et Vetera Nova Summer 2019 • Volume 17, Number 3 The English Edition of the International Theological Journal Co-Editors Matthew Levering, Mundelein Seminary Thomas Joseph White, O.P., Pontifical University of St. Thomas Aquinas 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, University of Dallas 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 Boyd Taylor Coolman, Boston College Michael Dauphinais, Ave Maria University 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 Dominic Legge, O.P., Dominican House of Studies Joseph Lienhard, S.J., Fordham University Steven A. Long, Ave Maria University Guy Mansini, O.S.B., Ave Maria University Francesca Aran Murphy, University of Notre Dame Thomas Osborne, University of St. Thomas (Houston) Michał Paluch, O.P., Pontifical University of St. Thomas Aquinas 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., Capuchin College William Wright, Duquesne University Instructions for Contributors 1. Address all contributions, books for review, and related correspondence to Matthew Levering, mjlevering@yahoo.com. 2. Contributions should be prepared to accord as closely as possible with the typographical conventions of Nova et Vetera. The University of Chicago Manual of Style (16th edition) is our authority on matters of style. 3. Nova et Vetera practices blind review. Submissions are evaluated anonymously by members of the editorial board and other scholars with appropriate expertise. Name, affiliation, and contact information should be included on a separate page apart from the submission. 4. Galley-proofs of articles are sent to contributors to be read and corrected and should be returned to the Editors within ten days of receipt. Corrections should be confined to typographical and factual errors. 5. Submission of a manuscript entails the author’s agreement (in the event his or her contribution is accepted for publication) to assign the copyright to Nova et Vetera. Nova et Vetera The English Edition of the International Theological Journal ISSN 1542-7315 Summer 2019 Vol. 17, No. 3 Commentary Theological Indebtedness to Jacques and Raïssa Maritain: A Testimony to Their Contribution to My Theological Vocation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Matthew L. Lamb Aquinas on Satan as a Theologian-Exegete.. . . . . . Mateusz Przanowski, O.P. We Are Not God: Reflections on the Theology of Laudato Si. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Reinhard Hütter 617 625 639 Articles The Infallibility of Canonizations: A Revisionist History of the Arguments. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . William Diem Lactantius's Power Theology. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jason Gehrke The Incipient Probabilism of Francisco de Vitoria. . . . . . . . Gregory Pine, O.P. The Experience of Eucharistic Beauty in Albert the Great's De corpore domini. . . . . Sr. Albert Marie Surmanski, O.P. 653 683 717 747 Symposium on Christ's Kenosis The Humility of God: On a Disputed Question in Trinitarian Theology. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . John R. Betz Analogy and Kenosis. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Anne M. Carpenter Kenosis, Christ, and the Trinity in Thomas Aquinas.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gilles Emery, O.P. Gathering Many Likenesses: Trinity and Kenosis . . . . . . . . . . . Kenneth Oakes 769 811 839 871 Symposium on the Soul The Reality of the Soul in an Age of Neuroscience.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Michael J. Dodds, O.P. Objections and Responses to the Existence of Free Choice. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ezra Sullivan, O.P. 893 913 Book Reviews A Gift of Presence: The Theology and Poetry of the Eucharist in Thomas Aquinas by Jan-Heiner Tück. . . . . . . Veronica A. Arntz The Prophetic Church: History and Doctrinal Development in John Henry Newman and Yves Congar by Andrew Meszaros. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Reinhard Hütter Before Virtue: Assessing Contemporary Virtue Ethics by Jonathan J. Sanford.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Anthony T. Flood 943 948 953 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. Nova et Vetera (ISSN 1542-7315; ISBN 978-1-949013-95-5) 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 2019 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 and is indexed and abstracted in the Emerging Sources Citation Index. 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. 17, No. 3 (2019): 617–623 617 Theological Indebtedness to Jacques and Raïssa Maritain: A Testimony to Their Contribution to My Theological Vocation †Matthew L. Lamb Ave Maria University Ave Maria, FL Robert Cardinal Sarah’s important The Power of Silence: Against the Dictatorship of Noise shows the fundamental significance of monastic contemplation and silence for a God-centered renewal of society and culture. Before I would teach at Catholic theological faculties, I realized that I should draw upon an intellectual and contemplative formation I had received previous to any teaching.1 Just before my fifteenth birthday, in May of 1952, I was graced with a vocation to enter the Trappist Abbey of Our Lady of the Holy Spirit in Conyers, Georgia. This gave me the advantage of being in a contemplative monastery where an intellectual asceticism was linked with quests for wisdom and worship. Steeped in the Biblical Word of God and the Divine Office, the intellectual, moral, and religious formation invited the monk to an in depth study of the philosophical and theological writings of the Greek and Latin Fathers, as well as the Medieval monastic and scholastic saints and scholars. I drew upon those fifteen years of study because they were foundational for a much needed renewal of Catholic theology in our times. A serious shortcoming in Catholic circles after Vatican II was a severing of a genuine ressourcement from aggiornomento. This rupture relegated the great intellectual achievements of the biblical, conciliar, patristic, medieval, and The occasion of this essay was the Lifetime Achievement Award Fr. Lamb received in 2016 from the American Maritain Association. 1 618 Matthew L. Lamb Renaissance periods to historical museums. They were fine for visits, but had little or no relevance to modern issues and questions. As Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI warned, a hermeneutics of rupture made a hermeneutics of reform and renewal dead, leaving Catholics with nothing more than the swirling, ever-changing cultural fashions of the day. The writings of Jacques Maritain were studied and read in the Trappist monastery I had entered. The essay he wrote with Raïssa on “Liturgy and Contemplation” was published in the Carmelite journal Spiritual Life and was important in its relation of the Divine Office to the contemplative life. A most important aspect of Maritain’s many writings is how, during the 1920s through the 1960s, he forged in philosophy the importance of recovering the great intellectual achievements of the past in order to provide adequate answers to contemporary questions. He saw clearly that major problems in modernity are due to the failure to keep alive the intellectual, moral, and religious traditions of Catholic Europe. He saw clearly the universal validity of the thought of St. Thomas Aquinas as inviting the reader to discover the natural reason of humanity.2 It was common in the monastery to read Maritain’s writings on an array of issues: natural law, the state and democracy, Christian existentialism, art and scholasticism, and the art of Rouault, as well as his contributions to the United Nations charter. His wonderful Reflections on America were read aloud during meals in the monastic refectory. Indeed, it was Jacques Maritain who illustrated in his philosophy how only by recovering human reason (ressourcement) through a thorough study of the ancients could one bring renewal and reform to modern times (aggiornomento). Thus the philosophical recovery of Aquinas by Maritain prepared the intellectual groundwork for a proper understanding of the biblical and patristic renewals, even though this had been unfortunately overlooked by some proponents of la nouvelle théologie.3 Decades before the 1960s, Maritain was recovering important theoretical writings of the Fathers, especially St. Augustine, and the works of St. Thomas Aquinas and his commentators, especially John of St. Thomas. See Maritain’s Antimoderne (Paris: Desclée et Cie., 1922), 15, 71–192. See the corrections of the oversights in the following excellent essays: Aidan Nichols, “Thomism and the Nouvelle Théologie,” The Thomist Vol. 64, no. 1 (2000): 1–19; René Mougel, “The Position of Jacques Maritain Regarding Surnaturel: The Sin of the Angel, or ‘Spirit and Liberty,’” in Surnaturel: A Controversy at the Heart of Twentieth Century Thomistic Thought, ed. Serge-Thomas Bonino (Ave Maria, FL: Sapientia, 2009), 59–83; Jörgen Vijgen’s critical review of J. Mettepenningen’s Nouvelle Théologie—New Theology: Inheritor of Modernism, Precursor of Vatican II in The Thomist 76, no. 1 (2012): 125–29. 2 3 Theological Indebtedness to Jacques and Raïssa Maritain 619 Maritain realized the importance of this recovery not only to counteract the baneful consequences of nominalism and voluntarism on modern thought and life, but also to provide more adequate perspectives on major issues facing modernity. His philosophical ressourcement was decisive for his philosophical aggiornomento. When he saw the failures of many Catholic intellectuals after Vatican II to live up to the demands of the theoretical recoveries of the Fathers and Aquinas, he wrote the blunt positive and negative assessments of post-conciliar life and thought in The Peasant of the Garonne: An Old Layman Questions Himself about the Present Time. Nevertheless, when I entered the monastic contemplative life in the 1950s and 1960s, Maritain’s writings provided a guide to appreciate the biblical and patristic depth of Aquinas’s Catena Aurea and his commentaries on the Old and New Testaments. These suffused his theoretical writings on philosophy and theology. What was fascinating was the ways in which Maritain could approach contemporary problems and issues and enlighten them by references to Aristotle, Augustine, and Aquinas. The distinguished Ralph McInerny wrote: “The Degrees of Knowledge, better than any other single work of Maritain, displays the comprehensiveness and range of his interests. Its author takes his inspiration from Thomas Aquinas, reargues his basic positions in the light of the problems posed for them in the twentieth century, and ends by writing a profoundly original work.”4 It was to this work that I turned for guidance as I began studying the philosophy of Aquinas. From the opening chapter on the majesty and poverty of metaphysics I saw the incisive appropriation by Maritain of how the acquisition of metaphysical wisdom heuristically integrated in an open and ongoing fashion mankind’s quest for knowledge. He saw how the ancient emphasis upon the mind’s quest from physics through metaphysics could be capable of integrating the very different modern emphasis upon empirically verifiable sciences. The three degrees of abstraction moving from physical through mathematical to metaphysical knowing did not impoverish knowing, but enriched it. The intelligible causes the sensible. Maritain transposed Aquinas’s reflections on sensible experience giving rise to the first act of the mind, raising the quid sit questions, seeking the form or quiddity in the material object that moved human senses. This then evoked the an sit questions of the second act of the mind in judging. The chapter on philosophy and experimental science concludes by affirming that Thomism can provide the sciences “with metaphysical frameworks” that “guarantee the Ralph McInerny, introduction to Jacques Maritain, The Degrees of Knowledge, trans. Gerald B. Phelan (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1995), xx. 4 620 Matthew L. Lamb autonomy and specific character of each of the sciences” because of ontological realism.5 The chapter on critical realism turns the tables on the subjectivism of both empiricism and idealism. Descartes, Kant, and Husserl were all caught in the nets of nominalism that failed to grasp, as Aquinas had, that knowing is within being. Humans know being, and only within the ontological realism of that knowing do we distinguish subjects and objects. Real objects move the mind so that verified intellectual knowledge is knowledge of the objects as they really exist. Maritain understood how for Aquinas real objects and real acts of knowing occur within human conscious experience.6 Later both Bernard Lonergan and Karol Wojtyła affirmed this ontological realism of Aquinas as indeed capable of criticizing the subjectivism of modernity. Similar to Maritain, Lonergan and Wojtyła saw in Aquinas how all human beings experience acts of sensing, of perceiving, and of imagining, as well as acts of inquiring, understanding, conceiving, weighing the evidence, and judging the truth of something understood, along with acts of deliberating what is good, of deciding, of acting, loving, and so on. The acts are moved by all the sensible objects in the world around us, as well as by persons and realities that go beyond our senses. The universality of reason is oriented into the universality of being. Thus there is an implicit metaphysics in all human acting. Rendering metaphysics explicit requires a collaborative attuning of mind and heart to the whole of being and its causes down the ages. Lonergan termed his position, as Maritain had, “critical realism,” since he saw clearly, as Maritain had, that Aquinas articulated the related and recurrent operations of human reason common to all men. Wojtyła’s use of Aquinas was an effort to relate the rational soul and faculties to personal identity, and the habits to the related and recurrent patterns of acts and objects consciously experienced by the person.7 Maritain, Degrees of Knowledge, 23–72, 42, 58–60. Ibid., esp. 124–36. 7 See Matthew Lamb’s “Lonergan’s Transpositions of Augustine and Aquinas,” in The Importance of Insight, ed. John Liptay and David Liptay (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2007), 3–21; “Fr. Bernard Lonergan, S.J.: The Gregorian Years” in Lonergan’s Anthropology Revisited, ed. Gerald Whelan, S.J. (Rome: Gregorian University Press, 2015), 57–80; and “St. John Paul II’s Thomism,” in Thomas Aquinas: Teacher of Humanity, ed. John Hittinger and D. Wagner (Newcastle upon Tyne, UK: Cambridge Scholars Press, 2015), 17–40. 5 6 Theological Indebtedness to Jacques and Raïssa Maritain 621 I found that Maritain’s efforts to transpose Aquinas’s philosophy of nature in his analysis of common-sense description and the various levels of mathematical, mechanical, biologic and ontological explanation—as he dealt with the new Physics and Biology—were more differentiated and expanded in Lonergan’s analysis of common sense, along with classical, statistical, and genetic methods.8 This in turn enabled Lonergan to transpose Aristotle’s and Aquinas’s four causes in metaphysics more thoroughly in terms of emergent probability, metaphysics as science and as dialectics. This enabled me to do justice to Maritain’s reflections on perinoetic, dianoetic, and ananoetic intellections in ways that furthered Maritain’s concern to integrate the sciences by means of the open and ongoing heuristic patterns of ontology.9 Maritain’s insightful relation of dianoetic knowing to ananoetic knowing enabled him to spell out the three wisdoms. There is metaphysical wisdom that is acquired by careful and long study culminating in an analogical natural theology of the uncaused cause of all that is. Then there is properly theological wisdom whereby a theologian, graced with faith in God’s revelation in the Old and New Testaments, through long study and prayer acquires the theological habit of supernatural wisdom. Maritain explores this in his chapter on Augustinian wisdom in which he articulates, despite some differences, profound complementarities between Augustine’s and Aquinas’s theologies. This is especially the case in their Compare Maritain, Degrees of Knowledge, 145–214, with Lonergan’s Insight: A Study of Human Understanding (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1992), 57–269, 456–510. 9 Compare Maritain, Degrees of Knowledge, 215–59, with the references to Lonergan’s work in Matthew Lamb’s “Towards a Synthetization of the Sciences,” Philosophy of Science 22, no. 2 (April 1965): 182–91. 8 622 Matthew L. Lamb analogical Trinitarian theologies.10 The concluding chapters of The Degrees of Knowledge reflect on infused mystical wisdom, exploring this in the works of St. John of the Cross. Among the many insights in these pages, there stands out how, in the final chapter on “Todo y Nada” Maritain sees how, similar to Augustine and Aquinas, John of the Cross articulates the immediacy of the Triune God in the divine indwelling of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit within the graced minds and hearts of those caught up in a most wise and holy spiritual marriage with the Triune God: Thus, the espoused soul loves and gives by infinite love itself; it is by infinite love that the soul operates according to the intentional being of love, the while it operates according to the entitative being by its own finite acts. . . . It is remarkable and of the greatest consequence that, at this summit of the spiritual life and of mystical experience the soul emerges expressly into the depths of the holiest mystery of Christian revelation, “transformed in the flame of love, wherein the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit commune with it.”. . . “The knowledge of the Trinity in unity,” says St. Thomas Aquinas, “is the fruit and end of our whole life.” And St. Augustine: “The realities we will one day enjoy are the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.’’11 This profound and prayerful Trinitarian spirituality can also be found in Bernard Lonergan’s long ascent up to the mind and heart of Aquinas. It may be a fitting conclusion to our theological indebtedness to Jacques Maritain to conclude with a passage on the Trinitarian indwelling from Lonergan that resonates profoundly with the spiritual life of Jacques and Raïssa Maritain: See: Maritain, Degrees of Knowledge, 263–82, 310–28. D. Juvenal Merriell, To The Image of the Trinity: A Study in the Development of Aquinas’ Teaching (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 1990), shows how Aquinas’s Trinitarian theology in the Summa theologiae I, qq. 27–43, differs from his earlier writings. Merriell puts forth the hypothesis, still not refuted, that Albert the Great and the early Aquinas did not carefully study Augustine’s De Trinitate. All their quotes can be found in Peter Lombard’s Sentences. Then, in the later De veritate and the Summa theologiae, Aquinas quotes texts of Augustine not found in Lombard. Foundational to Aquinas’s later theology, as Lonergan indicates, is that Aquinas drew from Augustine that in the divine processions actus perfecti, i.e., act generates and spirates act. It is wrong to think of them as actus imperfecti moving from potency to act. See Bernard Lonergan, Verbum: Word and Idea in Aquinas (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1997), 110–16. 11 Maritain, Degrees of Knowledge, 398 and 403. 10 623 Theological Indebtedness to Jacques and Raïssa Maritain Once this is grasped, it follows that the divine persons, the blessed in heaven, and the justified here on earth are mutually present in each other as the known is present in the knower and as the beloved in present in the lover. Attention is to be given to this knowing and loving both with respect to its ultimate goal which is that good that is the good through its essence and with respect to its proximate goal which is a common good of order, the kingdom of God, the Body of Christ, the Church. Moreover, the consequent mutual indwelling differs in accord with the nature and state of each individual: for the divine persons are mutually present in each other on the basis of consubstantiality; the justified are present in God and in each other on the basis of intentional act of existence and on the basis of the kind of identification proper to love; we are in the Word as known to him and beloved by him both on the basis of his divine nature and on the basis of his human nature; the Word is in us in our knowledge and love for him as a sensible man as we are reaching toward a knowledge and love of God who dwells in inaccessible light (1 Tim 6:16). And because the prior knowledge and love is easier for us in that it includes our sensitive memory of the past and our imagination of the future, we are led by it to that higher knowledge and love in which we now no longer know Christ in the flesh but our own inner word proper to the divine Word is spoken intelligibly in us on the basis of an emanation of truth and our own love proper to the divine Love is spirated on the basis of an emanation of sanctity. For the divine persons are sent on the basis of their eternal processions so that they may meet us and dwell in us on the basis of similar processions that are produced in us through grace. But those who proceed from and are sent by the Father do not come without the Father to whom all glory belongs through the Son and the Spirit.12 N&V Collected Works of Bernard Lonergan, trans. M. Shields, vol. 12, The Triune God: Systematics (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2007), 511–13 [originally De Deo Trino, vol. 2 (Rome: Gregorian University, 1964), 255–56]. 12 Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 17, No. 3 (2019): 625–637 625 Aquinas on Satan as a Theologian-Exegete Mateusz Przanowski, O.P. Instytut Thomistyczny Warsaw, Poland Recognizing in Satan some traits of a twisted theologian is quite a common theme. Pope Benedict XVI recalled this motif recently, while referring to A Short Tale of the Anti-Christ by Vladimir Soloviev: To lure Jesus into the trap, the devil quotes from the Holy Scripture. . . . The devil reveals himself to be an expert on the Scripture, who is able to cite the Psalm accurately. Indeed, this whole conversation during the second temptation of Christ seems like a dispute between two scribes: the devil appears to be a theologian.1 In the second temptation of Christ (Matt 4:6), Satan uses the words of Sacred Scripture against the One who—as the Eternal Word—has spoken those words first. Therefore, the crucial idea behind the theme of “Satan as a theologian” is to recognize his perverse will to turn theology—and especially exegesis—into the weapon against God himself. This theme may also be found in the works by St. Thomas Aquinas. It is discussed in more systematic way only in the passage from Lectura super Matthaeum, while in other works it appears only in the form of dispersed remarks. Still, these intuitions are so interesting that it is worthwhile to collect and discuss them. Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth: From the Baptism in the Jordan to the Transfiguration, trans, A. J. Walker (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2008), 35–36. 1 626 Mateusz Przanowski, O.P. Inanis Gloria Matthew describes the second temptation of Christ in the following way: Then the devil took him to the holy city, and set him on the pinnacle of the temple, and said to him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down; for it is written, ‘He will give angels charge of you,’ and ‘On their hands they will bear you up, lest you strike your foot against a stone.’” Jesus said to him, “Again it is written, ‘You shall not tempt Lord your God.’” (Matt 4:5–7) While tempting Jesus, the devil quotes from Psalm 91[90]:11–12, misinterpreting it in a deceptive way. Hence, Satan acts here as a twisted theologian-exegete, who tempts the Saviour with false interpretation of Scripture. The devil’s tactic in this second temptation is a very interesting and unique one when compared to other Biblical passages: it is one thing for the devil to deceive prophets by, for example, putting false prophecies into their mouths, but quite another to misinterpret the text which really comes from God. For, in the latter case, Satan is not creator of words but their deceptive commentator. It is worth noting that Holy Scripture not only mentions these two ways of destroying God’s words by Satan (namely, by creating false words only attributed to God and by falsely interpreting authentic words of God), but teaches also about at least two others: the devil may “snatch” (rapit) the word (Matt 13:192) and distort the true word of God (Gen 3:1, against Gen 2:16–17). In the context of this paper, the most important way of manipulating God’s words is, of course, the one where the devil presents himself as a theologian-exegete who explains these words. And precisely this perverse behavior drew the attention of Aquinas, who devotes a relatively large portion of Lectura super Matthaeum3 to this issue. Since this work is the main source to become acquainted with Aquinas’s approach to this subject, I will refer mostly to this commentary4. “Omnis qui audit verbum regni, et non intelligit, venit malus, et rapit quod seminatum est in corde eius” (“When any one hears the word of the kingdom and does not understand it, the evil one comes and snatches away what is sown in his heart; this is what was sown along the path”). 3 See Super Matt 4, lec. 1 (Marietti nos. 331–32). 4 It is worth mentioning that the theme of “Satan as a theologian-exegete” is completely absent from the question De tentantione Christi (q. 41) in Summa theologiae [ST] III, even though the second temptation is elaborately discussed there. It seems that this issue is firstly undertaken by Thomas during his work on 2 Aquinas on Satan as a Theologian-Exegete 627 However, before discussing the main rules of such devil’s exegesis, I would like to characterize briefly its wider context, constituted by the aim and place of the second temptation.5 Firstly I will analyze its goal, because it was the thing that determined the devil’s choice of precisely such a place of temptation. a. The aim of the second temptation is to persuade Jesus to fall into the sin of desire of vainglory (inanis gloria).6 This temptation is similar to the one that took place in Paradise, where the serpent told Eve, “your eyes will be opened” (Gen 3:5). Aquinas believes that these words were used precisely to tempt to the desire of vainglory.7 Satan tempts Jesus to the same end with the words “if you are the Son of God,” which are immediately followed by the call “throw yourself down.” Such sequence is very typical for devilish temptation: The devil always strikes with two arrows: for on the one hand he leads him to vainglory, on the other hand to homicide.8 b. The second temptation takes place in Jerusalem, “on the pinnacle of the temple” (pinnaculum templi). This venue was carefully chosen by the devil, though at first sight it may seem inappropriate.9 As the aim of the second temptation is to arouse a desire of inanis gloria, the devil wants the place of this temptation to be associated with prestige, and more precisely with the glory of being a teacher. For being a teacher and a master involves some dangers. Natural desire in pursuing knowledge of truth can become deformed in many ways. Such deformation happens, for example, when Catena aurea (Expositio in Matthaeum, 1263–1264), is later discussed in Lectura super Matthaeum (1269–1270), but disappears from ST III (1272–1273). On the relationship between Lectura super Matthaeum and the Catena auraea, see Jeremy Holmes, “Aquinas’ Lectura in Matthaeum,” in Aquinas on Scripture: An Introduction to his Biblical Commentaries, ed. Thomas G. Weindandy, Daniel A. Keating, and John P. Yocum (London and New York: T&T Clark International, 2005), 73–98, at 86–90. 5 Aquinas’s theology of temptation of Christ is discussed in detail in J.-P. Torrell, Le Christ en ses mystères, vol. 1 (Paris: Desclée, 1999), 224–42. 6 See Super Matt 4, lec. 1 (no. 321). 7 See ST III, q. 41, a. 4, corp. 8 Super Matt 4, lec. 1 (no. 329) (all translations from Super Matt are taken from Commentary on the Gospel of Matthew, vols. 1–2, trans. J. Holmes, B. Mortensen [Lander, WY: Aquinas Institute for the Study of Sacred Doctrine, 2013]). 9 See ST III, q. 41, arg. 2. 628 Mateusz Przanowski, O.P. it is pride which is the aim of the study.10 The devil is perfectly aware of this mechanism and—by his tempting—strives to change the motivations of people who seek truth and to lure outstanding scholars to fall into the desire of vainglory.11 Interpretation which links the venue of the second temptation with vainglory desired by the teachers—that is, by the experts in Holy Scripture (namely the theologians)—was borrowed by Aquinas from older tradition12 . It is worthwhile to quote one of the passages collected by St. Thomas in his Catena aurea: See: ST II-II, q. 167, a. 1, corp.; Compendium theologiae I, ch. 189, and ST II-II, q. 167, a. 1, corp.: “Ipsa enim veritatis cognitio, per se loquendo, bona est. Potest autem per accidens esse mala, ratione scilicet alicuius consequentis: vel inquantum scilicet aliquis de cognitione veritatis superbit, secundum illud I ad Cor. 8, [1], Scientia inflat; vel inquantum homo utitur cognitione veritatis ad peccandum” (“For the knowledge of truth, strictly speaking, is good, but it may be evil accidentally, by reason of some result, either because one takes pride in knowing the truth, according to 1 Cor. 8:11, ‘Knowledge puffeth up,’ or because one uses the knowledge of truth in order to sin”; all translations from ST II-II are taken from: Summa theologiae: Secunda secundae 92–189, trans. L. Shapcote, ed. J. Mortensen and E. Alarcón [Lander: The Aquinas Institute for the Study of Sacred Doctrine, 2012]). See also ST II-II, q. 163, a. 1, ad 3: “Appetitus scienatiae causatus fuit in primis parentibus ex inordinato appetitu excellentaie. Unde et in verbis serpentis praemittitur: Eritis sicut dii; et postea subditur: scientes bonum et malum” (“The desire for knowledge resulted in our firth parents from their inordinate desire for excellence. Hence the serpent began by saying: ‘You shall be as Gods,’ and added: ‘Knowing good and evil’”). 11 See Super Matt 4, lec. 1 (no. 330): “Sed quare supra pinnaculum? Glossa: ‘Quia in illo loco docebant’. Unde significat quod diabolus magnos de inani gloria tentat. Contra quod Apostolus I Thess. c. II, 6: Nec quaerentes ab hominibus gloriam, neque a nobis, neque ab aliis” (“But why ‘upon the pinnacle’? The Gloss: ‘because they were teaching in that place.’ Hence it signifies that the devil tempts the great concerning vainglory. Against which the Apostle says, ‘nor sought we glory of men, neither of you, nor of others’ (1 Thess 2:6)”). 12 See Catena super Matt 4, lec. 3: “Remigius. Pinnaculum sedes erat doctorum” (“Remig. The ‘pinnacle’ is the seat of the doctors”; all translations from Catena Aurea are taken from Catena Aurea: Commentary on the Four Gospels, vol. 1, St. Matthew, 2nd ed. [Oxford and London: J. H. J. Parker and J. Rivington, 1864). On references to the theology of Church Fathers in the commentary on Matthew, see L. J. Elders, “The Presence of the Church Fathers in Aquinas’ Commentaries on the Gospel of Matthew and the Gospel of John,” in Reading Sacred Scripture with Thomas Aquinas: Hermeneutical Tools, Theological Questions and New Perspectives, ed. P. Roszak and J. Vijgen (Turnhout, BE: Brepols, 2015), 257–85, esp. 262–68. 10 Aquinas on Satan as a Theologian-Exegete 629 Gloss: He set Him on a pinnacle of the temple when he would tempt Him through ambition, because in this seat of the doctors he had before taken many through the same temptation, and therefore thought that when set in the same seat, He might in like manner be puffed up with vain pride.13 The desire of vainglory is closely related to the vice of pride (superbia). For it is the pride which is the cause of vainglory. “Pride covets excellence inordinately: while vainglory covets the outward show of excellence.”14 Therefore, by choosing this particular place as venue of his temptation, Satan wants to induce Christ to fall into vainglory of being someone great, being an outstanding master and teacher. He wants to make Christ manifest His greatness ostentatiously.15 But while tempting Jesus, Satan exposes himself. Because it is precisely pride which is his first and foremost sin, disabling him from submitting willingly to God and from serving him.16 Can it be said, therefore, that the devil, while trying to induce the vainglory of a teacher in Christ, presents himself as a teacher, and so also a theologian-exegete? Does Satan arrange sort of a theological debate with Jesus, showing off his knowledge of Holy Scripture by quoting a Psalm? Although St. Thomas does not mention this directly in his analysis of the second temptation, we can assume with much probability that he might agree with such a conclusion. Because the devil’s first sin is a pattern for sins of all human beings. Satan tempts with the same things he has fallen into himself.17 He tempts to pride because he is guilty of this sin himself. So if he tempts to vainglory coming from theological knowledge, then we can find also in him pride of someone regarding himself as an expert in theology. Depravatio Posing as a commentator on the Holy Scripture, Satan “transforms himself into an angel of light”—transfigurat se in angelum lucis (2 Cor 11:14). He Catena super Matt 4, lec. 3. ST II-II, q. 162, a. 8, ad 2. 15 See ST III, q. 41, a. 4, corp. 16 See ST I, q. 63, a. 2, corp. 17 See ST I, q. 114, a. 3, ad 2: “Si qua peccata absque instinctu diaboli perpetrantur, per ea tamen fiunt homines filii diaboli, inquantum ipsum primo peccantem imitantur” (“When man commits sin without being thereto instigated by the devil, he nevertheless becomes a child of the devil thereby, in so far as he imitates him who was the first to sin” (trans. L. Shapcote, Summa theologiae, Prima pars 50–119, ed. J. Mortensen and E. Alarcón [Lander, WY: Aquinas Institute for the Study of Sacred Doctrine, 2012], 600). See also ST III, q. 8, a. 7, corp. 13 14 630 Mateusz Przanowski, O.P. does so in order to attract his victims with the appearances of good and to tie human beings with himself more effectively.18 Thus, the devil needs the “disguise” of an angel of light—in this case of an expert on the Bible, for his aim is to deceive his victims with the deformed meaning of Holy Scriptures. So Satan uses the authority of the Bible to “deceive the simple” who are unable to recognize the true meaning of the word of God.19 Hence the devil’s exegesis from the very beginning is oriented toward misrepresentation, and not toward the primary aim of exegesis, namely, explaining the word of God, which is “profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness” (2 Tim 3:16). For God’s word is a path to salvation and in God’s intent is meant to have a fourfold effect: to teach the truth, to reject the falsehood, to free from evil, and to lead toward goodness.20 By disguising himself as an angel of light, Satan wants to prevent these God-intended effects of the Holy Scriptures from coming into life. On a side note, it is worth mentioning that this use of 2 Corinthians 11:14 in relation to Satan’s action in the second temptation was borrowed by Aquinas from St. Ambrose, whom he quoted in the Catena aurea.21 How do we describe in brief the devil’s approach to the text of Psalm? Satan depravat auctoritatem sacrae Scripturae, that is, he “twists the authority of Sacred Scripture.”22 The verb depravo, which is used here, is taken from 2 Peter 3:16, which in its Latin translation—as quoted by Aquinas—goes as See Super 2 Cor 11, lec. 3 (nos. 406–407); In oratio Domini, a. 6 (no. 79): “Facit autem duo Diabolus dum tentat: quia non statim proponit illi quem tentat, malum aliquod apparens, sed aliquid quod habeat speciem boni, ut saltem in ipso principio per illud removeat eum aliquantulum a proposito suo principali, quia postmodum facilius inducit ipsum ad peccandum, quando illum vel modicum avertit. Apostolus, II Cor. XI, 14: ipse Satanas transfigurat se in Angelum lucis” (“. . . in tempting a man the devil does two things. Thus he does not at once suggest to him something that has an appearance of evil, but something that has a semblance of good, so as thereby, at least in the beginning, to turn him from his chief purpose, while afterwards it becomes easier for him to induce him to sin, when he has turned him ever so little from that purpose: ‘Even Satan disguiseth himself as an angel of light’ (2 Cor xi, 13)”; trans. L. Shapcote in The Three Greatest Prayers [London: Burns, Oates, and Washbourne, 1937], 25). 19 See Super Matt 4, lec. 1 (no. 331). 20 See Super 2 Tim 3, lec. 3 (nos. 124 and 127); See also ST I, q. 1, a. 1, sc. 21 Ambrosius, Super Lucam, bk. 4 (De tertia tentatione Christi). See also Aquinas, Catena super Matt 4, lec. 3: “Sed quia satanas transfigurat se sicut angelum lucis et de Scripturis ipsis divinis laqueum fidelibus parat, utitur testimoniis Scripturarum, non ut doceat, sed ut fallat” (“But as Satan transfigures himself into an Angel of light, and spreads a snare for the faithful, even from the divine Scriptures, so now he uses its texts, not to instruct but to deceive”). 22 Super Matt 4, lec. 1 (nos. 331 and 332). See also Super 2 Thess 2, lec. 1 (no. 31). 18 Aquinas on Satan as a Theologian-Exegete 631 follows: “Indocti et instabiles depravant Scripturas ad suam ipsorum perditionem.” Based in this passage, St. Thomas will make the notion of depravatio his crucial concept to refer to twisting the meaning of Holy Scriptures. The exact nature of this depravatio may be more specifically described by referring to two passages from the Scriptures, where two powerful metaphors can be found. Hence, the depravatio may be described as: (1) Stealing. This metaphor is taken from Jeremiah 23:20, which mentions the prophets “who steal my words from one another”—qui furantur verba mea.23 The one who twists (depravat) the texts from Sacred Scriptures—and may be called a depravator—is therefore a thief, because he commits a subtle “spiritual stealing,” namely he “steals the true understanding [verum intellectum] from the words of Sacred Scripture.”24 The aim of such stealing is of course to substitute this true understanding with the false one, which is not in accordance with the intents of the true prophets.25 This stealing may also be viewed as a concealment (occultatio) of the true meaning of the word of God.26 The thief who commits such trespass does not act on his own, but also implicates those who agreed to this spiritual stealing.27 (2) Adultery. This metaphor is in turn taken from 2 Corinthians 2:17, which in Latin goes as follows: “Non sumus sicut plurimi, adulterantes verbum Dei.” In its Greek original, which is the basis for contemporary translations, instead of adulterantes, we find the verb kapēleuō,28 which means “to peddle”—therefore in English this verse goes as follows: “We are not, like so many, peddlers of God’s word.” I find it interesting that the same expression non adulterantes verbum Dei appears also in the Latin of 2 Corinthians 4:2, where the Greek original uses the verb doloō, which means “to corrupt” or “to ensnare.” Of course, Aquinas relies on a Latin version and regards the notion of adultery (adulterium) as useful in clari This metaphor may be associated also with Matthew 13:19. Aquinas comments in Super Matt 13, lec. 1 [no. 1124]: “Capitur a furibus, quia detinetur mens a cogitationibus, et ita rapitur; et hoc est quod dicit Venit malus, scilicet diabolus, quia malus non natura, sed perversitate: et rapit, scilicet occulte, seducendo, et inducendo vanam cogitationem” (“He is seized by robbers, because the mind is detained by thoughts, and so he is snatched away. And this is what he says, ‘there comes the wicked one,’ namely the devil, because evil is not by nature, but perversity, ‘and snatches away,’ that is, secretly, by seducing and by introducing vain thoughts”). 24 Super Psalmos 49, no. 9. 25 See Super Ier 23, no. 8. 26 See Super Psalmos 49, no. 9. 27 See Super Psalmos 49, no. 9. 28 In New Testament, it is hapax legomenon. 23 632 Mateusz Przanowski, O.P. fying the nature of depravatio Scripturae. Now, the adultery in its spiritual sense occurs when the “the words are twisted into another sense” or when they are twisted into some other end, like “for the sake of gain or seduction.”29 Therefore such adultery is either (1) about change in the understanding of the words’ meaning or (2) about change in understanding the purpose to which given words were written down. There are various goods one may achieve by explaining or preaching the word, but the worst case is when their very purpose is changed: when “praise of God and salvation of their neighbor” is replaced with “monetary gain” and “own glory.”30 It should be noted that, regardless of whether the explanation of God’s word is true or not, already the preaching or explaining Sacred Scriptures for the sake of one’s own glory should be viewed as depravatio Scripturae, for explanation of God’s words in its essence should be always aimed at propter laudem Dei et salutem proximi (the praise of God and the salvation of their neighbor). And the word of God should be “proposed in the proper way” (debito modo), otherwise it will not lead the people to the intended salvific goal.31 The metaphor of adultery allows us to turn our attention to one more issue, namely to the heretical approach to the word of God, which consists Super Psalmos 49, no. 9. See Super 2 Cor 2, lec. 3 (no. 76): “Item non adulterantes verbum Dei, id est, praedicantes vel propter quaestum, vel propter favorem laudis. Sic enim mulieres adulterae dicuntur quando recipiunt semen ex alio viro ad propagationem prolis. In praedicatione autem semen nihil aliud est quam finis seu intentio tua, vel favor gloriae propriae. Si ergo finis tuus est quaestus, si intentio tua est favor gloriae propriae, adulteras verbum Dei. Hoc faciebant pseudo-apostoli qui propter quaestum praedicabant. Infra IV, 2: Neque adulterantes verbum Dei, etc. Apostoli autem praedicabant neque propter quaestum, neque gloriam propriam, sed propter laudem Dei et salutem proximi” (“Hence he says, ‘for we are not as many, adulterating the word of God,’ i.e., preaching for gain or for praise. For thus are women called adulteresses, when they receive seed from another man for the propagation of children. In preaching, the seed is nothing less than your end or intention. Therefore, if your end is gain, if your intention is your own glory, you adulterate God’s word. This the false apostles were doing who were preaching for gain. ‘We renounce the hidden things of dishonesty, not walking in craftiness nor adulterating the word of God’ (2 Cor 4:2). The apostles preached neither for monetary gain nor their own glory, but for the praise of God and the salvation of their neighbor’; trans. F. R. Larcher, B. Mortensen, and D. Keating in Commentary on the Letters of Saint Paul to the Corinthians, ed. J. Mortensen, E. Alarcón [Lander, WY: Aquinas Institute for the Study of Sacred Doctrine, 2012]). See also Super 2 Tim 2, lec. 2 (no. 62). 31 Super 2 Cor 4, lec. 1 (no. 119). 