the CD three times over. But his efforts have long been misread and, so, mischaracterized as anti-intellectualist. It is a tag that 682 Book Reviews betrays a lack of sympathetic reading, and it is one that Blankenhorn unfortunately rehearses. The oversight is understandable: Gallus’s texts are little known, often difficult, and largely untreated. But it is not finally defensible. At one point, Gallus is charged with a kind of mystical Joachimism evinced by his insistence upon the affective apex of union with God, which “may leave behind the Son’s mission and center exclusively on the Spirit’s” (74). This curious allegation might be chalked up to Albertian-Thomist anachronism—Gallus nowhere, to my mind, conceives mysticism according to the Trinitarian missions, as do Albert and Thomas. Why his affective rendering colors Gallus a mystical Joachite and not the Parisian Albert, who explicitly tethers his mysticism to the missions of the Son and the Spirit even as he insists at points upon the affect’s (and so the Spirit’s) primacy in union (110), remains unclear. Still less clear is why Blankenhorn describes Aquinas’s total eradication of noetic silence from the Mystical Theology’s dark cloud as a “quiet” shift (323). “Quiet” and “quietly” consistently soften the Dominican interpretation of Dionysius—nothing like the “major transformation” of the Victorine-Franciscan affective reading of the same, here wholly alien to Dionysius (383). At best, such rhetorical excess intimates an animus against the affectivists, whose alleged interjection of love constitutes an aberration in the history of Dionysian reception. At worst, it makes bits of the book read like an intellectual paternity test. If the intellectualists (Albert and Thomas) stand for Blankenhorn as the rightful heirs to the Dionysian legacy, the affectivists (Hugh of St Victor, Thomas Gallus, and Bonaventure) are its bastards. I confess my fandom for the bastards. But why not admit that both traditions misread creatively? Must admiration of one entail short shrift of the other? Still, these peccadillos do not amount to much. For students of Thomas, Albert, or medieval mysticism in general, The Mystery of Union with God is quite simply imperative. For all others it is enviable. This is, in large part, due to the fact that the book represents nothing less than a rigorous exercise in contemporary Scholasticism. About that last, postmodern scholarship has been highly critical, but Blankenhorn performs it eloquently. His prose stands crisp, precise, and unadorned, and his exegesis learned, cogent, and acute. This has the epiphenomenal effect of rendering many of his chapters intelligible singillatim—a rare and welcome gift for such a large volume. In short, Blankenhorn’s treatment of mystical union in Albert the Great and Thomas Aquinas remains very nearly masterly, not to mention Book Reviews 683 materially unparalleled. Should his efforts here herald what he will teach us in the years to come, we have much to anticipate from Fr. N&V Blankenhorn. Justin Shaun Coyle Boston College Chestnut Hill, MA The Catholicity of Reason by D. C. Schindler (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2013), xiv + 358 pp. Balthasar is the guiding light in this illuminating book, but Schindler takes his cue from Benedict at Regensburg. “The courage to embrace the whole breadth of reason” is what is wanted in both philosophy and theology. Those who set false limits on reason generate imperial forms of reason. “It is not,” insists Schindler, “the grandeur of reason but its impoverishment that leads to oppressive rationalism and the arbitrary irrationalism inseparable from it” (x). The antidote is catholic reason, “ecstatic” reason—reason that, like being itself, it always open to what is beyond it. If I understand correctly, the goodness of being is to be found in its openness to God, and the goodness of reason likewise, which means that reason is essentially receptive both of God and of all creaturely being. For Schindler, the mind is not (as for Kant) “constitutionally lonely,” but rather constitutionally engaged with the creaturely other and the divine Other (42). That engagement is what prevents, or ought to prevent, the false modesty that only produces a self-enclosed and, as such, a “totalizing” form of reason—a form that hardly knows what to do with beauty and mystery and volition and love. The latter starts in the wrong place, or rather forgets where it actually started—that is, with the experience (per Balthasar’s meditation on the formation of consciousness) of the mother’s smile. It is just such forgetfulness that renders revelation problematic, that removes the element of surprise, that turns reasons into a cold and abstract calculation. What Schindler wants us to recover is a sense of the rational soul as a privileged participant in being’s own ecstatic character. Being, just because it is open to God, is always itself “and more,” as is reason. The intellect anticipates its object, as Socrates and Plato knew, but is recast in the encounter. There is an analogia mentis, we might say, that constantly takes reason beyond itself, just as the analogia entis takes being beyond itself. In this, the rational soul is indeed the very 684 Book Reviews “paradigm” of being, for it shares in a privileged way in being’s being more than itself. This kind of reason is not static but dramatic, and revelation belongs to the drama in which it participates—belongs to it primordially and in such a way that theology has priority over philosophy and metaphysics, yet without sublating the latter. This sounds, and is, a rebuke to Kant, to Hegel, and to Heidegger, against whom some telling blows are struck (not least in response to Heidegger’s posing of the problem of onto-theology, and Marion’s handling of it, too, for that matter). Schindler is not all rebuke, however, engaging his interlocutors (especially Heidegger) positively at many points. He does not suggest, as he might have, that perhaps their mothers smiled too little. Following his mentor, Schindler experiments with the order of the transcendentals. Beauty leads and goodness and truth follow. Or, rather more traditionally, beauty appears as the confluence of goodness and truth, into which it leads us. He thinks we must correlate truth more closely with these other transcendentals and with being itself, finding its locus in “the concrete Gestalt” (105) and regarding intellection or understanding as a mutual act of being’s self-manifestation and of the receptive soul. (In a curious reading of Aquinas, De veritate q. 1, a. 1, he identifies truth itself as “manifestive and declarative being”[78].) We must also correlate all the transcendentals, and being itself with love. Even Thomists, he thinks, are prone to a fragmentation that tends toward a semi-Pelagian epistemology in which reason does its own independent work as a pre-condition for love and for the revelation that leads to the beatific vision. On his view, “the gratuity of revelation is intrinsic to, constitutive of, the integrity of reason, whether it be the revelation of being in its natural self-disclosure or the revelation of the triune God in history” (55). Schindler’s treatment of catholic