29 30 Aquinas on Satan as a Theologian-Exegete 633 in adding some false doctrines to the explanation of God’s words.32 Hence, heretic depravatio is about mixing together true and false understanding of the Scriptures. So it is the first case (1) of spiritual adultery. Someone who understands the Divine word precisely in such false way behaves like a wolf (lupus), while someone who explains God’s word for one’s own gain (case 2) is a hireling (mercenarius).33 So the metaphor of spiritual adultery relating to Sacred Scriptures is specified further by introduction of two very capacious metaphors, derived mainly from John 10:8–18,34 but also from Matthew 7:1535 and Acts 20:29.36 Introduction of the metaphor of a wolf “in sheep’s clothing” turns us back to the theme of the devil tempting as an “angel of light,” with which we have begun. For the first meaning of the Johannine lupus is precisely diabolus.37 Metaphors of spiritual stealing and spiritual adultery are intertwined in a coherent way. The adultery, or the “infidelity” to the true meaning of some word, which is replaced with some false meaning or “sold” for some gain (lucrum), is possible only when the true, God-intended meaning is removed, which is what happens through spiritual stealing. Therefore, stealing of the true meaning and adultery committed with false sense form the essence of the depravatio Sacrae Scripturae, which is the true name of the devil’s exegesis. The devil is not only the ultimate depravator Sacrae Scripturae, but also a head (caput) of all those who twist the meaning of God’s words.38 For the devil is a head of all the wicked, whom he governs not through internal influence, but through external temptation, to induce them to fulfil his goals.39 They become his ministers, who likewise twist Sacred Scripture in order to “deceive the simple.”40 For the devil is exemplar omnium Scripturas depravantium—“exemplar of all twisting of the Scriptures.”41 Therefore Super 2 Cor 4, lec. 1 (no. 119); Super 2 Cor 2, lec. 3 (no. 76); Super 2 Tim 2, lec. 3 (no. 67). 33 See Super 2 Cor 4, lec. 1 (no. 119). 34 See Super Ioan 10, lec. 3 (nos. 1402 and 1405). 35 “Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves.” 36 “I know that after my departure fierce wolves will come in among you, not sparing the flock.” 37 See Super Ioan 10, lec. 3 (no. 1405): “Lupus iste tripliciter accipitur. Primo quidem diabolus tentans; Eccli. XIII, 21: Sed si communicabat aliquando lupus cum agno, sic peccator iusto. Secundo vero haereticus mactans . . . Tertio tyrannus saeviens.” 38 See Super Matt 4, lec. 1 (no. 331). 39 See ST III, q. 8, a. 7, corp. 40 See Super Matt 4, lec. 1 (no. 331). 41 Super Matt 4, lec. 1 (no. 332). 32 634 Mateusz Przanowski, O.P. to understand the devil’s tactics and recognize ways of twisting used by his ministers, we need to analyze the devil’s exegesis of Psalm 91(90):11–12.42 Three Ways of Twisting Satan believes that by tempting Christ he can know something more about Christ, expose him, and thus make him vulnerable—but in reality, he only exposes himself in this process. Also his deceptive way of interpreting Sacred Scripture is exposed. On the basis of devil’s exegesis of Psalm 91[90]:11–12, Aquinas recognizes three specific ways of depravatio. (1) When some expression from Sacred Scripture “speaks about one thing, and is explained as about another ” (“dicitur de uno, et exponitur de alio”).43 This occurs when some expression is wrongly referred to Christ, for example when some Old Testament passage or phrase refers to someone righteous, but is explained as referring to Christ.44 Such precisely is the On a side note it is worth mentioning that the issue of depravatio Scripturae may be also associated with 2 Corinthians 3:6, where St. Paul states “the letter brings death, but the Spirit gives life.” This is the Aquinas’s exegesis of these words in Contra errores Graec I, ch. 31, ver. 11–27: “Sed dicendum quod neque littera novi Testamenti neque veteris occidit nisi per occasionem; sed occasionem mortis ex littera accipiunt aliqui dupliciter. Uno modo in quantum ex littera sacra accipiunt occasionem erroris, et hoc est commune tam litterae veteris Testamenti quam novi ; unde et Petrus dicit II Canonicae ult. cap. quod in epistolis Pauli ‘sunt quaedem diffcilia intellectu quae indocti et instabiles depravant sicut et caeteras Scripturas ad suam damnationem.’ Alio modo in quantum ex praeceptis in littera sacrae Scripturae contentis sumitur occasio male vivendi, dum per prohibitionem concupiscentia augetur et gratia adiuvans non confertur; et sic littera veteris Testamenti dicitur mortalis, non autem littera novi.” (“But a correct formulation should say that neither the letter of the New Testament nor that of the Old kills, except occasionally. Occasion of death some take in a twofold sense. In one sense, in so far as the sacred text is an occasion of error, something common both to the letter of the Old as well as the New Testament; hence St. Peter says in his second letter (3:16) that in the letters of St. Paul there are some things hard to understand, which the ignorant an unstable twist to their own destruction, as they do not understand the scriptures. In another way, in so far as the precepts contained in Holy Scripture become the occasion for evil living, concupiscence being intensified by its prohibition when helping grace is not given; and in this way the letter of the Old Testament is said to be deathdealing, but not the letter of the New”; trans. G. H. Duggan and P. D. Fehlner, in J. Likoudis, Ending the Byzantine Greek Schism [New Rochelle, NY: Catholics United for the Faith, 1992], 153). 43 Super Matt 4, lec. 1 (no. 332). 44 This idea is borrowed from St. Jerome, as confirmed by Catena super Matt 4, lec. 3: “Hieronymus. Hoc enim in Psalmo 90, 11 legimus; verum ibi non de Christo, sed de viro sancto prophetia est. Male ergo diabolus interpretatus Scripturas” (“Jerome. This verse we read in the ninetieth Psalm, but that is a prophecy not of 42 Aquinas on Satan as a Theologian-Exegete 635 case of explaining Psalm 91[90]:11–12 as referring to him. For this passage concerns “the members of Christ . . . who need the protection of the angels,” and not Christ himself, who does not need such guardianship.45 Here we can recognize some influence of John Chrysostom, whom Aquinas cites in the Catena aurea: “Vere enim Filius Dei Angelorum manibus non portatur, sed ipse magis Angelos portat” (“For the Son of God in truth is not borne of Angels, but Himself bears them).”46 Moreover, one of the verses of this Psalm goes “lest you strike your foot against a stone” (Ps 91:12), which in Latin is “ne forte offendas ad lapidem pedem tuum.” The verb offendo may mean “to strike” or “to hurt,” but also “to offend.” Due to this ambiguity, referring these words to Christ may suggest that he is capable of offending God by committing a sin.47 Obviously, such possibility must be definitely excluded.48 The rule of “dicitur de uno, et exponitur de alio” may concern not only wrongly referring some Old Testament text to Christ, but may also involve New Testament itself. Aquinas gives Jesus’s words “The Father is greater than I” (Jn 14:28) as an example. If you interpret these words as stating that the Father is greater than the Son of God but ignore the fact that it refers to Son of God in his human nature (secundum quod homo), then you twist words of Jesus. Therefore, at the heart of this way of depravatio Scripturae lies seemingly correct understanding of a biblical text, which in fact is deformed due to wrong reference. (2) The second way of twisting is hardly distinguishable from the first one. Here the rule of deforming of meaning is as follows: “bringing in a text to something for which it is not a text” (“inducere auctoritatem ad aliquid, ad quod non est auctoritas”).49 Also in this case Aquinas gives an example. Romans 12:20 quotes from Proverbs 25:21–22 (“If your enemy is hungry, give him bread to eat; and if he is thirsty, give him water to drink; for you will heap coals of fire on his head”). If you juxtapose this passage with Deuteronomy 32:35 (“Vengeance is mine, and recompense”), as St. Paul does in Romans 12:19–20, then it is clear that according to Paul you Christ, but of some holy man, so the Devil interprets Scripture amiss”). Super Matt 4, lec. 1 (no. 332). 46 Catena super Matt 4, lec. 3. 47 The origin of this connotation between stone and sin may be found in Catena super Matt 4, lec. 3: “Glossa . . . Vel per lapidem potest intelligi omnis peccati occasio et ruinae” (Glossa . . . Or by the stone may be understood every occasion of sin and error). 48 See Super Matt 4, lec. 1 (no. 332). 49 Super Matt 4, lec. 1 (no. 332). 45 636 Mateusz Przanowski, O.P. should not “do this to someone so that he will be punished by God.”50 It seems, though we do not have any certainty, that Aquinas refers here to the case of someone who does a good deed in order to ensure that its beneficiary will be punished by God. Therefore, two ideas have been wrongly associated with each other: that the vengeance should be left to God; and that one should do good even to his enemies. But it is wrong to conclude on this basis that the aim of doing good to your enemies is to make them punished by God. The devil also makes use of this way of deception: The devil did exactly this, because the Scriptures mean that the just man is protected by the angels in such a way that he does not fall into danger; “a helper in due time in tribulation” (Ps 9:10). But the devil expounds it that a man should throw himself into danger, which is to tempt God.51 Hence, the fact that God looks after the righteous does not mean that they should deliberately expose themselves to dangers. Thus, false interpretation of Scriptures becomes the cause of a sin: the attempt to tempt God. (3) The rule of the third way of depravatio is as follows “when someone accepts from the Scriptural text what is in his favour, and dismisses that which is contrary to him ” (“illud quod est pro se, de auctoritate accipere, et aliud quod est contra se dimittere”).52 So, in this instance, deformity is caused by selective approach to Sacred Scripture. The word of God is not treated as a measure of truth, but used as confirmation of some subjective and false belief. Thus, this way is about focusing on just one part of Scripture instead of taking it in its entirety—to put it simply, about taking it out of context. It is a typically heretical approach (mos haeretici).53 This way of depravatio may be easily recognized in the tactics used by the devil against Christ. For the two verses of Psalm 91[90] quoted by Satan—verses 11 and 12—are immediately followed by a very significant verse 13: “You will tread on the lion and the adder, the young lion and the serpent you will trample under foot.” Super Matt 4, lec. 1 (no. 332). Super Matt 4, lec. 1 (no. 332). 52 Super Matt 4, lec. 1 (no. 332). 53 Super Matt 4, lec. 1 (no. 332). 50 51 Aquinas on Satan as a Theologian-Exegete 637 Obviously, this passage cannot be to Satan’s liking, so he simply ignores it in his deceptive interpretation of preceding verses. *** Satan as a theologian-exegete? Aquinas confirms that we may regard the devil in such manner. Of course, Satan as a theologian-exegete is perverse and deceptive to the core, striving to twist the true meaning of words of Sacred Scripture. While quoting from the Bible, he transforms himself into an angel of light, to draw those who will likewise twist the meaning of Sacred Scripture, following his rules of exegesis. Therefore, Aquinas would agree with Vladimir Soloviev and Benedict XVI that interpretation of Sacred Scripture may indeed become a tool of the devil—who acts as a N&V theologian-exegete. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 17, No. 3 (2019): 639–652 639 We Are Not God: Reflections on the Theology of Laudato Si* Reinhard Hutter The Catholic University of America Washington, DC “We are not God. The earth was here before us and it has been given to us” (Laudato Si §67) by “a Father Who Creates and Who Alone Owns the World” (§75) Is Catholic Social Teaching a specifically theological enterprise? And if so, can one show it in the case of the most recent magisterial instantiation of Catholic Social Teaching, Pope Francis’s 2015 encyclical letter Laudato Si, On the Care for Our Common Home? I think that a positive answer must be given to both questions. Part of the reasons I think so are of an autobiographical nature. About forty-five years ago I founded an environmental youth group, the first ever in my hometown in northern Bavaria. This youth group was part of a youth network that was a branch of a national environmental organization. I am talking here about the academic year 1974–1975, just about four years after Greenpeace had been founded in Vancouver, Canada, and five years before the Green Party was to be founded in then West Germany. The wake-up call and catalyst for my initiative had been a memorable encounter with the first Club of Rome Report from 1972, The Limits to Growth. This report shocked me and my friends into an acute awareness of an approaching ecological crisis. Our environmental youth group was a first local activist response. In our highschool chemistry lab, we tested the—at that time rather alarming—water * These reflections were originally delivered as a lecture on September 14, 2018, in Washington, DC, at the Committee on Doctrine Conference for Untenured Theologians “Teaching Undergraduate Theology: Connecting the Disconnects.” 640 Reinhard Hütter quality of the main river in our area and publicized our findings in the local newspaper; we organized polls, public events, and demonstrations in order to raise the awareness of the local population about environmental challenges and threats; we also organized the first municipal glass-recycling program; and we overall acted as “mud rakers,” exposing in the local newspaper pollution caused by companies, municipalities, and private organizations. Needless to say, we did not only have friends. Most members of our youth group eventually joined the Green Party when it was founded in 1980. I, however, decided to study philosophy and theology at the university. And this decision is part of the providential chain of events that brings me to this conference today and to the topic I am speaking about. Those among you my age or older might remember that in the mid-1970s in Europe and in the United States neither the Catholic Church nor the Protestants were really concerned about the unfolding global environmental crisis. One noteworthy exception was Blessed Pope Paul VI, who in his 1971 apostolic letter Octogesima Adveniens—written on the occasion of the eightieth anniversary of Rerum Novarum, the foundational text of modern Catholic Social Teaching—referred to the ecological crisis as “a tragic consequence” of unchecked human activity: “Due to an ill-considered exploitation of nature, humanity runs the risk of destroying it and becoming in turn a victim of this degradation” (§21). Together with other important teachings of Pope Paul VI, this prophetic warning remained almost completely unheeded. The post-conciliar progressives were then engaged in the “theology of revolution,” a largely Marxist-inspired radical precursor to the subsequent more moderate and more theologically grounded “theology of liberation.” Most post-conciliar progressives dismissed our ecological concerns as a bourgeois and possibly even reactionary strategy of distraction that pulled away attention and energy from the one cause that mattered—the class struggle and the eventual overthrow of global capitalism. That forty years later, the magisterium of the Catholic Church would issue a teaching document of the magnitude, scope, and depth of Laudato Si was then utterly unimaginable and beyond the range of our wildest hopes. Why did I decide to turn to philosophy and theology while most of my friends from the youth group joined the Green Party? They, quite obviously, desired to help transform our local initiatives into national and even global policies of environmental protection and ecological sustainability. While I continued to share these concerns and, as a matter of fact, voted for the Green Party regularly at all elections on the local and on the state level in then West Germany, my primary concern was a different one: I wanted to at least begin to understand the human enigma I had encountered We Are Not God: Reflections on the Theolog y of Laudato Si 641 during the previous years of environmental activism—the deeply troubling phenomenon of human indifference in light of solid evidence and sound arguments, the unwillingness to even consider changing life-styles of wasteful consumption for the sake of the common good, future generations, and the common home, planet earth. I had started out as a naïve young humanist— like so many others—believing people to be good, well-intended, teachable, responsible, and fundamentally rational in the way of ordering their lives. I was, in short, an implicit Socratic, assuming that genuine knowledge—true enlightenment about realities and facts—would lead to enlightened moral and social action. Yet the years of environmental activism taught me a different lesson. I had to revise my naïve premises and begin to think deeper about the human being and eventually also about God. Nota bene, I did not need philosophy, theology, Christian social teaching, and even the Christian faith itself, in order to appreciate the fact and grasp the magnitude of the emerging global ecological crisis—now quite articulately confirmed in Laudato Si. But I needed philosophy and eventually theology to make sense of my deeply troubling experience and to come to understand the human enigma—the mysterious inability or unwillingness to open up to life-changing realities of large scopes with time-spans encompassing several generations—and in cases where insight into these matters is achieved—the inability or unwillingness to follow up on this newly gained insight with appropriate actions or changes in habits and life patterns. Aristotle’s insight into the weakness of the human will and Augustine’s analysis of the disordered desires and the corruption of the human will were extremely helpful for me, indeed crucial, to begin to understand these puzzling experiences. Eventually, as I continued my studies, I came to realize that in order to understand more fully and more deeply the human enigma, I had to embrace the faith, indeed, eventually the fullness of the Catholic faith—as Augustine states in his treatises on the Gospel of John: Crede, ut intelligas, “believe so that you may understand” (In Iohannis evangelium tractatus 29.6). And so it was in the light that revelation shed and that faith received that I came to understand the human condition and began to abandon the philosophically rather naïve and theologically quite unsound humanist principles that informed my environmentalism in order eventually to receive my environmental and ecological commitments back as an integral component of a theologically sound and philosophically reflective Christian stewardship of God’s creation. This said by way of an introduction, I shall now turn to Laudato Si. I will show in the following that Laudato Si makes its unique contribution to Catholic Social Teaching not because of sundry environmental-policy recommendations but rather because of the theology that sits at its very heart. I will advance my theological reading of Laudato Si under the 642 Reinhard Hütter following headings: First, Doxological Theocentricy. Second, The Mystery of the Father—the Mystery of Primordial Love and Mercy. Third, the World Created by Three Persons Acting as a Single Principle. Remember, every positive statement implies a negation. So also does Laudato Si. Emphasizing the theological core—God the Creator and Redeemer, the world as creation, and the human being as created in the image of God and called to adoptive sonship—entails the negation of modern anthropocentrism, of the sovereign subject’s will to power, and of its applied metaphysics, the technological paradigm. Hence, fourth, The Corollary of Laudato Si’s Doxological Theocentricy—a Radical Critique of Modern Anthropocentrism. Fifth and finally, Technology—Anthropocentric Modernity’s Applied Metaphysics, the Sovereign Subject’s Will to Power. Doxological Theocentricity It is of great significance that Laudato Si begins and ends with a doxology— its incipit, so to speak, is the opening line of St. Francis’s famous canticle: Laudato Si’, mi’ Signore—“Praise be to you, my Lord.” The encyclical ends with a doxological prayer to the Triune Lord. This doxological opening and closing is absolutely essential, for the proper praise of the Creator and Redeemer puts the human creature into the right relationship with God, with oneself, with other human beings, and with all of creation. All proper doxology is essentially theo-centric—it begins with God and ends with God, and everything in-between is received from God, rightly ordered to God, and returned to God. Moreover, the praise of God, the Creator and Redeemer, always articulates the double gratuity that characterizes human existence: first, the absolute gratuity of creation itself, its gift-character all the way down, and secondly, the surpassing grace of humanity’s calling to adoptive sonship through the Incarnate Lord and to eternal life with God, a grace the capstone of which is the divine self-gift of the Son in the Incarnation. Proper doxology is, as Laudato Si teaches by example, always twofold. Hence, to thank and praise God only for creation or only for redemption would be a truncated, a deficient doxology. By entering into the praise of God, the Creator and Redeemer, publicly, visibly, and audibly—under the conditions imposed by modernity’s immanent frame—the human being begins to undo the eclipse of God, the eclipse of creation, and the eclipse of humanity as created in the image of God, as redeemed by God. The Mystery of the Father—the Mystery of Primordial Love and Mercy Laudato Si’s opening and closing doxology points to the very heart of We Are Not God: Reflections on the Theolog y of Laudato Si 643 reality: the Triune God, Creator and Redeemer. Two particular features of the encyclical’s way of thematizing this very heart of reality stand out in striking ways: First: By advancing an immediate, non-problematic witness to the existence of God the Creator, Laudato Si implicitly presupposes and simultaneously renews the perennial Catholic teaching that such immediate witness to God’s existence is possible, intelligible, and even persuasive because of the generally accessible natural knowledge of God from creation. Laudato Si thus re-instates by example the perennial Catholic understanding of Romans 1:19–20: “What can be known about God is plain to them, because God has shown it to them. Ever since the creation of the world his invisible nature, namely, his eternal power and deity, has been clearly perceived in the things that have been made” (RSV). The encyclical’s immediate theological witness to God the Creator makes perfect sense and is theologically warranted on the supposition that the fundamental parameters given in Romans 1:19–20 still obtain—even under the conditions of the increasing eclipse of God imposed by the immanent frame modern anthropocentrism imposes. Laudato Si’s indirect affirmation of the natural knowledge of God from creation—arguably the strongest since the First Vatican Council’s Dei Filius—is an underappreciated theological aspect of the encyclical letter that calls for closer attention and deeper reflection by Catholic theologians. The second theological feature of Laudato Si that stands out in striking ways is the very heart and center of the encyclical—a profound theology of the mystery of God the Father. At a time when Freudianism and Feminism have succeeded in deconstructing and eventually eclipsing divine (let alone human) paternity, Laudato Si builds its whole theology of creation and redemption around the “mystery of the Father.” Significantly, the encyclical shies away neither from articulating divine paternity nor from emphasizing simultaneously the omnipotence of the Creator. Laudato Si states: “A spirituality which forgets God as all-powerful and Creator is not acceptable. That is how we end up worshipping earthly powers, or ourselves usurping the place of God, even to the point of claiming an unlimited right to trample his creation underfoot. The best way to restore men and women to their rightful place, putting an end to their claim to absolute dominion over the earth, is to speak once more of the figure of a Father who creates and who alone owns the world. Otherwise, human beings will always try to impose their own laws and interests on reality” (§75; my emphasis). The other side of Laudato Si’s theology of the Father is a radical critique of modern anthropocentrism to which I will turn shortly. At this 644 Reinhard Hütter moment, however, we need to stay a bit longer with Laudato Si’s theology of the Father. The encyclical insists on speaking about this “figure of the Father who creates and alone owns the world.” While Laudato Si puts the fact that the world is God’s and God’s alone quite starkly in a way that echoes the Lockean language of individual private ownership of property, a language that most contemporaries would clearly understand because they live by this understanding—this “figure of the Father” is emphatically not a Lockean deity for whom creation might be a commodity to be maintained or annihilated at the deity’s will. Rather, the absolute gratuity of creation and more importantly its being created by the Word, by the absolute divine eternal self-communication and self-donation of the Father to the Son “tells us,” Laudato Si states, “that the world came about as the result of a decision, not from chaos or chance, and this exalts it all the more. The creating word expresses a free choice. The universe did not emerge as the result of arbitrary omnipotence, a show of force or a desire for self-assertion. Creation is of the order of love. God’s love is the fundamental moving force in all created things: ‘For you love all things that exist, and detest none of the things that you have made; for you would not have made anything if you had hated it’ (Wis 11:24)” (§77). Consequently, Laudato Si continues, “every creature is . . . the object of the Father’s tenderness, who gives it its place in the world. Even the fleeting life of the least of beings is the object of his love, and in its few seconds of existence, God enfolds it with his affection. Saint Basil the Great described the Creator as ‘goodness without measure,’ while Dante Alighieri spoke of ‘the love which moves the sun and the stars.’ Consequently, we can ascend from created things ‘to the greatness of God and to his loving mercy’” (§77). The ontology of the gift of being instantiated and undergirded by an even deeper and more primordial Trinitarian order of love is the divine signature underwriting the entire created order. This positive statement entails a negation. Creatures are not simply commodities readily available for the consumption of the vociferous appetite of the modern consumer. Our own status as being created in the image of God, Laudato Si insists, “should not make us overlook the fact that each creature has its own purpose. None is superfluous. The entire material universe speaks of God’s love, his boundless affection for us. Soil, water, mountains: everything is, as it were, a caress of God” (§84). Yet everything, Laudato Si emphasizes, is not only, “as it were, a caress of God.” Rather, “the universe unfolds in God, who fills it completely. Hence, there is a mystical meaning to be found in a leaf, in a mountain trail, in a dewdrop, in a poor person’s face. The ideal is not only to pass from the exterior to the interior to discover the action of God in the soul, but also to discover God in all things. Saint Bonaventure We Are Not God: Reflections on the Theolog y of Laudato Si 645 teaches us that ‘contemplation deepens the more we feel the working of God’s grace within our hearts, and the better we learn to encounter God in creatures outside ourselves’” (§233). Is the encyclical losing its theological bearing and beginning to wax poetically? While its theological language stands clearly under the influence of the unique poetry of Franciscan spirituality, Laudato Si is theologically very precise in unfolding the implications of a creation ex nihilo that is penetrated by the triune order of love all the way down. The encyclical only spells out the full implications of the Christ-centered understanding of the world as creation, commonly shared by Catholics since the first century. This, however, is news—indeed, unwelcome news—to the late modern homo faber, technological man, the sovereign subject of production and consumption. The entire material universe does indeed speak of God’s love because—as revelation tells us—it has been created by the Word, the Son, who is the Father’s absolute eternal divine self-communication, united with the Father in the union of love, who is the Holy Spirit. Laudato Si makes this unmistakably clear: In the Christian understanding of the world, the destiny of all creation is bound up with the mystery of Christ, present from the beginning: “All things have been created through him and for him” (Col 1:16). The prologue of the Gospel of John (1:1–18) reveals Christ’s creative work as the Divine Word (Logos). But then, unexpectedly, the prologue goes on to say that this same Word “became flesh” (Jn 1:14). One Person of the Trinity entered into the created cosmos, throwing in his lot with it, even to the cross. From the beginning of the world, but particularly through the incarnation, the mystery of Christ is at work in a hidden manner in the natural world as a whole, without thereby impinging on its autonomy. (§99) The World Created by Three Persons Acting as a Single Principle To understand the world fully as God’s creation means to understand the world not simply as the product of some ontologically and chronologically remote first cause but rather as “created by the three Persons acting as a single divine principle, but each one of them performing this common work in accordance with his own personal property. Consequently, ‘when we contemplate with wonder the universe in all its grandeur and beauty, we must praise the whole Trinity’” (§238). This triune pattern penetrates the whole created order. Laudato Si states: “The Father is the ultimate source of everything, the loving and self-communicating foundation of all that exists. The Son, his reflection, through whom all things were created, 646 Reinhard Hütter united himself to this earth when he was formed in the womb of Mary. The Spirit, infinite bond of love, is intimately present at the very heart of the universe, inspiring and bringing new pathways” (§238). Quite interestingly—and arrestingly—Laudato Si reminds its readers that before the Fall the Trinitarian marks left by the Triune God on creation were clearly to be seen: For Christians, believing in one God who is trinitarian communion suggests that the Trinity has left its mark on all creation. Saint Bonaventure went so far as to say that human beings, before sin, were able to see how each creature “testifies that God is three.” The reflection of the Trinity was there to be recognized in nature “when that book was open to man and our eyes had not yet become darkened.” The Franciscan saint teaches us that each creature bears in itself a specifically Trinitarian structure, so real that it could be readily contemplated if only the human gaze were not so partial, dark and fragile. In this way, he points out to us the challenge of trying to read reality in a Trinitarian key. (§239) Laudato Si does not hesitate to spell out the ontological and anthropological implications of St. Bonaventure’s crucial theological insight: The divine Persons are subsistent relations, and the world, created according to the divine model, is a web of relationships. Creatures tend towards God, and in turn it is proper to every living being to tend towards other things, so that throughout the universe we can find any number of constant and secretly interwoven relationships. This leads us not only to marvel at the manifold connections existing among creatures, but also to discover a key to our own fulfilment. The human person grows more, matures more and is sanctified more to the extent that he or she enters into relationships, going out from themselves to live in communion with God, with others and with all creatures. In this way, they make their own that trinitarian dynamism which God imprinted in them when they were created. Everything is interconnected, and this invites us to develop a spirituality of that global solidarity which flows from the mystery of the Trinity. (§240) We Are Not God: Reflections on the Theolog y of Laudato Si 647 The Corollary of Laudato Si’s Doxological Theocentricy—a Radical Critique of Modern Anthropocentrism It is not accidental at all, of course, that Laudato Si relies on St. Bonaventure and not on Descartes, Locke, Hume, or Kant for how human beings should understand themselves, other human beings, and the world we live in. For these very thinkers are the intellectual architects of the famous modern turn to the subject, the elevation of the individual to the position of purported subjective sovereignty, and of a mechanistic, proto-technological understanding of the world as a mere terrain available for expansion, subjection, and exploitation. Laudato Si registers rather laconically that “modernity has been marked by an excessive anthropocentrism” (§116). What characterizes this excessive anthropocentrism? Laudato Si states: Modern anthropocentrism has paradoxically ended up prizing technical thought over reality, since “the technological mind sees nature as an insensate order, as a cold body of facts, as a mere ‘given,’ as an object of utility, as raw material to be hammered into useful shape; it views the cosmos similarly as a mere ‘space’ into which objects can be thrown with complete indifference.” The intrinsic dignity of the world is thus compromised. When human beings fail to find their true place in this world, they misunderstand themselves and end up acting against themselves: “Not only has God given the earth to man, who must use it with respect for the original good purpose for which it was given, but, man too is God’s gift to man. He must therefore respect the natural and moral structure with which he has been endowed.” (§115) It is modern anthropocentrism that gives rise to the illusion that the world is just an inexhaustibly self-replenishing mega-oyster technologically prepared for consumption by the natural scientists and their ground personnel, the engineers and other technocrats, economically commodified for consumption by trans-national entrepreneurs and their ground personnel, managers, and marketing and sales specialists and finally consumed interminably by the modern sovereign subject in its related instantiations of shopper, consumer, and tourist. In the mind of the shopper, the consumer, and the tourist, the world is an instrument in service of one ultimate end, self-realization and self-fulfillment. Yet in the mind of God—shared in revelation—the ultimate destiny of the world is strikingly and for the modern sovereign subject jarringly different. Laudato Si states: 648 Reinhard Hütter The ultimate destiny of the universe is in the fullness of God, which has already been attained by the risen Christ, the measure of the maturity of all things. Here we can add yet another argument for rejecting every tyrannical and irresponsible domination of human beings over other creatures. The ultimate purpose of other creatures is not to be found in us. Rather, all creatures are moving forward with us and through us towards a common point of arrival, which is God, in that transcendent fullness where the risen Christ embraces and illumines all things. Human beings, endowed with intelligence and love, and drawn by the fullness of Christ, are called to lead all creatures back to their Creator. (§83) Here Laudato Si articulates the vocation of humanity in relation to all other material creatures, to be “a steward of creation,” or to pick up Heidegger’s image from his Letter on Humanism, to be a “shepherd of Being” (Hirte des Seins), but with a thorough theological correction—the one true shepherd of Being, being no other than the one “good shepherd,” an image of God the Father who sends his only Son to find the lost sheep. This Christ-like shepherd of Being—embodied maybe most clearly by St. Francis—communicates the love of the Father for all creatures to them, cares for them, and—encompassing them in the sacrifice of thanksgiving and in the doxology of the Triune God—returns them in the Spirit through the Son to the Father. Yet this, quite obviously is not the story and the self-understanding of Enlightenment modernity. By increasingly turning away from this fundamental reality—God, creation, and the human stewardship of creation—and by focusing rather on ourselves, the modern turn to the subject has been instituted—religiously by Luther, philosophically by Descartes, technologically by Bacon, and politically by Rousseau. As the passage from §115 cited just above makes patent, Laudato Si is crystal clear about the fact that the notion that we might “own ourselves” or at least our bodies as instruments of willful self-expression or as tool of sovereign self-realization is nothing but a characteristic expression of the erroneous self-image of the sovereign subject that constitutes modern anthropocentrism’s “heart of darkness.” Laudato Si confronts the false self-image of the sovereign subject with the ontology of the gift. “Man, too, is God’s gift to man.” Not only is our existence gifted all the way down, but also our natural and moral constitution is gifted. As embodied beings, we participate a natural, sexually differentiated and complementary kind; by way of our intellect and our conscience we participate the eternal law; and as individual persons, supposits, each of us participates the most mysterious of gifts, freedom. Rejecting the gift we are as human persons and the call and We Are Not God: Reflections on the Theolog y of Laudato Si 649 responsibility that comes with this gift is to reject the Giver. Accepting the gift is “to accept the natural and moral structure with which [the gift] has been endowed.” It is the sovereign subject that—conceiving itself falsely as self-constituted—is the very rejection of the gift. Transcending nature with the help of technology, the sovereign subject posits the pronouncements of its self-will beyond good and evil, thereby increasingly fluidifying human nature, values, and finally truth itself. This is late-modern anthropocentrism in its tyrannical state. Laudato Si puts the matter in plain terms: “The Bible has no place for a tyrannical anthropocentrism unconcerned for other creatures” (§68). “Modernity has been marked by an excessive anthropocentrism” (§116) and “the present ecological crisis is one small sign of the ethical, cultural and spiritual crisis of modernity” (§119). It is not the Bible that is out of sync with reality, but rather technologically advanced modernity and its promoter, the sovereign subject. Technology—Anthropocentric Modernity’s Applied Metaphysics, the Sovereign Subject’s Will to Power To expose tyrannical anthropocentrism is not enough for Laudato Si. It is important for the encyclical to go one step further and address the very technique by way of which the sovereign subject puts into reality its ever expanding will to power. If the will to power is the counterfeit metaphysics of modernity, technology is its very realization. The encyclical cuts very quickly through the superficial alternatives of being “for” or “against” technology. This binary itself is nothing but the pattern of thought characteristic of technology itself. The basic problem according to Laudato Si is “the way that humanity has taken up technology and its development according to an undifferentiated and one-dimensional paradigm. This paradigm exalts the concept of a subject who, using logical and rational procedures, progressively approaches and gains control over an external object. This subject makes every effort to establish the scientific and experimental method, which in itself is already a technique of possession, mastery and transformation. It is as if the subject were to find itself in the presence of something formless, completely open to manipulation. Men and women have constantly intervened in nature, but for a long time this meant being in tune with and respecting the possibilities offered by the things themselves. It was a matter of receiving what nature itself allowed, as if from its own hand. Now, by contrast, we are the ones to lay our hands on things, attempting to extract everything possible from them while frequently ignoring or forgetting the reality in front of us. Human beings and material objects no longer extend a friendly hand to one another; the relationship has become confronta- 650 Reinhard Hütter tional. This has made it easy to accept the idea of infinite or unlimited growth, which proves so attractive to economists, financiers and experts in technology. It is based on the lie that there is an infinite supply of the earth’s goods, and this leads to the planet being squeezed dry beyond every limit. It is the false notion that ‘an infinite quantity of energy and resources are available, that it is possible to renew them quickly, and that the negative effects of the exploitation of the natural order can be easily absorbed’” (§106; my emphasis). Besides unmasking the false infinite-supply utopia, the encyclical points out the profound way the one-dimensional paradigm of technology has distorted the human perception of reality: “It can be said that many problems of today’s world stem from the tendency, at times unconscious, to make the method and aims of science and technology an epistemological paradigm which shapes the lives of individuals and the workings of society. The effects of imposing this model on reality as a whole, human and social, are seen in the deterioration of the environment, but this is just one sign of a reductionism which affects every aspect of human and social life. We have to accept that technological products are not neutral, for they create a framework which ends up conditioning lifestyles and shaping social possibilities along the lines dictated by the interests of certain powerful groups. Decisions which may seem purely instrumental are in reality decisions about the kind of society we want to build” (§107). The technological paradigm has become the hegemonic counterfeit metaphysics without an emergency exit, as it seems. Laudato Si astutely observes: “The idea of promoting a different cultural paradigm and employing technology as a mere instrument is nowadays inconceivable. The technological paradigm has become so dominant that it would be difficult to do without its resources and even more difficult to utilize them without being dominated by their internal logic. It has become countercultural to choose a lifestyle whose goals are even partly independent of technology, of its costs and its power to globalize and make us all the same. Technology tends to absorb everything into its ironclad logic, and those who are surrounded with technology ‘know full well that it moves forward in the final analysis neither for profit nor for the well-being of the human race,’ that ‘in the most radical sense of the term power is its motive—a lordship over all.’ As a result, ‘man seizes hold of the naked elements of both nature and human nature.’ Our capacity to make decisions, a more genuine freedom and the space for each one’s alternative creativity are diminished” (§108). We Are Not God: Reflections on the Theolog y of Laudato Si 651 The encyclical is not a dystopian neo-Luddism on steroids, but rather a consequent application of the theology and ontology of creation to the presently hegemonic position of the sovereign subject implementing its global will to power by way of its applied counterfeit metaphysics—technology—bent on its own counterfeit eschatology, “lordship over all.” This counterfeit eschatology of the sovereign subject is the apocalyptic rejection of the mystery of God the Father, a rejection of his gifts, first the gift of being, creation as a whole and the gift of the human to the human, and secondly, the rejection of the gift of adoptive sonship in the Son of the Father, the Incarnate Lord. The self-constitution as sovereign subject amounts in one to the rejection of paternity as well as of sonship, of the loving Giver and the grateful reception of the gift, and its substitution with sovereign usurpation, lordship over all. Laudato Si’s theocentric doxology of the mystery of the Father, of the gift of creation, and the mystery of adoptive sonship—unfolding all its theological implications— entails unavoidably the unmasking of its contemporary counterfeit—the tyrannical anthropocentrism of the sovereign subject. The true doxology and worship of the Lamb, who is the true image of the Father, eventually always unmasks the self-worship of the beast, even and especially when it hides in the very heart of the Church herself. Conclusion First: Neither the environmental movement nor the United Nations need Catholic Social Teaching for policy development. Policy development is an application of natural law principles and precepts, ordered to the common good, under the guidance of prudence and justice, and in light of the specifically relevant empirical data. All people of good will and proper competency can work together in policy development. The Church has no special competency, and often no competency at all, in policy development. As in the case of Laudato Si, the Church might, of course, make recommendations to individuals, communities, whole societies, and even the global community. When these recommendations are overall sound, as I take them to be for the most part in Laudato Si, they do not differ substantially from—but rather most often happen to echo—the policy recommendations advanced by most environmental organizations. Second: As I came to realize retrospectively, the Church does have a surpassing competency, first in teaching explicitly—and thereby enabling human beings to recall—the first and secondary principles and precepts of the natural law, the nature of the common good, and the virtues of prudence and justice. And the Church has, secondly, the surpassing 652 Reinhard Hütter competency to communicate divine revelation—the world as divinely created, the triune identity of the Creator, the precarious state of fallen humanity, and the economy of salvation culminating in the Incarnation of the Son of God. Yet in a modern world dominated increasingly by the immanent frame of the sovereign subject and the correlated technocratic instrumentalization and economic commodification of virtually all reality in service to the sovereign subject and his insatiable desires—in a world haunted by the eclipse of God the Creator, by the eclipse of the world as God’s creation, and by the eclipse of the human being as created in the image of God—Catholic Social Teaching can only make sense, and indeed any difference at all, if the immanent frame’s threefold eclipse of God, creation, and humanity created in the image of God is explicitly addressed and thereby at least incipiently undone. In short, Catholic Social Teaching in general, and Laudato Si in particular, stand on their success as a transparent, consistent, and compelling theological enterprise all the way down or they fall into well-deserved irrelevance. As an ex-post-facto imprimatur of sound secular policy developments, Catholic Social Teaching is about as useful or necessary as another hole in one’s head. As the extension of the revealed truth through sound teaching, persuasive witness, acute argumentation, and effective activism into the social, political, and economic contexts, Catholic Social Teaching as an explicitly and unapologetically theological enterprise is absolutely indispensable in a world radically diminished by the threefold eclipse of God, creation, and humanity created in the image of God, imposed by modernity’s immanent frame. Fortunately, Laudato Si does not stand in danger of falling into such irrelevance, because the encyclical has a solid theological foundation, and even more importantly, a thorough theocentric orientation that challenges head-on the immanent frame’s threefold eclipse. It is for this reason and not for its rather commonsense policy recommendations that Laudato Si is genuinely good news for its intended audience, that is, “every person living N&V on this planet” (§3). Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 17, No. 3 (2019): 653–682 653 The Infallibility of Canonizations: A Revisionist History of the Arguments William Diem Gettysburg, PA The Modern Consensus and the Prima Facie Problem Since the publication of De Servorum Dei Beatificatione et Beatorum Canonizatione by Prospero Lorenzo Lambertini (later Pope Benedict XIV), a general consensus has emerged that formal canonizations of the saints are infallible papal acts.1 Indeed it is so commonly held that the New Catholic Encyclopedia simply asserts, without any note of either controversy or explanation, that canonizations are infallible declarations.2 More precisely, it is commonly held that, in canonizations, the pope infal- See Prospero Lorenzo Lambertini, De servorum Dei beatificatione et beatorum canonizatione, esp. bk. I, chs. 43–45 (Venice: Antonius Foglierini, 1744), 195–212. Especially noteworthy treatments of the history and arguments of this position are found in Eric W. Kemp, Canonization and Authority in the Western Church (London: Oxford University Press, 1948), and Max Schenk, Die Unfehlbarkeit des Papstes in der Heiligsprechung: Ein zur Erhellung der theologiegeschichtlichen Seite der Frage (Freiburg: Paulusverlag, 1965). It is worth noting that there was a competing tradition still present in the eighteenth century; see for example, Lamindus Pritanius (Ludovico Antonio Muratori), De ingeniorum moderatione in religionis negotio, bk. I, ch. 17 (Venice: Johannis Baptistae Pasquali, 1752), 75–78. 2 P. Molinari and G. B. O’Donnell, “Canonization of Saints (History and Procedure),” in New Catholic Encyclopedia, 2nd ed., vol. 3 (Detroit, MI: Thomson/Gale, 2003), 66: “The bull of canonization infallibly declares the exemplariness of the saint’s life and recognizes his or her role as a heavenly intercessor.” It is, however, worth noting the restraint concerning the object of this declaration. 1 654 William Diem libly teaches that the one canonized is now in heaven.3 Yet, this position faces a rather significant objection. As Avery Cardinal Dulles notes, “it is difficult to see how [formal canonizations and the approval of religious institutes] fit under the object of infallibility as defined in the two Vatican councils.”4 What he means is this: the two Vatican councils connect the Church’s infallibility directly to the guarding and expounding of the deposit of faith handed down from the apostles. Hence Vatican II in Lumen Gentium teaches, “this infallibility with which the Divine Redeemer willed His Church to be endowed in defining doctrine of faith and morals, extends as far as the deposit of Revelation extends, which must be religiously guarded and faithfully expounded.”5 So As an early example of this now common opinion, see Camillo Beccari, “Beatification and Canonization,” in The Catholic Encyclopedia, vol. 2 (New York: Robert Appleton, 1907), 367: “What is the object of this infallible judgment of the pope? . . . My own opinion is that nothing else is defined than that the person canonized is in heaven.” 4 Avery Cardinal Dulles, Magisterium: Teacher and Guardian of the Faith (Ave Maria, FL: Sapientia, 2010), 78. He then quotes Lutheran–Roman Catholic Dialog, “Teaching Authority and Infallibility in the Church: Common Statement,” Theological Studies 40 (1979): 113–66, at 149: “The Church has the power to recognize authentic Christian holiness, yet canonization of its nature would not seem to convey infallible certitude that the holiness in question was actually present in the life of this or that historical individual.” This problem had been raised in the eighteenth century by Muratori, De ingeniorum moderatione, bk. I, ch. 17 (p. 76); see, Schenk, Die Unfehlbarkeit, 61. 5 Second Vatican Council, Lumen Gentium, §25 (unless otherwise noted, translations of the documents of Vatican II come from the Vatican’s website as produced in Denzinger-Hünermann [DH], 43rd ed., English ed. R. Fastiggi and A. E. Nash [San Francisco: Ignatius, 2012]). Similarly, see Vatican I, Dei Filius, ch. 4, §13: “Neque enim fidei doctrina, quam Deus revelavit, velut philosophicum inventum proposita est humanis ingeniis perficienda, sed tamquam divinum depositum Christi Sponsae tradita, fideliter custodienda et infallibiliter declaranda” (“For the doctrine of the faith that God has revealed has not been proposed like a philosophical system to be perfected by human ingenuity; rather it has been committed to the spouse of Christ as a divine trust to be faithfully kept and infallibly declared”) (trans. J. Neuner and J. Dupuis, as found in DH, no. 3020). See also Vatican I, Pastor Aeternus, ch. 4, §6, “Neque enim Petri successoribus Spiritus Sanctus promissus est, ut eo revelante novam doctrinam patefacerent, sed ut eo assistente traditam per Apostolos revelationem seu fidei depositum sancte custodirent et fideliter exponerent” (“For the Holy Spirit was not promised to the successors of Peter that they might disclose a new doctrine by his revelation, but rather that, with his assistance, they might reverently guard and faithfully explain the revelation or deposit of faith that was handed down through the apostles”) (trans. Neuner and Dupuis, in DH, no. 3070). 3 The Infallibility of Canonizations 655 much is uncontroversial: the Church’s infallibility is linked directly to her office as guardian and teacher of public revelation. Now, we should note another uncontroversial point: that this infallible teaching authority extends not only to what has been directly revealed in public revelation—the primary or direct objects of infallibility—but extends also to those things that are necessarily connected with revealed truth by either a logical or a historical necessity. Defenders of the infallibility of canonizations—well aware that Christ revealed nothing about the fate of particular post-apostolic individuals—thus place canonizations among these secondary or indirect objects of infallibility. Hence, for example, Ludwig Ott writes, “to the secondary objects of infallibility belong . . . the canonization of saints, that is the final judgment that a member of the Church has been assumed into eternal bliss and may be the object of general veneration.”6 But what necessary connection is there between a particular historical individual’s beatitude and the faith? As Dulles notes, “it is not easy to see how the fact that this or that saint possessed heroic virtue is either a necessary condition or a necessary consequence of Christian faith.” 7 Now to complete the difficulties, we can consider the two lines of data that are examined leading up to a formal canonization and on which the determination of sainthood is ultimately made. Since the beginning of the practice of formal canonizations by the popes,8 two lines of investigation Ludwig Ott, Fundamentals of Catholic Dogma, trans. Patrick Lynch (Rockford, IL: TAN, 1974), 299. Similarly Adolphe Tanquerey lists canonizations among the “indirect” objects of infallibility, noting that this thesis of the Church’s infallibility is the communis et vera sententia in Synopsis Theologiae Dogmaticae, vol. 1, 16th ed. (Rome and Paris: Typis Societatis Sancti Joannis Evangelistae, 1919), 546–47 (no. 842). 7 Dulles, Magisterium, 91. 8 The first formal, papal canonization—so far as we can tell—was of St. Ulric of Augsburg by John XV in 993; see Kemp, Canonization and Authority, 57. For the point that a determination of sanctity must be based on these two lines of evidence, see Innocent III’s bull of canonization of St. Homobonus in 1199: “duo tamen, virtus videlicet morum et virtus signorum, opera scilicet pietatis in vita et miraculorum signa post mortem, ut quis reputetur sanctus in militanti Ecclesia requiruntur.” He draws particular attention to the insufficiency of miracles alone: “frequenter angelus Satanae se in lucis angelum transfigurat et quidam faciunt opera sua bona, ut videantur ab hominibus, quidam etiam coruscant miraculis quorum tamen vita merito reporbatur (sicut de magis legitur Pharaonis), et etiam Antichristus, qui electos etiam, si fieri potest, inducet miraculis suis in errorem, ad id nec opera sufficiunt sola nec signa, sed cum illis praecedentibus ista succedunt, verum nobis praebent indicium sanctitatis” (PL, 214: 483–84). See also Innocent IV, Apparatus in quinque libros decretalium, bk. III, rub. 45, ch. 1, in Audivimus, 6 656 William Diem have been carried out to determine sanctity: The first is an examination of the person’s life, and the second is an examination of miracles attributed to the person’s intercession. To the first of these, we must note that, while a thorough investigation of a person’s life may give very good reason to determine that a person was holy and is now in glory, it is ultimately inconclusive insofar as we cannot read another person’s soul.9 What’s more, not even the individual can know his own state of grace with absolute certainty—the sentiment is clear in Paul: “I am not aware of anything against myself, but I am not thereby acquitted. It is the Lord who judges me” (1 Cor 4:4). Trent is explicit: “For as no pious person ought to doubt the mercy of God, the merit of Christ and the virtue and efficacy of the sacraments, so each one, when he considers himself and his own weakness and indisposition, may have fear and apprehension concerning his own grace, since no one can know with the certainty of faith, which cannot be subject to error, that he has obtained the grace of God.”10 Note carefully the distinction, in Trent, between those things on the one hand that are matters of divine revelation—the mercy of God, the merits of Christ, the efficacy of the sacraments—and on the other, those particular matters of fact that revelation does not touch— one’s own response to these things. The former are certain as matters of faith; the latter are necessarily uncertain. Hence the problem: if even the individual himself cannot be absolutely certain of his own sanctity at any given moment, how can the pope determine—through an examination of the records of his life—the state in which an individual died years prior?11 But here the defenders of infallibility will point to the second sort of evidence: our human investigations may lead us only to a likely belief that a person died in grace and is now in heaven, but God, doubtless, knows which makes the same point—“non sufficiunt miracula sine vite excelentia” (“miracles do not suffice without excellence of life”) (since even Pharoah’s magicians worked wonders)—but on the other hand, the Church must not canonize persons of good life without miracles “quia in secreto potuerunt laxiorem vitam ducere” (“for they could have led less rigorous lives in secret”) (unless otherwise noted, all translations of non-magisterial texts are my own). See also Aquinas, Quodlibet IX, a. 8, ad 1, and a. 2 (produced in note 35); though, unlike these prior two, Aquinas’s only expressed concern with either miracles or lives is that they be unreliably reported, not that they actually be diabolical or deceptive. 9 I Cor 2:11: “For what person knows a man’s thoughts except the spirit of the man which is in him?” 10 Council of Trent, Decree on Justification (1547), ch. 9 (trans. H. J. Schroeder in The Canons and Decrees of the Council of Trent [Rockford, IL: TAN, 1978]). 11 On this point, consider also Gregory the Great, Epistles, bk. VII, Epistle 25 (to Gregoria). The Infallibility of Canonizations 657 the person’s state with certainty, and can confirm the individual’s salvation through miracles worked through his intercession. Thus the divine testimony of miracles supplies that certainty wanting from our investigation of his life. This, however, brings us back to the original problem: even if the miracles in question are perfectly clear divine testimony of God’s favor toward the individual, the Church emphatically does not claim to teach the content of so-called private or special revelations infallibly. Vatican I writes, “for the Holy Spirit was not promised to the successors of Peter that they might disclose a new doctrine by his revelation, but rather that, with his assistance, they might reverently guard and faithfully explain the revelation or deposit of faith that was handed down through the apostles.”12 Having laid out the prima facie case against the infallibility of canonization, I would like to examine the principal arguments adduced in its favor. Ott provides the very form of all the strongest arguments in a single line: “If the Church could err in her opinion [about saints], consequences would arise which would be incompatible with the sanctity of the Church.”13 This is the fundamental argument. But which consequences specifically? In light of space I must restrict myself to examining the arguments of two figures. These two are, however, the most important in the tradition, as between them they established—so far as I can tell—all of the strongest arguments in favor of the infallibility of canonizations. And at least one of the two is explicitly cited by almost every subsequent theologian to treat the topic.14 Thus for example, all four of the arguments provided by Lambertini in favor of the infallibility of canonizations are explicitly drawn from these two figures.15 I speak of Melchior Cano and Thomas Aquinas. Because his arguments present fewer interpretational difficulties, I propose to treat Cano first. I will argue that his proofs do not successfully arrive at a simple infallibility in canonizations—that is, they do not prove Vatican I, Pastor Aeternus, ch. 4, §6. Vatican II sums up the teaching nicely in Dei Verbum, §10: “Quod quidem Magisterium non supra verbum Dei est, sed eidem ministrat, docens nonnisi quod traditum est . . .” (“This teaching office is not above the Word of God, but serves it, teaching only what has been handed on”) (DH, no. 4214 ). 13 Ott, Fundamentals, 299. 14 Kemp notes: “Cano’s discussion is important because he and St. Thomas are the two theologians most frequently quoted by later writers” (Canonization and Authority, 157). 15 In De Beatificatione et Canonizatione, bk.I, ch. 43 (pp. 198–99), Lambertini produces a total of four arguments in favor of the infallibility of canonizations. The first he identifies in both Thomas and Cano; The second and third he takes from Thomas; The fourth is drawn from Cano. 12 658 William Diem that one canonized is certainly in heaven. Turning then to Aquinas, I will argue two further points: first, that, despite ambiguities in the text, reading Aquinas’s arguments to establish a simple infallibility of canonizations renders his arguments invalid, and second, that placing those arguments in their historical context gives us compelling reason to conclude, pace Lambertini, that Aquinas never intended them to prove such a simple infallibility. Finally, I will argue that the arguments marshaled by these authors do prove a divine guarantee in canonization, but a more subtle guarantee than simple infallibility. Melchior Cano In his De locis theologicis, Melchior Cano (d. 1560) explicitly defends the infallibility of formal canonizations under the heading of conciliar authority.16 While Cano notes that individually his arguments may be inconclusive, nonetheless he thinks that joined together they are decisive.17 He offers three arguments, all of which echo through the tradition. Cano’s first argument is that, if we could call even one canonization into question, then we could call all the saints into question, even doctors like Jerome, Ambrose, and Augustine. In fact, we could, without any crime, condemn them with the devils, beat them down with maledictions, and vex them with contumelies—a prospect from which all the faithful will recoil in horror. If the Church could err in placing a man in the catalog of saints, “it would not be terribly absurd, to eject from the Church the cults of all the saints consecrated since Clement [i.e., Pope Clement I, the last pope of the apostolic era]. Who could say something that is more stupid or imprudent?”18 Melchior Cano, De locis theologicis, bk. V, ch. 5, no. 43 (Salanticae: Mathias Gastius, 1558), 195–96. 17 Cano, De locis theologicis, bk. V, ch. 5, no. 43 (p. 196). Note that Cano does offer a prior argument that is also often cited, viz., that he does injury to a martyr who prays for him. But this is offered not as an argument that canonizations are infallible, but that the denial of a canonization is a crime deserving strict ecclesiastical censure. 18 Cano, De locis, bk. V, ch. 5, no. 43: “Mox etiam, si unum aliquod huius generis decretum in quaestionem veniat, certe Hieronymi, Ambrosii, Augustini ac reliquorum sanctitatem sine crimine in quaestionem vocare poterimus: atque adeo asserere illos cum daemonibus condemnatos, Ita posses eos maledictis, ac vexare contumeliis, quae omnia aures sane fidelium perhorrescunt. Quod si viris iustis in divorum catalogum reponendis ecclesia errat, nimirum non esset valde absurdum, divorum omnium cultum ab ecclesia explodere eorum, qui post Clementem consecrati sunt. Quo quid aut stultius aut imprudentius dici potest?” (“Also, if one of these decrees should come into question, then certainly we could call the sanctity 16 The Infallibility of Canonizations 659 Once we strip away the polemics, this is ultimately an argument from the practice of the Church. Francisco Suarez (d. 1617) takes this argument and develops it by appealing to a threefold division of practices he takes from Augustine.19 Augustine noted (Letter 54, ch. 5) that there are three sorts of practice in the Church: first, those that are prescribed in Scripture, and these we cannot doubt ought to be practiced; second, those things done differently in different parts of the Church, and these we ought to practice so long as they are not contrary to faith and morals; third, those practices observed by the whole Church, and of these—among which Suarez places the cult of each saint—he remarks that it would be most insolent madness to doubt whether we ought to observe and do them. Robert Bellarmine (d. 1621), likewise adopted and refined Cano’s argument: “If one were permitted to doubt whether a canonized saint were holy, one would be permitted to doubt whether he should be venerated: but this is false.” The reason it is false is given in the line from Augustine we just saw quoted by Suarez: “it is most insolent to dispute whether it should be done as the whole Church does.” Thus since “we are bound to of Jerome, Ambrose, Augustine, and relics into question without crime; and place them, condemned, among the demons, so you could vex them with curses and contumelies, from which all the ears of the faithful rightly recoil in horror. For if the Church could err in placing the just in the catalog of the godly, doubtless it would hardly be absurd to throw out of the Church the cult of all the saints who have been consecrated after Clement. Who could say something more stupid or imprudent?”) (p. 195). 19 Francisco Suarez, Defensio fidei catholicae et apostolicae adversus anglicanae sectae errors, bk. II, ch. 8, no. 9 (Conimbricae, PT: Apud Didicum Gomez de Loureyro, Academiae Typographum, 1613), 167–68. His concluding line here is: “Ergo quando universa Ecclesia Catholica de aliquius Sancti felicitate non dubitat, et in illius cultu concordat, non licet viro Catholico, et prudenti disputare, quin ita faciendum sit” (“Therefore when the universal Catholic Church does not doubt the blessedness of some saint and is of one accord in his cult, it is not permissible for the Catholic and prudent man to dispute whether one should do so.’”) He presents another version of this argument in Opus de triplici virtute theologica: fide, spe, et charitate, tract I (De fide), disp. 5, sect. 8, n. 8: “Item, non licet fidelibus dubitare de gloria Sancti canonizati: id enim sub praecisa obligatione praecipiunt Pontifices in ipsa canonizatione: ergo oportet, ut illi praecepto non possit subesse error, alias deficeret Deus in re maxime necessaria Ecclesiae, quod est contra providentiam, et promissiones eius” (“It is not permissible for the faithful to doubt the glory of a canonized saint. For the Pontiffs command it under a ‘specific obligation’ [i.e., an obligation that binds in conscience] in the canonization itself: therefore it is necessary that that command not be able to be in error, otherwise God would fail in a thing most necessary for the Church, which would be contrary to his providence and promises”) (Lugduni: Sumptibus Iacobi Cardon et Petri Cauellat, 1621, 104). 660 William Diem obey the pontiffs indicating the feast day of some saint; [and since one cannot] act against conscience: therefore we cannot doubt whether he is to be venerated who is canonized by the Church.”20 As Bellarmine produces it, I think this argument is remarkably strong. If we were permitted to doubt the sanctity of some saint, we could be bound in conscience not to venerate him. But we are bound to venerate him because that veneration is a practice of the whole Church, and in the case of a formal canonization it is a practice enjoined on the Church by the pope precisely as an obligation. Thus if we could doubt the sanctity of some saint, we would be forced either to reject a practice enjoined on us by the Church or to act against conscience. Having noted the strength of the argument, I will for the moment point out but one further thing, namely, the force of the conclusion: Bellarmine concludes that one is not permitted to doubt that the saint is in fact a saint. The quotation from Augustine (marshaled by both Suarez and Bellarmine) concludes only that one is not permitted to doubt the practice of the Church. Even Cano’s argument proved only that one could not doubt any particular decree of canonization. Cano’s second argument is that the matter of who is to be venerated is a question of morals, and therefore the Church would err in teaching morals if it erred in canonization. In a line that has been frequently quoted over the intervening centuries, he asserts, “it makes no difference whether you venerate a devil or a condemned man.”21 Again, Bellarmine puts it in Robert Bellarmine, Disputationes de controversiis christianae fidei: de ecclesia triumphante sive de gloria et cultu sanctorum, bk. I (De sanctorum beatitudine), ch. 9: “Primo: Quia si liceret dubitare, an sanctus canonizatus sit sanctus, liceret etiam dubitare, an sit colendus: at hac est falsum. Siquidem s. Augustinus in epist. 118 [according to the current enumeration of Augustine’s letters this is actually Epistle 54]. dicit insolentissimae insaniae esse disputare, an sit faciendum, quod tota Ecclesia facit. Item ex Bernardo in epist. 174. ad canonicos lugdenenses, ubi loquens de colendis festis in honorem sanctorum, dicit: Ego quae accepi ab Ecclesia, securus teneo et trado. Praeterea: Omnes veteres, sine ulla dubitatione sanctos coluerunt, et colendos asseruerunt. Denique tenemur obedire pontifici in licenti diem festum alicujus sancti; nec tamen possumus contra conscientiam aliquid agere: ergo non possumus dubitare, an sit colendus ille, qui ab Ecclesia est canonizatus” (in Roberti Cardinalis Bellarmini Opera Omnia, 2nd ed. [Milan: Edente Natale Battezzati, 1858],178). 21 Cano, De locis, bk. V, ch. 5, no. 43: “Item multum refert ad communes ecclesiae mores scire, quos debeas religione colere: quare, si in illis erraret ecclesia, in moribus quoque graviter falleretur. Nec differt diabolum colas, an hominem condemnatum. Atque si ecclesia abstinentiae legem fogaret, quae vel rationi vel Evangelio adversa esset, turpiter ab illa profecto erraretur: turpiter ergo etiam errabit in doctina 20 The Infallibility of Canonizations 661 its most nuanced form by appealing to the communion of saints; he notes that, if the Church could err in canonizations, “those who are not saints would be defrauded of the suffrage of the living,” while “the living would be defrauded of the intercession of the saints, for they would often invoke the damned for the blessed”; in fact, “the Church would often ask for itself malediction in place of benediction, since in prayers to the saints it asks, that just as God glorified them in heaven, so he grant us grace on earth.”22 morum, si legem ferat de colendo divo, quem colere si divus non est, et cum ratione et cum Evangelio pugnat” (“It matters a good deal for the common conduct of the Church to know whom you ought to worship with religious observance. Which is why, if the Church erred in those things, it would also be gravely deceived in conduct. It does not matter whether you worship a devil or a condemned man. And if the Church should give a law of abstinence which was against either reason or the Gospel, it would certainly err shamefully in so doing, therefore so also would it shamefully err in the moral doctrine, if it proposed a law honoring as a saint someone whose being so honored contradicts reason and the Gospel, if he is not a saint”) (p. 195). Again Suarez repeats the argument in De fide, bk. II, ch. 8, no. 8: “Secundo infertur, non posse errare Pontificem in Sanctorum canonizatione, ut recte docuit D. Thom. quodlib. 9. art. Ultimo, Anton. et Cano, supra, et Bellarm. lib. 1. de Sanctorum beatitudinem, cap. 5; . . . Ratio vero est: quia haec est pars quaedam materia moralis, et valde necessaria, ut Ecclesia non erret in cultu, et adoratione religionis; alias contingere posse, ut coleret hominem damnatum, et ad illum preces funderet; quod est etiam contra puritatem, et sanctitatem Ecclesiae” (“Second, it is concluded that the Pontiff cannot err in the canonization of the saints, as Saint Thomas [in QL IX, final article], Antoninus, Cano [above], Bellarmine [lib. 1 On the Beatitude of the Saints] rightly taught. . . . The reason is that this is a certain part of moral matters, and certainly necessary, namely that the Church not err in religious worship and adoration. Otherwise, it could happen that the Church honor a damned man and offer prayers to him, which is certainly against the purity and sanctity of the Church”) (p. 104). Lambertini quotes this passage of Cano and joins it to Aquinas’s second sed contra in De Beatificatione et Canonizatione, bk. I, ch. 43, no. 9 (p. 198). Notice that Cano does not explain precisely in which respect devil worship and veneration of a condemned soul are morally equivalent; this ambiguity, left unresolved by Cano though not by Bellarmine, proves significant, as we will see when we return to this point further on. 22 Bellarmine, De sanctorum beatitudine, “Secundo: Ex incommodis duobus; nam in primis fraudarentur non sancti suffragiis vivorum; nam pro canonizatis non licet orare. Ut enim Augustinus dicit, serm. 17. de verbis apostoli: Injuriam facit martyri qui orat pro martyre; et idem intelligendum de omnibus sanctis canonizatis, docet Innocentius, cap. Cum Marthae, de celebrat. Missarum: at si in hoc Ecclesia erraret, defraudaret eum, qui habetur sanctus, et non est, quicumque non oraret pro eo. Deinde fraudarentur etiam viventes intercessionibus sanctorum, invocarent enim saepe damnatos pro beatis, si Ecclesia in hoc erraret. Praeterea Ecclesia peteret sibi maledictionem pro benedictione, cum in orationibus sanctorum petit, ut sicut illos Deus glorificavit in coelis, sic nobis gratiam largiatur in terris. Et 662 William Diem This would be a nasty sort of irony if this were prayed of a condemned soul. Bellarmine closes here by qualifying the force of the conclusion: “Although the Church would not ask the malediction but materially, nonetheless it seems absurd.” We will return to this argument below. Finally, Cano makes another argument that will be repeated many times down to the present day: not even once has the Church been shown to have erred in these judgments.23 The most obvious problem with such an argument is that, if canonizations are not infallible—particularly if they are not infallible because we have no direct access to the matter of fact they are claimed to establish—then there is in principle no way for us to find an error (unless the Church herself admit an error—but even then, all we would know is that there was some error; we would not know whether it was in the canonization or in the retraction). In other words the theory that canonizations are infallible is in principle unfalsifiable from direct observation.24 I will consider this argument dispensed with. Thomas Aquinas Thomas Aquinas (d. 1274) is generally considered the first theologian to have directly considered the question of the infallibility of canonizations, and the arguments he produced are—with those of Cano—frequently and explicitly cited in the subsequent literature—Lambertini styles him the dux omnium qui pugnant pro summi Pontifici infallibilitate (the leader of quamvis eam maledictionem non peteret nisi materialiter, tamen hoc ipsum absurdum videtur” (pp. 438–39). 23 Cano, De locis, bk. V, ch. 5, no. 43: “Ne igitur tantus error in ecclesia sit, deus peculiariter providere credendus est, ne ecclesia, quamlibet hominum testimonia sequatur, in sanctorum canonizatione erret. Cuius peculiarissimae providentiae abunde magnum argumentum est, quod nunquam infirmata est fides ab humanis testibus semel in huiusmodi iudiciis suscepta. Quod in causis civilibus saepe accredit” (“Lest there be such error in the Church, it is to be believed that God specifically provides that, whatever human testimony it follow, the Church not err in the canonization of the saints. It is a great argument for this most particular providence that the faith derived from human witnesses in such judgments has never, even once, been disproven, although that often happens in civil cases”) (195–96). This is quoted by Lambertini, in presenting his fourth argument in favor of the infallibility of canonizations, in De beatificatione et canonizatione, bk. I, ch. 43, no. 14, (p. 199). 24 It is worth noting that, even granting that we can determine that there has never been an error, the argument is still inconclusive. Thus, for example, Muratori follows Cano in holding that there has never actually been an error in canonization, although he admits the possibility that the Church could err in a canonization. Muratori, De ingeniorum moderatione, bk. I, ch. 17 (p. 77). The Infallibility of Canonizations 663 all those who fight for the infallibility of the Supreme Pontiff ).25 His treatment is found in Quodlibet IX, q. 8, where he asks whether all the saints who have been canonized by the Church are in glory or whether some are in hell. Before considering Aquinas, however, it may be desirable to consider his immediate context. While Aquinas was at the University of Paris, Bonaventure (d. 1274) held a series of disputed questions on evangelical perfection, and in the course of these, he defended mendicant poverty against the attacks of William of St. Amor, a defense found in his De perfectione evangelica, q. 2.26 The series of questions was held in the fall of 1255,27 during Aquinas’s first Paris regency,28 and shortly before Aquinas Lambertini, De beatificatione et canonizatione, 197 (this formulation is a condensation of what Lambertini writes in bk. 1, ch. 43, no. 4: “Pugnant vero pro Summi Pontificis infallibilitate caeteri mox referendi. Dux nempe omnium eft Sanctus Thomas Quodlibet 9 art 16 ut infra latius exponetur” (“But others, who are to be referred to soon, fight for the infallibility of the Supreme Pontiff. Indeed the leader of them all is Saint Thomas, QL IX, a. 16 as will be discussed a greater length below”). As one noteworthy example of how Aquinas is read on this point, consider Reginald Garrigou-Lagrange, Reality: A Synthesis of Thomistic Thought, ch. 43, where he somewhat facilely cites Quodlibet IX to establish that Aquinas holds that the Church’s infallible teaching authority extends even to dogmatic facts: “In his [Aquinas’s] treatise on faith [here, in note 90, he cites ST II-II, q. 1, a. 10, and Quodlibet IX, a. 16] he finds in the Church a doctrinal authority that is plenary and infallible, extending even, as in canonizing her saints, not merely to dogmatic truths, but also to dogmatic facts” (trans. Patrick Cummins [St. Loius, MO: Herder, 1953]). 26 In St. Bonaventure, Opera Omnia, ed. Collegii S. Bonaventura, vol. 5 (Florence: Quaracchi, 1891). There is a possibility of confusion as this second question circulated separately under the title De paupertate. The specific passage we are concerned with is in the afterward to the article, “Replicatio adversus objectiones postea factas,” sect. 4 “dubia”, obj. 1 (p. 152). As a note, this dispute—being inherently polemical in purpose—gives life to the controversy. Aquinas’s disputed questions are generally sanitized, recording only the most concise form of the strongest arguments. Bonaventure here records his objectors’ every argument— with all their warts—to head off every evasion. The reader cannot but feel the vigor and vibrancy of the intellectual community that was the Latin Quarter in the thirteenth century. 27 See Jay M. Hammond, “Bonaventure’s Legenda Major,” in A Companion to Bonaventure, ed. Jay Hammond, Wayne Hellman, Jared Goff (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2013), 453–508, at 472. 28 1252–1259. See Jean-Pierre Torrell St. Thomas Aquinas, vol. 1, The Person and His Work, trans. Robert Royal (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1996), 36–39, 96. 25 664 William Diem wrote Quodlibet IX.29 Part of Bonaventure’s defense is that the lives of the saints record that several of the saints (including among many others, Francis and a fourth-century Roman named Alexius) chose to give up their wealth and live off alms.30 His adversaries called a number of assertions related to this argument into question, holding that it was dubious and uncertain that Alexius begged or that Francis worked miracles—and even if Francis did work miracles, so too have many evil men. In his reply, Bonaventure argues first that the lives of the saints, as they are recorded in the legenda, are models of Christian virtue, that is, that the written lives of the saints are worthy moral guides,31 and second that to deny that the miracles of the saints are sound evidence of their holiness is to accuse the Church of being a fool, by credulously accepting such signs as divine indications of sanctity.32 What is important is that neither of these arguments Torrell summarizes the various opinions concerning the date of the disputed questions, Thomas Aquinas, 1:210-11; cf. 61. René Gauthier (editor of the Leonine edition) dates it to Advent 1257, two years after Bonaventure’s De perfectione evangelica. 30 A whole series of exempla drawn from lives of the saints are given as arguments sed contra: Bonaventure, De perfectione, q. 2, a. 2, sc 16–23 (p. 138–39). 31 Bonaventure, De perfectione, “Replicatio Adversus Objectiones Postea Factas,” sect. 4 “dubia,” ad 1: “Nam si in dubium revocetur, quod legitur in legenda sancti Alexii et legenda beati Francisci; pari ratione in dubium venit quidquid legitur in legendis aliorum Sanctorum: ergo omnia exempla virtutum et gesta Sanctorum iam recovantur in dubium. Sed dubia imitari vel credere periculosum est; ac per hoc perit fides, devotio et reverentia, quae habetur in Sanctis, si in dubium revocentur cetera, quae narrantur de ipsis” (“For if the things we read in the legenda of Saint Alexius and blessed Francis were called into doubt, by the same token whatever we read in the legenda of any other saint comes into doubt: And therefore all the examples of the virtues and the deeds of the saints are called into doubt. But such hesitation [to imitate or to believe] is dangerous, and through such hesitation, the faith, devotion, and the reverence, which is had for the saints, would be destroyed, if the other things that are narrated about them were called into doubt”). 32 Bonaventure, De perfectione, “Replicatio Adversus Objectiones Postea Factas,” sect. 4 “dubia,” ad 1: “Si miracula, quae fecerunt non sunt testimonia efficacia ad sanctitatem eorum astruendam, stultizat hodie Ecclesia, quae propter testimonia miraculorum sanctos canonizat” (“If the miracles which they worked are not testimony sufficient for establishing their sanctity, then the Church today, which canonizes saints on account of the testimony of miracles, acts a fool”). While some have taken this to be an implicit argument for the infallibility of canonizations (e.g., Schenk, Die Unfehlbarkeit, 14), it would be a rather weak argument—as Donald S. Prudlo rightly notes (Certain Sainthood: Canonization and the Origins of Papal Infallibility in the Medieval Church [Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2015], 126). But it need not be taken to speak of infallibility at all. And if it is not so taken then it is a strong argument. The argument is a reductio, and the impossibility it argues 29 The Infallibility of Canonizations 665 needs to be read as implying that the Church infallibly teaches that saints are in heaven.33 The first treats only their lives as known in the legenda. The second need only be taken to assert that it is censurable to imply that the Church has credulously accepted identifiably fraudulent miracles as a sign of sanctity. Thus the timely and very practical context of Aquinas’s speculative question, “whether all the saints who have been canonized by the Church are in glory, or whether some of them are in Hell?” He considers two objections: first (as we already argued), that no one can be certain of another’s state, just as he cannot be certain of his own;34 second, that a judgment formed from a fallible middle is itself able to err, but the Church relies on from is that the Church play the fool, by accepting identifiably fraudulent miracles as evidence of sanctity (what the objector was implying). The impossibility is not that the Church err, but that it err in a way that makes it a fool. There is quite a bit that falls between being a credulous fool and being infallible. All Bonaventure’s argument implies, then, is that the Church is not the former. And so read, the argument is strong and is open to none of the accusations of naiveté that could be brought against it were it implying infallibility. 33 Note that while shortly thereafter he writes, “est horribilissimum et incredibilissimum, quod Deus permitteret sic errare universaliter populum sanctum suum . . .” he has moved on to a new argument (this is labeled the “ad 2” by the editors) and is referring to error in ecclesiastical approval of religious orders, not to canonizations of saints, pace Prudlo (Certain Sainthood, 125). Moreover, while Prudlo cites Schenk as the source of this last quotation—and asserts that Schenk agrees with Tanner, Turrianus, and others that Bonaventure is here speaking of canonizations (Certain Sainthood, 126, fn. 10), the explicit purpose of the section in Schenk (Unfehlbarkeit, 12-14) is to show, rightly, that this passage (which the cited authors evidently were paraphrasing) is not actually speaking of canonizations but of the approval of religious orders. Prudlo falls into precisely the misunderstanding of these passages that his secondary source was quoting them in order to refute, and he is simply wrong to assert that Schenk concurs with Turrianus and Tanner. 