reason—curiously, the relation between “catholic” and “Catholic” is never specified, the subject being broached only on the book’s final page—is elaborated by nine essays in three sections: Truth and Knowledge; Causality; God and Reason. The essays are of independent provenance, with different original audiences, such that his arguments develop at an uncertain pace and without the systematic clarity one desires. Still, the book is full of insight and presents a number of interesting moves in its search for a “non-possessive” concept of knowledge grounded in love and wonder, rather than power (101), and for the “reciprocally excessive character of philosophy and theology” (308). It is a difficult book to evaluate, but I think it fair to say that it is Book Reviews 685 more visionary than precise. The section on causality, for example, offers, in conclusion, a Dionysian synthesis of desire and generosity— an ecstatic and excessive generosity, a “radical generosity that provides the inner unity of the diverse orders of causality” (212). Perhaps the real challenge today is indeed to attempt some viable reintegration of these diverse orders, one that again and genuinely “gives cause to wonder” (163ff.). But this is the section’s final chapter, and it is not quite clear how such work is to proceed or how it is to embrace the natural sciences, for example, about which almost nothing is said. To offer another example (cribbed from my colleague, Garth Green), if we are going to ask with Schindler how “the question of reason’s relation to God appear[s] when thought through the nature of beauty, goodness, and truth rather than simply through the analogy of being” (61), may we not expect more help in correlating the analogia mentis with the analogia entis? It must be added, since we are sounding a critical note, that terminological and conceptual clarity is often lacking and that conclusions are sometimes reached in un-philosophical haste. That, of course, is a danger in visionary works that may easily frustrate what they mean to inspire. Perhaps a healthy dose of Anselm, who surprisingly makes no appearance at all, might have helped, though that is to set the bar for precision very high. The problem, however, lies not in the selection of sources, but rather in a Balthasarian flare for the juxtaposition of sources and ideas without the patient probing that a more analytical genre of essay demands. The strengths and weaknesses of The Catholicity of Reason are on display in its final chapters, which return to the relation of philosophy and theology, of reason and faith, of natural and revealed knowledge. Schindler, unfortunately, manifests the common habit of treating these couplets (or their terms) as if they were more or less interchangeable. Philosophy and theology are disciplines, albeit disciplines that generally display a high degree of internal disunity, which makes it difficult to articulate their relation unless one specifies which philosophy and which theology one is talking about. Reason and faith are entirely different operations, though both are modes of receptivity. They are not peculiar to any discipline but essential to every discipline, albeit in quite different ways and forms, and either may (or may not) be aided by supernatural grace. As for natural and revealed knowledge, or (more specifically) natural and revealed theology, it is certainly not the case that one is the product of reason and the other not, but rather that one is the product of reason without 686 Book Reviews benefit of specific events of revelation and the other the product of reason in receipt of such benefits. At times, it appears that Schindler knows all this, but too often his analysis is muddied by ignoring such distinctions. Fides qua and fides quae are run together, as are reason and the fruit of reason. His focus, however, is on the disciplines of theology and philosophy, which have, he says, a “reciprocally excessive character.” Each requires the other to scale its own heights, but their modes of exchange, of mutual giving and receiving, are different. Theology makes room for philosophy in a fashion analogous to the way that God makes room for the world, by kenotic or eucharistic ascesis. Philosophy makes room for revealed theology by way of a more Marian ascesis—by its fiat mihi. According to Schindler, “nature is fulfilled as nature precisely by what surprises it, that is, by the gratuity of grace” (“Hans Urs von Balthasar, Metaphysics, and the Problem of Ontotheology,” Analecta Hermeneutica 1 [2009]: 87). Likewise, philosophy is fulfilled by theology. While there is much to commend in this scheme, there is also a tendency to obscure the differences between philosophy and theology —or rather simply to assume them, since these disciplines as such remain undefined—and what Schindler himself is doing at any given point is debatable. Some will say that he appeals to the “reciprocally excessive character” to justify this, others that he does so to cover for it. Tellingly, he will not even say whether creatio ex nihilo is a theological or a philosophical doctrine; one wonders whether he somehow needs it to be both and whether, at some level, the distinction between nature and grace is itself being obscured. Be that as it may, there are other important issues here. Are we to assume that his characterization of God is right? And are we to pass over questions about the differences between the way God makes room for the world in creation and the way he makes room for it in redemption? These of course are theological questions, though a philosopher might also ask them. Analogous philosophical questions can also be put, even by those not averse to the Marian posture he prescribes for philosophy, a posture that may seem to some to make philosophy into theology. Has Schindler really put the relation between philosophy and theology in a new light, then, as he claims, or has he rather presented a sketch of his own theo-philosophical synthesis? In sum, this is a stimulating book that can be read with much profit by both philosophers and theologians and is perhaps best read Book Reviews 687 in just such company. That is no small praise, even if neither (so my experience suggests) will be entirely satisfied. Those who expect it to raise penetrating questions will be more satisfied than those who N&V expect it to resolve them. Douglas Farrow McGill University Montreal, QC One Body: An Essay in Christian Sexual Ethics by Alexander Pruss (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2014), ix + 465 pp. One Body is a large , ambitious, and impressive defense of traditional Christian sexual ethics. Its argumentative core is personalist (though dependent on some biologically oriented Thomistic considerations), while its stylistic debts are to analytic philosophy (which so loves imaginative examples: expected but unintended sexual arousal outside of marriage must be permissible sometimes, since it might occur while “rescuing attractive naked people from a burning building” [356]). Like most defenses of traditional sexual morality, One Body depends on a central argument whose consequences are then carefully applied to a wide range of cases. Alexander Pruss’s argumentative tenacity (One Body “bristles” with arguments, as they say) is extraordinary, and One Body will become a standard text in sexual ethics. Here I will concentrate on his central philosophical argument, leaving to one side the many particular applications, as well as his interesting, though subordinate, discussions of Christian revelation and tradition. Each particular form of love is distinguished by the type of union or consummation that fulfills it. Sexual union, the consummation of erotic love, is, in turn, best understood as an objective “one-body union” (91). This one-body union of two distinct persons is a “biological” or “organic” union and not a literal or metaphysical union. Such biological union “requires coordination and striving for a common goal” (102). These claims are so far fairly benign, and now we must ask, given a standard case of non-controversially unitive sexual activity, what it is about this activity that yields a union as one body and a consummation of erotic love? And what is the common goal movement toward which produces this one-body union? (114) Pleasure cannot be the common goal of sexual activity, in part because it is neither necessary nor sufficient for union. Even if one 688 Book Reviews or both persons are unable to feel sexual pleasure during intercourse (perhaps various nerve endings have been damaged), they still seem to be united as “one body”; adultery would be just as problematic despite an absence of pleasure. And if two people could experience sexual pleasure by means of the joint operation of some complicated machine, this would not entail a one-body union. But more importantly, “the most serious reason why striving for mutual pleasure is not what produces the union that romantic love seeks is that the conscious experience of pleasure does not, in itself, have an independent value” (118). Pruss follows Aristotle in arguing that pleasure “is enjoyment of an activity, and is given its form by the activity” (121). But “if sexual pleasure is an affective reflection of a deeper good, then surely it is the deeper good that is more appropriately seen as the goal of the unique striving, at least if the union to be produced is a deeper one—and romantic love seeks deep sexual union” (125). Sexual pleasure is good and should be present in full one-body sexual union, but its nature as pleasure points us to something deeper and more important, and so pleasure itself cannot be the distinctive unifying characteristic of unitive sexual activity. The second possible cause and goal of one-body union is some higher-level purpose. The problem with higher-level goals is that the striving after these goals is not of itself “the striving that helps make two persons into one body” (128). “All of [these goals] set up the goal that is achieved by the mutual striving at a higher level than the biophysical. The goal in each case is something cosmic, spiritual, intellectual, volitional, and/or emotional. This does not make the union be a fleshly union as one body, since a single body is constituted by the striving of parts to achieve various goals at a biophysical level” (130). Not only is it often the case that a higher goal can be achieved in ways other than sexual union (meaning that the pursuit of this goal cannot specify one-body sexual union as such), but higher goals cannot, of themselves, offer any explanation of the nature or causes of sexual union, since the goal is itself non-sexual. The third option, which Pruss embraces, is reproduction: “There is, indeed, a natural candidate for the goal toward which the two bodies strive in sexual activity, a candidate that satisfies the twin desiderata that the goal should be at a biological level, so that animals can have this kind of one-body union, and yet be humanly significant. This goal is reproduction. . . . What we see in uncontracepted intercourse, then, is a mutual organic striving for reproduction. . . . I am not claiming that successful reproduction is needed for sexual Book Reviews 689 union. . . . Rather, it is the bodies’ mutual striving for reproduction that is involved in union” (132, 135–36). If we grant that consummation is the culmination of romantic love’s union and that this consummation is the mutual striving for reproduction, we now have the resources for defending a long-term personal and mutual commitment. Full organic union, though realized most perfectly in the active operation of the organ as a part of the whole, also includes a “normative aspect of the connection between parts of the body, a normative aspect that is also always present but does not require the united parts to be actually functioning. Rather, it requires each of them to have a directedness at one another. Commitment creates such a normative, teleological connection between individuals” (166). The relation between the eye and the rest of the human body involves more than active seeing; it includes a dense and permanent network of normative relations between the eye and the body such that the eye is part of a larger organic system and, as such, is always related to that system in the ways necessary for the activity of sight. Just so, argues Pruss, a one-body sexual union is only a genuine consummation of romantic love when it is placed within a personal, mutual, and exclusive commitment of the partners that provides the biological and personal requirements necessary for a genuine one-body union. An eye is normatively committed to the body, and vice versa, until “death”; one-body romantic union is likewise possible only when the partners are normatively committed to one another until death. Pruss’s argumentative strategy is a rich and persuasive one and perhaps the best philosophical strategy available to defenders of traditional Christian sexual ethics: each form of love is characterized by a particular kind of union; erotic love is characterized by sexual union; and this union is itself characterized by genuine, mutual, and exclusive striving for reproduction. The plausibility of this approach is evident if we take the thoughts in reverse: it is eminently reasonable that reproductive union is part of a remarkable (and deeply biologically natural) form of human togetherness. If sexuality is indeed meaningful, its most meaningful expression is the personal and biological union of a man and woman joined together in reproductive striving. But this leaves us, nevertheless, open to some serious objections. Besides the social constructivism objection (sexuality is meaningful insofar as we give it meaning, and the range of possible meanings open to us is quite broad and certainly not constrained in any obvi- 690 Book Reviews ous way by biology), which Pruss acknowledges but does not address (79), the most important problem is this: granted that the union of reproductive striving expresses a unique form of love, we must also show that expressions of love that make use of human sexuality but do not express full reproductive striving are immoral. Not only are contraceptive sex, homosexual sex, extra-marital sex, masturbation, pornography, and so on lesser erotic experiences; they are also forbidden ones. I believe that Pruss’s arguments against these practices (and he develops many, many arguments) depend on