34 Aquinas, Quodlibet IX, q. 8, arg. 1: “Nullus enim potest esse ita certus de statu alicuius sicut ipsemet, quia quae sunt hominis nemo nouit nisi spiritus hominis qui in ipso est, ut dicitur I Corinthiorum II [v. 11]; set homo non potest esse certus de se ipso utrum sit in statu salutis: Ecclesiastes. IX [v. 1]: Nemo scit utrum sit dignus odio vel amore; ergo multo minus Papa scit; ergo potest in canonizando errare” (“For no one can be so certain of someone’s state as the man himself, for no one knows the things of man but the spirit of the man which is in him, as it is said in I Corinthians 2:11, but man cannot be certain of himself whether he is in a state of salvation—Ecclesiastes 9:1: No one knows whether he is worthy of hate or love. Therefore much less does the Pope know, and therefore he can err in canonizing”). (Leonine ed., vol. 25/1–2). 666 William Diem fallible human testimony in examining both the saint’s life and miracles.35 Aquinas’s replies to both amount to asserting that God guides the pontiff and the Church, thus obviating the objections.36 In neither of the replies does he attempt to prove that God does in fact guide the Church in these matters. That was the work of the corpus. Although they seem to assert more, all the replies actually prove is that, if God guides the Church in canonization, then the objections are irrelevant. (It is worth noting that the reply to the second objection in particular does seem to assert such a guarantee of assistance. We will return to this in the conclusion.) Aquinas presents a total of three arguments that canonized saints are all in heaven: two as arguments sed contra, and one in his response. The first of these arguments sed contra is straightforward, strong, and frequently cited:37 “There can be no damnable error in the Church; but there would be a damnable error if one who was a sinner were venerated as a saint, for then some, knowing his sin or heresy, could be led into error, if this should happen. Therefore the Church cannot err in such matters.”38 The force of the argument is drawn from the fact that saints are held up as models of Christian virtue, and thus the canonization of a saint can be interpreted as a sort of moral teaching. This argument echoes Bonaventure’s argument Aquinas, Quodlibet IX, q. 8, arg. 2, “Praeterea. Quicunque in iudicando innititur medio fallibili, potest errare; sed ecclesia in canonizando sanctos innititur testimonio humano, cum inquirat per testes de uita et miraculis; ergo, cum testimonium hominum sit fallibile, uidetur quod ecclesia in canonizando sanctos possit errare” (“Further, anyone who begins to judge with a fallible means of proof can err in judging; but the Church in canonizing the saints begins with human testimony, since it inquires into the life and miracles through witnesses; therefore since the testimony of man is fallible, it seems that the Church can err in canonizing saints”). 36 Aquinas, Quodlibet IX, q. 8, ad 1 (“Ad primum ergo dicendum quod pontifex, cuius est canonizare sanctos, potest certificari de statu alicuius per inquisitionem uite et attestationem miraculorum, et praecipue per instinctum Spiritus sancti, qui omnia scrutatur, etiam profunda Dei”) and ad 2: “Ad secundum dicendum quod divina prouidentia praeseruat ecclesiam ne in talibus per fallibile testimonium hominum fallatur” (“divine providence preserves the Church lest she be deceived by the fallible testimony of men”). 37 E.g., Lambertini gives it as his first argument in favor of the infallibility of canonizations, De beatificatione et canonizatione, bk. I, ch. 43, no. 9 (p. 198). Interestingly he joins it with Cano’s argument that it does not matter whether one worship a devil or a condemned soul; by joining them he seems to conflate two distinct sorts of moral error. 38 Aquinas, Quodlibet IX, q. 8, sc 1: “Set contra. In ecclesia non potest esse error dampnabilis; set hic esset error dampnabilis, si ueneraretur tamquam sanctus qui fuit peccator, quia aliqui scientes peccata eius uel heresim, si ita contigerit, possent ad errorem perduci; ergo ecclesia in talibus errare non potest.” 35 The Infallibility of Canonizations 667 concerning the legenda’s being reliable moral guides. The thrust of both Bonaventure’s argument and Aquinas’s first sed contra is evidently not—as some commentators39 would have it be—that the saints are infallibly in heaven, but that their lives, such as they are known to us, are examples of Christian virtue and worthy of emulation. This is perfectly explicit in Bonaventure. In Aquinas, note that the impossible situation only follows if the sinner’s sin is known. The Church does not lead anyone into damnable error if the canonized simply is not in heaven. The impossibility follows only if the person is not in heaven because of some known fault. Moving to the second argument sed contra, we find a considerably weaker argument and it seems to have achieved a well-deserved obscurity in the tradition (although I would note that Aquinas does not necessarily approve of an argument sed contra). It starts from Augustine’s point that, if we admit any lie in Scripture, our faith—which depends on Scripture— will be shaken.40 It then concludes that: “Just as we are bound to believe that which is in sacred Scripture, so too that which is determined by the whole Church in common. . . . Therefore it is not possible that the common judgment of the whole Church should be in error, and so [we reach] the same [conclusion] as the preceding [argument].”41 This argument proceeds by drawing a false equivalence between the magisterium’s infallibility and Scripture’s inerrancy. Augustine holds that we must not admit any error of any sort in Scripture because he holds that Scripture is truly inspired by God, such that God is truly its Author, and that therefore everything it asserts is truly asserted by God, who can neither deceive nor be deceived.42 Magisterial teaching has never been understood as inspired in the manner Prudlo, Certain Sainthood, 124–25. Epistle 28, ch. 3, nos. 3-4. 41 Aquinas, Quodlibet IX, q. 8, sc 2, “Praeterea. Augustinus dicit in epistola ad Ieronimum quod si in scriptura canonica aliquod mendacium admittatur, nutabit fides nostra, que ex scriptura canonica dependet; set, sicut tenemur credere id quod est in sacra scriptura, ita id quod communiter per ecclesiam determinatur, unde hereticus iudicatur qui sentit contra determinationem conciliorum; ergo commune iudicium ecclesiae erroneum esse non potest. Et sic idem quod prius.” 42 Cf. Augustine, In genesi ad litteram 2.9.20: “Breviter dicendum est de figura coeli hoc scisse auctores nostros quod veritas habet; sed Spiritum Dei, qui per ipsos loquebatur, noluisse ista docere homines nulli saluti profutura” (“It must be stated very briefly that our authors knew the shape of the sky whatever may be the truth of the matter. But the Spirit of God who was speaking through them did not wish to teach people about such things which would contribute nothing to their salvation”) (Augustine, On Genesis, trans. Edmund Hill, O.P., ed. John E. Rotelle [Hyde Park, NY: New City Press, 2002]). 39 40 668 William Diem Augustine holds Scripture to be. The only guarantee of infallibility that the Church has ever claimed the magisterium to have is when it teaches specifically on faith and morals. If the argument followed, it would prove that the magisterium is guaranteed never to err in any way, regardless of subject matter. But with this discrepancy between the infallibility of the magisterium and the inspiration of Scripture noted, to proceed with the argument would beg the question, for an error in the Church’s teaching justifies questioning the authority of the Church and the faith that the Church teaches only if the teaching concerns faith and morals (that is, if it is an error concerning the things that the Church is guaranteed to teach infallibly). But whether canonizations are among those things is precisely what is being disputed.43 I consider this argument dispensed with and will not return to it. We can then turn to the body. Most of Aquinas’s response is spent discussing how God providentially provides for the Church, directing her through the Holy Spirit, lest she err in teaching things that are “necessary for salvation.” He distinguishes three classes of things that the Church judges. The first are those we just mentioned that concern what is necessary for salvation, and he says of these that “it is certain that it is impossible for the judgment of the universal Church to err in things which pertain to the faith.”44 The second class he mentions concerns particular matters of fact: “But in other matters—those which pertain to particular facts, as when the Church deals with possessions, or criminal cases, or others things of this sort—it is possible that the judgment of the Church err on account of false witnesses.”45 He then asserts that canonizations belong to a third This point was made by Muratori: “Ceterum si in his contingeret error . . . nihil probri in Ecclesiam aut in Romanum Pontificem recideret, cum sacrorum Pastorum coelestis praerogativa sita sit in immunitate non ab omnibus erroribus, sed ab erroribus in doctrina Christi, et in factis per Apostolorum calamum aut vocem traditis. Ecclesiam in aliis falli posse lam vidimus sine dedecore suo, sine fidei detriment” (“If some error arose in these things . . . nothing shameful would redound to the Church or to the Roman Pontiff, for the prerogative of the holy, heavenly Pastors lies not in immunity from all errors, but from errors in the teaching of Christ, and in the facts handed down through the voice or pen of the apostles. We have seen already that the Church can fail in other things without disgrace and without detriment to the faith”) (De ingeniorum moderatione, bk. I, ch. 17, [p. 77]; see Schenk, Die Unfehlbarkeit, 60). 44 Aquinas, Quodlibet IX, q. 8, corp.: “Certum est quod iudicium ecclesiae uniuersalis errare in hiis que ad fidem pertinent, impossibile est.” 45 Aquinas, Quodlibet IX, q. 8, corp.: “In aliis uero sentenciis, que ad particularia facta pertinent, ut cum agitur de possessionibus uel de criminibus uel de huiusmodi, possibile est iudicium ecclesie errare propter falsos testes.” 43 The Infallibility of Canonizations 669 class that falls between these other two. And he then immediately and somewhat puzzlingly proceeds, saying, “yet because the honor we show the saints is a certain profession of faith, i.e., the faith by which we believe in the glory of the saints, it is a thing to be piously believed [pie credendum est] that the judgment of the Church could not err even in these matters.”46 There are two things that need to be cleared up: The first is what sort of faith is indicated when he claims that honoring the saints is a “certain profession of faith”? The second is what is the force of the conclusion he draws from this fact, that is, what he means by pie credendum est. To the first issue, there are two ways of interpreting the veneration of saints as a “certain profession of faith.” The first possible interpretation is that in honoring, for example, Augustine, I profess my faith that Augustine is in heaven; that is, the “certain profession of faith” refers to the faith in the glory of the specific individual in question.47 But this is trivial—obviously honoring Augustine as a saint shows that I believe he is a saint. It also renders the conclusion either rank question-begging or a patent non-sequitur. How does the fact that I believe that Augustine is a saint pertain to that faith that carries a divine guarantee? When I cross the road, I make a certain profession of faith that Houston drivers will yield to pedestrians, but there is—alas—no divine guarantee that that faith is well placed, nor would there be such a guarantee even if the Church attempted to define it. Does, then, the specific faith whereby I believe that Augustine is a saint—and which I obviously profess in honoring him—have a guarantee of infallibility when the Church declares it? But that is of course precisely the matter in question. Moreover, if my faith that the individual saint is in heaven is the same faith which the Church is guaranteed to teach infallibly, then one would naturally need to place the canonization of the saints in the first class of judgments; that is, it would be of the faith, and thus a thing which the Church simply cannot err in teaching. But Aquinas is explicit that canonizations are not in that class of judgment.48 Aquinas, Quodlibet IX, q. 8, corp.: “Canonizatio uero sanctorum medium est inter hec duo; quia tamen honor quem sanctis exhibemus quedam professio fidei est, qua sanctorum gloriam credimus, pie credendum est, quod nec etiam in hiis iudicium ecclesiae errare possit.” 47 This is how Prudlo reads the argument: “The faithful make a quasi-profession of faith in the glory of the saint” (Certain Sainthood, 128; emphasis mine). Although in the translation given in the appendix, he preserves the ambiguous plural. 48 St. Antoninus (d. 1459) draws attention to this point. After first examining Joannes Neopolitanus’s treatment of this text of Aquinas—in the course of which John places canonizations among those things of which the Church cannot err, since “praeponuntur per canonizationem sancti ut exemplar fidei et sanctae vitae 46 670 William Diem Hence we must consider the other way the phrase can be taken, that is, to refer to the fact that in honoring Augustine I profess my faith in the glory of the saints generically, that is, my faith that God glorifies those who love and serve him as he commands in the Gospel. Thus interpreted, the argument has force, for it successfully ties the canonization of a saint to something that the Church is known to be guaranteed to teach without error, for these divine promises are matters of revelation and faith, and they are necessary for salvation, and they thus fall under a guarantee of infallibility. This interpretation also shows how canonizations are midway between matters of particular fact and matters of faith. The matter of faith (concerning which the Church cannot err) is the general set of truths revealed about salvation, which makes belief in the glory of the saints intelligible, while the particular historical fact (of which the Church can err) is the particular facts of this person’s life and eternal state. But so interpreted, the reply proves little more than the first sed contra did. With “faith in the glory of the saints” so understood, the argument proves that it would be a denial of the very faith that the Church is guaranteed to teach faithfully for the Church to honor as a saint one whose life is known not to fulfill the demands of the Gospel, for that would be tantamount to denying the faith which was revealed in the Gospel, and which the Church is guaranteed to guard infallibly. If the Church were to propose as a saint someone whose life was known to include grave moral failures, it would thereby implicitly either falsify or distort the promises and demands of the Gospel. But if this is the faith the text is speaking of, et ab omnibus adorandi, et in necessaribus sui invocandi” (“In canonization, the saints are proposed as an example of faith, and of holy life, as ones to be adored by all, and as ones to be invoked in their necessities”)—Antoninus continues here: “Sed Thomas in quodlib. ponit canonizationem sanctorum in tertio genere eorum, quae fiunt per Papam, de quibus dicit, quod etsi, Papa possit errare; pie tamen credendum est, quod Deus non permitteret ecclesiam in huiusmodi errare: et forte ratio est, quia et talis determinatio pertinet ad ecclesiam universalem; sit tamen per attestationes hominum quae fallere possunt” (“But in the quodlibet, Aquinas places the canonization of saints in a third category of things done by the pope, of which acts he says that, although the pope could err, it is still to be piously believed that God would not allow the Church to err in this way. The reason is that, while such a determination [of sanctity] pertains to the universal Church, it nonetheless comes about through the testimonies of men, which can mislead”) (Summa theologica moralis III, tit. 12, ch. 8 [Verona: Ex Typographia Seminarii, Apud Augustinum Carattonium, 1740], cols. 541–42). Again, Prudlo is simply wrong when he writes that, “St. Antoninus . . . [cites] John’s quodlibet as evidence of infallibility in canonizations, and . . . [claims] that John accurately relays Thomas’s teaching” (Certain Sainthood, 173). The Infallibility of Canonizations 671 the conclusion can claim no more than that the Church could not propose as a saint one whose life is known to have fallen short of sanctity. After all, in what sense could it amount to a denial of this faith in the demands and promises of Christ for the Church to honor one who ostensibly lived the Gospel calling, yet who secretly failed? Consider the Salmanticenses’ likening the assent owed to the canonization of a saint to that owed to a consecrated Host.49 I demonstrate in my act of adoration two sets of belief. One set pertains to the promise of Christ that he is truly and substantially present under the species of bread after the priest duly consecrates the Host. The second is that this here and now before my eyes is a duly consecrated Host. The first of these is the one I am bound to believe by faith, and which the Church is divinely guaranteed to teach faithfully, as it is the thing that God revealed. And my faith in that remains pure and untouched if I err in my second judgment, and either the man at the altar is not actually a priest, or the “host” is a rice cake, or the formula he used is invalid, or he was saying a dry mass. The second thing that must be cleared up is the strength of the conclusion. From his argument, Aquinas concludes not that “the Church cannot err” in these matters—which would directly answer the question under consideration—but that “it is a thing that is to be piously believed [pie credendum est] that the Church could not err.” The two are of course not the same. We may wonder why one would assert that one should believe something, without also asserting that it is actually true, but it stands, first, that Aquinas does make a point of adding the qualification to his conclusion, and second, that the qualification effectively carves out the possibility that the Church might in fact err. We may at this point ask whether there was some reason he thought it necessary to qualify the conclusion this way. Collegii Salmanticensis, Cursus theologicus vol. 7 (Lugduni: Sumptibus Joannis Antonii Huguetaan, et Sociorum, 1679), tract. 17 (De fide) disp. I, dub. 4, sect. 7, no. 149: “Ecclesia in canonizatione Santorum non proponit illorum beatitudinem ut credendam per fidem divinam, sed illorum personas ut colendas. Ut autem duliae cultum Sanctis tribuamus, opus non est, quod per fidem supernaturalem credamus illos dignos esse tali honore; sufficit enim inferior assensus, ut ex adoratione, quam exhibemus erga hostiam probabiliter consecratam, aperte liquet” (“In the canonization of the saints, the Church does not propose their beatitude as a thing to be believed with divine faith but their persons as things to be honored. In order for us to give the honor of dulia to the saints, it is not necessary that we believe through supernatural faith that they are worthy of such honor; a lesser assent suffices, as is made obvious from the example of the adoration which we give to a host that is probably consecrated”) (p. 50). Lambertini treats this point in De Beatificatione et Canonizatione, bk. I, ch. 43, no. 23 (p. 210). Muratori offers the same example and analysis, De Ingeniorum Moderatione, bk. I, ch. 17 (p. 77). 49 672 William Diem And there was. The “should be piously believed” is not just an odd circumlocution serving to soften the conclusion for some unspecified purpose, but it is at the heart of the response itself. “Possible” and “impossible” are exhaustive and mutually exclusive. The third, middle category of judgment (to which Aquinas assigns canonizations) is distinguished from the first precisely in this: that it is not “certain that it is impossible” but it is “to be piously believed that it would not be possible.” A thing that “one should piously believe would not be possible” is midway between a thing that is “certainly impossible” and a thing that is unqualifiedly “possible.” The “should piously believe” is thus integral to the very structure of the article and should not be lightly dismissed. A further consideration bears mention. Given the historical controversy from which this question was born, Aquinas had a vested interest in giving the most forceful defense he could of the authority of canonizations. Consequently, if Aquinas leaves open the possibility of error in canonization—even if tacitly—we should think this was deliberate. Had such a possibility not been left deliberately, given the larger context of the question and its ramifications on the mendicant dispute, we would expect Aquinas to have firmly and unambiguously denied it. But he did leave the possibility open. In short, in light of the arguments he adduces, I am reading Aquinas to hold (albeit tacitly) that the Church might in fact err, but to hold explicitly that (even if she did err) we ought not believe she has erred. Now someone might well object that his concluding expression that “it is to be piously believed that the Church cannot err” means not, as I interpret it, that the Church might err though we ought not believe she has, but instead means that it is a likely opinion that the Church is simply inerrant in such decisions, such that it is less than pious to admit even in the abstract the possibility that the Church could or has erred. I think the strongest response to this objection can be drawn from Aquinas’s historical context, to which we must now return. The Legal Tradition While Aquinas is generally acknowledged to have been the first theologian to consider the issue directly, he was not the first scholar to consider directly whether a canonization might be in error; by the time Aquinas wrote this question, the issue had already been discussed by the canon lawyers—and an early consensus (a consensus which—according to Eric Kemp—would last for centuries50) had begun to be forged. Kemp, Canonization and Authority, 157: “The first person to be conscious of any 50 The Infallibility of Canonizations 673 The first canon lawyer to address the issue was Innocent IV (d. 1254). In commenting on the recently published decretals of Gregory IX, he takes up the question of the pope’s exclusive right to canonize saints. After defending this exclusive right, he directly considers the question of the possibility of a pope’s erring in such a canonization. His treatment is short but significant. He writes, “even if the Church should have erred—which is not a thing that should be believed [quod non est credendum]—then God would accept prayers offered in good faith through such [a non-saint].” He continues by giving a reason for this argument: “We do not deny that it is licit for anyone to extend prayers to any deceased person—whom one believes a good man—in order that he might intercede for him before God: we deny only that he can make a solemn office or solemn prayers for him.”51 Two things are significant in this brief passage, a passage Aquinas likely read.52 The first is that Innocent explicitly makes the same distinction I argued was found in Aquinas, and he does so using the same vocabulary and grammatical structure Aquinas used. The Church might err, but we should not believe it has. Second, he gives an argument why it would not matter if the Church did err: God accepts prayers offered in good faith. Invincible ignorance does not diminish the efficacy of the prayer, nor does such error bring about some grave and irreparable harm, a belief seen in the fact that the Church does not forbid us to pray (albeit privately) to people who are not canonized, but whom the one praying sincerely believes to have been a holy person. Said otherwise, if praying in good faith to one who is not in heaven were to bring about some serious harm, and if God were not able to make up for our mistake, then it would be morally wrong to pray to one who is not certainly in heaven. But no one holds that it is wrong. Therefore there is no serious harm done, and God can supply for conflict between the canonists and the theologians on this matter seems to have been the [seventeenth-century] Spanish Jesuit, Juan Azor.” 51 Innocent IV, Apparatus in quinque libros decretalium, bk. III, rub. 45, ch. 1, in “Audivimus”: “Item non negamus, quin cuilibet liceat alicui defuncto, quem credebat bonum virum, porrigere preces, ut pro eo intercedat ad Deum: quia Deus fidem eorum attendit, negamus tantum pro eis licet facere officium solemne, vel preces solemnes.” Slightly before this in ch. 1, he says: “Item dicimus, quod etiam si ecclesia erraret, quod non est credendum, tamen preces per talem bona fide porrectas Deus acceptaret” (“We say: even if the Church erred—which is not a thing to be believed—nonetheless God would accept prayers offered in good faith through [the intercession of ] such [a false-saint]”). 52 While such citations are rare, Aquinas cites this commentary already in his In III Sent., d. 5, q. 3, a. 3, arg. 4. 674 William Diem the errors in our prayers. One must not overlook the significance of this last point. Innocent is anticipating Cano’s argument that it makes no difference whether we venerate a devil or a lost soul, not only rejecting it but offering a compelling, if brief, counter-argument. A second figure in this decretalist tradition who needs to be noted is Henry of Segusio, known as Hostiensis (d. 1271). In his commentary on the decretals of Gregory IX,53 he considers this question in the same context, and his conclusion follows Innocent IV quite closely: “If the Church erred in this canonization, which though it is not to be believed [non est credendum], still could happen”—here he directs the reader to his commentary on a canon concerning the possibility of error in excommunications—“nonetheless,” he continues, “God accepts prayers extended in good faith in the honor of such an individual, for all things are made clean in the faith of Christ, and be it that the truth of the canonization is wanting, still his faith is not wanting.”54 Both of these decretalists are defending precisely the odd conclusion Aquinas appears to draw in his conclusion: that the Church might err, but Would Aquinas have read this work or at least have been exposed to its arguments as he conducted Quodlibet IX? Kenneth Pennington records that Hostiensis lectured on the decretals at Paris in the 1230s and further suggests that he wrote a first, now-lost, edition of his commentary on the decretals at that time (“An Earlier Recension of Hostiensis’s Lectura on the Decretals,” Bulletin of Medieval Canon Law 17 [1987]: 77–90, at 81,). He further dates the Oxford recension (the second of three if indeed he wrote one while at Paris), to the years 1254–1265. We know further that the 1275 taxation list from the University booksellers includes an entry for an Apparatus Hostiensis; see H. Denifle (Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, ed. A. Chatelain, vol. 1 [Paris: Ex typis fratrum Delalain, 1899], 648). Hence it is altogether possible that Aquinas would have had access to some form of this commentary (either the Paris version—whether a published text or a reportatio of the lectures—or the Oxford text). This conclusion is also endorsed by Torrell, who considers it certain that Aquinas read Hostiensis (Thomas Aquinas, 1:134n60): “Henry of Suso, Hostiensis . . . whom Thomas surely read . . .” 54 Hostiensis, Lectura sive Apparatus Domini Hostiensis Super Quinque Decretalium Libros Commentaria, bk. III, tit. 45 (De reliquiis), 1 (Audivimus): “Quid si Ecclesia in hac canonizatione erret, quod non est credendum, licet accidere possit, ut patet in eo, quod legitur et notatur infra De sententia excommunicationis, A nobis, [citation]. Dicas quod nihilominus preces in honorem talis bona fide porrectas Deus acceptat, [citation]. Omnia enim in fide Christi purgantur [citation]. Et esto, quod veritas canonizationis deficiat, non tamen deficit fides ipsius, sicut [citations regarding baptism]. Illud etiam non negamus quin cuilibet in secreto liceat aliqui defuncto quem credit sanctam preces porrigere, ut pro ipso ad dominum intercedat: quia et Deus fidem eius attendit. Non tamen licet pro tali officium sollemne facere, vel preces sollemne publice emittere” ([ Joannes Schottus, 1512], vol. 2, fol. 185). 53 The Infallibility of Canonizations 675 we should not believe that the Church has erred. Moreover we find them using the same language that Aquinas employs to draw this distinction. And Hostiensis, not unlike Aquinas, draws on the fallibility of the Church in rendering judicial sentences to support the thesis. A second thing that is quite significant is that both of these lawyers anticipate and directly address Cano’s argument that it makes no difference whether you pray to a devil or a condemned man—an argument we already saw that Bellarmine weakened considerably when he noted that the false worship would be merely material. For both Innocent and Hostiensis, it perfectly well does make a difference whether you pray to a devil or a condemned man, assuming you pray to the condemned man in good faith. And both of them actually provide a strong argument for why it does matter. The echo of the decretalists in Aquinas is striking. And I find it difficult to believe that someone could read these passages side by side and conclude, as Donald Prudlo does, that Aquinas is clearly rejecting the decretalists’ “tidy canonical solution.”55 Had Aquinas meant to reject the then-current theory—that canonizations could be in error, though we should not think they were—we would expect him to distinguish himself clearly from that theory, rather than speak in a manner that could be naturally interpreted as being of a piece with the current consensus. Very briefly, I would like to bolster this contention that Aquinas is in fact adopting the decretalists position by looking at his subsequent commentators. In the course of correcting John of Naples’s misinterpretation of Aquinas, St. Antoninus explicitly attributes to Aquinas the belief that the pope might be able to err in such acts as canonizations: “Thomas places the canonization of the saints in a third category of things done by the pope, of which things he says, that although the pope could err [etsi Papa possit errare], still it is piously to be believed that the God would not permit His Church to err in this way.”56 Antoninus here makes explicit the possibility that Aquinas tacitly left standing. No matter how one reads this line, Antoninus is taking Aquinas to be bracketing the question of whether the pope can err, and only addressing what we should believe. In so doing, Antoninus places Aquinas in the decretalist tradition. In the next century, we find Thomas de Vio Cajetan (d. 1534) also reading Aquinas thus, though he is even more explicit and forceful. In the course of defending indulgences, he draws a parallel between the granting Prudlo, Certain Sainthood, 129 and 76. Latin produced above, see note 48. 55 56 676 William Diem of an indulgence and the canonization of a saint.57 What he says about the fallibility of canonizations is perfectly clear. First, he notes that for the Church to err in canonization would not amount to a lie or a false teaching, since he says, “for what does not pertain to the faith is not understood to be affirmed and proclaimed except with a grain of salt.”58 That is, in canonizations there are two facts at play; one is essential, de fide, and the other is not, and only the former is to be taken to be asserted without qualification. This is a development of the point that I consider Aquinas to be making: canonizations are midway between matters of faith and particular matters of fact, in the sense that the judgment that this person is in heaven is a conclusion based on both the promise and demands of the Gospel and the particular fact that this person fulfilled the demands and merited the promise. The Church is only guaranteed not to err concerning the first of these two, because the purpose of the Church’s authority is only to teach the first—the second is purely ancillary to the end of the Church’s teaching office. In putting it thus, Cajetan touches with a needle the error in Aquinas’s second argument sed contra. Cajetan continues, asserting without qualification that “a human error can intervene in the canonization of some saint (as S. Thomas says),”59 and lest there be any ambiguity, he claims that, “if someone believes that the Roman Pontiff cannot err in Thomas de Vio Cajetan, De indulgentiis in decem capita divisus, ch. 8, in Opuscula Omnia Reverend. D. D. Thomae de Vio (Antwerp, BE: Apud Viduam et haeredes Ioannis Stelsii, 1567), vol. 1, tract. 15, 96. An extended quotation from this passage is produced in Lambertini, De beatificatione et canonizatione, bk. I, ch. 43, (p. 196). Lambertini is explicit that Cajetan is adopting the decretalists’ position. 58 Cajetan, De indulgentiis in decem capita divisus, ch. 8: “Ita quod dato, quod iste canonizatus non esset sanctus, sed damnatus, ecclesiae doctrina aut predicatio non esset mendax aut falsa: quia hic non pertinentia ad fidem non intelliguntur affirmari, et praedicari nisi cum grano salis, hoc est stantibus communiter paesumptis. Praesumit enim ecclesia cononizationem rite factam, et similiter indulgentiam rite datam: et sic praedicat indulgentias valere quantum sonant” (“taking it as granted, [for the sake of argument,] that this canonized saint is not holy, but damned, the doctrine and pronouncement of the Church would not be false or a lie: for what does not pertain to the faith is not understood to be affirmed and proclaimed except with a grain of salt, that is, with the things commonly presumed in place. For the Church presumes that the canonization has been duly carried out, and likewise that the indulgence has been duly granted: and therefore that the indulgence really is as good as it sounds”); also cited in Lambertini, De Beatificatione et Canonizatione, 196. 59 Cajetan, De indulgentiis in decem capita divisus, ch. 8: “Sed sicut potest intervenire error humanus in canonizatione alicuius Sancti (ut san. Tho. dicit) ita potest intervenire error humanus in collatione indulgentiae.” 57 The Infallibility of Canonizations 677 these particular acts . . . he also believes the pontiff is not human.”60 What of the possibility of our detecting errors in such judgments? He ruled this out at the beginning of the passage: “By law the presumption is in favor of the judge, unless there is a manifest error.”61 But he later warns that one should not try to determine in which cases there is such an error “unless one wishes to be wrong.”62 Cajetan, like the decretalists, is perfectly clear that the Church could err in canonization.63 Yet he also holds that we should not think the Church has erred in any particular case—the presumption is always given to the judge unless an error is manifest, and we are not in a position to judge the Church. But notice not just that he adopts the decretalists’ position, but that he attributes it to Aquinas. While Cajetan certainly is not an infallible interpreter of Aquinas, neither is he a stranger to Aquinas’s thought. If he thought Aquinas held the decretalists’ position, it should, I suggest, give pause to anyone who insists that Aquinas is manifestly rejecting it. After a consideration of historical context combined with careful analysis of their actual texts (setting aside anachronistic categories and assumptions), it is, I would argue, no great stretch to place Innocent IV, Hostiensis, Bonaventure, Aquinas, Antoninus, and Cajetan on the same line, defending essentially the same attitude toward the authority of canonizations. It may, then, have been only through a series of errors that Aquinas came to be regarded as the dux omnium qui pugnant pro summi Pontifici infallibilitate. But as fascinating as the possibility may be that Cajetan, De indulgentiis in decem capita divisus, ch. 8: “Si quis autem putet Rom. pontif. non posse errare in istis particularibus actionibus (quales sunt dispensationes bonorum, tam temporalium quam spiritualium ecclesiae) putet quoque ipsum non esse hominem.” While this line is explicitly referring to the granting of indulgences, the point of the whole passage is that indulgences and canonizations are alike in being open to error. 61 Cajetan, De indulgentiis in decem capita divisus, ch. 8: “Praesumitur enim de iure pro iudice semper, nisi manifeste appareat error, et supponens ex causa legitima datam tantam indulgentiam, veritatem praedicat: sicut absque falsitate praedicat talem sanctum, supponens illum [esse?] canonizatum.” 62 Cajetan, De indulgentiis in decem capita divisus, ch. 8: “ideo noli velle indicare an ista; vel illa causa posita in indulgentia, sit sufficiens, si non vis errare.” Again, while the line is explicitly speaking of indulgences, none the less the force of the passage is precisely likening them to canonizations in this respect. 63 Lambertini forthrightly acknowledges that Cajetan is adopting their position (De beatificatione et canonizatione, 196). Hence Prudlo is simply wrong to assert that no one after the fourteenth century held the decretalists’ position (Certain Sainthood, 177). Further, as noted earlier, this decretalist position also seems to have survived into the seventeenth century among the lawyers. 60 678 William Diem Aquinas was adopting the decretalists’ position, ultimately what matters is not what Aquinas believed, but what his oft-cited arguments actually prove. And on that question I am quite confident: they prove something less than simple infallibility. Conclusions Before we conclude, we must ask, why the incongruous discrepancy between fact and belief proposed by the decretalists, Cajetan, and, I would argue also, both Bonaventure and Aquinas? If the Church might well err, why should we not sometimes believe she has? Two things need to be noted. First, briefly consider the four remaining arguments for the infallibility of canonizations that have not been dispensed with. The first is that the veneration of the saints is a certain profession of faith. We noted already that the faith the Church is guarded from error in teaching is the faith that God rewards with eternal glory those who respond appropriately to the Gospel. While that faith would be implicitly denied if the Church proposed as a saint one whose life was known not to have conformed to the Gospel’s call to holiness, it is not compromised if, through invincible ignorance, the Church makes an error of fact in determining who so responded, just as my faith in the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist is not compromised if I make a factual error about whether the host before me now has been duly consecrated, although it would be compromised if I offered latria to a host I knew not to be consecrated. Second, if we consider Aquinas’s argument from the first sed contra, namely, that if the Church could err in canonization she might lead people into moral error by proposing a sinner as a saint, it should be noted, again, that scandal is given, and moral confusion arises, only if the sin is known, as in clear in the text itself. The argument, by its own force, cannot preclude the possibility either of a hidden sin or that the person is not in heaven because he never existed. The same is also true of Bonaventure’s defense of the legenda as worthy moral examples. Third if we consider Cano’s argument from the practice of the Church, namely, that if we could doubt the status of the saint, we could reject the universal practice of the Church in venerating the saints, or if we consider Bellarmine’s more subtle version of the argument that we could find ourselves in a crisis of conscience (bound by the Church’s authority to honor one as a saint whom we believe positively unworthy of such veneration), then we may note that the impossibilities follow only if we have a sound reason to doubt the Church’s judgment. Indeed Bellarmine’s conclusion is explicitly not that the saint is in fact in heaven, but that The Infallibility of Canonizations 679 one is not permitted to doubt that the saint should be venerated—which is nothing else than the view of the decretalists and is exactly what I am suggesting was Aquinas’s view. Finally, if we consider Cano’s argument that it makes no difference whether one venerate a demon or a condemned soul, this argument was anticipated and refuted by the decretalists: it makes no difference if the veneration of a condemned man was offered knowingly. Venerating a condemned soul out of invincible ignorance is no formal sin, and it causes no irreparable harm. Each of these is a strong argument and each proceeds as a reductio ad absurdam. Yet the absurdities they leverage are all avoided if the Church can never propose as a saint one who lived and died in a way that was patently not an appropriate response to the Gospel’s call to holiness. That is the conclusion supported by the arguments. None of these absurdities follows if the one who is canonized is excluded from glory because of some hidden, secret fault, nor do they follow if the person in question is purely legendary. The second thing that must be noted to explain the disparity between fact and belief is that, if the above arguments successfully prove that the Church could not propose a person whose life patently did not merit heaven, then it follows that the faithful will never have an objectively sound reason to call a canonization into question; as Cajetan pointed out, the competent authority to judge receives the benefit of the doubt, unless an error is manifest (a point wholly in line with Bonaventure’s argument that we accuse the Church of playing the fool if we deny that miracles are trustworthy indications of holiness). But the one thing that the arguments we have considered validly concluded was precisely that there could never be a manifest error in canonizations. Hence, it will necessarily be rash, temerarious, and presumptuous for a member of the Church to deny the sanctity of a canonized saint. As Cajetan noted, one should not try to find an error in such judgment, unless one wishes to be wrong. These last two points may also shed light on Aquinas’s treatment of the subject, and in particular his reply to the second objection. If Aquinas is defending the decretalists’ consensus, then his assertion of providential assistance should be read (in light of the argument in the corpus) as a qualified assistance that prevents the Church from falling into a particular sort of error, namely, the error of proposing as a saint one whose life is marred by grave and known moral fault, thereby falsifying the Gospel and leading the faithful into error in matters necessary for salvation. So read, his unique contribution to this tradition would be, for the first time, offering an explanation for why (as the decretalists held) the faithful are never to 680 William Diem reject a saint, even though the canonization could have been wrong. That was, we might note, all that the mendicants needed to prove to defend their orders. Hence I propose two things: First, that the Church does possess a real sort of divinely guaranteed infallibility in canonizations; this is not however the infallibility theologians since Lambertini typically assign canonizations. According to the conclusion I believe we can reach with certitude, the faithful can be sure that the Church will never impose on the whole Church the cult of one whose life is manifestly not in conformity with the call of the Gospel—said otherwise, it is guaranteed that the saints led lives worthy of veneration and imitation insofar as we know them.64 Consequently, the Church cannot err in canonization insofar as the Church, in proposing a saint as a model of Christian virtue, thereby indirectly teaches concerning morals, which the Church is guaranteed to teach infallibly. But this infallibility, of itself, does not guarantee that each canonized saint is ultimately in heaven, or actually died in a state of grace, or even that he existed. It guarantees only that the person’s life as it is known is worthy of emulation and glory, leaving intact the fact that our knowledge of such things is necessarily limited and only probable. The Church’s determinations of such matters, which are not of themselves de fide or de necessariis ad salutem, are to be taken cum grano salis, while only those implicit assertions that touch on what is necessary for salvation are guaranteed to be inerrant. Canonizations, so understood, are like liturgical norms which, though not infallible, are nonetheless guaranteed not to contradict the faith. The likeness to liturgical norms is fitting given that a canonization is in fact a form of liturgical norm determining whom the Church venerates.65 Second and consequently, although one may—I think—hold that the Church could err in canonizing, one may not hold that the Church has erred in any given canonization without thereby incurring the censure It is worth noting the congruity between this conclusion and the reserved claim of the Catechism of the Catholic Church, §828: “By canonizing some of the faithful, i.e., by solemnly proclaiming that they practiced heroic virtue and lived in fidelity to God’s grace, the Church recognizes the power of the Spirit of holiness within her and sustains the hope of believers by proposing the saints to them as models and intercessors.” 