the following foundational argument. On the account of pleasure developed by Pruss, a pleasure is a perception of an apparent good. Sexual pleasure, therefore, is the perception of an apparent mutual striving for reproduction. But in all cases other than the central acceptable case of sexual intercourse, this perception is an illusion, and “the deliberate induction of sexual pleasure without a one-flesh sexual union, or only in conjunction with some variety of union that lacks the full value of a sexual one-flesh union (e.g., holding hands), is morally wrong. It follows that masturbation, oral sex, and anal sex, at least when done for the sake of sexual pleasure outside the context of unitive intercourse, are wrong. These activities divorce one from sexual and interpersonal reality by making one or one’s sexual partner feel what is not there” (330). Pruss acknowledges that it is fine in some contexts to “cheat” to bring about a pleasure without the particular good to which the pleasure is naturally joined, but then he claims that “in sexual contexts we need to hold ourselves to a higher standard of integrity in the treatment of our bodies and of each other than in many other activities” (334). Why is this? “In sexual union, a couple is united through their bodies. To cheat the body in that context is to oppose oneself to one’s body, in a context in which one is trying expressly to unite with someone through that same body. In order for the biological union to be the basis for personal union, one must live the sexual union in an embodied manner, at least in respect of the sexual faculties” (336). The contracepting couple experiences sexual pleasure but has intentionally suppressed their reproductive striving, and so their personal union loses it appropriate biological foundation. In other words, if you want the personal union made possible by reproductive striving, you cannot actively frustrate the reproductive striving. But this is insufficient for the couple who says they instead want the personal union made possible by the mutual enjoyment of their Book Reviews 691 reproductive faculties. We need to show that, in the case of our erotic lives, any and all “cheating” (intentionally causing sexual pleasure outside of the context of genuine reproductive striving) is not only deceptive (we already know this, if we grant Pruss’s Aristotelian account of pleasure), but destructive. I cannot see how to show this given the resources at Pruss’s disposal. Many of his arguments show that sometimes and for certain reasons it will be destructive and will frustrate genuine personal union, but this, of course, will leave open the possibility that, in many cases, the cheating is perfectly acceptable. As long as we respect and love our partner(s), we might say, we can achieve (a form of ) erotic consummation through sexual expression. It is certainly a different expression than full reproductive striving, and perhaps it indeed results in pleasures that cheat in one fashion or another the natural connections between erotic pleasure and reproductive striving, but unless we have decisive reasons to avoid all such cheating, we are left with the possibility that such cheating is not bad—and might even be very good—and that the human relationships it makes possible are also good, and even, in their own way, as good as the most perfect mutual reproductive striving we can imagine. I agree with Pruss in rejecting this conclusion, but I cannot see how One Body shows that it must be rejected. A homosexual couple will argue that sexual expression allows their relationship a type of erotic consummation that, though perhaps “cheating,” is nevertheless interpersonally rich and satisfying and, though certainly different from the union made possible by reproductive striving, is not obviously wrong, or even less good. I suspect that this problem exists not because we must do more philosophy—One Body is a remarkable accomplishment and should be standard reading for anyone thinking about sexual ethics—but instead because, when it comes to controversial moral claims, the devil is always in the concrete, lived details. This is a criticism of abstract sexual ethics as a whole and not just One Body, but it is also an acknowledgement of its limits and a pointer towards what we who would champion the challenging and rich tradition of Christian N&V sexual ethics should still be looking for. Raymond Hain Providence College Providence, RI 692 Book Reviews Heaven Opens: The Trinitarian Mysticism of Adrienne von Speyr by Matthew Lewis Sutton (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2014), xvi + 244 pp. In 1968, Hans Urs von Balthasar famously wrote the following lines: “On the whole, I received far more from [Adrienne von Speyr], theologically, than she from me, though, of course, the exact proportion can never be calculated. . . . Today, after her death, Adrienne von Speyr’s work appears far more important than mine.”1 Such a powerful statement from one of the greatest theologians of the twentieth century ought to give pause: who was Adrienne von Speyr, and what is so important about the writings that she has left to the Church? In his recent study, Heaven Opens: The Trinitarian Mysticism of Adrienne von Speyr, Matthew Sutton offers a scholarly and lucid answer to this pressing question. The careful work of this young scholar occasions a watershed moment in von Speyr studies and will demand the attention of anyone interested in the mystic’s life and work. Sutton’s text has the merit of offering the first book-length introduction in English to von Speyr’s works and mystical experiences (besides, of course, the English translation of von Balthasar’s First Glance at Adrienne von Speyr). In a manageable eleven chapters spread over 244 pages, the author has achieved a noteworthy feat: he has provided a broad introduction to von Speyr’s voluminous work without sacrificing the depth that accompanies a more focused theological investigation. The lynchpin of Sutton’s success is his prudently chosen focus of study: the doctrine of the Trinity in von Speyr’s writings and mysticism. The selection of such an arterial theme for a theological study allows Sutton to touch all the essential threads that wind their way through von Speyr’s immense corpus of writings. In this sense, Sutton’s book harmonizes nicely with Balthasar’s explication of the many major themes in her writings given in his First Glance at Adrienne von Speyr and his “General Introduction to the Posthumous Works” in The Book of All Saints: Part One. Unfortunately, Sutton’s book lacks a thematic index, which would have certainly added to its appeal as a general introduction to von Speyr’s work. Nonetheless, it is appropriately structured according to the requirements of his theological inquiry, which necessitates that the remarks upon other threads of von Speyr’s thought are scattered throughout the chapters of the text. The author embellishes his chap- 1 First Glance at Adrienne von Speyr (San Francisco: Ignatius, 1981), 13. Book Reviews 693 ters with the poetry of T. S. Eliot, who was greatly impacted by von Speyr’s Commentary on John. A glance at the bibliography reveals that Sutton is working with over eighty published and unpublished works of von Speyr in the original German. He offers his own articulate English translations throughout the text, in consultation with those English translations already published. Importantly, the texts engaged by Heaven Opens include the entirety of von Speyr’s posthumously published works (the Nachlassbände), which are of great importance for an understanding of her mystical and theological contribution to the Church despite the fact that they are unknown to most English readers. The breadth of von Speyrian sources employed by Sutton further secures the text’s place as a reliable introduction to the whole of von Speyr’s work. In refreshing opposition to some popular discussions of von Speyr, Sutton never cherry-picks quotes, but always understands particular passages in light of her whole oeuvre. The footnotes are strong and often locate apt places for future research. After a thorough overview of von Speyr’s life and work in chapter 1, chapters 2–3 provide a theological analysis of “von Speyr’s theory and experience of Trinitarian mysticism” (3). Since the remainder of the book will address theological topics that form the content of von Speyr’s mysticism (Sutton approvingly cites Balthasar’s claim that her mysticism is an “experiential dogmatics”) these crucial chapters offer a “methodology of interpretation for the rest of the book” (85). A particularly insightful contribution of von Speyr’s account of mysticism is her identification of two distinct aspects that constitute a mystical experience: the “subjective” and the “objective.” Sutton articulates the significance of these terms: “In using subjective mysticism, one tries to understand the mystical experience as it relates to the subject experiencing the heavenly object and also how that perceived object affects the subject. In using objective mysticism, one tries to understand the object revealed in itself ” (49). A proper account of a mystical experience will entail a proper understanding of both aspects. The convergence of the subjective and the objective constitutes the drama of the mystical encounter of God and man, as well as the uniqueness of each mystic throughout the ages. For von Speyr, this encounter with the heavenly object is authentic only if it presents an unfolding of the revelation preserved and handed on by the Church. The spatial metaphor of the center and periphery of a circle is here used to great advantage in order to express the distinction between “necessary-for-salvation revelation” (center) and 694 Book Reviews “authentic mysticism” (periphery) respectively: “‘everything that stands in the periphery is a supplement and a decoration and must always be read from the center.’ Mysticism occurs on the periphery as supplement and decoration to the central revelation of the Trinity and the church. The value of the mysticism comes only from its interpretation in light of this center” (79). Nonetheless, “though mysticism is on the periphery of revelation, it must be allowed to pierce into the center with its new insightful understanding and its new fervent love” (ibid.). The remaining chapters of the text assess von Speyr’s writings on the immanent Trinity (chs. 4–5), the economic Trinity (chs. 6–8), and two aspects of ecclesial life that flow from the Trinity (chs. 9–10). Chapter 4 sets the tone of Trinitarian discourse by establishing two principles important to von Speyr: “the economic Trinity provides the only viewpoint for the immanent Trinity,” and “the only substantive content of the mystical vision is the immanent Trinity, and this content commands all other aspects of the revelation of the heavenly world” (99–100). In chapter 5, Sutton evaluates von Speyr’s Trinitarian theology as a “love theology” that follows in the footsteps of Augustine, Richard of St. Victor, several contemporary theologians (the late Ralph del Colle among them), and others in affirming that “the divine essence is love, and love is the divine essence. Each Person is love because each Person is nothing but the divine essence” (104). Those familiar with von Speyr will be gratified to see “obedience” and “mission,” two ubiquitous notions in von Speyr’s work, placed at the heart of the following chapters (6–8) on the economic Trinity. Chapter 7, the longest and perhaps most compelling of the book, features an exploration of the Son’s mission of obedience over the entire historical arc of his earthly life, death, and Resurrection. Sutton’s treatment of von Speyr’s theology of Holy Saturday persuasively defends the compatibility of her insights with the Catechism and contends that “von Speyr’s account . . . maintains that the Son even in the absolute night of forsakenness always has the essential beatific vision of the Father” (183). Since von Speyr views the sacraments and the mysteries of Christian life as having their origin in the Trinity, chapter 8, on the Holy Spirit’s economic mission, leads seamlessly into chapters 9–10, on the sacraments and prayer, respectively. As Sutton writes, “the descent of the Holy Spirit is the insertion of the church into the triune life of love” (204). The sacraments are the primary means of this insertion; Book Reviews 695 they “are the outward gift of heaven to humanity and the inward return of humans to heaven” (210). The sacrament of confession takes pride of place in chapter 9, followed closely by the Eucharist. Readers familiar with von Speyr’s corpus of writings will again be pleased by the primacy of confession in this chapter, as it adequately reflects the importance of the theme of confession in von Speyr’s work as a whole: Sutton notes that “the importance of her thoughts on [confession] for her Trinitarian mysticism cannot be overstated” (ibid.). Chapter 10, on prayer, rounds out Sutton’s study by illustrating the extent of von Speyr’s Trinitarian hermeneutic. He quotes von Speyr, who writes: “Everything [including prayer] happens within the triune substance of God and can be traced back to it” (227). The Trinity, then, “is the foundational dialogue of prayer” (226). As the perfection of prayer, the Trinitarian dialogue is the perfect integration and simultaneity of contemplation and action. While I found Sutton’s study to be essentially accurate and often quite penetrating, a slightly perplexing and potentially misleading aspect of the work surfaces in chapter 4 amidst his attempt to situate von Speyr’s understanding of the relationship between the economic and immanent Trinity within “the contemporary Trinitarian theological debate” (94). Sutton here employs three degrees of interpretation of Rahner’s famous Trinitarian axiom—“the ‘economic’ Trinity is the ‘immanent’ Trinity and the ‘immanent’ Trinity is the ‘economic’ Trinity”—as the plot line for the contemporary Trinitarian debate. Catherine Mowry LaCugna (among others) is offered as an example of the minimalist interpretation of the Rahnerian axiom, David Coffey as an example of the moderate interpretation, and Adrienne von Speyr (and the Greek Fathers) as an example of the maximalist interpretation. Sutton’s reasoning for the last placement is the suggestion that von Speyr has an axiom of her own—“everything manifested by the economic Trinity reveals the immanent Trinity”—in