65 Indeed, Muratori understood canonizations as disciplinary rather than doctrinal acts: “Disciplinae leges eorum cultum ita indicere possunt, et ad universam Ecclesiam extendere, ut non solum pium ac laudabile sit, hujusmodi Sanctos invocare, et sibi adsciscere patronos apud Deum, sed etiam impietatem sapiat eorum cultum improbare, atque contemnere” (De ingeniorum moderatione, bk. I, ch. 17 [p. 76]). 64 The Infallibility of Canonizations 681 of temerity. One will never have an objectively sound reason to deny the sanctity of any particular saint. My claim, then, is that the arguments from the theological tradition used to defend the absolute infallibility of canonizations are insufficient to establish such a guarantee.66 In short, I hold that it is no more than a mistaken, if pious, opinion that canonizations are infallible declarations that the saint is in heaven, and therefore, that to insist that they are infallible is to open the faith to ridicule and to erect a very real and unnecessary barrier to true Christian unity. But of course, I submit to the Church’s determination of the matter if and when it is given.67 Indeed I am not sure that many of the historical authors advancing them understood themselves to be defending infallibility in the modern theological sense of the term. I cannot read Bellarmine’s arguments, with as many unambiguous qualifications as he provides, and conclude that he means to ascribe to canonizations the sort of infallibility that was defined at Vatican I. Aside from what has already been treated, note the fourth argument that Bellarmine provides: If we do not doubt the existence of Pompey and Caesar (though attested to only by fallible historians) why would we not believe in the sanctity of the saints when it is attested through miracles? Although “miracula magna, et diligenter examinata, faciunt rem evidenter credibilem” (“great and diligently examined miracles make a thing evidently credible”) (De sanctorum beatitudine, ch. 9), such evident credibility obviously does not amount to a divinely revealed guarantee of magisterial infallibility, and Bellarmine certainly realized this. One might do well here to note the case of Augustus Triumphus, who explicitly defends the inerrancy of the Church in canonization, and who was (until Lambertini) commonly cited in defense of the infallibility of canonizations. While he said the pope “non errat,” he first qualified, “secundum praesentem justitiam,” speaking of which human justice he says it, “potest falli et fallere,” which amounts to saying the pope cannot lie (though he can err)–or as Lambertini summarizes, the pope may “materialiter mentiatur” (see Augustinus Triumphus, De potestate ecclesiae, q. 14, a. 4, as well as Lambertini De Beatificatione et De Canonizatione, bk. I , ch. 43, no. 3 [p. 196–97]). Even as recently as 1907, Beccari, in the Catholic Encyclopedia, puzzlingly writes: “Theologians generally agree as to the fact of papal infallibility in this matter of canonization, but disagree as to the quality of certitude due to a papal decree in such matter. . . . [The majority hold] such a pronouncement to be theologically certain, not being of Divine Faith as its purport has not been immediately revealed, nor of ecclesiastical Faith as having thus far not been defined by the Church” (2:367). How can a papal decree be infallible while falling under neither divine nor ecclesiastical faith? What sense is there in calling an infallible decree merely certa? While I confess I may be missing some subtlety, it seems to me that either there is at least an implicit divine guarantee that formal canonizations be true (in which case the individual’s sanctity and beatitude will be de fide eccelsiastica) or there is no such guarantee (and in that case there is no theological basis for claiming that the teaching is simply infallible). 67 It may be worth here noting that in their “Doctrinal Commentary on the Conclud66 682 William Diem In discussions of God’s guarantees to the Church, the onus falls to those defending some guarantee to show either that it is explicit in revelation or that it is necessary for the Church to carry out her divine mission. To the first, Christ made no explicit promise that the Church can discern without error who is in heaven. To the second, the purpose of the visible N&V Church is to make saints of the living not of the dead.68 ing formula of the Professio fidei” (issued concurrently with John Paul II’s Ad Tuendam Fidem), Joseph Ratzinger and Tarcisio Bertone include the canonizations of saints as an example of a truth “connected to revelation by historical necessity” and therefore “to be held definitively” (no. 13). Dulles notes (Magisterium, 91, esp. note 12) that presumably the authors did not mean to settle current controversies in proposing this as an example, and he quotes Ratzinger’s later clarification: “The listing of some doctrinal examples as examples does not grant them any other weight than what they had before” (from Ratzinger, “Stellungnahme,” Stimmen der Zeit 217 [1999]: 168–71). See also Dulles, Magisterium, 86n7, where Dulles discusses the authority of this commentary, noting that “it does not emanate from the congregation as such” and yet it was “composed by the Congregation as a whole and approved by the cardinals in assembly and also by the pope.” 68 Which raises a line of argument we do not have space to follow, namely, the historical incongruities. If (as, e.g., Suarez claims) the canonization of saints is “re maxime necessaria Ecclesiae,” how did the Church manage to struggle on for the first millenium with no formally canonized saints? As Muratori argued: “Quomodo vero dicamus necessarium hominibus, fidei et Ecclesiae esse cultum novi alicuius sancti, fidemque de illius beatitate coelesti? Utile est, non necessarium ista habere, ista scire. Inumerae aliae veritates sunt, quas novisse in utilitatem Christianorum cederet, et illas tamen certo decernere numquam sibi tribuit aut tribuere potest Ecclesia” (“But how do we say that the cult of some new saint and the faith in his heavenly beatitude are necessary for men, for the faith, and for the Church? To have such things—to know such things—is useful, not necessary. There are innumerable other truths that it would be useful for Christians to know, and yet the Church never grants to herself, nor could she grant to herself, [the task and ability] to discern them with certainty”) (De ingeniorum moderatione, bk. I, ch. 17 [p. 77]). See also Schenk, Die Unfehlbarkeit, 60–61. On the other hand, if the very universality of the cult in the Church is what forms the basis of the guarantee (as the argument from the Church’s practice seems to suppose), would not those saints honored in the Church’s calendar without formal canonization be just as certainly saints? And yet we have numerous cases of universally venerated saints being removed from the calendar because of every sort of historical uncertainty (e.g., St. Sabina or the very Alexius whose example was cited and defended by Bonaventure; see in particular Calendarium Romanum: Ex Decreto Sacrosancti Oecumenici concilii Vaticani II Instauratum Auctoritate Pauli PP. VI Promulgatum [Rome: Typis Polyglottis Vaticanis, 1969], 68–70) or of widely venerated saints whose cult was suppressed because of new historical knowledge of the individual (Barlaam and Josephat) or a reevaluation of the previously established facts (St. Philomena). I would like to thank Eric J. DeMeuse, for his numerous helpful comments on this paper, and William H. Marshner. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 17, No. 3 (2019): 683–715 683 Lactantius’s Power Theology1 Jason Gehrke Valparaiso University Valparaiso, IN In their introduction to Lactantius’s Divine Institutes [Inst.], Anthony Bowen and Peter Garnsey emphasize the significance of the term virtus in his thought and remark on the special difficulties it poses for both translators and theological interpreters. 2 To the translator, The author wishes to thank several people whose contributions led to the publication of this article. Michel Barnes read, conversed, and commented from the earliest stages of this idea. Lewis Ayres freely gave extensive guidance that helped me reimagine not only this article, but the whole process and genre of scholarly journal publication. His guidance improved on not only this piece, but many to come, I hope. Michael Cover has been a regular conversation partner. His wide-ranging knowledge, interests, and questions improved my thinking on more points than could be explained in a single note. This article would not have succeeded without his mentorship. Likewise, Blandine Colot saved me from several significant mistakes and offered very helpful corrections to a previous edition. Finally, Remí Gounelle and the Faculty of Protestant Theology at Strasbourg University provided friendship and resources during a year of research that allowed me to complete this project. For all of your support and efforts, thank you. 2 For introduction, see Anthony Bowen and Peter Garnsey, Lactantius: Divine Institutes of the Christian Religion, (Liverpool, UK: Liverpool University Press, 2003), 1–57. Lactantius (ca. 250–325) was the last of the pre-Nicene Latin apologists. He was appointed professor of Latin rhetoric under Diocletian at Nicomedia (ca. 303), but soon took up the apologetic mantle in response to Diocletian’s persecution. He was later tutor to Constantine’s son Crispus at Trier (ca. 315–317). It has been suggested that Lactantius’s Divine Institutes may have been delivered orally to the court at Trier and influenced Constantine’s Letter at Arles; see Elizabeth Depalma Digeser, “Lactantius and Constantine’s Letter to Arles: Dating the Divine Institutes,” Journal of Early Christian Sstudies 2, no. 1 (1994): 32–52. However, Eberhard Heck argues, contra Digeser, that Lactantius remained in Trier until June 313 (“Constantin und Lactanz in Trier,” Historia: Zeitschrift für 1 684 Jason Gehrke the term conveys a range of meanings that span from the foundational sense of “power” to the moral connotations of “virtue.”3 To the theologian, virtus appears to substitute doctrinally significant language with an unsubstantial moral rhetoric.4 Lactantius’s use of virtus has thus contributed to Alte Geschichte 58, 1 [2009]: 118–30). Lactantius is believed to have died at an unknown time after 324 CE, but is not viewed as a player in the Nicene controversies. 3 Bowen and Garnsey, Divine Institutes, xi, 26–28. Bowen’s and Garnsey’s comment reflects the general trend as they connected the linguistic and theological: “Virtus, here mostly translated as ‘virtue’ is a particular problem. Lactantius was more of a moralist than a theologian and the worth of his arguments varies greatly, even within a paragraph, for he measured worth more on a rhetorical than on an intellectual scale.” 4 Referring to Lactantius’s account of Christ’s virtus and an analogy from Roman law at Inst. 4.29, René Pichon entered a verdict that remained influential in later scholarship: “Lactantius expresses this unity [between the Father and Son] by a comparison drawn directly from Roman law; the Word appears as a son associated with his father in the government of the household. This remains a wholly tangible and latin image, one very apt to strike his non-Christian readers [les lecteurs profanes]. Concerning all that follows [Sur tout le reste] about the true name of the Word and the manner in which God begot him, Lactantius, who has more good sense than imagination, [simply] bows down before the mysteries neither denying nor claiming to expound them [sans les nier ne prétendre les expliquer]” (Lactance: Etude sure le mouvement philosophique et religieux sous le regne de Constantin [Paris: Hachette, 1901], 117). In 1976, Basil Studer relied on Pichon and Loi to say: “Lactantius had no success at defining exactly the relationship between the Father and the Son. . . . He hardly distinguishes his [the Son’s] eternal generation from that of other spirits. . . . He conceives of the unity of the Father and Son only in a moral sense” (“La Soteriologie de Lactance,” in Lactance et Son Temps: Recherches Actuelles: Actes Du IVe Colloque d’Etudes Historiques et Patristiques, Chantilly, 1976, ed. J. Fontaine and M. Perrin [Paris: Beauchesne, 1978], 259). Studer relied on V. Loi, who arrived at similar conclusions: “Since, as we have shown, the process of the generation [spirazione] that provides the Son’s origin is not, for Lactantius, substantially different from that which provides the Angels’ origin, we must place this under the lactanzian conception of the divinity” (Lattanzio nella storia del linguaggio e del pensiero teologico pre-niceno [Zürich: Pas-Verlag, 1970], 203). See also Antonie Wlosok, Laktanz und Die Philosophische Gnosis: Untersuchungen zu Geschichte und Terminologie der gnostischen Erlösungsvorstellung (Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag, 1960), e.g., 188–95, 211–14, 224. Unless otherwise noted, all English translations from non-English secondary sources are my own. Generally speaking, Loi and Wlosok served as the basis for larger narratives. For example, Aloys Grillmeier cited both at length to explain that: “With a tour de force, Lactantius sought to create a link between Christian reality and hermetic theory. . . . Although this Christ has many traditional features, he is dangerously near to becoming a mythical being. Arianism is only a step away” (Christ in the Christian Tradition, volume 1, From the Apostolic Age to Chalcedon Lactantius's Power Theolog y 685 a general scholarly impression that his theology is deficient. As Blandine Colot summarizes his reputation: “C’est lorsqu’on l’aborde d’un point de vue doctrinal qu’on juge Lactance par trop désordonné et insaisissable, et sa théologie, médiocre, voire inconsistante.”5 The presumption of Lactantius’s doctrinal shortcomings motivated scholars to seek his contributions outside of theological matters.6 Although historical studies continue to examine his significance for the Constan(451), 2nd ed. [London and Oxford: Mowbrays, 1976], 119). More recently, Elizabeth Depalma Digeser often relies on Loi and Wlosok when characterizing Lactantius’s theology in Lactantius and Rome (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2000), 64–90. 5 Blandine Colot, Lactance: penser la conversion de Rome au temps de Constantin (Florence, IT: Leo S. Olschki, 2016), xii; see also 102–58, on virtue. Louis Ayres’s brief look at Lactantius is the exception that proves the rule: “Modern scholars have treated Lactantius’ theology as idiosyncratic and Lactantius as ignorant of other Latin theology. . . . At the same time, the standard scholarly account of Lactantius as primarily indebted to non-Christian philosophy has long needed reconsideration: he may also be read as an admittedly eccentric witness to the Latin theological traditions of his day” (Nicaea and Its Legacy [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004], 71–75, at 73; emphasis mine). He is the only recent scholar who reads Lactantius as a witness to theological trajectories. Ayres was the first to note Lactantius’s use of Tertullian’s power-causal formulations, but did not devote an extended study to the topic. 6 Without imagining any sort of rigid univocity on the issues, a substantial majority of scholarship on Lactantius has been concerned, even in recent years, with the characterization of his work in terms of the social context of his thought in the Constantinian era (e.g.: Colot, Lactance; Gábor Kendeffy, “Lactantius as Christian Cicero, Cicero as Shadow-Like Interpreter,” in Brill’s Companion to the Reception of Cicero, ed. William H. G. Altman [Leiden: Brill, 2015], 56–93), continuing evaluation of his use of earlier pagan and Christian sources (e.g., Jochen Walter, Pagane Texte und Wertvorstellungen bei Laktanz [Goettingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 2006]) and his political contributions to the Roman Empire (e.g.: Jeremy Schott, Christianity, Empire, and the Making of Religion in Late Antiquity [Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2010]; Elizabeth Depalma Digeser, The Making of a Christian Empire: Lactantius and Rome [Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2000]; Digeser, A Threat to Public Piety: Christians, Platonists, and the Great Persecution [Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2012]). By contrast, readings of Lactantius’s doctrinal theology—with a few notable exceptions—rely mainly on Pierre Monat, Lactance et la Bible: une propédeutique latine à la lecture de la Bible dans l’Occident constantinien (Paris: Etudes Augustiniennes, 1982), John McGuckin, Researches into the Divine Institutes of Lactantius (DPhil dissertation, Durham University, 1980), Loi, Lattanzio, Wlosok, Laktanz und die philosophische Gnosis, and Pichon, Lactance. Scholarly judgments are by no means uniform, but the general neglect of Lactantius’s doctrinal contributions underscores a general consensus about Lactantius’s marginal status as a theologian. 686 Jason Gehrke tinian period, theologians have made only slight modifications to the narrative of his insufficient theology.7 Lactantius’s oratorical skill seemed to reconcile his theologically marginal position with his apparently significant role in the Constantinian era.8 The Divine Institutes use of virtus fits neatly into the larger narrative of Lactantius’s political life.9 Recent patristic scholarship calls, however, for a significant rereading of Lactantius’s doctrinal positions and for careful attention to the notion of virtus.10 Following the work of Michel Barnes, patrologists have come to recognize the technical signification of the term power (vis, virtus, potestas, δύναμις) and the formula “power and nature” in early Christian Trinitarian theologies, both Greek and Latin.11 What Barnes has termed Notable exceptions are Colot, Lactance, which makes significant improvements, although her work is not a study of Lactantius’s theology. Gabor Kendeffy also represents a promising new direction in “Velamentum Stultitiae: 1 Cor. 1:20f. and 3:19 in Lactantius’s Divine Institutes,” in Invention, Rewriting, Usurpation. Discursive Fights over Religious Traditions in Antiquity, ed. J. Ulrich, A.-Chr. Jacobsen, and M. Kahlos (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2012), 57–70, as does Christiane Grossman, “Die neutestamenschlichen Grundlagen der Gerechtigkeitsdefinition im 5. Buch der Institutionen des Laktanz. Eine Untersuchung zu Inst. V 8, 5–9,” Mittellateinisches Jahrbuch 37 (2002): 395–403. Neither conducts a historical reading of Lactantius’s theological ontology. 8 See Heck, “Constantin und Lactanz.” Charles Odahl has given Lactantius a prominent role in Constantine’s milieu, although his narrative exceeds the evidence and has been criticized for significant historical mistakes (Constantine and the Christian Empire, 2nd ed. [New York: Routledge, 2010], 72, 123; see Hervé Ingelbert’s book review in Latomus 66, no. 3 (2007): 774–76). See also T. D. Barnes, “Lactantius and Constantine,” Journal of Roman Studies 63 (1973): 29–46, and Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1981), 12–14, 149. 9 Francois Heim, La Théologie de Victoire de Constantin á Théodose (Paris: Beauchesne, 1992), esp. 51–57; Heim, “L’influence excercée par Constantin sur Lactance: sa Théologie de la Victoire,” in Lactance et son Temps: recherches actuelles, Actes du Ive colloque d’études historiques et patristiques, Chantilly, 21–23 Septembre 1976, ed. J. Fontaine and M. Perrin (Paris: 1978), 55–70. 10 Throughout this article, the term “Trinitarian Theology” designates only the field of historical inquiry. 11 For power in Origen, Tertullian, and Hillary, see Michel René Barnes, The Power of God: Dynamis in Gregory of Nyssa (Washington DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2003), 94–125. See also: M. Barnes, “Latin Trinitarian Theology,” 70–84, in The Cambridge Companion to the Trinity, ed. Peter C. Phan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011); M. Barnes, “One Nature, One Power: Consensus Doctrine in Pro-Nicene Polemic,” in Studia Patristica (Louvain: Peeters, 1997), esp. 1–5; Divine Powers in Late Antiquity, ed. Anna Marmodoro and Irini-Fotini Viltanioti (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017); Adam Ployd, Augustine, the Trinity, and the Church: A Reading of the Anti-Donatist Sermons 7 Lactantius's Power Theolog y 687 as “power theology” provides a stable point of comparison for assessing Lactantius’s theology relative to other pre-Nicene Latin authors.12 The technical sense of “power” clarifies his use of virtus by distinguishing his notions of “power” and “virtue,” and by demonstrating the theological tradition to which his use of the term belongs—a pre-Nicene Latin tradition that builds upon the thought of Tertullian. Because of his nearness to Constantine, revising scholarly accounts of Lactantius’s theology invites further modifications to the story of his witness to Christianity in the Constantinian period and of his influence on later theologians, not least of whom was Saint Augustine.13 To reconsider Lactantius’s theology, this article offers a doctrinal account of his presentation of the Father and the Son by examining the notion of virtus in his account of the Son. After a brief review of power theology, I examine the meaning of virtus in the early discussion of the divine nature in the Divine Insitutes (Inst. 1.3–26 and 2.8). A third section (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), esp. 7, 144–84; Anthony Briggman, Irenaeus of Lyons and the Theology of the Holy Spirit (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012); Mark DelCogliano, “The Interpretation of John 10:30 in the Third Century: Antimonarchian Polemics and the Rise of Grammatical Reading Techniques,” Journal of Theological Interpretation 6, no. 1 (2012): 117–38; Andrew Radde-Gallwitz, Basil of Caesarea, Gregory of Nyssa, and the Transformation of Divine Simplicity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009); Carl Beckwith, The Trinitarian Theology of Hilary of Poitiers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007); Ayres, Nicaea and Its Legacy. 12 Ayres also supports this suggestion insofar as he observes the use of “X from X” language to describe the production of the Son from the Father in a range of pre-Nicene Latin authors, and he notes Lactantius’s debt to Tertullian and the similarity of his thought with concepts in Novatian (Nicaea and Its Legacy, 73). 13 See Robert Dodaro, Christ and the Just Society in the Thought of Saint Augustine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 12–17, esp. 14: “Among Latin Christian writers, it is Lactantius, not Augustine, who first denies that Romans ever knew true justice because they had failed to know and worship the true God.” See also: Peter Garnsey, “Lactantius and Augustine,” in Representations of Empire: Rome and the Mediterranean World, ed. A. K. Bowman, H. M. Cotton, M. Goodman and S. Price (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 153–79; and G. Piccaluga, “Ius e Vera Iustitia (Lact.Div.Inst.VI 9.7): Rielaborazione cristiana di un valore assoluto della religione romana arcaica,” L’etica cristiana dei secoli III e IV: eredità e confronti (Rome: Institutum Patristicum Augustinium, 1996), 257–69; John R. Bowlin, “Tolerance Among the Fathers,” Journal of the Society of Christian Ethics 26, no. 1 (2006): 20–28. Notable is that all of these are dealing with Lactantius’s moral thought, which is tied to his notion of virtue (virtus). In Lactantius, these discussions begin, however, with the virtus Dei. Understanding Lactantius’s account of the divine nature is the first step to understanding his ethics and political theology. 688 Jason Gehrke uses these initial findings to reconsider Lactantius’s Christology (Inst. 4.6–10), and to observe Lactantius’s reception of Tertullian and Cyprian, along the way. A final section shows that the technical sense of “power” (virtus) grounds several analogies for the unity between Father and Son (Inst. 4.29), which conclude Inst. 4. As a result, this article establishes the foundational meaning of virtus in Lactantius’s theology. It shows that the causal and moral senses of virtus rely upon the technical sense of “power,” and that Lactantius’s discussion is consistent with leading voices of pre-Nicene Latin Christianity—Tertullian, Cyprian, and Novatian. Such a reading supports the conclusion that Lactantius advocated a traditional pre-Nicene Latin theology. He framed his account for the apologetic context, while remaining sensitive to third-century doctrinal controversies. As the last pre-Nicene Latin apologist, Lactantius brought a traditional “Catholic” doctrine to bear upon the issues of his day.14 Power Theology: A Very Brief Review In recent patristic scholarship, the term “power theology” refers to a set of technically defined propositions that were foundational to the philosophy and theology of the early Common Era. As Barnes explains, “δύναμις was, for the early Church, a foundational term in Trinitarian theology, foundational in the way that σοφία and λόγος are understood to have been.”15 In the early Common Era, power theologies, whether among Christians or others, entailed a set of causal claims that supported a philosophical account of being. That account appropriated notions drawn from ancient medicine for use in theological contexts.16 In the context of patristic usage, the first and most basic notion of power theology is the agreement to conceive of reality in causal terms and therefore regard the manifestation of “power” as the primary indicator of I use the term “Catholic” because Lactantius used it to define himself (Inst. 4.30.10–11). In that respect, “Catholic” offers an historical clarity that terms like “mainstream” or “central” lack. My usage aims only to recognize a historical continuity that Lactantius seems to identify between himself and the authors he uses—Tertullian, Cyprian, Novatian. Textually, that continuity is recognized by the use and acceptation of Tertullian’s Adversus Praxeas [Prax.] by each of them. Linguistically, that continuity is recognized by the acceptance, adaptation, and correction of Tertullian’s metaphors and logic by the latter authors. Theologically, that continuity is recognized by the mutual opposition of all these theologians to the third-century heresies Tertullian opposed—Monarchianism, Gnosticism, and traditional Roman paganism. 15 For definition and diffusion of power theology, see note 5 above. 16 M. Barnes, Power of God, ch. 1. 14 Lactantius's Power Theolog y 689 existence. As Barnes explains: The most fundamental understanding of δύναμις is that of the capacity of an existent to affect. This capacity to affect is understood in three related ways. First, δύναμις is the capacity of an existent to affect insofar as it exists. . . . What is meant by “to exist” is in large part the capacity to affect or to be affected.17 This primary sense of “power” describes an existent in terms of causal relationships. It means that to advocate or reject the power of a thing becomes a way of confessing or denying that thing’s existence. This notion correlates “power and nature” and uses the phrase as a technical formula.18 As will be seen, this primary sense of power is a foundational assumption of Lactantius’s argument against the Roman gods. Power theology entails a second notion, which follows from the first. The claim is that any nature is composed of a plurality of individual and material powers, which communicate their respective identities through their effects. As Barnes explains: Secondly, δύναμις is that capacity which is specific or peculiar to the existent. . . . [It] follows not simply from the fact of existence, but from the identity of the existent. Fire, to take a famous example, has the δύναμις of heat, because the existence of the δύναμις of heat follows specifically from what fire is. Fire is not fire without heat, and wherever there is heat, there must be fire.19 This second premise of power theology enables a significant epistemological procedure. By observing the power of an entity, one determines its nature or character. Because a power communicates its identity to an existent, the actions of an existent—be it fire or a person— reveal its nature. As Barnes has shown, this is the central notion of Tertullian’s anti-Monarchian argument, which consistently served later stages of Latin Trinitarian theology. 20 As Michel Barnes has shown, Tertullian defended the economy of M. Barnes, “One Power, One Nature,” 205–206. Cf. M. Barnes, Power of God, 29: “The effect of a δύναμις is identical with the δύναμις itself; a δύναμις acts by manifesting itself, thereby replacing (or dominating) the previously manifested δύναμις.” 18 M. Barnes, Power of God, 37–44. 19 M. Barnes, “One Power, One Nature,” 206. 20 See M. Barnes, “Latin Trinitarian Theology,” 70–91. 17 690 Jason Gehrke the monarchy by arguing that common works disclose a common power and thus reveal a unity of nature: Through the works [opera] then the Father will be in the Son and the Son in the Father. And so through [their] works, we understand that the Father and Son are [esse] One. [John] kept pressing this point in order to bring us to see that two should be believed albeit in one power [in una virtute] because the Son could not be believed unless two is believed.21 As will be seen, Lactantius’s use of virtus extends Tertullian’s formulation and the theological tradition it represents. His reliance upon the “one power, one nature” argument indicates Lactantius’s concern to convey a traditional Latin theology and to do so in terms sensitive to earlier theological controversy. These two premises of power theology serve two stages of Lactantius’s argument. First, power theology supports Lactantius’s critical arguments against the traditional gods. It allows him to establish a definition of the divine nature that excludes traditional Roman deities. Lactantius argues that the divine nature contains a single plenipotentiary power that contains all capacities in himself. The argument grounds, notably, his moral polemic against Rome’s gods. Moral failure indicates a weakness, a lack of virtus, which is inconsistent with divinity.22 Second, Lactantius’s account of God’s single power allows Lactantius to identify the Son’s divinity and unity with the Father and to distinguish the Son from other beings by using a technically defined theological vocabulary. The argument places Lactantius in a succession of authors who draw their Christological language from Tertullian. The Power of God in Lactantius The technical sense of power is apparent from Lactantius’s earliest arguments with traditional Roman religion (Inst. 1.3–2.8).23 Parallel to the terms potentia and potestas, virtus means “power” and signifies the unique Tertullian, Prax., 22.13. See M. Barnes, Power of God, 103–10. For this term see discussion of Teloh, Souille, and others in Barnes, Power of God, 56, Fn. 2–4. 23 I use the term “Trinitarian thought” only to designate a field of theological discussion and not to make any anachronistic claim about Lactantius’s theology. The term simply allows one to avoid circumlocution. 21 22 Lactantius's Power Theolog y 691 and undivided nature of God’s person.24 Lactantius first asks rhetorically, “whether the world is ruled by the power of one god [potestate unius dei] or many?”25 Virtus soon appears as a synonym of potestas. All rational people know, he argues, that “there is One [God], who both founded and controls all things by the same power [virtute] by which he founded them.”26 That virtus signifies power is evident from its close association with potestas as a near synonym and by the ablative usage with transitive verbs (condidit, moderetur) in the same context. The construction makes virtus the efficient cause of God’s creation. At this early stage of Lactantius’s argument, virtus denotes that causal capacity by which God creates and governs the cosmos. Lactantius immediately juxtaposes the moral and physical senses of that capacity under the term virtus. God’s singular virtus discloses God’s unicity: God, moreover, who is eternal mind [mens aeterna], is in every part [a being] of perfect and consummate virtus [virtutis]. If that is true, he is [est] necessarily one. Absolute virtue [virtus] or power [potestas] retains its very own distinct integrity [propriam firmitatem].27 These lines are the earliest point of departure for evaluating his account of the divine nature in terms of power. Lactantius places virtus and potestas as synonymous terms that designate the unity of the divine nature, while The terms persona and natura both appear in the larger context of this discussion in Lactantius. See Inst. 1.3.9–10: “Virtutis autem perfecta natura in eo potest esse . . .” (see below at notes 32–34 for surrounding and translation; all translations from Inst. are my own). See also Inst. 4.29.11: “Since he had put forth two persons [duas personas] of God the King, that is, of Christ and of God the Father, who raised him from the depths after his passion.” 25 Inst. 1.3.2, quoted in Eberhard Heck and Antonie Wlosok, Divinarum Institutionum Libri Septem, vol. 1 (Munich: K. G. Saur, 2005), 9. Cf. Cicero, De re publica. 1.55–56. 26 Inst. 1.3.2. 27 Inst. 1.3.4. See Grillmeier, Christ and the Christian Tradition, 193–216. Grillmeier did not address this text or consider Lactantius’s arguments of Inst. 4 in light of Inst. 1. Grillmeier begins with Wlosok and then works entirely in book 4. Loi is aware of the terms vis, virtus, potestas, and summa potestas, but not of the etiological schema these terms evoke. Loi is also aware of the New Testament origin of Lactantius’s title virtus Dei, but his judgment that Lactantius does not distinguish the nature of the Son from the angels shows again that he overlooked the ontological significance of power as designator of nature; Loi, Lattanzio, 72–75 and 212–15. 24 692 Jason Gehrke mens represents the unity of action that expresses that power.28 The point is evident from both the lexical context and the logic. Since God’s power is complete, God’s person (i.e., nature) is not plural, but One.29 Lactantius’s opening claims thus entail the first and foundational notion of power theology. He describes God’s power in order to characterize God’s nature. The linked terms power and nature denote the entirety of God’s person. At the conclusion of Inst. 1.3, Lactantius places this notion in opposition to a Roman Stoic explanation of the traditional gods. He argues that the singularity of God’s power (virtus, potestas, vis) precludes any attempt to connect philosophical accounts of God with traditional Roman mythologies.30 The argument presents Lactantius’s power theology as sharing foundational notions with a larger philosophical tradition.31 He applies the first premise of power theology negatively—an absence of power denotes an absence of existence: Cf. Cicero, De legibus 1.21–22: “Do you grant for us, Pomponius . . . that all nature is ruled by the power [vi] of the immortal gods, or by nature [natura], or reason [ratione], or virtus [virtute], or mind [mente], or divine power [numine], or whatever other word I might use . . .” (my translation). 29 See note 24 above. 30 For examples of such an attempt, see Cicero, De natura deorum 2.58–62, which conducts the entire discussion in terms of power. See also Seneca, De beneficiis 4.7–8. For Lactantius’s work as opposition to Roman ideology, see Colot, Lactance, esp., 2–48. 31 Consider J. Rufus Fears, “The Cult of Virtues and Roman Imperial Ideology,” Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt (part 2) 17, no. 2 (1981): 827–948, at 838. Fears’s remarks here on Cicero (De natura deorum 2.60) show that the plurality of deities is reconciled with philosophical monotheism through “the deification of abstract ideas”: “A specific condition or quality, like peace, victory, martial prowess, or fidelity, is recognized as the operation of a characteristic and peculiar divine power, which in turn is designated by the condition or quality which it produces. Concordia is the godhead which establishes Concordia; Pax is the godhead which establishes pax.” This phenomenon is the same as what M. Barnes’s terms “X from X” causality (Power of God, 105–86; see note 84 below). Furthermore, although it falls outside the scope of this article, my thoughts are in line with a growing recognition that philosophical theology and Roman religion were more closely associated that scholars have often seen. See: Peter van Nuffelen, Rethinking the Gods: Philosophical Readings of Religion in the Post-Hellenistic Period (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011); One God: Pagan Monotheism in the Roman Empire, ed. Stephen Mitchell and Peter van Nuffelen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010); Attilio Mastrocinque, “Creating One’s Own Religion: Intellectual Choices,” in A Companion to Roman Religion, ed. Jorg Rupke (Oxford: Blackwell, 2007), 378–91. 28 Lactantius's Power Theolog y 693 If there are many gods, they will be weaker [minus valebunt], insofar as the others have as much as exists in each one. Therefore, the gods’ virtutes and powers [virtutes et potestates deorum] will accomplish less [minus valebunt], since each individual will lack, however much was in the others; so, the greater in number, the weaker they are.32 Along with the synonymous usage of potestas and virtus, Lactantius’s argument from relative strength (valere) and weakness indicates that the primary sense of virtus as a marker of existence is operative throughout the passage. Hence, Lactantius associates power (virtus, potestas) and nature (natura) as complementary notions: Moreover, the perfect nature of virtus [virtutis autem natura perfecta] is able to exist in the one in whom it is whole [totum] rather than in him in whom some part [pars] is lacking from the whole. If then God is perfect, as he must be, he can only be one [unus]. Hence, all things are in him.33 Lactantius’s notion of power [virtus] thus sustains his definition of God as One. Lactantius claims that participation in divine power equates to a diminution of the divine person. His argument resolves into a narrative using virtus and vis as divine titles.34 In short, the basic notion in Lactantius’s account of the divine nature is virtus; it reflects his usage of power theology. At a later phase in the discussion, Lactantius introduces a phrase that reappears in his Christology (Inst. 4.6.1–2). Lactantius mainly reiterates his previous discussion, but the new term betrays important textual influences and the technical nature of his usage. Borrowing from Tertullian’s Apologeticus 23, Lactantius entitles God unus maximus et pollens: So then, the other gods will not be gods but satellites and ministers, whom that one greatest and powerful over all [unus maximus et pollens omnium] compels to their duties; and they will serve his reign. If all are not equal, then all are not gods. Nor is it possible Inst. 1.3.9–10. Inst. 1.3.9. 34 Inst. 1.3.9: “Why is it that the Highest Power over all things [summa illa rerum potestas], that Divine Strength, [vis divina] cannot be at the same time divided.” Lactantius argues this way at length; see Inst. 1.2.9–11. Cf. Inst. 1.11.5 and 5.1.2, where he locates his work in relation to Tertullian, Minucius Felix and Cyprian. 