which she “is emphasizing the fullest possible identity between the Trinity’s economic and immanent life” (97). Crucially, however, Sutton does not discuss or plot those interpretations of the relationship between the immanent and the economic Trinity that would propose so close an identification of the two that the distinction between them all but disappears. It is precisely these latter interpretations that may arise in the reader’s mind as fittingly “maximalist” interpretations of the Rahnerian axiom, since it is they who truly emphasize “the fullest possible identity between the Trini- 696 Book Reviews ty’s economic and immanent life” (97) through dissolving the immanent into the economic. As the remainder of chapter 4 shows, Sutton in no way wishes to confuse von Speyr with such interpretations. He clearly argues that von Speyr’s own axiom “does not mean theologians should abandon the categorical difference between the immanent Trinity and the economic Trinity. Rather, [it] means there is a new, open access to God as immanent Trinity” (ibid.). By suggesting somewhat naively that von Speyr is a maximalist interpreter of Rahner’s axiom, he seems to mean that for her the economic Trinity gives us maximal access to the immanent Trinity while presuming the distinction between the two. Sutton’s treatment of von Speyr’s Trinitarian theology is better than the tool he uses to aid its explication in reference to the contemporary Trinitarian debate: while von Speyr’s place on the Rahnerian plotline may bring confusion, it touches the rest of Sutton’s effort hardly at all. A Catholic theologian is undoubtedly acting properly when he exhibits a discerning attitude toward unconfirmed mystical experiences. Nonetheless, allowing such an attitude to slip into a skepticism that presumes a negative judgment without investigation can, in some cases, be more detrimental than an uncritical embrace of any supposed mystical experience. The corresponding requirement, then, to an attitude of discernment is surely an attitude of investigation in which the theologian takes steps to explore a mystical experience, to inquire whether the Lord is in fact expressing himself through a servant in such a fashion. With regard to Adrienne von Speyr specifically, Sutton’s book gives English-speaking theologians a great deal of help in taking a first step towards such a discernment. N&V Matthew Kuhner Ave Maria University Ave Maria, FL Entering into the Mind of Christ: The True Nature of Theology edited by James Keating (Omaha, NE: Institute for Priestly Formation Publications, 2014), xiii + 268 pp. By all accounts , Deacon James Keating is a very busy man. He is not only the Director of the Diaconate Office for the Diocese of Omaha; he also directs the Theological Formation Program for the Institute of Priestly Formation there, and now he has started this very welcome series exploring the intersection between solid Catholic Book Reviews 697 theology and robust priestly spirituality and practice. The title of this compilation is a hint of how each author will argue in his or her own way that to do theology truly is to assimilate the mind of the Incarnate Logos and, as such, Entering into the Mind of Christ contains ten solid essays. This collection of articles is preceded by a foreword by the President of Catholic University of America, John Garvey, as well as an introduction by the ubiquitous John Cavadini of Notre Dame. Tracey Rowland is the Dean at the John Paul II Institute for Marriage and Family in Melbourne, and she opens with her question, “How Does Spirituality Supply Theological Study with the Correct Method?”The answer provided comes mainly from the many works of Joseph Ratzinger. In short, if theology is the task of beholding the divine, purity of heart is thus demanded for those who long to see God rightly: “Sound theological work requires a pure heart (the heart in this context being something like the place of integration for the intellect, will, imagination, passions, senses, body, and soul in pursuit of the true, the beautiful, and the good)” (30). Solid Christology stands at the heart of her response to the question of how this is fostered, the only way true friendship between humanity and divinity is realized. Fr. D. Vincent Twomey, S.V.D., taught morals for years at Maynooth College in Ireland and is now Professor Emeritus. He continues the mining of Ratzinger’s riches with his “Ratzinger on Theology as a Spiritual Science,” wherein he draws from the essential hermeneutical continuity of our rich tradition to show why Ratzinger is such an important link in the Church’s way of seeing both God and the human person. Daniel A. Keating, of Sacred Heart Major Seminary in Detroit, writes mainly on soteriological issues in the Fathers, and here his “The Essential Interrelation between Theology and Spirituality” takes from his masterful appropriation of the tradition. Drawing mainly from Louis Bouyer, Keating wants to help his readers avoid the “dryness” that inevitably creeps into the theologian’s day. One can lose the wonder that originally arose with the discovery of theology, and Keating addresses how to approach the immensity of God in an intelligible way, how to navigate serious theological controversy, how not to be swamped by the larger culture and ever-oppressive media (anyone who has ever taught an undergraduate who has the History Channel in his or her dorm room will need Keating here), and how best to use theology in the kaleidoscopic life of a modern day university. 698 Book Reviews In my favorite essay of all, Sr. Gill Goulding, C.J., of Regis College at the University of Toronto, uses Hans Urs von Balthasar and the Spiritual Exercises of Ignatius of Loyola to help us see “Holiness of Mind and Heart: The Dynamic Imperative of Conversion and Contemplation for the Study of Theology.” The fullest of our epistemological capacities demands a life of prayer and study, the only means by which the creature will be elevated into the Trinitarian life. Michael Paul Gallagher, S.J., is now Emeritus at the Gregorian University in Rome and is currently serving as the rector of the Jesuit Bellarmine Community there. His “Realization of Wisdom: Fruits of Formation in the Light of Newman” focuses us on the sermons where Newman stresses both the importance of a theologically trained mind and a vulnerable heart longing to grow closer to God. The essays in the second half of the volume are more directed toward seminarians still in priestly formation, and Monsignor John R. Cihak of the Archdiocese of Portland offers us “How Faith Forges a Reason Suitable for Theology According to Saint Bonaventure.” Cihak looks at the need to have one’s human intellect transformed by sanctifying grace, using the Seraphic Doctor to highlight the need for the Holy Spirit’s Gifts and Beatitudes. Fr. Chris Collins directs the Office of Mission and Identity at Saint Louis University. He has also worked extensively in Pope Emeritus Benedict’s thought, and his “Doubt and the Task of Theology in the New Evangelization” is an expert exhortation to God’s people for them to see their needs and lacks not as failures but precisely as the places (quoting Paul Claudel) where they are asked to cling to the Cross of Christ as their only hope. Peter Casarella teaches at the University of Notre Dame, and his “Priestly Ministry: Searching for True Life” draws heavily from Latino literature (e.g., Félix Varela’s Letters to Elpidio) to show an obvious but neglected point: the joyful and, thus, effective priest is he who administers through love and lives incessantly in a Spirit-filled gratitude. Larry Chapp retired from teaching theology at DeSales University to manage The Dorothy Day Catholic Worker Farm in central Pennsylvania. In “The Union of Sanctity and Theology in the Thought of Hans Urs von Balthasar: Implications for Seminary Formation,” Chapp confirms that holiness must be recovered as a constitutive part of doing theology, that this theology must be Christologically-centered, and that this centering must, in turn, be rooted in an orthodox and ecclesial pronouncement of Scripture. A priest from Eichstätt, Germany, Emery de Gaál now teaches theology at Mundelein Seminary outside Chicago and rounds out this collection Book Reviews 699 with “The Unity of Spirituality and Theology in Priestly Existence: Joseph Ratzinger’s Homilies at a Newly Ordained Priest’s First Mass.” De Gaál very cleverly selects the homilies Ratzinger preached over many decades at various first Masses to show how Pope Emeritus Benedict (of all the things he could have preached about) chose to stress the priest as a fleshy, human conduit of Christ’s incarnate mercy. The paradoxical interplay between joy and the Cross and the beauty of the Church’s teaching on human dignity are themes that come to the fore. This volume gathers an invaluable collection of theologically profound pieces. It will prove valuable to anyone taken with the convergence of Catholic theology and priestly spirituality in general and the thought of Ratzinger and von Balthasar in particular. N&V David Vincent Meconi, S.J. Saint Louis University Saint Louis, MO Union with Christ in the New Testament by Grant Macaskill (Oxford: Oxford University, 2013), 353 pp. Grant Macaskill’s Union with Christ in the New Testament is an ambitious and rare work of New Testament scholarship. Rarely do modern scholars dare to suggest that the writings of the NT as a whole offer a cohesive vision of a topic as broad as union with Christ. Moreover, although there have been welcome moves in recent years recognizing the usefulness of reception history for understanding the NT, many modern biblical scholars accuse the writings of the patristic period of distorting rather than elucidating the Gospel message. But the rarest element of all in Macaskill’s work is his engagement with questions of ontology, particularly the ontology of the Incarnation. Even NT scholars whose work is in many ways compatible with traditional Christological orthodoxy often deny the legitimacy of using ontological categories for understanding the NT, dismissing them as foreign. It is the rare combination of approaches so often held apart or dismissed that makes Macaskill’s work so exciting and promising. Despite the resistance his method is bound to encounter in some quarters, Macaskill makes an intriguing historical case for the legitimacy of treating the NT documents together in this manner. For all their obvious diversity, the writings of the NT come from a narrow historical timeframe as part of a movement unified, if by nothing else, 700 Book Reviews by allegiance to Jesus Christ. This historical and religious proximity alone warrants a comparative study of these writings to determine whether, amidst their diversity, they also evidence some unity of thought. As Macaskill shows, such a comparative reading by no means excludes consideration of other contexts. Indeed, one cannot fully grasp the relation between the writings of the NT without considering their broader historical setting. The book divides into two parts consisting of five and seven chapters, respectively. In the first part Macaskill treats both reception history and the historical background of the concept of union with Christ. A survey of modern scholarship shows that discussions of union with Christ have been restricted, for the most part, to the field of Pauline scholarship. Within this stream of scholarship, however, there has been a wide array of approaches. Macaskill offers insightful summaries and analyses of the major works from Deissmann up to the recent work of Constantine Campbell. Among the more significant conclusions, Macaskill rightly notes the imprecision that plagues so much use of the term “apocalyptic,” as well as “mysticism” (though the latter has largely fallen out of favor in many circles). The following two chapters focus on participation in the Greek Fathers and the Reformers, as well as Karl Barth. Relying on the recent work of Norman Russell, Macaskill traces the theme of deification in some of the major figures of the first five centuries of Christianity. This review yields a number of insights that inform his consideration of the NT documents in part II. In particular, he stresses the importance of the sacraments and ecclesial life in patristic accounts of deification and the ontological claims that undergird these accounts. The role of the sacraments is particularly significant in that it shows that patristic conceptions of deification were closely tied to the narrative of Christ’s death and Resurrection. As such, they are not simply derived from Platonic thought, as some allege. The concern for incarnational ontology surfaces also in the writings of the Reformers, for whom participation must be understood in light of a more fully developed trinitarianism. Additionally, the Reformers lay great emphasis on the personal presence of Christ, through which one must understand the forensic dimensions of their accounts of justification. Moreover, Calvin and Barth underscore the importance of covenantal categories for understanding the believer’s relation to Christ. Chapters 4–5 explore the historical background to the notion of union with Christ, with chapter 4 offering a general survey and chapter 5 focusing on the question of Adam. Particularly significant for Book Reviews 701 Macaskill is the role of covenant, a central theme of the Old Testament, and the closely related notion of glory. Glory is commonly associated with the presence of God, principally in the temple. Macaskill shows, moreover, that these themes play an important role in apocalyptic thought, thereby (rightly) calling into question the dichotomy so often posed between apocalyptic and covenant. No less bold is Macaskill’s discussion of messianism in general, and more specifically a messianic reading of the Isaianic servant. With respect to Adam, Macaskill argues against Dunn and others that most traditions concerning the glory of Adam post-date the New Testament and are actually derived from associations of glory with the presence of God in the temple and that, thus, Adam traditions are of little use for understanding union with Christ in the New Testament. Having explored the foreground and the background of union with Christ, Macaskill turns in part II to the NT documents themselves. The opening chapter (ch. 6) deftly shows how both temple and body function as governing images for union with