32 33 694 Jason Gehrke that the same one can be servant and master. For if “God” is the name of the Highest Power [nomen summae potestatis], he ought to be incorruptible, complete, impassible, and subject to nothing. . . . Now, let us consider the oneness [unitatem] of the divine power in the literary witnesses [testimoniis].35 The above title, maximus unus et pollens, marks the exclusivity of God’s person. Lactantius establishes it as a title that reappears in the Divine Institutes account of the Son’s divinity. The juxtaposition of traditional gods with angels and demons updates Tertullian’s apologetic. The argument gives virtus a simultaneously moral and physical signification. Virtus absoluta and perfecta is effective, by definition, while God’s power is inherently perfect and good.36 To the above account of God in terms of power, Inst. 2.8.8–2.9 shows that Lactantius distinguishes human from divine by defining what forms of action characterize divine and human natures. The argument makes creatio ex nihilo a decisive premise in Lactantius’s account of the divine nature. It also anticipates his later Christology, which gives the Son a role in creation—the distinctive action that reveals divine power. Lactantius says: God will be of lesser power [minoris potestatis], if he makes from what is pre-made [ex parato]; and this [quod] is characteristic of humanity [quod est hominis]. A craftsman will build nothing without wood, because he is not able [non potest] to make wood for himself. ‘Not to be able [non posse]’ is characteristic of the weakness of humanity [imbecillitatis humanitatis]. God himself makes matter on his own, because he is able [potest]. Indeed ‘to be able [posse]’ is characteristic of God, for if he is not able, he is not God. A person makes out of that which exists, because through mortality he is weak [per immortalitatem imbecillus est] and through that weakness [per imbecillitatem] characterized by a definite and delimited power [definitae ac modicae potestatis]. God, by contrast, makes out of that 35 36 Inst. 1.3.22–24. Cf. Tertullian, Apologeticus 23.1–3. Virtus is a particularly apt term because of its polyvalence in Roman usage. See argument and bibliography in Myles Anthony McDonnell, Roman Manliness: Virtus and the Roman Republic (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006). McDonnell shows that the original significance of virtus as “manliness,” or even “strength,” was primary, and that the commonly known sense of virtue arrived only later in the Late Republic as a result of philosophical influence. Lactantius's Power Theolog y 695 which is not, because through eternity he is strong [ fortis] through the strength of his immense power [per fortitudinem immensae potestatis], which lacks end or limit [ fine ac modo careat], as the life of the Maker itself.37 The above lines present God’s capacity to create as the action which distinguishes the character of God’s power from that of humans.38 Lactantius uses posse as a synonym for esse (non posse = non esse Dei) while contrasting the plenipotentiary nature of God’s power in creation with the weakness of traditional gods: “How then would that divine power [divina illa vis] differ from humanity,” Lactantius asks, “if, like a human, God also needs some external strength [ope indigent aliena]?”39 The action of creation ex nihilo distinguishes divine power from its pale imitations. Divine power, in turn, reveals divine nature. Lactantius’s argument from creatio ex nihilo distinguishes his use of power theology from traditional “pagan” uses of the same notion. Lactantius takes up the logic of Minucius Felix’s defense of divine unicity, but employs a technical language that reflects a later phase of theological debate.40 Lactantius specifies his position by introducing the term simplex: 37 38 39 40 Inst. 2.8.26–29. Lactantius’s opposition between God’s potestas immensa and humanity’s potestas definita ac modica further marks the technical discourse that animates this discussion. As noted above, in arguments based on the technical sense of “a power,” each power is considered individual and material (Barnes, Power of God, 21–31). In Latin, this technical usage first appears in Lucretius, who draws his power causality from Democritus and the Epicurean tradition. Lucretius speaks of “quid possit oriri, quid nequeat, finita potestas denique cuique, quanam sit ratione atque alte terminus haerens” (“what is able to come into existence [possit oriri] and what cannot, and by what reason there is in each thing a delimited power [finita potestas] and deep inherent end [alte terminus haerens]”) (De rerum natura 1.79; see also 5.43 and 5.73). De rerum natura 3.266–270 shows that Lucretius was working with power causality, wherein a plurality of powers combined to form a common nature: “There is a certain scent, color, and savor, and nevertheless from all these one perfect bulk of body [augmen corporis]. So also heat and air and the invisible power of wind [venti caeca potestas] when mingled create one nature [mixta creant unam naturam].” Lactantius’s reference here evokes this Lucretian language in order to evoke an established association of delimited potestas with mortality. Inst. 2.8.17: “Which, if it happens, he is of an imperfect power [imperfectae virtutis], and so the institutor of matter will have be judged more powerful.” Cf. Inst. 2.8.20. Inst. 2.8.17. Novatian, De trinitate 5.6: “He is indeed simple [simplex] without any bodily combination [corporea concretione]” (my translation). 696 Jason Gehrke For if there is anything before him, if anything was not made by him, then he loses the name and power of God [potestatem et nomen Dei amittet]. . . . Thus it can only be that the nature of the eternal one is simple [aeterni natura est simplex] and all things descend from it as a source [ex fonte].41 Expounded at length between Inst. 2.8 and 2.9, this argument clarifies Lactantius’s debate begun in Inst. 1.3. For him, the divine nature contains every specific causal capacity without participation by any other power. The divine virtus is plenipotentiary, and thus not conjoined with any other.42 In this specific sense, God’s nature is simple, and therefore separate from all others. As the argument unfolds, Lactantius measures Rome’s traditional deities against this standard of divine simplicity. An extended scrutiny of the traditional gods occupies the pages between Lactantius’s early definitions of the divine nature (Inst. 1.3) and the above explanation of divine simplicity (Inst. 2.8–2.9). The intervening discussion offers an extended restatement of the Latin apologists traditional Euhemerist argument. 43 The argument shows the way Lactantius’s apparently diverse usages of virtus apply a fundamental concept across dimensions of activity, be they physical or moral. Lactantius grounds the moral sense of virtus in the prior sense of power. “Virtue” simply indicates a power of action directed toward non-material conflicts.44 His discussion Inst. 2.8.32. Cf. Cicero, De natura deorum 2.28–29, where the Stoic figure Balbus accounts for the divine nature as embracing many powers in a single nature. 43 Cf. Minucius Felix, Octavius 18.7.5–13; Tertullian, Apologeticus 21.11. 44 Lactantius’s most extended discussion of the clearly philosophical sense of “virtue” occurs in Inst. 3.7–12. Engaging that argument exceeds the scope of this article, but I note that discussion is entirely conducted in terms of power and effect. Cf. Inst. 3.8.30: “Why then did he prefer to call knowledge [scientiam] rather than wisdom itself the highest good, each has the same meaning and power [utriusque significatio et vis eadem]?” Perhaps the most succinct definition is in Inst. 3.8.32. Again, “virtue” has a distinct vis and officium; see Inst. 3.8.36: “If it is not possible to attain any good except through labor [cf. Fin. 5.77–79], it appears that virtus is the means by which one arrives [at the highest good], since the vis and officium of virtus lies in undertaking labors and bringing them to completion [quoniam in suscipiendis ac perferendis laboribus vis officiumque virtutis est]. Now then, by definition, the highest good cannot be that through which one arrives at something else. But since they did not know what virtus causes or that to which it tends [quid efficeret virtus aut quo tenderet], they sought nothing more noble than it [honestius]; and they ultimately substituted in the name of virtus itself [in ipsius virtutis nomine], that which they said should be desired for the sake of no further 41 42 Lactantius's Power Theolog y 697 gives precise philosophical justification to an otherwise merely ad hominem argument against Rome’s traditional gods. Lactantius scrutinizes the Roman gods by applying Tertullian’s argument that works disclose nature in a negative way.45 Lactantius introduces a contrast between the creative works that reveal God’s virtus and the works of Rome’s gods, which disclose their weak humanity. His presentation relies heavily on the second notion of power theology—the claim that every existent has a distinct capacity that communicates its identity in its works. Lactantius begins with a definition of the divine nature: How then does anyone think anything difficult or impossible for God, who pondered such great and marvelous works [tanta tamque mirifica opera] in his providence [mirifica opera providentia], established them by his virtus [virtute constituit], perfected them by his reason [ratione perfecit]; he who even now sustains them by his spirit [spiritu sustentat] and governs them by his power [potestate moderetur], the Incomprehensible Ineffable One, known to none other than himself?46 The above paragraph sets the stage for a negative argument. The lines specify creation as the grand and distinctive work that expresses God’s unique virtus. Lactantius then uses this claim to criticize actions that disclose a power unequal to such a work. Lactantius soon contrasts God’s ingenerate status with the derivative natures of Rome’s traditional deities. His scrutiny of the traditional gods turns on the notion that their powers are unequal to the definition above: Thus, as I often reflect upon so great a majesty, those who worship the gods seem to me blind, thoughtless, foolish, barely different from mute animals, since they believe that those begotten by the intercourse of man and woman could have had anything of divine advantage, and thus established as a good something that lacked any good at all [ut bonum sibi constituerent quod bono indigeret].” In this respect, the technical sense of power does much to clarify the ambiguity that Bowen and Garnsey find in his usage (see note 1 above). Colot also connects Lactantius’s discussion of moral virtues—e.g., humanitas, pietas, misericordia— to Lactantius’s notions of affectus and officium (Lactance, 302–5). She observes here that, for Lactantius, “human beings possessed in their affectus itself the ‘active principle’ of their virtus.” 45 See note 20, above. 46 Inst. 1.8.2 698 Jason Gehrke virtus and majesty [maiestatis].47 In this statement, the logic of power theology already operates under the form of Lactantius’s oratory. His attack entails a specific syllogism: God’s virtus is complete, perfect, and effective of his wise, reasonable, and orderly creation. The traditional gods’ virtus is derivative and incomplete. Therefore, the virtus of the traditional gods is characteristic of human weakness, not divine power. The argument leads to Lactantius’s fundamental criticism that the traditional gods were human natures, not divine: If anyone considers what the works of God actually are, he will judge ridiculous all those things which people so foolish marvel at. Indeed, these are not to be measured by the divine powers [divinis virtutibus], which they do not know, but by the infirmity of their own strength [infirmitate suarum virium].48 The parallel between virtus and vis in these lines shows again the way “virtue” and “power” encompass a spectrum of meaning unified by the notion of causal capacity. Presented as opposites of infirmitas, both terms indicate the gods’ ability to carry out some action; if the gods were not divine, they nonetheless demonstrate some form of virtus. That virtus, however, was human, since it was imperfect, incomplete. Lactantius’s judgment about the gods’ infirmitas sets the stage for an extended scrutiny of Roman virtus. His argument undertakes a traditional medical examination.49 He finds that all the gods display some weakness, some capacity for death, which proves that their power is imperfect, and therefore their nature is not divine. Hercules is his first patient: “Very famous on account of his virtus, Hercules is considered a sort of Africanus among the gods. Yet is it not said that in drunken adulteries he sinned against the very earth which he wandered and purged?” The claim is not a simple ad hominem. It is a minor premise in an argument about divinity. Hence, Lactantius’s vocabulary reflects the early definition of God’s “great and marvelous works,” as he subjects Hercules to a standard of divinity laid out in the early chapters: “Even those great and marvelous things [magna et mirabilia] which he did accomplish should not be judged as belonging to the sort [talia] that seem worthy of being attributed to divine powers Inst. 1.8.3. Inst. 1.9.6. 49 For diagnosis of the powers in Greek medicine see Barnes, Power of God, 34–37. 47 48 Lactantius's Power Theolog y 699 [divinis virtutibus].”50 Where actions disclose the character of the power, Hercules’s actions prove his human nature. Lactantius subjects Jupiter to a similar procedure. Invoking the Triumph of Cupid, Lactantius recalls Jupiter’s famous exploits and emphasizes the god’s failed virtus—that is, the fact of his weakness. His remarks elide the physical and moral senses of virtus as forms of power: Having enumerated the affairs of each [of the gods], he portrayed a parade in which Jupiter is lead in chains before the chariot of the triumphant Cupid. Indeed, anyone so absent of virtus [virtutis est expers], who is conquered by cupidity and evil lusts, as the author portrayed him, is subject not to Cupid, but to eternal death [morti subiectus est sempiternae].51 These remarks parallel Lactantius’s early language of divinity: “If God is the name of the highest power, he must be incorruptible, perfect, impassible, subject to nothing [nulli rei subiectus].”52 Jupiter, by contrast, is subject to passion and death [morti subiectus est sempiternae]. By the same logic, Jupiter’s subjection to the fates shows that his power is not supreme, just as his one act of continence is not attributable “to any virtus [non virtute ulla], but to fear of a successor,” a quality characteristic of one who is “mortal, weak, nothing [mortalis et imbecillus et nihili].”53 His moral polemic establishes a minor premise in a philosophically articulated dispute about the divine nature and its virtus.54 Lactantius’s Christology applies the same logic to an inverse effect. Maxima Virtus Patria: The Son Lactantius’s Christology begins in earnest at Inst. 4.6–10.55 Tertullian’s Inst. 9.1–2. Contrast Bowen and Garnsey: “Even the great and wonderful deeds he did ought not to compel the judgment that they must be attributed plainly to divine virtues in him.” Cf. Inst. 1.8.2 and note 24 above. 51 Inst. 1.11.2–3. 52 Inst. 1.3.23. 53 Inst. 1.11.14–16. Bowen and Garnsey overlook the technical language here, reading non virtute ulla (Inst. 1.11.15.1) as “no good instinct.” 54 Saturn gets the same treatment. Inst. 1.13.5: “Furthermore, why did some greater power [vis aliqua maior] exist which could overcome his power [potestatem]?” Inst. 1.12.1: “Since we have unveiled the mysteries of the power and found Saturn’s parents, let’s return to his powers and deeds [ad virtutes et facta].” 55 Cf. Inst. 2.8.4: Lactantius introduces a very brief statement of the Son’s generation amid the so-called “dualistic passages,” which were interpolated by a redactor. 50 700 Jason Gehrke theology most thoroughly shapes his doctrine, while Cyprian guides his exegesis.56 Drawing on Psalm 33, Proverbs 8, and Hebrews, LactanScholars agree that the redactor was probably Lactantius himself, although the most recent editors acknowledge it is uncertain; see Digeser, “Lactantius and Constantine’s Letter to Arles”; Heck and Wlosok, Divinarum Institutionum Libri Septem, 1:xxxix (“Praefatio”); and Eberhard Heck, Die Dualistischen Zusätze und die Kaiseranrden bei Lactantius (Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag, 1972). The passage is an early statement of what Loi has termed Lactantius’s “cosmological dualism” (Lattanzio, 270). Lactantius accounts for the origin of evil by relating the generations of the Son and of Lucifer in parallel. The early passages confirm that power theology undergirds his thinking: “Since the source of full and consummate good was in itself, as it always is, so that the good springs from it as a river and flows broadly forth, he produced a spirit like himself [similem], who was endowed with the powers of God the father [virtutibus patris]. (We will attempt to teach why [God] would want him in the fourth book.) Then [the Father] made another, in whom the inborn quality of divine lineage [divinae stirpis] did not remain. And so willingly [suapte] was he infected by the poison of envy and crossed over from good unto evil; and by his own choice [suo arbitrio], which had been given to him free [liberum] by God, he adopted for himself a contrary name, whence it appears that he is the brackened font of all kinds of evils [fontem esse livorem]” (Inst. 2.8.4). Notably, these lines employ a central metaphor of pre-Nicene Latin power theology, “like a river from its source” (see Ayres, Nicaea and Its Legacy, 71–74). The phrase places Inst. 4.6.10’s later virtutibus patris dei praeditus into a certain lexical context. Virtus means power and designates the Son’s identity relative to the Father and in contradistinction from the alterum spiritum. This also means that Lactantius’s dualism arises from his understanding of reality in terms drawn from medicine. Hence, at Inst. 2.12.4–6, he evokes Empedocles, Lucretius, and Varro before explaining the quattuor elementa and their principles of opposition. Lactantius thus says humanity was made, just as the world itself, “[ex bono et malo], ex luce ac tenebris, ex vita et morte.” The phrase ex bono et malo appears in brackets because the editors regard it as a later addition. If Wlosok is right to describe “die dualistische Tendenz des Laktanz” arising from Manichaean influences in his North African Christianity (Laktanz und die philosophische Gnosis, 191n28), her comment can be correct only if Manichaeism is to be understood as an appropriation of medical causalities. 56 Cyprian guides Lactantius’s reading of the Old Testament, though not exclusively. Lactantius also shows the influence of Theophilus of Antioch (Inst. 1.7.7; 2.12.19; 3.20.15; 4.5.6), Tertullian (see below and Heck and Wlosok, Divinarum Institutionum Libri Septem, 4:796 [Index Locorum]), and Justin Martyr (Inst. 4.18.22); see also R. M. Ogilvie, The Library of Lactantius (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1978), 88–96, and Pierre Monat, Lactance et La Bible: une propédeutique latine à la lecture de la Bible dans l’Occident constantinien (Paris: Études Augustiniennes, 1982). For Lactantius’s evaluation of pagan sources, see Jochen Walter, Pagane Texte und Wertvorstellungen bei Laktanz (Goettingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 2006), and Alain Goulon, “Les Citations des Poètes Latins dans L’œuvre de Lactance,” in Lactance et son Temps: Recherches Actuelles: Actes du IV Colloque D’Etudes Lactantius's Power Theolog y 701 tius refers to Christ as God’s Word, Wisdom, and Spirit, and even as an angel. The terms doctor iustitiae and dux virtutis also appear within the context of Lactantius’s account of Christ’s work.57 Along with pivotal cues from Cyprian’s Ad quirinum, Hebrews 1:1–7 shapes the structure of his account.58 Lactantius’s several Christological titles are best understood theologically by reference to the notion of virtus. Power theology allows Historiques et Patristiques Chantilly 21–23 Septembre 1976, ed. J. Fontaine and M. Perrin (Paris: Editions Beauchesne, 1978), 107–57. In English, see Jackson Bryce, The Library of Lactantius (New York: Garland Publications, 1990). This is an unedited version of his 1973 dissertation. See also Ogilvie, The Library of Lactantius. 57 Inst. 4.13.1. 58 Vetus Latina [VL] of Heb 1:1–7, in Vetus Latina: The Remains of the Old Latin Bible, ed. Roger Gryson, vol. 25/2, ed. Hermann Josef Frede (Freiburg in Breisgau: Herder, 1987). The below lines of the VL follow the A line and place significant variants in brackets. The A line stops at verse 5, after which I use the D line. Words in bold correspond to language in Inst. 4.6–10 and 29: “1Multis partibus et multis modis ante deus locutus est patribus in prophetis. 2postremo in his diebus locutus est nobis in filio quem posuit heredem omnium per quem etiam fecit et saecula 3qui est splendor gloriae et imago [figura – J] substantiae eius gerens [ferens –D] omnia verbo virtutis suae purgatione peccatorum a se facta sedit in dextera excelsis tanto melior factus angelis quanto excellentius [differentius/differentior – V] nomen accepit [hereditavit – J]. 5cui enim dixit aliquando angelorum ‘filius meus est tu ego hodie generavi te et iterum ego ero illi in patrem et ipse erit mihi in filium,’ 6deinde iterum cum inducit primogenitum in creatione dicit et ‘adorent illum omnes angelos dei et 7ad angelos quidem dicit qui facit angelos suos spiritus et ministros suos ignem urentum.” I place this observation at the beginning as a point of reference for what follows and encourage the reader to refer back to it. It is not only the choice of key terms, but also the logical progression and themes, which indicate that Hebrews 1:1–7 shapes this passage. Lactantius first introduces the major movements of his narrative with a reference to the “scriptures” or “the prophets.” The references easily gloss Hebrews 1:1. He then designates the Son with the terms virtus, verbum, and maiestas that together suggest Hebrews 1:2–4. As the argument unfolds, he notes a differentia which serves to distinguish the Son from the angels with a reference to Psalm 33[32]:6. Differentia gently adapts the differentius of Hebrews 1:4, while the assertion that the angels are created for ministry reflects Heb 1:7—a background Monat also notes (Lactance et La Bible, 174)—while the notion that they are therefore “ministering spirits” encompasses the larger context all the way to Hebrews 1:14. Lactantius thus uses the key terms of Hebrews 1—virtus, maiestas, virtus, verbum, ministerium, differentia[us], generare—in a definite sequence. Individually, one could find an alternative source of any and/or all of these terms. Notably, John McGuckin finds Hebrews 1:4, Hebrews 1:7–8 and Hebrews 1:12–14 in this section (McGuckin, “Lactantius as Theologian: an Angelic Christology on the Eve of Nicaea,” Rivista di Storia e Letteratura Religiosa 22, no. 3 [1986]: 492–97, at 493). 702 Jason Gehrke Lactantius to express the unity of nature between the Father and the Son in terms of virtus. The same ontological notions distinguish the Son from the “other angels.” The whole account is made intelligible by the logic and language of power theology. Proverbs 8 and Hebrews 1 provide the basis for Lactantius’s opening remarks on the Son.59 The account begins with an explanation of the pre-existent Son. Lactantius attributes to the Son a distinctive title, which marks the Son as divine in the way that the Father is divine: Therefore (as I said in the second book) God the Maker and Constitutor of the world, before he attempted this brilliant work of the universe, generated [genuit] a holy and incorruptible spirit [sanctum et incorruptibilem spiritum], whom he officially designated as his son [nuncuparet filium]. Although afterwards he had created countless others, whom we call angels, he nevertheless deemed this Firstborn alone worthy of the Divine Name [Heb 1:4], in that he was exercising [pollentem] the Father’s virtus and majesty [patria virtute et maiestate = Heb 1:3–4]. Moreover, not only do the words of the prophets agree unanimously [Heb 1:1], but even the preaching of Trismegistus and the predictions of the Sibyls show that he is the Son of the Most High and endowed [praeditus] with the supreme power [maxima potentia].60 These lines indicate the Son’s status as God by showing that the Son bears the Name, which signifies the Son’s possession of the Father’s distinctive 59 60 Cyprian, Testimonia Quirinum [Quir.] 2.1. This comment does not negate the fact that Quir. 2.1 shapes Lactantius’s presentation until Inst. 4.9. Inst. 4.6.1–3. See Elizabeth Digeser, Making of a Christan Empire: Lactantius and Rome (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2000), 70–73, where this passage is supposedly grounded in Asclepius 8. The term virtus ac maiestas is taken as evidence that a Hermetic influence dominates his thinking on Christ. Monat sees the influence of Proverbs 8 in this chapter and notes also Hebrews 1:4 at 4.6.8 (Lactance et La Bible, 168–74). Biblia Patristica II notes Hebrews 1:7. Additionally, Lactantius’s above association of a Wisdom Christology with the theology of the Name has a clear precedent in Tertullian, Prax. 19.4.30: “In the Scriptures, this power [vis] and this arrangement of the divine mind [sensus] is also shown under the name of Wisdom. Cf. Inst. 4.8.11, where Lactantius pairs virtus and sensus. Loi refers virtus in this passage to 1 Cor 1:24 (Lattanzio, 213n37). René Braun also attributes it to 1 Corinthians 1:24 and Luke 1:35, noting the currency of this meaning in “Justin et ses successeurs” (Deus Christianorum: Recherche sur le vocabulaire doctrinal de Tertullien, 2nd ed. [Paris: Études Augustiniennes, 1977], 280–81). Lactantius's Power Theolog y 703 virtus.61 Lactantius identifies the divinity of the Son by the terms maxima potentia and pollentem patria virtute. The significance of this title is shown by comparison with Inst. 1.3.23–34.62 In Lactantius’s anti-pagan argument, maximus et pollens marks the Father’s exclusive nature. The title attributes to Christ precisely what it denied to the traditional gods—the virtus and potestas of the divine nature.63 This language of power, shaped by Cyprian’s exegesis, locates Lactantius’s theology within the Christological trajectories of pre-Nicene Latin Christianity.64 His terms take up the earlier formula and confirm that Lactantius’s use of virtus to represent the Son entails a power theology. After briefly explaining that the Son was born twice, Lactantius situates the Son relative to the “other angels.” His theological sequence is shaped by McGuckin, Researches, 183. McGuckin notes that Lactantius derives this title from Hebrews 1:3, and further distinguishes Christ’s status as a name, “which no other except [the Father] knows. . . Here the Epistle uses the distinction of the ‘name Christ has inherited’ as the measure of his essential superiority over the angels. In both Hebrews and the DI this distinguishing title is one of Sonship.” Cf. Inst. 4.7.4: “Although none other knows his name, which the Father placed upon him in the beginning, he has nevertheless one designation [aliud vacubulum] and among human beings another.” 62 See Inst. 4.2; see also note 34 above. 63 Loi, Lattanzio, 212. Lactantius’s use of Proverbs 8 and the notion of the Son as “spirit” belies the influence of Tertullian’s Prax. Loi showed this linguistically here: “If The expression vox dei in reference to the Son is not attested prior to Lactance, the theological conception contained within it is not therefore extraneous to Tertullian and other ealier writers.” However, Loi continues here: “La equivalenza stabilita da Lattanzio tra le espressioni Verbum Dei e Vox Dei conferma il carattere realisticamente antropomorfico della concezione lattanziana della generazione divina attraverso il processo della prolatio vocis ac spiritus” (“The equivalency that Lactantius establishes between the expressions Verbum Dei and Vox Dei confirms the realistically anthropomorphic character of the Lactantian conception of the divine generation through the process of the prolatio vocis ac spiritus [bringing forth of the word and spirit]”). Barnes, however, has shown that the use of Proverbs 8 and Hebrews 1 is a feature of the earliest Christian pneumatologies, which arise from the Jewish context. Tertullian and Origen change this exegesis in the context of their anti-Monarchian argument (Michel Barnes, “The Beginning and End of Early Christian Pneumatology,” Augustinian Studies 39, no. 2 [2008]: 169–86, esp. 171–73 and 184–86). Lactantius’s identification of the Son with Wisdom is a mark of that influence. For the anti-Monarchian context of Origen’s theology see Stephen Waers, Monarchianism and Origen’s Early Trinitarian Theology (Unpublished Dissertation, Marquette University, 2016). 64 Cyprian, Quir. 2.1–4, lists all of the texts that were most significant for pre-Nicene Latin power theology and places them in an order of presentation that Lactantius employs. 61 704 Jason Gehrke the first chapter of Hebrews and the sequence of Cyprian’s exegesis: How then did he produce [him]? First, the divine works [opera divina] can be neither known nor explained by anyone. Still, it has been safeguarded for us in the Holy Scriptures [Heb 1:1] that the Son of God is the audible word [sermonem] and that the other angels are the breath of God [dei spiritus—Heb 1:3–4]. For an audible word [sermo] is breath [spiritus] brought forth with signification [Prax. 8.5]. Nonetheless, since breath and an audible word are brought forth from different parts—for breath proceeds from the nostrils but speech from the mouth [Ps 33:6]—there is a great difference [differentia = Heb 1:4] between this Son of God and the other angels . . . [4.8.11] . . . by so much more [than our words] must we believe that the Word of God remains forever attended [comitari] by the virtus and understanding [sensus], which it draws from the Father like a river from its source!65 These lines are typical of pre-Nicene Latin theology in two ways. First, Lactantius’s distinction between the Son and the angels, along with his identification of the Son as the Word, is immediately supported by references to Psalm 33:6 and Psalm 44:2. Shortly hereafter, Lactantius quotes the Sibylline Oracle to illustrate the argument from pagan sources. This exegesis underscores Lactantius’s reliance on biblical sources.66 Secondly, 65 66 Inst. 4.8.6–9. Cf. Inst. 4.8.11. Monat notes the close resemblance of this thought with Hebrews 1:4 but still finds that, “Lactance n’est pas assez théologien pour établir nettement une distinction entre nature et fonction” (Lactance et la Bible, 174). McGuckin, says, “In fact, Lactantius follows the angelic doctrine of Tertullian which interprets it as a description of a function rather than a nature and applies it with the context of a revelatory Logos-theology” (“Lactantius as Theologian,” 495). Lactantius, however, follows Tertullian by identifying the nature through the observance of the power disclosed by the functional distinction. Of course, angelomorphic Christology (and Pneumatology) recalls the enduring influence of Jewish traditions in Lactantius as well. See Charles Gieschen, Angelomorphic Christology: Antecedents and Early Evidence (Leiden: Brill, 1998), and more recently, Bogdan Bucur, Angelomorphic Early Pneumatology: Clement of Alexandria and Other Early Christian Witnesses (Leiden: Brill, 2009). Inst. 4.6.5–6. See Monat’s comments underscore the traditional character of this exegesis: “The teaching about the Word given in Adversus Praxean makes apparent in conjunction with three texts of 8.27/Psalm 33:2/John 1:1–3 . . .” (Lactance et La Bible, 176); Lactantius does not quote John 1:3 until Inst. 4.9.3, a chapter borrowed largely from Tertullian, Prax. 5.3. See Heck and Wlosok, Divinarum Institutionum Libri Septem, 336. Lactantius's Power Theolog y 705 the definition of “an audible word brought forth with signification,” along with the reference to the Son as spirit and the use of Proverbs 8:22–31, bears the imprint of Tertullian’s Adversus Praxeam 8–9.67 A comparison of the above text with Tertullian’s (Adv. Prax. 8–9) shows the way Lactantius adapts the traditional pre-Nicene theology for his apologetic context. Lactantius’s concern with the Son’s position relative to the angels is traditional.68 It is not, however, a concern of Adversus Praxeam 8, where Tertullian defends the notion of “two” in an anti-Monarchian argument.69 Lactantius does not simply restate Tertullian’s theology. He receives Tertullian’s theology, but fashions an account that is attentive both to later theological developments within Christianity and to the concerns of his non-Christian audience. Lactantius opposes anti-Monarchian theology, but two additional factors shape his presentation. The first factor is Lactantius’s need to avoid self-contradiction. His denunciation of the traditional gods asserted that the One Power cannot be divided among a plurality of powers.70 In that context, he repeated Tertullian’s claim that such derivative powers would be merely “satellites and ministers of God.” 71 Distinguishing Christ from the angels by means of virtus forestalls the claim that Lactantius has reintroduced the very pluralistic doctrine he rejected. This section thus navigates the Scylla of contradiction and the Charybdis of Monarchianism. The second factor explains Lactantius’s choice to situate the Son relative See Tertullian, Prax. 8.5: “This will be the ‘projection’ of the Truth, the guardian of the unity, and because of it we say that the Son was ‘brought forth’ [prolatum] from the Father, but not separated . . . just as root and shoot, font and flow, sun and ray.” Cf. Tertullian, Apologeticus 21.11 and Lactantius, Inst. 4.6.8–9. Cf. Inst. 3.3.1. See Loi, Lattanzio, 215–16. On Tertullian, Joseph Moingt compares this to Athenagoras and Theophilus as well (La Théologie Trinitaire de Tertullien [Paris: Aubier, 1966], 243). 68 M. Barnes, Power of God, 105: “Positioning the Son vis-à-vis the angels is an enduring central concern of Latin christology: virtus language places some burden on this argument since . . . Tertullian uses virtutes to mean angels, and the Son must be distinguished from these ‘powers.’” 69 Tertullian, Prax. 8.5. See Moingt, Théologie Trinitaire de Tertullien, 989–90: “The reason expressed by this metaphorical teaching is then to show [faire apparaitre] the unity in that same place where the separation seems to be produced [se produire], in the act where the Son goes out from the Father, to show that this ‘prolation’ or ‘exit [sortie]’ is not any division, but a promotion, that is to say, a generation in the non-division of the substance.” 70 See Inst. 4.2. Furthermore, Tertullian, Apologeticus 23.12, says that the gods were in fact demons. He also says in De carne Christi 14, “the other gods are not gods but satellites and ministers” (my translation). 71 See Inst. 4.2; see also note 34. 67 706 Jason Gehrke to the angels. Scholars have taken this preoccupation with the angels as evidence of Lactantius’s limited acquaintance with the most recent Latin theologies of his period.72 In fact, the narrative reflects the apologetic strategy that guides his use of Cyprian’s Ad Quirinum. At Inst. 4.5.3–5, Lactantius justified his use of the Scriptures, even to the pagan audience, by repeating the traditional apologetic argument from prophetic fulfillment.73 As he uses Cyprian’s Ad Qurinum, then, Lactantius cites the Old Testament text Cyprian offers, but narrates the New Testament theology that shapes Cyprian’s exegesis.74 His account reflects the Johannine refer McGuckin argued that “the angel Christology of Lactantius, although strangely preserved up to the eve of the Arian crisis itself, which saw the final demise of this tradition, its attempted use as an argument against the deity of Christ, is fundamentally orthodox” (“Lactantius as Theologian,” 497). McGuckin argued contra Loi, who viewed the angel Christology as further evidence of Lactantius’s lack of sophistication and failure to distinguish the Son’s nature by a technical ontology (Lattanzio, 177). McGuckin also cites Grillmeier, who said that “Judaistically conditioned christology is predominantly functional, not ontological” (Christ in the Christian Tradition, 47–53). McGuckin cites Cyprian, Quir. 2.5 (“quod idem angelus et deus Christus”), as evidence for the patristic authority of this otherwise bizarre theology. The discussion shows the way scholars viewed Lactantius’s theology as strange and archaic because they did not fully appreciate its logic and technical terms. 73 Inst. 4.5.2–5: “Before I begin to speak about God and his works, I need to say a few things about his prophets, whose testimonies must now be used, even though I held off [ne facerem temperavi] from doing this in previous books. Before all things [ante omnia], he who desires to comprehend the truth [= John 1:5—veritatem studet comprehendere] must pay attention not only to the words of the prophets, but even [their] time [in history] . . . so that he may know what future events they proclaimed and after how many years their prophecies were fulfilled.” 74 Cyprian’s Quir. 2.1–4 is as much a theological arrangement making a doctrinal argument as it is a kind of florilegium of texts. Cyprian’s Testimonia are just that— witnesses to Christ culled from the OT prophets and arranged as a narrative of history read through the revelation of Jesus. The organization of Quir. 2.1–3 is a signature example of that method. Quir. 2.139 reads “Quod idem sit et sapientia et uirtus dei [1 Cor 1:22–24].” The next heading is Quir. 2.2.1: “quod sapientia dei christus, et de sacramento concarnationis eius et passionis et calicis et altaris et apostolorum, qui missi praedicauerunt [Prov 9 :1–6].” The next is: “Quod christus idem sit sermo dei: [Ps 42:6] ‘In psalmo xliii: eructuauit cor meum sermonem bonum, dico ego opera mea regi.’ [Ps 33:6] Item in psalmo xxxi: sermone dei caeli solidati sunt et spiritu eius omnis uirtus eorum. [Ps 107:20] Item in psalmo cu: misit sermonem suum et curauit illos. [ John 1:3] Item in euangelio cata Iohannem: in principio fuit sermo et sermo erat apud deum et deus erat sermo.” This context is a point for further investigation, given Lactantius’s development of a universal historical narrative (Colot, Penser la conversion de Rome, 262–311), and the persistence of such a perspective in Augustine. 72 Lactantius's Power Theolog y 707 ence of “Quod Christus idem sermo Dei,” but his apology follows the order of presentation under the heading. He cites Psalm 42:1 and Psalm 33:6. He skips the two following references, probably for reasons of their content. Then, in much the same way that Cyprian cites John 1:1 at the end of this prophetic development, Lactantius turns to the Gospel text of John 1:3 at Inst. 4.9, only after demonstrating Christ’s identity from more ancient testimonies. The Johannine theology appears then as a consummation of the historical promise. Tertullian provides Lactantius’s ontological logic; Cyprian furnishes the exegesis, as he takes pains to advance a “Catholic” position (Inst. 4.30). Lactantius continues at length to emphasize the ontological distinction between Christ and the angels by distinguishing between their respective power and functions.75 Drawing still upon Hebrews, Lactantius expresses the purpose of the Son’s coming to humanity: For those breaths [Ps 33:6] go out from God silently, because they were not created for bearing God’s teaching, but for ministry [ad ministerium = Heb 1:7, 14]. Although he is breath, still he proceeds as a word with vocalization and sound from God’s mouth [Ps 33:5–6], particularly for this reason, because he was going to use his word for the people. That is, because he would be [ futurus] the master of God’s teaching in order to convey the secret of heaven to humanity.76 The logic of power theology reveals the philosophical premises that sustain Cf. Tertullian, De carne Christi 14: “So then, the other gods will not be gods [dei], but his emissaries [satellites] and ministers” (my translation). 76 Inst. 4.8.7–10: Note well that the following lines are the very same that Studer and Loi used to define Lactantius’s account of the Son as ontologically unsubstantial (See note 4 above). Monat comments: “[Lactantius’s] long explanations of the Logos [theology] contained in the following chapter, as well as the images intended, make the Prolation [of the Son] understood, are close to Tertullian Apol. 21.10–14 and a part of Adv. Prax. 7 as well. But in these passages, Tertullian is himself largely a tributary of Justin, Tatien, Athenagoras, and Theophilus.” Cf. Tertullian, Prax. 24.10: “That I am in the Father and the Father in me, or if not, believe for the very works’ sake—those works in fact through which the Father was seen in the Son, not with the eyes but with the mind” (trans. E. Evans [London: SPCK, 1948], 169). Cf. Novatian, De Trinitate 31.2, where Tertullian’s language of prolatio appears alongside an emphasis upon the Son as revealer of arcana and secreta Patris. On Ps 33:6 and Ps 104:30 as sources for theology of early Christian pneumatology, see M. Barnes, “Beginning and End of Early Christian Pneumatology,” 171–72. 75 708 Jason Gehrke this stylized presentation of an otherwise traditional Christology. Lactantius certainly uses an anthropomorphic image, but only in accordance with an exegetical precedent derived from Tertullian.77 His text, foundational for pre-Nicene Latin power theologies, argued that, “through the works [per opera], we understand that Father and Son are [esse] One . . . [such that] . . . two should be believed albeit in one power [in una virtute].”78 Tertullian worked deductively; Lactantius works back to Tertullian’s position inductively, that is, historically. Lactantius takes the epistemological element—“by the works two are believed”—of Tertullian’s argument as his point of departure. He first observes the distinct works of the Son and the angels. The angels perform one action (i.e., silent ministry), while the Son has another (i.e., teaching). On that basis, Lactantius discerns a “great difference [magna differentia]” between Christ and the other angels.79 Lactantius’s distinction on the basis of their works leads to a firm judgment about the Son’s identity relative both to the Father and to the angels. He attributes to the Son a virtus which the angels do not have—the Father’s very own: He spoke him first, that through him to us he might speak, and so reveal the word and will of God. Therefore, he is deservedly called the speech and Word of God, because God comprehended a vocal spirit proceeding from his own mouth, whom he had conceived not in a womb, but in [his] mind by some unthinkable virtue [virtus] of his own majesty and power [inexcogitabili suae maiestatis virtute ac potentia] and he comprehended [him] in an image [effigiem], which is strong by its own sentience and wisdom; and then he formed his own spirits into angels.80 These lines reassert a distinction between Christ and the angels, which is ontologically equivalent to his earlier distinction between God and the demons. The Son alone is the Father’s maxima potentia, the virtus patria maiestatis. Therein is found Lactantius’s account of the unity between Grillmeier (citing Loi) emphasizes the anthropomorphic terms rather than the ontological logic: “This text, with its very anthropomorphic flavor and its parallels, gives us some idea of Lactantius’ notion of the relationship of Father to Son in one God. But it should be noted that he speaks as an apologist and descends to the level of his audience. The anthropomorphisms are comparisons and analogies” (Christ in the Christian Tradition, 196). 78 Tertullian, Prax. 22.13. 79 See note 64 above. 80 Inst. 4.8.8–10. 77 Lactantius's Power Theolog y 709 Father and Son: the Son does not possess just any power. He has the Father’s supreme power [maxima potestas], the very power that designates the Father’s distinctive status as God.81 Lactantius’s later restates this logic. Borrowing an argument from Novatian, he says: “God’s power [virtus dei] appeared [apparuit] from the works [ex operibus] he did, human frailty [fragilitas] from the passion he endured.”82 His language of virtus, defined by power theology, asserts the traditional logic of pre-Nicene Latin Christianity. Lactantius does not stop at the simple assertion of Christ’s unity with the Father. He shows an awareness of problems in Tertullian’s presentation and attempts to forestall its pitfalls. Lactantius takes pains to distinguish the specific identity of the Son. He explains that the Son is the very power of the Father, but in such a way that the Son has an existence proper to himself. Once again, the notion of power [virtus] anchors both the Son’s unity with the Father and the Son’s independent existence [vigeat]. The above passage continues as follows: God comprehended a vocal breath [spiritus] proceeding from his own mouth, whom he had conceived not in a womb, but in [his] mind by some unthinkable virtue [virtus] of his own majesty and power [inexcogitabili suae maiestatis virtute ac potentia] to be an Monat observes that this description of the angels as “breaths” is drawn from Psalms 1–3 (104.4) and the Epistle to the Hebrews, saying that Lactantius does give Christ the title princeps angelorum, but then proceeding: “The title, which is conferred upon him designates a function, and does not pass judgment in any way upon his nature” (Lactance et La Bible, 174n68). However, the designation of a function in Lactantius’s argument entails the distinction of power and nature. 82 Inst. 4.13.4. Lactantius seems here to be influenced by Novatian, De Trinitate 11.4, which provides a linguistic context for this argument: “As indeed they consider the weakness of [his] humanity, they do not likewise reckon the powers of God [Dei virtutes]; they gather the infirmities of the flesh, but they exclude the powers of divinity. But if this proof given on the basis of Christ’s infirmities leads to the conclusion that his humanity is shown from his infirmities, proof of the divinity in him drawn from his powers [virtutibus] will lead to the conclusion that even God is asserted on the basis of his works [ex operibus]. If indeed his passions show the human weakness in him, why do not his works assert the divine power [divinam potestatem] in him?” Cf. Inst. 1.9.6 and 2.8 and notes 26 and 34 above. Furthermore, Lactantius has already applied these terms—fragilitas humana, infirmitas—and argument negatively in the polemic against the Roman gods (note 34) and in his definition of God via creatio ex nihilo (note 26). This technical discourse is overlooked in previous translation. Bowen and Garnsey, Divine Institutes, 244, translate: “The strength of God appears in him in the deeds which he did and the weakness of man in the suffering he endured.” 81 710 Jason Gehrke exact copy [in effigiem], which waxes strong [vigeat] with a wisdom and sentience proper to itself [proprio sapientia et sensu]; then he fashioned [ figuravit] his other breaths [suos spiritus] into angels.83 With this point, Lactantius corrects a weakness of Tertullian’s theology in Adversus Praxeam 11–16. Tertullian tends to describe the Son and Spirit as properties of the Father, and thus collapse the persons, as Barnes and Joseph Moignt both explain.84 Lactantius’s description of Christ as a “copy” Inst. 4.8.9–10. Cf. Inst, 1.3.4, where the same adjective, propria, describes the One Power: “Moreover, God, who is eternal mind [mens aeterna], is in each and every part of perfect and consummate virtus. And if this is true, it is necessary that he be One. For absolute potestas or rather virtus holds its own integrity [firmitatem].” On this passage, Paul [ John A.] McGuckin, “Spirit Christology: Lactantius and His Sources,” Heythrop Journal (1983): 144–45, characterized “the inarticulate state of Lactantius’s pneumatology” and noted that it “has frequently been explained on the basis of theological incompetence.” M. Barnes, commenting on Tertullian’s use of Psalm 33:6, Proverbs 8, and John 1:3 in connection with Prax. 26–27, explains the invention by Tertullian and Origen of a new theology of the Holy Spirit in response to Spirit-Monarchianism: “The creative activity of the ‘Spirit’ in such LXX passages is read through the interpretive lens of John 1:3 [e.g., Inst. 4.9]: the Word or Spirit created all things. (This argument is expanded by the identification of the Word/Spirit with Wisdom: LXX testimonies to Wisdom’s role in creation are taken to restate the doctrine announced in Psalm 33:6 and John 1:3). . . . The key passages are now understood to refer to the pre-existent Son in support of a theology of his distinct and personal existence [e.g., Inst. 4.6.1–3, 8–10] before and during His incarnation” (“Beginning and End of Early Christian Pneumatology,” 181). These remarks are an excellent description of what is happening in Lactantius. Monat rejected Loi’s identification of John 1:3 in this passage (Monat, Lactance et La Bible, 174; see Loi, Lattanzio, 161), but no one disputes Lactantius’s use of John 1:3 at Inst. 4.9, which adopts Tertullian’s argument (Prax., 5.2–3; Apologeticus 21.10; Min. Fel. 19.10) wholesale. See Monat, Lactance et La Bible, 174n66.Where then scholarship has seen a merely archaic theology, it seems better to say that Lactantius reflects the third-century development of an anti-Monarchian exegesis in Tertullian and Origen. That emphasis reflects his keen awareness of third-century heresies (see Inst. 4.30) which he intends to forestall even through this admittedly apologetic narrative. Lactantius’s use of Hebrews 1 invites a search for sources outside the Latin tradition. 83 84 M. Barnes, Power of God, 105–106: “Part of the difficulty with following Tertullian’s thought here is that he collapses the distinction between product and property, or rather, Tertullian understands Power, Wisdom, and Word to be a certain class of products that exist in their producer as properties, and conversely, as properties that exist as products. The relationship between God (the Father) and the second Person can only be described in the play between such categories (as property and product). The Son is a product of the divine substance, but that generation is of the kind that the identity of the product Lactantius's Power Theolog y 711 or “image” attempts to avoid the problem by emphasizing that identifying the Son as the Father’s virtus maxima does not undermine the Son’s real and independent existence. Such a concern reflects a later stage of the pre-Nicene doctrinal conversation.85 is ‘to stand in relation to the substance,’ to exist because of what the substance is. Tertullian is expressing a ‘genetic’ understanding of an X from X causality as finely as he can: the Son is what the Father is but not as the Father is (and so, not the Father).” See also Moignt, Théologie Trinitaire de Tertulien, 345–50: “The Word seems to have been placed at the rank of the intellectual attributes; it is to God what the intellect is to the Soul, an operative function, an ingenium [that is, an inward capacity].” Although definitive proof is lacking, this passage may reflect a substantial influence of Origen, one that comes by the medium of a specific text. Inst. 4.6.1–3 and 4.8.6–10 through 4.9.1–3 should be read alongside De Principiis 1.2.7–9. Several things suggest this conclusion. The first item of note is Lactantius’s exegetical basis. According to M. Barnes: “Origen’s use of power . . . is based upon an exegesis of 1 Cor 1:24, Heb 1:3, and Wisdom 7:25. His unique contribution to trinitarian theology is to develop a new ‘Wisdom’ account of the Godhead based on these texts. . . . The use of these three scriptural texts together in mutual support of a common exegesis of power becomes an indication of the influence of Origen on all sides in the trinitarian controversies” (Power of God, 111). Lactantius does not quote Wis 7:25, but the proceeding two texts are both influential in his Wisdom-theology of the Son. As Kendeffy has shown, 1 Corinthians 1:18–24 is fundamental to his critique and his larger presentation of Christ as Wisdom (see “Velamentum Stultitiae”; Biblia Patristica finds allusions to 1 Corinthians 1:24 at Inst. 4.9.1 and 4.16.2, as well as Epitome 37.2 and 44.1). Furthermore, Lactantius’s use of Hebrews is not accounted for by any of his undisputed sources. As Paul [ John] McGuckin explained, “All Lactantius’ references to Hebrews are clearly independent of the Ad Quirinum which does not reproduce a single text from that source (Paul McGuckin, “The Non-Cyprianic Scripture Texts in Lactantius’s Divine Institutes,” Vigiliae Christianae 36, no. 2 [1982]: 147). This absence prompts the search for a source (Antonie Wlosok, “Zur Bedeutung der nicht-Cyprianischen Bibelzitate bei Laktanz,” Studia Patristica 4, no. 79 [1961]: 234–50). At De Principiis 1.2.1, Origen introduces the Son by drawing on the same text of Proverbs 8 that Lactantius uses above (Inst. 6.1–3; see note 43). Origen uses the title “Wisdom” and concludes the paragraph by quoting 1 Corinthians 1:24 (De Principiis 1.2.1.8.15) in order to call the Son God’s power, much as Lactantius begins (Inst. 6.1–3) with Wisdom-theology and then calls the Son the virtus patria maxima. Origen soon uses Hebrews 1:3 to distinguish the Son’s unique existence from the Father. Prompted by the phrase figura expressa eius substantiae [Heb 1:3], he elaborates using the image of “a statue [statuta]” exactly like that which it portrays, except that the statue can be comprehended because it is not so immense as the original. Origen says the Son is “in appearance and material totally similar [per omnia similis], but far from the immensity of [his] magnitude [absque magnitudinis immensitate]” (De Principiis 1.2.8). In a foundational text for later accounts of the Son in terms of power theology (see Ayres, Nicaea and Its 85 712 Jason Gehrke Lactantius’s Analogies Reconsidered The preceding sections have established the technical content of Lactantius’s account of the divine nature and the ontology his language of virtus conveys. The judgment that virtus conveys a power theology invites us to reconsider Lactantius’s later explanation of the Son’s unity with the Father, especially because previous analyses judged his terms unsubstantial.86 Modern scholarship regarded the later passage as evidence of Lactantius’s incomplete theological formulation and explained his analogy as a mark of Roman orientation toward rhetoric and law.87 However, Lactantius’s later metaphors presuppose the ontological content of the preceding discussion and reflect the traditional idiom of pre-Nicene Latin Christianity. At Inst. 4.29, Lactantius expresses the unity between the Father and Son in a series of metaphors. The most famous is one drawn from Roman law, which has appeared to scholars as crude, to say the least. However, the legal metaphor appears only at the end of a substantial series of metaphors grounded in the notion of virtus. Lactantius opens by invoking language clearly derivative of Tertullian and the broad pre-Nicene Latin tradition: Since therefore the Father makes the Son, and the Son the Father, each is one mind, one spirit, one substance [substantia]: but one a sort of gushing fountain, the other as a river flowing out of it [defluens ex eo rivus]; one as the Sun, the other as [quasi] a ray of light extended out of the sun.88 Legacy, 24), Origen uses Hebrews 1:3 along with the image of statuta, a term that is effectively equivalent to Lactantius’s effigies above. Compared with De Principiis 1.2.9, Lactantius’s discussion at Inst. 4.8.8–10 looks remarkably derivative. Not only does the narrative progression follow De Principiis 1.2.7–9, but Lactantius uses a theological argument that is indistinguishable and an exegesis for which previous scholarship has located no clear source. The combined elements suggest that Lactantius has corrected a weakness of Tertullian’s theology through a debt to Origen. 86 See notes 2–4 above. 87 E.g., Grillmeier, Christ in the Christian Tradition, 194: “It has an advantage over the strong stress of the moral interpretation of the unity of Father and Son in pointing to the unity of substance in God, however, incomplete the ideas associated with it may have been. When Lactantius uses the analogy of the paterfamilias in God, he is probably betraying his Roman connections.” See also note 56 above. 88 Inst. 4.29.4–5. Cf. Tertulian, Apologeticus 21.13: “And as the ray is stretched forth from the sun, a portion from the highest [portio ex summa]; but the sun remains in the ray, because a ray of the sun is not separated in its substance but extended [from the sun].” Cf. also Novatian, De Trinitate 31, and Hippolytus, Contra Noetum 11.1. See Ayres, Nicaea and Its Legacy, 23. Lactantius's Power Theolog y 713 These terms reflect the predominant language of the pre-Nicene Latin tradition. They emphasize the singularity of substantia, but also interpret the notions of mens and spiritus in terms of virtus. In this respect, the above lines repeat the definition: “God, moreover, who is eternal mind [mens aeterna], is in every part [a being] of perfect and consummate virtus [virtutis].”89 The prior notion of power shapes the moral element of this presentation. Lactantius presents the unity of the Father and Son as demonstrated in the virtus of fides. The presumption that shared action denotes shared nature informs his references to the Son’s fidelity and the Father’s love for the Son. Unanimity of action indicates unity of substance: Since he is faithful and dear to the Highest Father, he is not separated, just as a river is not separated from its source nor a ray from the sun, because the water of a source is in the river and the light of the sun in the ray; in the same way, the voice cannot be divided from the tongue nor power [virtus] from the hand or body. Since therefore the prophets call him the hand, power [virtus], and Word [sermo] of God, so there is no distinction, because the tongue, which is the minister of speech, and the hand in which is power [virtus] are individual parts of the body.90 By emphasizing this element of fidelity, Lactantius forestalls the accusation of self-contradiction. His early polemic maintained that a plurality of gods would produce a disunity of mind, and therefore conflict. On that basis, Lactantius asserted that God must be of a single mens and virtus (Inst. 1.3–24). Lactantius’s emphasis upon Christ’s fidelity responds to that early claim.91 At the same time, this portrait of Christ’s fides responds to LactanInst. 1.3.2–4. Inst. 4.29.5. Cf. Cyprian, Quir. 2.4: “That Christ is the very hand and might arm of God [manus et brachium dei].” See also Briggman, Irenaeus of Lyons and the Theology of the Holy Spirit, 105–20, on the “hands of God” theme in sources known to Lactantius. Briggman suggests that Novatian appropriated Irenaeus’s hands tradition, despite Novatian’s stated opposition to anthropomorphisms (313). 91 See Inst. 1.3.6–9 and note 16 above. See also Inst. 4.29.9: “Since both the Son is in the Father, because the Father loves the Son, and the Father is in the Son, because he is faithfully subject [paret] to the will of the Father and never does or would act, unless the Father either has willed or commanded.” It is the same argument as when Tertullian says that “Per opera ergo erit Pater in Filio et Filius in patre. Et ita per opera intellegimus unum esse Patrem ‘et Filium’” (Prax. 22.13). Loi acknowledges the phrase “una mens, unus spiritus, una substantia” but then 89 90 714 Jason Gehrke tius’s own critique of the traditional gods. Just as the gods’ lack of virtue betrayed their humanity, Christ’s virtue of fides bespeaks his divinity. The same logic operates at both stages of the discourse. Lactantius’s illustration of the Son’s unity through the analogy of Roman law appears only within the context of the preceding ontological claims. His metaphor refashions Tertullian’s analogy from monarchy, but locates it in a domestic context.92 Lactantius introduces the metaphor as an illustration of the ontology he holds: Let me use a more fitting illustration [propiore exemplo]: When someone has a son whom he loves uniquely, who nevertheless is in the home and the hand of his father, although he allows [the son] the name and power of a master, still under the civil law the household remains one and designates one master. Likewise, this world is the one household of God, both Father and Son, who single-mindedly [unanimes] oversee the world, one God, because one is as [tamquam] two and two as One.93 Lactantius thus sets his analogy among a series of metaphors designed to illustrate his otherwise traditional power theology. The problem Lactantius deals with by this juxtaposition of ontological and legal notions is the same problem he attempts to navigate by the notion of Christ as a three-dimensional image (effigies). In both cases, he maintains the unity in distinction of the persons. Within the context of his larger discussion, these metaphors locate his account of the unity within the same substantial tradition that characterizes the theologies of Tertullian, Cyprian, and Novatian. Lactantius has formulated a traditional presentation of Christian doctrine, but tailored his discussion to the context at hand. His account responds to traditional “pagan” theologies, but avoids the errors of third-century heresies. negates its force by reading the reference to Christ’s fides and the Father’s love (carus) against the line: “But this assertion is overridden in the theological value [he places] on the explanation given shortly thereafter, according to which the unity has a moral character, in that it is guaranteed by the fidelity and the love of the Son for the Father; and thus, Lactantius finds his best argument in the analogy with the unity between the pater familias and his own only begotten son in Roman law.” However, the significance of this fides and amor lies in their expressions of the perfect potestas and virtus which, as opera they express. In short, misunderstanding of the underlying notion of virtus perpetuates this notion that Lactantius conceived of a merely moral unity. 92 Tertullian, Prax. 3. 93 Inst. 4.29.7. Lactantius's Power Theolog y 715 Conclusion Modern theological scholarship has generally appreciated Lactantius as a witness to the interaction between Greco-Roman culture and the emergent Christianity of the Constantinian period. Although his historical writings proved to be a major source of information on Roman politics in the era of Diocletian and Constantine, a great deal of scholarly investigation operated with the assumption of Lactantius’s intellectual remove from the pre-Nicene theological conversation. Lactantius’s use of power theology indicates that his position was more consistent with pre-Nicene Latin theology than scholars have previously appreciated. His presentation of the divine nature in terms of virtus fits neatly among the works of theologians who took their cues from Tertullian, while his account of the unity between the Father and Son shows his sensitivity to later third-century controversies. Lactantius himself claimed to represent a “Catholic” position (Inst. 4.30) and explicitly rejected the major heresies of the previous generation. He therefore reasserts dominant trajectories of pre-Nicene Latin theology, while addressing the apologetic exigencies of the Great Persecution. By extension, such an evaluation invites scholars to reconsider larger questions about the role of Lactantius and his theology in the Constantinian era, especially because he represented a traditional pre-Nicene Latin position during a pivotal time in the social and political N&V history of the Roman Empire.94 Lactantius has a role in major historical and theological discussions of Christianity in the Constantinian period. See, e.g., Peter J. Leithart, Defending Constantine: The Twilight of an Empire and the Dawn of Christendom (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2010), 28; Charles Odahl, Constantine and the Christian Empire (New York: Routledge, 2010), 42–65; Digeser, Lactantius and Rome; J. Alexander Sider, “Constantine and Myths of the Fall of the Church: An Anabaptist View,” Mennonite Quareterly Review 85 (2011): 631–42; John D. Roth, Constantine Revisited: Leithart, Yoder, and the Constantinian Debate (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2013). Behind these stands, John Howard Yoder, The Politics of Jesus: Vicit Agnus Noster (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1994), which does not consider Lactantius, but doing so might have adjusted his position. 94 Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 17, No. 3 (2019): 717–746 717 The Incipient Probabilism of Francisco de Vitoria Gregory Pine, O.P. Dominican House of Studies Washington, DC Many appeal to Francisco de Vitoria (ca. 1483–1546) for their grand narratives of moral and political modernity. The place he occupies in the doctrine of natural rights and international law are well-documented.1 Within these genealogies, Vitoria is often used to bridge the medieval tradition and the modern world. Some interpret him as a conservative reader of St. Thomas, while others interpret him as a progressive thinker. In a recent article, Luis Valenzuela-Vermehren acknowledges how the past century of scholarship has failed to adequately comprehend the Thomistic cast of Vitoria’s thought, leading in turn to intractable disputes regarding his place in the tradition.2 To remedy the current state of affairs, Valenzuela-Vermehren argues that one must distinguish the basic tenets of the relevant Thomistic teaching in order to understand Vitoria in context. In his article, Valenzuela-Vermehren recapitulates a standard interpretation of Thomistic natural law theory to contend against what he holds are unfounded claims regarding Vitoria’s place in the development of international law. Interestingly though, after Valenzuela-Vermehren exposits the Thomistic doctrine, he simply claims it for Vitoria, and then critiques contemporary construals.3 He does not engage directly or adequately with Vitoria as an independent thinker (even suppositionally), nor does he See, for instance, Brian Tierney, The Idea of Natural Rights: Studies on Natural Rights, Natural Law, and Church Law, 1150–1625 (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2001). 2 Luis Valenzuela-Vermehren, “Creating Justice in an Emerging World: The Natural Law Basis of Francisco de Vitoria’s Political and International Thought,” Ideas y Valores 66 (2017): 39–64. 3 See Valenzuela-Vermehren, “Creating Justice,” 57. 1 718 Gregory Pine, O.P. make an adequate textual study of Vitoria’s reception of St. Thomas. While it is certainly helpful to know the relevant Thomistic teaching in which Vitoria was steeped, this method appears to presume an essentially conservative approach on the part of Vitoria. Furthermore, it effectually precludes the identification of what may be a subtle reappropriation of Thomistic terms and concepts at work in Vitoria’s theology. In the following, I will argue for a sense in which Vitoria is progressive in his appropriation of St. Thomas. But, rather than attempt to show this in a thorough-going or exhaustive manner, I will simply supply one interpretative building block in what is a much larger project. I will show that Vitoria contributed to the genesis of probabilism, a moral theory foreign to the thought of St. Thomas. Based on this particular proof, I hope to problematize the overly facile use of Vitoria as an interpreter of St. Thomas in the fashioning of grand narratives in contemporary discourse. By grasping one sense in which Vitoria is original, we can better appreciate the novelty of his thought more broadly and so approach contemporary debates with the requisite care. In recent literature, historians and theologians typically cite Bartolomeo de Medina, O.P. (1522–1580), as the originator of probabilism, or at least as the theologian who gave it a standard formulation.4 In what follows, I concede the importance of Medina. I simply intend to shine the spotlight one generation earlier, in order to shed some light on the role played by his professor who occupied a position of considerable influence both within the School of Salamanca5 and in the deliberations of Spain’s international crisis of conscience.6 Daniel Schwartz, “Probabilism Reconsidered: Deference to Experts, Types of Uncertainty, and Medicines,” Journal of the History of Ideas 75 (2014): 373–93, at 376. 5 Though there is scholarly debate as to what constitutes the School of Salamanca, Francisco de Vitoria is unanimously considered its founder; see Simona Langella, Teología y ley natural: Estudio sobre las lecciones de Francisco de Vitoria (Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 2011), 47–48. Having occupied la Catédra Prima de Teología for twenty years (1526–1546), he exercised enormous influence through the wide-ranging pursuits of his distinguished students. When Vitoria died, nearly thirty of his former students were serving as professors in the Spanish-speaking world. See André Azevedo Alves and José Manuel Moreira, The Salamanca School (New York: Continuum International, 2010), 14. 6 Probabilism derives from a tradition of commentary on St. Thomas’s teaching regarding conscience. As will appear in what follows, Summa theologiae [ST] I-II, q. 19, aa. 5–6, on erring conscience was the locus theologicus from which generations of moral theorists took their departure. Consequently, it is not insignificant that Vitoria’s doctrine arises in the context of a national crisis of 4 The Incipient Probabilism of Francisco de Vitoria 719 In what follows, I will first give a summary explanation of probabilism. Then, I will highlight certain features of Vitoria’s formation which laid the groundwork for probabilism in his thought. Finally, I will examine certain texts which illustrate Vitoria’s departure from St. Thomas, and thus the originality of his approach to the Thomistic tradition. Probabilism Probabilism describes two things. First, it names a genus of moral systems which resolve cases of conscience; this genus includes laxism, probabilism, aequiprobabilism, probabiliorism, and rigorism. Used in a narrower sense, probabilism is a species within the aforementioned genus that names “the moral system which holds that, when there is question solely of the lawfulness or unlawfulness of an action, it is permissible to follow a solidly probable opinion in favor of liberty even though the opposing view is more probable.”7 The following observations treat of probabilism in the generic sense except when noted otherwise. Probabilistic reasoning begins with uncertainty. For St. Thomas,8 intellectual uncertainty comes in three main forms: doubt, suspicion, and opinion. A doubting mind is suspended between two opposing positions, not inclining toward either. With opinion, the mind inclines toward one of the opposing positions with fear of erring. Suspicion is a weak form of opinion.9 How then ought one to proceed when in doubt or when holding conscience. Scholars have not failed to note this point. See Francisco Castilla Urbano, El Pensamiento de Francisco de Vitoria: Filsofía Política e Indio Americano (Barcelona: Editorial Anthropos, 1992), 41. See also Teófilo Urdánoz, O.P., “Sintésis Teológico-Jurídico de la Doctrina de Vitoria,” in Francisco de Vitoria, Relectio de Indis o Libertad de los Indios (Corpus Hispanorum de Pace), ed. Luciano Pereña and M. Perez Prendes (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1967), xlii–cxliii, at lxi. In addition to the question of the “duda indiana,” the imperial court appealed to Vitoria in other momentous cases of conscience, such as, for instance, in the case of the “putative” marriage of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon; see Ernest Nys, “Introduction,” in Francisco de Vitoria, De indis et de iure belli relectiones, trans. John Pawley Bate, ed. James Brown Scott (Washington, DC: Carnegie Institution, 1917), 71. 7 John Harty, “Probabilism,” in The Catholic Encyclopedia, vol. 12 (New York: Robert Appleton Company, 1911), 441–46, at 441. 8 Here I advert to the teaching of St. Thomas as a representative medieval backdrop to the moral systems of the sixteenth century and as the specific thinker with whom Vitoria engages in his commentatorial exposition of moral theology. 9 St. Thomas Aquinas, O.P., ST II-II, q. 2, a. 1: “But some acts of the intellect have unformed thought devoid of a firm assent, whether they incline to neither side, as in one who ‘doubts’; or incline to one side rather than the other, but on account of some slight motive, as in one who ‘suspects’; or incline to one side yet with fear 720 Gregory Pine, O.P. to a particular course as a matter of opinion? In the case of true doubt, when the mind cannot give assent to either position, St. Thomas (in concert with the whole medieval tradition) taught that one is bound to adopt the safer course.10 This unequivocal preference for the safer course (via tutior) led contemporary authors to term this approach a “medieval tutiorism.”11 Here, there is no question of the rigorist tutiorism proper to the age of the moral systems.12 The philosophical and theological underpinnings of this stance are innocent of those which inform the latter. On this point, Marie-Michel Labourdette, O.P., observes: “For the modern tutiorism, the highest category is security, as for laxism it is liberty. For St. Thomas and ‘medieval tutiorism,’ the highest category is truth.”13 With “medieval tutiorism,” a kind of primordial love of the truth situated within the objective order of things, specifically within the eternal law, forms the bedrock of practical reason.14 Thus the obligation of sincerof the other, as in one who ‘opines’” (all English translations of ST is from the Dominican Fathers). 10 In cases where St. Thomas addresses the question of resolving doubt in danger of sin, he consistently commends the practice of choosing the safer path. See, for instance, In IV sent., d. 21, q. 2, a. 3, ad 3; d. 38, q. 1, a. 3, qla. 1 ad 6; ST I-II, q. 96, a. 6, ad 2; II-II, q. 147, a. 4; III, q. 83, a. 6, ad 2; Quodlibet VIII, q. 6, a. 3. 11 See Odon Lottin, O.S.B., “Le tutiorisme du XIIIe siècle,” Recherches de théologie ancienne et médiévale 5 (1933): 292–301. 12 See Thomas Deman, O.P., “Probabilisme,” in Dictionnaire de théologie catholique, vol. 13/1, ed. A. Vacant and E. Mangenot (Paris: Letouzey, 1936), cols. 417–619, at 418: “On chercherait en vain du probabilisme à cet âge de la théologie” (“One looks in vain for probabilism in this period of theology [medieval theology]”). All translation are mine unless otherwise noted 13 Marie-Michel Labourdette, O.P., Cours de Théologie Morale, vol. 2, Les Actes Humains (IaIIae 6-48) (Toulouse: Self-Published, 1961), 170: “Pour le tutiorisme moderne, la catégorie suprême est la sécurité, comme pour le laxisme elle est la liberté. Pour s. Thomas et le ‘tutiorisme médiéval,’ la catégorie suprême est la vérité.” He continues in the same place: “Si elle [la vérité] est atteinte même sous les espèces du probablement vrai, de l’opinion au sens fort, elle prévaut sur la sécurité, parce qu’elle l’implique beaucoup mieux. On ne parle de la sécurité toute seule que lorsque la vérité se soustrait à l’esprit de toute façon, même dans l’approximation d’une probabilité véritable à laquelle on pourrait adhérer” (“If the truth is reached, even under the aspect of probably true (of opinion in the strong sense), it prevails over security, because it [opinion] implies it [truth] far better. One does not speak of security by itself except when the truth is already withdrawn from the mind, even in the approximation of a real probability to which one could adhere”). 14 See Labourdette, Actes Humains, 156: “La bonté morale est conçue comme une conformité avec un ordre objectif fondé sur Dieu; c’est cela qui prime. Il y a une vérité que l’homme ne fait pas, qui est indépendante de lui, elle détermine un ordre dans lequel l’homme doit s’insérer et dont il n’est pas le centre et la mesure” The Incipient Probabilism of Francisco de Vitoria 721 ity in the matter of listening to and following one’s conscience (a principle that exercises some influence within the reasoning of the moral systems) is normed by the extra-mental reality at stake.15 Objective conformity to the divine law remains the standard of moral goodness, which conscience is bound to apply, not to repurpose. Within this context, the preference for the safer course is a matter more of philosophical realism than of good faith. Thus, in cases of true doubt, since the mind and heart simply do not incline more to one course than to another, the prudential course lies through the upholding of the precept which manifests the objective standard of moral integrity. As Thomas Deman, O.P., explains: To say that we doubt is to say that we fear sin on the one hand: there would be no other means of dissipating this fear except by resolving the doubt. But, if we suppose that it persists, the fear of sinning is indissolubly attached to it [the decision]. What, in these circumstances, do we choose for this part . . . what is there to say? That we accept the risk of sinning is to have already sinned, as henceforth the will consents to evil; it should not run the risk should it wish (whatever the cost) to avoid evil.16 Thus, in matters of doubt, one ought to adopt the safest prudential course for moral flourishing, for in risking sin, one thereby falls prey to it. In the case of opinion, the particular prudential reasoning at stake assumes a different shape. For St. Thomas, opinion arises from a probable (probabilis) proposition.17 In the classical conception, formulated by Aris(“Moral goodness is conceived as a conformity with an objective order founded under God; this is primary. There is a truth which man does not make, which is independent of him; it determines an order in which man must insert himself and of which he is neither the center nor the measure”). 15 See Labourdette, Actes Humains, 152. 16 Deman, “Probabilisme,” 424–25: “Dire que l’on doute, c’est dire que l’on craint d’un côté le péché: il n’y aurait aucun autre moyen de dissiper cette crainte que de résoudre le doute. Mais, si l’on suppose qu’il persiste, la crainte de pécher y est indissolublement attachée. Que, dans ces conditions, l’on opte pour ce parti, qu’est-ce à dire? Qu’on accepte le risque de pécher et c’est pécher déjà, puisque dès maintenant la volonté consent au mal; elle ne courrait pas le risque si elle voulait, quoi qu’il en coûtat, éviter le mal.” 17 Teófilo Urdánoz, O.P., “La conciencia moral en Sto. Tomas y los sistemas morales,” Ciencia Tomista 79 (1952): 529–76, at 557: “El objeto de este asentimiento opinativo es lo verosímil, la proposición probable” (“The object of the assent of opinion is the verisimilar, the probable proposition”). 722 Gregory Pine, O.P. totle and received by St. Thomas, the probable serves as an adequate motive for action—one proper to dialectical knowledge (epagogē).18 Though dialectical knowledge lacks the same quality of probity as that proper to demonstrative knowledge, it is still “accepted by everyone or by the majority or by the philosophers—i.e. by all, or by the majority, or by the most notable and illustrious of them.”19 Thus, opinion affords a quasi-knowledge of the probable position with an attendant quasi-certitude and can thereby inform prudential action. Labourdette observes: “An opinion in the proper sense is, lacking certitude, a right [ juste] and adequate [suffisante] rule of action. One is no longer in doubt; one is in nowise obligated to tend to what is ‘surer.’ The truth, attained adequately under the aspect of probability, prevails over the fear of sinning.”20 Teófilo Urdánoz teases out a significant consequence of this understanding: On this construction, only the absolutely or relatively most probable opinion commands assent and from this flows an important consequence: The true opinion in each matter ought to be unique and will concern the most probable or the most solidly and uniquely probable part. The mind is only determined by the most probable and strongest reasons, and, having been determined by them, cannot assent with probability to the contrary opinion.21 Thus, according to St. Thomas (in his reading of Aristotle), when one has an opinion, he is not free to adhere to the opposite course. By virtue of the fact that an opinion is probable, the contrary opinion is improbable. Urdánoz writes of St. Thomas’s construal, “the opinionative judgment is the correct Aristotle, Topica 1.1.100a30–b23, in The Basic Works of Aristotle, ed. Richard McKeon (New York: Modern Library, 2001). 19 Aristotle, Topica 1.1.100b22–23. 20 Labourdette, Actes Humains, 161: “Eh bien, s. Thomas reconnaît parfaitement qu’une conscience ‘probable,’ c’est-a-dire une opinion au sens propre, est, à défaut de certitude, une juste et suffisante règle d’action. On n’est plus dans le doute, on n’est nullement obligé d’aller au ‘plus sûr.’ La vérité, suffisamment atteinte sous les espèces de la probabilité, prévaut sur la crainte de pécher.” 21 Urdánoz, “Conciencia,” 557: “Ahora bien, esta aprobación no puede merecerla sino la opinión absolutamente probable o relativamente más probable que su contraria. De ahí una consecuencia importante. La verdadera opinión deberá ser única en cada materia y será acerca de lo más probable o de la parte sólida y únicamente probable. El entendimiento no se determina sino por razones más verosímiles y fuertes, y, ya determinado por ellas, no puede asentir con probabilidad a la sentencia contraria.” 18 The Incipient Probabilism of Francisco de Vitoria 723 and prudent norm of conscience in such a case and corresponds to the most or uniquely probable opinion alone.”22 Thus, opinion is a kind of imperfect recognition of the truth tending unto certitude by adherence to the probable.23 This entails a realist approach to matters of contingent and underdetermined moral agency. The intellect cannot defect from this tendency without perverting its own internal laws and inclination to the truth.24 This understanding of opinion and probability changed in the second Scholasticism. A subtle repurposing of terminology tracks with a general reinterpretation of moral probity. Albert Jonsen and Stephen Toulmin write of this time: The ideas of “opinion” and “doubt” had become confused: several propositions could be designated as probable in cases in which none of them could command unquestioning assent. The comparison of “more and less probable” opinions that would have been inconceivable to medieval authors had become legitimate because “probable” had come to mean “plausible” or “possibly true.” As a result, many opinions about a subject could be called “probable”—that is, capable of eliciting assent, albeit hesitant.25 “Probable” (probabilis), here, had come to mean justifiable, plausible, or credible. To say a moral position or argument was probable was to answer Urdánoz, “Conciencia,” 557–58: “El juicio opinativo es la norma recta y prudente de conciencia en tal caso y corresponde sólo a la opinión más probable o únicamente probable.” See also Albert R. Jonsen and Stephen E. Toulmin, The Abuse of Casuistry: A History of Moral Reasoning (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), 165–75, esp. 165–66: “This probability was the quality of a proposition—its ‘verisimilitude’—which made it worthy of assent. In this sense only one of two contrary propositions could be probable; this one determined assent and commanded moral action.” 23 See Labourdette, Actes Humains, 164–65: “Dans la certitude, l’esprit atteint son objet propre, le vrai, et il s’en nourrit; dans l’opinion, il tend à la certitude, en adhérant à ce qui lui paraît probablement vrai. Mais s’il adhère, ce n’est qu’à raison de ce rayonnement de vérité. Le probable n’est qu’un acheminement vers la vérité; il ne nourrit l’esprit et n’a de titre à diriger l’action que par cette approximation de la vérité.” (“In certitude, the mind reaches its proper object—the true—and is nourished by it; in opinion, it [the mind] tends to certitude, adhering to that in it which appears probably true. But, if it adheres to it, this is only because of this radiation of truth. The probable is only a way to the truth; it neither nourishes the mind nor is it fit to direct action except by its approximation of the truth”). 24 See Urdánoz, “Conciencia,” 558. 25 Jonsen and Toulmin, Abuse, 166. 22 724 Gregory Pine, O.P. the question of whether it had reasons to back it. 26 And while these reasons certainly included the internal criteria of philosophical and theological argumentation, they came to be associated primarily with the testimony of authority.27 This refashioned notion of probability was then deployed in the resolution of difficult cases of conscience.28 The moral systems held generally that, when the law is certain, one must abide by it; but when it is unclear whether the law exists or applies, there may be grounds for freedom. Probabilists adopted juristic maxims concerning ignorance of law, and interpreted doubt along the lines of an obstacle to promulgation, and thus to obligation.29 Commands bind by virtue of some knowledge of the M. W. F. Stone, “The Origins of Probabilism in Late Scholastic Moral Thought: A Prologomenon to Further Study,” Recherches de théologie et philosophie médiévale 67 (2000): 114–57, at 117: “In modern European languages, such as English or French, to say that something is ‘probable’ tends to imply that the odds are in its favour, and to say that something is ‘probably the case’ means that it is more likely to be true. The technical medieval Latin term probabilis (probable), however, did not possess such meanings. Instead, something was probabilis in so far as it was ‘approved of ’ by the judgements and verdicts of acknowledged authorities (auctoritates). Further to this, something was probabilis in that it ‘held for the most part’ or was ‘provable’ or ‘arguable,’ that is, something for which there was a good argument, or two or more good arguments.” (Nota bene: Stone has been shown to be guilty of serial plagiarism; I cite his work with this caveat.) 27 Though probabilists initially attempted to uphold both forms of justification, the internal was quickly absorbed into the external. See Jonsen and Toulmin, Abuse, 167–68: “The first Jesuit to espouse probabilism, Gabriel Vazquez (1551–1604), immediately separated the two components of this view: an opinion could be intrinsically probable—that is, founded on ‘excellent arguments’—or extrinsically probable—founded on the authority of ‘wise men.’ (Commentaria in II-II, LXII, iv). This logical distinction, inspired perhaps by the theologians’ need to have a proper word for every notion, subsequently led to a conceptual split that badly damaged the thesis. In understanding the notion of extrinsic probability, the ‘authority of wise men’ gradually became the ‘preponderance of experts’; and the weight of scholarly opinion, in the modern sense of ‘heads counted,’ replaced the weight of reason and argument.” 28 As mentioned earlier, St. Thomas’s exposition of the erring conscience is the locus classicus for expositions of probabilism. A cursory glance at the relative disproportion between the space St. Thomas affords the matter (a mere three articles in the entire Summa theologiae) and the extended treatises in the subsequent tradition bespeaks novelty of teaching. 29 Augustin Lehmkuhl gives an excellent summary of the principle here described— lex dubia non obligat—in his Theologia moralis: “A law which has not been promulgated is not a law in the full and strict sense, and does not impose an obligation. But when there is a solidly probable opinion in favour of liberty, the law has not been sufficiently promulgated, since there has not been the requisite manifesta26 The Incipient Probabilism of Francisco de Vitoria 725 precept,30 they argued, and thus a defect in knowledge prevents the application of law, leaving liberty in possession.31 Operating on these principles, moral theorists devised what were called “practical” or “reflex” principles which helped the confounded individual to navigate doubtful cases with good faith. The reflex principles were intended to help one advance from speculative incertitude to practical certitude. Effectively, it “permitted” you to act upon a probable opinion without fear of sin. In every choice, there is a safer position (which favors law) and a less safe position (which favors freedom). Moral theorists thus asked the question: how probable must the less safe position be to afford one practical certitude of choosing it without sin?32 At what point can one pursue the course of liberty—the less safe opinion? Probabilism in the narrower (specific) sense teaches that the less safe opinion need be only probable. Bartolomeo de Medina formulated the doctrine: “It seems to me that, if an opinion is probable, it is licit to follow it, even though the opposite opinion is more probable.”33 To evaluate relative probability, moralists made recourse to a hierarchy of authorities: Scripture, Tradition, Magisterium, decretals, councils, Fathers, Scholastic theologians, modern moralists, and philosophers were all consulted in their respective rank and file. The theological sources were then compiled in the summary positions of the modern moralists. The moralists then digested the data of revelation and presented it in the paradigm of casution of the mind of the legislator. Hence when there is a solidly probable opinion in favour of liberty, the law is not a law in the full and strict sense, and does not impose any obligation” (1:176–78, cited in Harty, “Probabilism,” 433–44). One must note further that this doubt embraces both doubts of law and doubts of fact (which can be reduced to the former). 