Christ across a wide swath of NT material, including both undisputed and disputed Pauline letters, 1 Peter, and the Synoptic tradition. The two images often complement one another, as for example in 1 Corinthians. Macaskill offers an intriguing proposal with regard to how this association came about. Noting that a number of NT texts draw on Psalm 118:2 for temple imagery, he points out a commonly recognized pun in the Hebrew of the psalm between the “stone” (’eben) and the “son” (bēn). Significantly, Jesus is presented as drawing on this Psalm in the parable of the vineyard, a parable set against the backdrop of his action in the temple. Macaskill suggests that, particularly in light of the Resurrection, early Christians drew on this connection to see Jesus not only as the Son but also as the cornerstone of the new temple. This reading has considerable explanatory power and merits further consideration. Temple imagery functions in different ways in other NT writings, particularly the Johannine corpus and Hebrews, with different connotations. In the Gospel of John, temple language shapes his account of the Incarnation: the body of the Messiah is the temple of the Logos, the presence of God on earth. For Macaskill, John’s incarnational theology bears affinities with the later theology of Athanasius, with the presence of God serving to divinize humanity. While an accurate account of John’s Christology, this section could have been more fully fleshed out. Surprisingly Macaskill treats neither John 7:37–39 nor John 19, with their allusions to Ezekiel’s temple vision, or the 702 Book Reviews potential implications of John 7 for union with Christ. The accent of Hebrews falls on Christ’s role as high priest in the heavenly temple. The text does not have the common Pauline “in Christ” language, but it does, on Macaskill’s reading, emphasize the importance of Christ’s humanity and divinity in establishing communion between human beings and God. Macaskill rightly recognizes the importance of temple imagery in the last two chapters of Revelation, as well, but puzzlingly claims, “the account does not provide a temple-governed image of human participation” (187)—an odd statement to make in light of Revelation 3:12 (a verse discussed nowhere in the study). Chapter 8 treats Baptism and Eucharist. Macaskill argues that these sacraments, which appear in some of the earliest strata of the NT, most likely played a pivotal role in shaping the NT understanding of union with Christ. Given the weight Macaskill attaches to these sacraments, the analysis of some of the texts is disappointingly brief, particularly baptismal passages. Moreover, Ephesians, which plays such a prominent part earlier in the study, receives no mention in this chapter despite the close connection the letter makes between baptism and the unity of believers. One might also have expected the baptismal traditions of 1 Peter to receive treatment here, rather than in a later chapter. The Lord’s Supper traditions receive a more substantial discussion. Macaskill rightly notes both the constitutive role this sacrament plays in union with Christ and its close connection with the working of the Spirit. As the words of institution show, the Eucharist is heavily shaped by covenantal categories. Given its centrality in early Christian praxis, then, Macaskill plausibly suggests that covenant is a crucial lens through which to view the NT presentations of union with Christ. Chapter 9 treats a variety of participatory elements in the Pauline corpus. Building on his analysis of temple imagery and the covenantal framework of the Lord’s Supper, he argues that covenantal categories play a significant role in Paul’s thought. Indeed, the notion of covenant lies in the background of adoption language in Galatians, as well as the images of new creation and the Spirit in both Galatians and 2 Corinthians. In addition, Macaskill argues for a close connection between glory, the image of God, and noetic healing, themes noted by patristic figures like Irenaeus and Athanasius. But noetic healing and new creation are brought about through participation in Christ’s crucifixion, the heart of union with Christ for Paul. Suffering and faith thus go together in Paul’s vision. Book Reviews 703 Noetic healing by means of revelation plays a significant role in the Johannine writings as well, which constitute the subject of chapter 10. In John, this healing comes about through union with Christ, in particular through the personal presence of the Son and the Spirit. This emphasis on revelation is evident in the “I am” sayings, which indicate both the Son’s divinity and his role as the revealer and eschatological messiah. His personal presence calls forth a response of faith and obedience, as well as love, characteristics of those united with Christ. This love is to be embodied in the Christian community, a community marked by the glory of God’s presence ( John 17). Although union with Christ is less prominent in other writings of the NT, chapter 11 briefly surveys some of those texts, finding themes similar to those in Paul and John. First and Second Peter receive the bulk of the discussion, taking up roughly half of the chapter. Once again, Macaskill finds covenant, revelation, and suffering as key ideas connected with participation. Likewise, martyrdom in the Book of Revelation is cast in a participatory mode. Since the most significant passages for union with Christ appear in the Last Supper narratives, the Synoptic Gospels receive briefer treatment. The passages discussed, the easy yoke of Matthew 11 and the teaching about the sheep and the goats in Matthew 25, are surprising. While it is true that both texts have apocalyptic and revelatory themes elsewhere associated with participation, they are not the most obvious passages illustrating union with Christ. Moreover, in light of the significance of suffering in Paul, 1 Peter, and Revelation, it is puzzling to see no mention, let alone discussion, of Mark 8:34 and parallels, one of the clearest calls to participation in Christ’s Cross. A concluding chapter summarizes the findings of the study under eight categories, emphasizing how central union with Christ is for the NT as a whole. In light of some of the themes Macaskill highlights, it is surprising how little attention Colossians receives throughout the work, given that it combines notions of union with Christ, image Christology, suffering, noetic healing, and baptism. More also could have been made of marital imagery in texts such as Ephesians 5 and the culminating vision of the Book of Revelation, and a discussion of Paul’s vision on the road to Damascus (“Saul, why do you persecute me?”) would not have been out of place. These omissions notwithstanding, Union with Christ in the New Testament is a welcome contribution. Its refreshing openness to ontological questions and boldness in bringing together approaches too often held apart are a hopeful sign of real progress in the field of 704 Book Reviews theological interpretation. One hopes that such openness will inspire others to further the work of bridging the gap between biblical studN&V ies and theology. Isaac Augustine Morales, O.P. Dominican House of Studies Washington, DC