30 This principle is taken from Aquinas, De veritate, q. 17, a. 3: “Nullius ligatur per praeceptum aliquid nisi mediante scientia illius pracepti.” Though the principle saw wider application in the employ of probabilist theorists, the context suggests merely that law binds by agency of conscience taken in the first acceptation of the term, that is, by some knowledge or awareness [notitia] thereof—a requirement in no way demanding speculative certitude. (Leonine ed., cited in Urdánoz, “Conciencia,” 564–65). 31 This “principle of possession”—in dubio melior est conditio possidentis—paired with the aforementioned “principle of promulgation” to form the intelligible core of the probabilist system (see Jonsen and Toulmin, Abuse, 169–70). 32 This presumes that all reasonable steps have been taken to abolish lingering doubt by studied argument and consultation with authorities. The reflex principle applies if, after the aforementioned inquiry, speculative incertitude perdures. 33 Bartolomeo de Medina, O.P., Expositio in summae theologiae partem I-II, q. 19, a. 6, as cited in Jonsen and Toulmin, Abuse, 164. 726 Gregory Pine, O.P. istry. From these resources, the probabilist needed to garner the testimony of “five or six theologians notable for prudence and learning” who adhered independently to the doctrine in order to follow the less safe position.34 And this is just what came to be known as a “probable” position. Opposing theorists scrambled to claim the support of recognized authorities in the tradition—including, of course, St. Thomas Aquinas. In the transposition of traditional sources which followed, St. Thomas’s moral theory was recontextualized within an alien framework. Subsequent generations—and Dominicans especially—described his teaching as “probabiliorist.” And though one might make such a case, St. Thomas’s theory simply does not fit the mold of the moral systems. St. Thomas sees potency in practical matters as a metaphysical fixture in moral reasoning. Matter is a principle of unintelligibility, and the concrete singular cannot afford speculative certitude. That said, the will is naturally inclined to the good. Thus it can only be motivated by what the intellect presents as good—objective perfection and sure satisfaction. Following well-formed opinion is just the prudential outgrowth of the teleological orientation of intellect and will. It follows for St. Thomas that, in matters of strict doubt, one simply cannot act against the concerned precept lest he risk holding the law in contempt. And so, while St. Thomas acknowledges the difficulties attendant upon practical incertitude,35 they are not nearly as vexing for him as they are for later moral theorists. Now, given this backdrop of the moral systems as compared to the moral edifice of St. Thomas Aquinas, we turn to Francisco de Vitoria’s formation and methodology as the immediate context for original features of his thought. The Formation of Francisco de Vitoria The most significant tradition in Vitoria’s theological formation was his systematic training in St. Thomas Aquinas. While at the University of Harty, “Probabilism,” 441. See ST II-II, q. 70, a. 2: “‘We must not expect to find certitude equally in every matter.’ For in human acts, on which judgments are passed and evidence required, it is impossible to have demonstrative certitude, because they are about things contingent and variable. Hence the certitude of probability suffices, such as may reach the truth in the greater number, cases, although it fail in the minority.” See also ST II-II, q. 47, a. 9, ad 2: “‘Equal certainty should not be sought in all things, but in each matter according to its proper mode.’ And since the matter of prudence is the contingent singulars about which are human actions, the certainty of prudence cannot be so great as to be devoid of all solicitude.” Both of these passages are cited in Urdánoz, “Conciencia,” 554. 34 35 The Incipient Probabilism of Francisco de Vitoria 727 Paris (1508–1523), his most beloved professor was a Belgian Dominican Peter Crockaert—a convert to Thomism from nominalism.36 Crockaert and Crockaert’s mentor, Gil Charronelle—also a Dominican friar—were the Parisian faction in a trans-continental revival of Thomistic teaching which included the efforts of Konrad Köllin, Silvestre de Ferrara, and Tommaso de Vio Cardinal Cajetan.37 Francisco de Vitoria was to play his part in Spain. Vitoria’s Thomistic formation was evidenced especially in his choice of classroom textbook. Vitoria chose to substitute the Summa theologiae of St. Thomas Aquinas for the Sentences of Peter Lombard as the text for his commentary. Vitoria was not the first to make this move. In 1491, Charronelle began lecturing from the Summa in Paris; the substitution was warmly received. Crockaert continued the practice, and Vitoria brought it to Salamanca.38 But whereas Charronelle and Crockaert taught the Summa in the Dominican studium at San Jacques, Vitoria was lecturing in the university, and his substitution contradicted the university statutes.39 Regardless of university law, Vitoria taught the Summa part by part on a rotating cycle for twenty years at the University of Salamanca until his death in 1546. The second main influence on Vitoria’s theological formation was Renaissance humanism. Vitoria is said to have adopted from humanism a certain critical spirit and method. Vitoria counseled his students to test all authorities, even the great teachers. Melchior Cano remarked that Vitoria dissented from the thought of St. Thomas in places where the Angelic Doctor’s teaching appeared improbable or otherwise untenable.40 At the same time and somewhat paradoxically, though, Vitoria had something of the humanist appreciation for the authority of the sources (especially that of Scripture) over and against the subtle distinctions proposed by reason. Vicente Beltrán de Heredia, O.P., posits that a humanist formation led Vitoria to argue more from authority than through dialectical reasoning, or at least to afford authority a certain preference. Beltrán de Heredia reads Vitoria as charting a middle course between the sophistic complexification Bruno de San José, O.C.D., El Dominico Burgalés: P. Mtro. Fray Francisco de Vitoria y Compludo (1483–1546) (Burgos, ES: Tip. “El Monte Carmelo,” 1946), 150–51. 37 Langella, Teología y ley natural, xix. 38 Ramón Hernández Martín, O.P., Francisco de Vitoria: Vida y pensamiento internacionalista (Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 1995), 39. 39Vicente Beltrán de Heredia, O.P., Francisco de Vitoria (Barcelona: Editorial Labor, S. A., 1939), 43–44. 40 Cited in Hernández Martín, Francisco de Vitoria, 87–88. 36 728 Gregory Pine, O.P. of so-called decadent Scholasticism, on one hand, and an uncritical adoption of theological sources of dubious authority, on the other. Beltrán de Heredia writes, “Vitoria advocates, above all, recourse to the sources of revelation and to their authorized interpreters, because in addressing this order of knowledge, reason and discourse must be subordinated to what a higher authority teaches.”41 Reasoning must be circumscribed within the compass of authority. Only thus, he argues, can it learn its bounds and forestall a gradual slide into the sophistic and subjective. The third and final theological influence on Vitoria was nominalism. While at the University of Paris, he encountered a rich variety of the age’s finest philosophers, theologians, and canonists. During his first four years of letters, Vitoria assisted at the lectures of Juan de Celaya, who taught in the Collège de Coqueret.42 Juan de Celaya was a student of John Mair, who, alongside Jacob Almain, was at the forefront of nominalism in the late medieval / early modern period. Vitoria did not ultimately throw in his lot with the nominalists, though their influence can be recognized in his work, particularly in the practical, positive, and jurisprudential shape it assumed. In his relectio De indis, Vitoria wades into what had previously been accounted jurisprudential waters. But, for Vitoria, theology and jurisprudence share a close kinship and the disputed question of dominion and justice in the Americas required recourse to both. And so Vitoria reserved the judgment of the matter—a judgment touching on divine law and right—to churchmen schooled in both theology and canon law: It is not the province of lawyers, or not of lawyers alone, to pass sentence in this question. Since these barbarians we speak of are not subjects [of the Spanish Crown] by human law [iure humano], as I shall show in a moment, their affairs cannot be judged by human statues, but only by divine ones, in which jurists are not sufficiently versed to form opinion on their own. And as far as I am aware no theologian of note or worthy of respect in a matter of such importance has ever been called upon to study this question and provide a solution. Yet since this is a case of conscience, it is the business of Vicente Beltrán de Heredia, O.P., “Orientación humanística de la teología vitoriana,” La Ciencia Tomista 72 (1947): 7–27, at 10: “Vitoria [propugna] ante todo el recurso a las fuentes de la revelación y a sus autorizados intérpretes, porque tratándose de ese orden de conocimientos, la razón y el discurso, por ser humanos, han de subordinarse a lo que enseña una autoridad superior.” 42 Langella, Teología y ley natural, 2. 41 The Incipient Probabilism of Francisco de Vitoria 729 the priests, that is to say of the Church, to pass sentence upon it.43 In theory and practice, Vitoria sought to unite both strains in his work. For Vitoria, this vocation to interdisciplinary competence stemmed from the nature of the theological enterprise. The subject of theology is God and the things of God. Given the Christian understanding of creation, this is materially all-embracing. Theology is a science of totality.44 As Vitoria himself put it in the relectio De potestate civili, “the office and call of a theologian is so wide, that no argument or controversy on any subject can be considered foreign to his profession.”45 For Vitoria, this coordination of disciplines led him to bring theology to bear on contemporary issues of ethics, politics, and jurisprudence in a wide variety of contexts.46 As a result, scholars have noted that his theology assumed an undeniably practical shape. Now, with these sources of originality in mind—the Thomistic revivalism, the humanist bent, and the nominalistic practicality—it remains to approach Vitoria’s work to examine how the novelty of his formation and method unfolds in an original moral doctrine. Textual Analysis Others have already characterized Vitoria as a proto-probabilist.47 Though Francisco de Vitoria, O.P., De indis, in Political Writings, ed. Anthony Pagden and Jeremy Lawrance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 238. 44 See Urbano, Pensamiento, 40–41. 45 Vitoria, Political Writings, 3. 46 Speculation on this point risks tendentiousness, but certain facts emerge. Compared, for instance, with St. Thomas Aquinas, Vitoria’s doctrine was decidedly more political in its import. One may tend to forget that St. Thomas devoted only two treatises to the subject of politics (De regno and In libros politicorum) and finished neither work. And though St. Thomas himself did enter the contemporary debates of his day (cf. Contra impugnantes, Contra retrahentes, De perfectione, Contra errores graecorum, etc.), he is most well-known and typically regarding as a non-occasional, that is, sapiential theorist, whose doctrine applies equally well across generations. Vitoria, by comparison, is decidedly better known as a man of his time. 47 See: A. Lanza, Theologia moralis, vol. 1, Theologia moralis fundamentalis (Turin, IT: Mareitti, 1949), no. 373; Lucius Rodrigo, Tractatus de conscientia morali, vol. 2 (Santander, ES: Sal terrae, 1956), no. 410. For the best and most authoritative treatment of probabilism and its history, as well as the present approach and controversies on the theme, see Deman, “Probabilisme.” All of the above are cited in Teófilo Urdánoz, O.P., “Introducción a la primera relección De los Indios Recientemente Descubiertos,” in Obras de Francisco de Vitoria: Relecciones Teológicas, ed. Teófilo Urdánoz, O.P. (Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 1960), 491–640, at 517. 43 730 Gregory Pine, O.P. his article does not focus exclusively on Vitoria, J. de Blic offers a convincing argument to this effect in his “Barthélémy de Medina et les origines du probabilisme.”48 In his article, de Blic disputes the historiographical and philosophical arguments of Marie-Michel Gorce, O.P., on the subject of Bartolomeo de Medina.49 According to Gorce, Medina did not originate probabilism and, in fact, was entirely innocent of the theory in his formation, doctrine, and instruction.50 In response, de Blic examines Medina’s moral theory both on its own terms and in dialogue with his forebears in the Order and at the University of Salamanca (Prierias, Cajetan, Cano, Soto, Vitoria, et al.). In his response, de Blic demolishes Gorce’s textual literalism and demonstrates how probabilism gradually coalesced at Salamanca over the course of two generations—a movement in which Vitoria played no small role. Faced with this evidence, some scholars have tried to exculpate Vitoria from the charge of full-blown probabilism by claiming him as a probabiliorist. Urdánoz makes one such attempt.51 In his introduction to the De indis, Urdánoz acknowledges that Vitoria’s prologue to the work suggests a form of argumentation proper to the embryonic moral systems.52 He contends though that the argumentation in the body of the relectio is probabiliorist.53 This view serves as a helpful foil to what follows. I will J. de Blic, ‘‘Barthélémy Medina et les origines du probabilisme,’’ Ephemerides Theologicae Lovaniensis 7 (1930): 46–83, 264–91, 481–82. 49 M.-M. Gorce, O.P., “Barthélémy de Medina,” in Dictionnaire de théologie catholique, vol. 10/1, ed. A. Vacant and E. Mangenot (Paris: Letouzey, 1928), cols. 481–85. 50 De Blic, “Barthélémy Medina,” 46: “Dans un des dernières livraisons du Dictionnaire de Théologie catholique, le R. P. Gorce consacre quatre colonnes à la question de la part de Medina dans les origines du probabilisme moral. Quoi qu’on en pense généralement, cette part, selon lui, est nulle. A l’école dominicaine de Salamanque, où il avait été disciple avant d’enseigner à son tour, Medina n’a trouvé le probabilisme ni tout fait ni en voie de formation.” (“In one of the last volumes of the Dictionnaire de Théologie catholique, R. P. Gorce devotes four columns to Medina’s role in the origination of moral probabilism. Whatever one thinks in general, this role, according to him, is practically null. At the Dominican school of Salamanca, where he had been a student before himself teaching, Medina did not encounter probabilism—neither in its mature form nor in germ.”). 51 Urdánoz, “Introducción,” 516–18 and 540–41. 52 Urdánoz, “Introducción,” 516: “El maestro refleja ya el comienzo de las especulaciones que van a dar lugar a la formación de los sistemas morales, en especial del probabilismo y el probabiliorism” (“The teacher already evinces the beginnings of the speculations that are going to lay the groundwork for the formation of the moral systems, especially those of probabilism and probabiliorismo”). 53 Urdánoz, “Introducción,” 517: “El suyo, pues, es el tuciorismo probabiliorista común dentro de la línea tradicional de Santo Tomás y su escuela” (“His, then, is 48 The Incipient Probabilism of Francisco de Vitoria 731 endeavor to show that Vitoria is situated between a medieval conception of prudential practical reason and a modern conception proper to the moral systems. While I tend to think that Vitoria is a probabilist and not a probabiliorist, this question is less important than the more fundamental question of his influence on the mode of moral reasoning common to both. Text 1: Commentary on Summa theologiae [ST] I, q. 1, a. 8 ( from the ordinary lectures of 1539–1540; Archivo Histórico Dominicano de la Provincia de España, Ms. 2)54 Text: With these things in place from Saint Thomas in the second reply of the present article and also in ST II-II, q. 1, a. 10, some common places [loca] can be assembled for theological argumentation. The first and most powerful [potissimus] and most special [magis proprius] is Sacred Scripture. The second special [proprius] and solid [ firmus] place is the authority of the whole Church universal in things of faith and morals. The third, which is also special [proprius] and more firm [ firmius], is a general council gathered solemnly. The fourth is a local council, but it is still a probable place [probabilis locus]. Fifth is the authority of the holy doctors, which is a probable place. . . . Sixth is the authority and definition of the Pope, for this is a solid place in matters of faith and good morals. Seventh is the common consent of theologians. Eighth is natural the standard probabiliorist tutiorism within the traditional line of St. Thomas and his school”). Earlier in the same essay (516–17), he qualifies the sense in which Vitoria is a probabiliorist: “Su exposición y doctrina son claras: no es lícito ni tiene el hombre libertad para poner actos con dudas acerca de su moralidad o licitud. . . . En consecuencia, Vitoria declara que en todos los casos dudosos hay obligación de salir de esas dudas acerca de si la acción es buena o pecado y formar conciencia recta consultando a los sabios y peritos. . . . Afirma que en las dudas no es lícito exponerse a cometer pecado, o a inferir injuria, y en general tutior pars est sequenda, a no ser que se esté en pacífica posesión del derecho o medien otras presunciones legítimas” (“His exposition and teaching are clear: neither is it licit nor has man liberty to posit acts when he has doubts concerning their morality or liceity. . . . As a result, Vitoria declares that in all doubtful cases one is obliged to move beyond these doubts (concerning whether the action is good or sinful) and to form an upright conscience by consulting wise persons and experts. . . . He affirms that when in doubt, it is not licit to expose oneself to the commission of sin or to the infliction of injury, and that, in general, the safer course should be chosen, unless one is in serene possession of justification or other legitimate suspicions intervene”). 54 See Simona Langella, La Ciencia Teológica de Francisco de Vitoria y la Summa Theologiae de Santo Tomás de Aquino en el Siglo XVI a la luz de Textos Inéditos, trans. Juan Montero Aparicio, O.C.D. (Salamanca, ES: Editorial San Esteban, 2013), 410. The translation of the text is my own. 732 Gregory Pine, O.P. reason. Ninth, the authority of the philosophers. In this response, Vitoria is commenting a text which describes the place of faith and reason in theological argumentation: Is sacra doctrina a matter of argument? In the reply to the second objection, St. Thomas distinguishes between the character of divine and human authorities. St. Thomas describes the relative authorities of Scripture, the doctors of the Church, and of the philosophers and how theology can make use of the philosophers “as extrinsic and probable arguments.”55 In commenting this passage, Vitoria focuses especially on authority and probability as he gives a systematic enumeration and valuation of the sources of theological argumentation or theological places (loci theologici). The standard for their rank order is their relative probability. Theological places are described in order as most powerful, most special, special, firm, probable, and so on. These loci theologici are especially important in Domingo de Soto and Melchior Cano,56 but the humanistic preoccupation with authority described earlier is already taking shape in Vitoria.57 Simona Langella writes: The common theological places permit one to classify the principles of the faith, those which, in virtue of their probative force, are converted into a source of the certain resolution of the questions which are presented to the theologian. The theologian, then, has two basic tasks: the first is to identify the sources—or places—of theology; the second is to order them in accord with their [respective] value in order then to use them to the maximum.58 So, though a minor text, the yield of this first installment is plain. The calculus of authority appears as a conscious development of Thomistic ST I, q. 1, a. 8: “Sed tamen sacra doctrina huiusmodi auctoritatibus utitur quasi extraneis argumentis, et probabilibus” (Leonine ed.). 56 Ramón Hernández Martín, O.P., “Originalidad de Francisco de Vitoria,” Ciencia Tomista 141 (2014): 199–220, at 211–12. 57 V. Muñoz Delgado, “Lógica, ciencia y humanismo en la renovación teológica de Vitoria y Cano,” Revista española de teología 38 (1978): 205–71, at 249, as cited in Langella, Teología y ley natural, 92. 58 Langella, Teología y ley natural, 92: “Los lugares comunes teológicos permiten clasificar los principios de la fe, los cuales, en virtud de su fuerza probatoria, se convierten en fuente de solución segura de las cuestiones que se presentan al teólogo. Este último tiene, pues, dos tareas fundamentales: la primera es localizar las fuentes—o lugares—de la teología, la segunda es ordernarles de acuerdo con su valor para poder después utilizarlas al máximo.” 55 The Incipient Probabilism of Francisco de Vitoria 733 doctrine. The apparatus of extrinsic justification is beginning to coalesce, and it portends the advent of probabilistic reasoning. So while there is no evidence of the full-blown probabilism of a Súarez of Caramuel, 59 the heightened importance accorded to the relative merit of authorities should not be overlooked. Text 2: Introduction to the relectio De indis (written for the academic session of 1537–1538 and delivered in 1539)60 1. But where there is some reasonable doubt [de quo dubitari merito] as to whether an action is good or bad, just or unjust, then it is pertinent to question and deliberate, rather than acting rashly without any prior investigation of what is lawful and what is not. These things which have both good and bad on both sides are like many kinds of contracts, sales, and other transactions; if undertaken without due deliberation, on the mere assumption that they are lawful, they may lead a man into unpardonable wrongdoing. In that case a plea of ignorance will be invalid; it is obvious that the man’s ignorance was not invincible, since he failed to do everything he could to consult beforehand what was lawful or not. 2. It follows that for an action to be good in cases where a person has no other means of certainty, it is a necessary condition that he act in accordance with the ruling and verdict of wise men. This is defined as one of the necessary conditions of a good action in the second book of the Nicomachean Ethics (1106b36—1107a2); hence a person who does not consult wise men in cases of doubt can have no excuse. Furthermore, even when the action is lawful in itself, whenever reasonable doubts arise about its lawfulness in a particular case recourse must be had to the opinion of wise men, and their verdict must be followed, even though they may judge wrongly. Thus, if a man fails to consult the experts about a contract of doubtful legality, he undoubtedly acts wrongfully. It makes no difference whether or not the contract is legal in itself; if he believes it to be legal merely on his own whim and judgment, and not on the authority of the wise, he acts wrongly. Similarly, if a man does consult wise men on a doubtful case, and then See Jonsen and Toulmin, Abuse, 168. Here they note that, with the later Jesuits, the calculations deployed to reckon relative authority had assumed absurd proportions: “Caramuel even quantified the authority of the experts: one professor holding a distinguished chair prevailed over four lesser professors, and so on.” 60 De Vitoria, De indis, in Political Writings, 234–37. 59 734 Gregory Pine, O.P. disregards their verdict, he acts wrongly, even if the action is in itself lawful. . . . In matters which concern salvation there is an obligation to believe those whom the Church has appointed as teachers, and in cases of doubt their verdict is law. Just as a judge in a court of law is obliged to pass sentence according to the evidence presented, so in the court of conscience every man must decide not according to his own inclination, but by logical arguments on the authority of the learned. To do otherwise is impudent, and exposes one to the danger of sin, which is itself sinful. . . . 3. Now in doubtful cases, I say, we must consult those whom the Church has appointed for the purpose: that is, the prelates, preachers, confessors, and jurists versed in divine and human law, since in the Church “God hath set the members every one of them in the body as it hath pleased him,” some the feet and some the eyes, and so on (1 Cor 12:18); He “gave some apostles, and some prophets, and some evangelists, and some pastors and teachers” (Eph 4:11). And it is written: “the scribes and the Pharisees sit in Moses’ seat: all therefore whatsoever they bid you observe, that observe and do” (Matt 23:2–3). So too Aristotle exhorts us in the first book of the Nicomachean Ethics with these lines from the poet Hesiod: He who neither knows, nor lays to heart Another’s wisdom, is a useless wight. Therefore it is not enough in conscience for a man to judge by himself whether his actions are good or bad. In cases of doubt he must rely on the opinion of those authorized to resolve such doubts. It is not sufficient for businessmen merely to abstain from those contracts which they know to be illegal, if at the same time they continue to make contracts of dubious legality without consulting the experts. . . . 4. Therefore, anyone who has first consulted wise men on a doubtful course of action, and has obtained a verdict that it is lawful, may subsequently undertake that course of action with a clear conscience, at least until such time as an equally competent authority pronounces a conflicting opinion which reopens the case, or leads to a contrary verdict. Here, at any rate, the transgressor’s innocence is clear, since he did everything in his power to act lawfully, and his ignorance was therefore invincible. The Incipient Probabilism of Francisco de Vitoria 735 5. From all this we may deduce the following propositions: First, in every case of doubt there is a duty to consult with those competent to pronounce upon it, since otherwise there can be no security of conscience, regardless of whether the action concerned is really lawful or unlawful. Second, if the upshot of the consultation with wise men is a verdict that the action is unlawful, their opinion must be respected; and anyone who disregards it has no defense in law, even if the action is in fact lawful in itself. Third, if on the other hand the verdict of the wise is that the action is lawful, anyone who accepts their opinion may be secure in his conscience, even if the action is in fact unlawful. In this passage, Vitoria describes how the judgments of modern moralists and jurists bear upon the individual in difficult cases of conscience. Vitoria is here addressing the plight of indigenous peoples in the Spanish colonies of the New World. With his beloved Spain caught in the grip of a desperate crisis of conscience, Vitoria outlines a ground-plan for resolving moral disagreement. He begins with the phenomenon of doubt. He advocates that one resolve his doubt by an appeal to authorities. Certain oddities in his exposition stand out. Vitoria claims that the preponderance of authorities can vitiate the otherwise good and well-formed conscience of a moral agent: “Even when the action is lawful in itself, whenever reasonable doubts arise about its lawfulness in a particular case recourse must be had to the opinion of wise men, and their verdict must be followed, even though they may judge wrongly.” He develops this thought in what follows. Indeed, appeal to authority is so essential that it mitigates against the agent’s independent status as a moral reasoner: “In the court of conscience every man must decide not according to his own inclination, but by logical arguments on the authority of the learned.” He indicates further that a clear conscience depends more on authorized sanction than on the refinement of moral knowledge by the prudent exercise of right practical reason: “Anyone who has first consulted wise men on a doubtful course of action, and has obtained a verdict that it is lawful, may subsequently undertake that course of action with a clear conscience, at least until such time as an equally competent authority pronounces a conflicting opinion which reopens the case, or leads to a contrary verdict.” Without descending too much into the details of a fully articulated casuistry, one can begin to appreciate the consequences of these tendencies. First, preference is given to extrinsic justification over intrinsic phil- 736 Gregory Pine, O.P. osophical or theological coherence. Though the text certainly appreciates and deploys philosophical and theological argumentation, the insistence on authority in the prologue is critically important for understanding what follows. This is an assemblage of authorities within the work of an authority. As a result, the emphasis shifts away from the integral virtuous formation of the independent human agent. The approach tends unto an unwarranted intellectualism as the rise of conscience occludes the importance of prudence. As a result, it is no surprise to find a disproportionate insistence on the good faith of a clear or secure conscience over and against fruitful engagement with the objective moral order. It deserves mentioning as well that Vitoria has ascribed much greater importance to doubt. And in the midst of doubt the individual moral agent (or the colonial power) is paralyzed by the conflict of seemingly intractable arguments. These probable opinions have created a marketplace of options among which opportunistic conquistadors can choose selectively. In an attempt to impose order on the conflict, Vitoria has begun to formulate norms for choice in difficult cases of conscience. An immature notion of reflex principle is in the works and a practically unassailable appeal to authority has assumed noticeably greater importance. Text 3: Summa sacramentorum Ecclesiae, no. 178 (a commentary on Sentences IV published by Thomas de Chaves, O.P. [Pinciae, 1561])61 Text: It is asked whether a confessor could absolve a penitent contrary to his own opinion. 1. For instance, take a case concerning which there are two opinions whether something is usurious or not: as when someone sells his harvest for a certain day, when he should pay the amount it will be worth in the month of May [qui vendit frumentum ad certum diem, ubi solvat quanti valebit in mense maii]. Certain persons say that it is illicit; and I believe thus. Others nevertheless say that it is not illicit. There are probable arguments [probabilitates] for both. I am nevertheless of the opinion that it is illicit, and the penitent holds that it is not illicit, and so he confesses that he sold his harvest in this manner, and that he has the intention of doing so again, because he heard learned men [viros doctos] saying that it was licit. The doubt is what should this confessor do who holds it to be a mortal sin? Can he never absolve him against his own opinion? De Blic, ‘‘Barthélémy Medina,’’ 56–57 (the translation of the text is my own). 61 The Incipient Probabilism of Francisco de Vitoria 737 2. Here is another example. A judge, following the opinion of Saint Thomas, puts to death a man whom he knows to be innocent for a fact, who has nevertheless been proved guilty. His confessor is of the opinion of Nicolas of Lyra, who holds it not to be licit. Can the judge absolve the man while willing to persist in his opinion? 3. It is a great question, and Conrad, that celebrated teacher, advances it in the final question of his treatise De contractibus. 4. And above all, this question has a place when both opinions are probable [probabiles]. For if the opinion of the penitent is not probable [non habet probabilitatem], he [the confessor] ought not to absolve him, because his ignorance is not invincible, but vincible. As if I were to hold the opinion that no one can possess many benefices at the same time; if the opposite proposition is not probable (as perhaps it is not), it is clear that I ought not absolve him, because I think him to be in mortal sin, which is not excused by invincible ignorance. 5. But what should he do when both opinions are probable and have each their own champions? 6. I respond that, whether [the confessor] is his [the penitent’s] own priest or not, he is bound to absolve him in such a case. Thus holds Paludanus, Sent. IV, d. 17, q. 2, a. 1; and Godfredus, Quodlibet IX [q. 16]. 7. Thus, it is proved. Plainly, such a penitent is in grace; and the confessor has probability [probabilitatem] that he [the penitent] is in grace, because he knows his opinion to be probable; therefore, he ought not deny him absolution. This text presents what later became a classic case of probabilistic reasoning: Can a confessor absolve a penitent contrary to his own opinion? In this somewhat convoluted example, the penitent has committed an act that may be mortally sinful, but there is some uncertainty. Furthermore, he has heard certain learned men say that the act is licit; effectively, he has a probable reason (in the modern sense) to justify the practice. The confessor is of the opposite opinion; in his estimation, the act is objectively sinful, and therefore must be confessed with firm purpose of amendment. The penitent places the case before the present confessor with the intention of continuing the practice. The question arises, can the confessor validly absolve the penitent? 738 Gregory Pine, O.P. Vitoria concedes from the start that both positions are probable. We saw earlier that, for St. Thomas, “probable” describes the object of opinion. In matters of opinion, only one term can be affirmed with the quasi-certainty of dialectical knowledge. Here, the incipient modern notion is at work. “Probable” names a position with reasons, regardless of their relative strength vis-à-vis the contrary. What is more, Vitoria introduces the language of invincible and vincible ignorance. When the penitent holds to a position lacking probability, he suffers from vincible ignorance. In the explanation that follows, invincible ignorance is made to do some heavy lifting. If one performs a gravely sinful act on account of a probable opinion regardless of its strength, he is deemed invincibly ignorant, and therefore does not incur the mortal sin. If one performs a gravely sinful act on account of an improbable opinion, this ignorance is vincible, and therefore culpable, and so incurs the guilt. Here, probable opinions (even when counterposed to more probable opinions) excuse from sinful actions by thwarting full knowledge. Again, one notes the emphasis on good faith or security over and against the priority of the objective moral order by the repurposing of moral categories. And though Vitoria would have been bound to a certain brevity in his exposition, it is fascinating that the passage lacks any reference to the formation of conscience. As will be seen in the next passage, an erroneous conscience binds, but not absolutely. It binds only so long as it lasts and so long as it is believed to be true.62 There thus remains the possibility of developing or changing an erring conscience. What is more, a will conformed to an erring conscience is not thereby good. As Labourdette notes: “St. Thomas does not say . . . that the will conformed to an erroneous conscience is good, but only that it is not bad. . . . It does not have, for all that, the power of producing moral goodness. What it does produce is See Labourdette, Actes Humains, 159: “Tous les moralistes, certes, diront toujours qu’il y a de l’une à l’autre cette différence que la conscience droite oblige par soi et pour toujours, la conscience erronée seulement tant qu’elle dure et parce qu’elle est crue droite; il reste le devoir de la changer. Mais en fait, tant qu’elle dure, les moralistes modernes en viennent à équiparer pratiquement l’une à l’autre, en admettant que suivre une conscience invinciblement erronée peut être bon” (“Indeed, all moralists will say that there is this difference between the two, namely that upright conscience obliges per se and always, and the erroneous conscience only insofar as it perdures and because it is believed to be upright; it remains obligatory to change it. But, actually, insofar as it perdures, modern moralists of conscience have come practically to equate the one with the other when they suggest that following an invincibly ignorant conscience can be good”). 62 The Incipient Probabilism of Francisco de Vitoria 739 the involuntary [which] suppresses all notion of morality, good or evil.”63 Within the Thomistic understanding, conscience exists to make known the eternal law and to apply it within the realm of practical reasoning. An act contrary to the natural law is objectively sinful, and an erroneous conscience cannot change the eternal law. Rather, conscience is responsible for conforming to this ultimate standard of the obligation it produces. As Labourdette writes: Conscience has a subordinated role regarding the eternal law and the truth of things. It is not [conscience] that produces goodness any more than it does not produce obligation. Its primordial duty is to be true, to conform us to the divine order. That it should be in error, this will be at least a failure and often already a fault, because each ought to do everything in order to avoid this type of error. There is thus a fundamental duty, anterior even to that of following one’s conscience, to do everything in order that one’s conscience be true, objectively true. In this sense, before being responsible before our conscience, we are responsible of our conscience.64 Another noteworthy omission is the absence of any mention regarding the duty of the confessor to judge, educe contrition, and furnish more probable reasons. And so, whereas one might expect to see Vitoria encourage the confessor to instruct and admonish, instead the probable opinion proffered by the penitent exercises a normative role in the forum of conscience. The quasi-certainty of the confessor has been abandoned without prejudice to his formation as a minister of the sacraments and judge of consciences as his judgment gives way before the good faith of the penitent.65 Labourdette, Les Actes Humains, 157: “Même dans le cas d’une erreur totalement involontaire et innocente, s. Thomas ne dit pas . . . que la volonté conforme à la conscience erronée est bonne, mais seulement qu’elle n’est pas mauvaise. . . . elle n’a pas pour autant la vertu de produire la bonté morale. Ce qu’elle produit, c’est l’involontaire et . . . l’involontaire supprime toute raison de moralité, bonne ou mauvaise.” 64 Labourdette, Les Actes Humains, 159: “La conscience a un rôle subordonné par rapport à la loi éternelle et à la vérité des choses. Ce n’est pas elle qui fait la bonté, pas plus qu’elle ne fait l’obligation. Son devoir primordial est d’être vraie, de nous conformer à l’ordre divin. Qu’elle soit dans l’erreur, ce sera au moins une défaillance et souvent déjà une faute, car chacun doit tout faire pour éviter ce genre d’erreur. Il y a ainsi un devoir fondamental, antérieur même à celui de suivre sa conscience, c’est de tout faire pour que la conscience soit vraie, objectivement vraie. En ce sens, avant d’être responsible devant sa conscience, on est responsible de sa conscience.” 65 See de Blic, “Barthélémy Medina,” 283: “Il peut arriver en effet qu’un homme 63 740 Gregory Pine, O.P. Text 4: Commentary on ST I-II, q. 19, a. 5 ( from a reportatio of a course taught in 1539; Ms. Vat. Lat. 4630, fol. 124v–125v)66 1. Whether the will is good when abiding by erring reason? [“Utrum voluntas concordans rationi erranti sit bona?”) . . . 2. But it is still doubtful, having settled that an agent acting against his conscience sins, whether it is a sin to act against doubt: that is to say, if someone should have some doubt in a moral matter, whether he sins by acting against such a doubt. 3. I respond that something can be called dubious in two senses. 4. First, when one has an opinion concerning something, which opinion is called a doubt. And concerning this I posit the conclusion that one may well act against a doubt, that is, against a probable opinion. Because it stands that a literate man should think over two probable opinions; then, whatsoever opinion he follows, he does not sin, and nevertheless he acts contrary to a probable opinion. Ergo . . . Second, I say that, if someone thinks over one probable opinion and another improbable opinion, by acting against the probable opinion he sins because he acts against the prudential dictate which he ought to have [done] [quia agit contra dictamen prudentiale quod debet habere]. 5. But according to the second sense, there can exist some doubt as whenever the intellect does not incline more strongly unto one part than unto another, nor does it have assent [habet assensum] according to either part, such that it does not incline more strongly unto one part than to another. And concerning such case the conclusion is that he who acts against such a doubt sins: that is, he who acts in that concerning which he is doubtful, sins; for this reason, namely, that he opposes himself suchlike to the peril of sinning mortally [quia instruit et capable de juger des choses morales se trouve en présence de deux opinions opposées, dont chacune lui paraisse probable. Dans ce cas, quelque parti qu’il adopte, il ne péche pas, bien qu’il agisse contre une opinion probable” (“It can happen effectively that a man both learned and capable of judging moral matters finds himself ranged about by two opposing opinions, each of which appears probable to him. In this case, whichever one he adopts, he does not sin though he acts against a probable opinion”). 66 De Blic, ‘‘Barthélémy Medina,’’ 55–56 (the translation of the text is my own). The Incipient Probabilism of Francisco de Vitoria ille talis opponit se periculo peccandi moraliter]. For he is doubtful whether this is licit; therefore, if he performs [operator] it, he acts evilly, because he performs suchlike against his conscience. It is proven. For he does not have a judgment [ judicium] that this should be acted or is licit, and nevertheless he performs it. Therefore, he performs [it] against a doubtful conscience [Ergo operatur contra conscientiam dubiam]. 6. But it is argued against this: it follows that such a solution yields a perplexus in some case. It is proven [thus]. There is a case in which he is altogether doubtful [omnino dubius] whether this [woman] is his wife or not. The woman asks for the [marriage] debt. It follows that such a case then is a perplexus. It is proven [thus]. If he renders the debt, he acts evilly, in that he acts against a doubt [eo quod agit contra dubium]; therefore, he sins if he renders [it]. But if he does not render [it], also it seems that he should sin suchlike because he does injury to this woman concerning whom he doubts whether she is his wife and who licitly asks; therefore he does injury to her, having established that she does not ask evilly. Ergo. 7. A similar case can be given in this: there is a woman who doubts whether it is licit to lie in order to defend her husband. What should she do? If she lies, she sins. If she speaks the truth, she also sins because this woman does injury to her husband in that there is a doubt whether she is bound to speak the truth. Therefore. 8. We respond that in these doubtful cases, we can follow the moral standard, namely that less evil should be chosen from two evils, but known evil should never be chosen. I want to say: the woman doubts whether she is bound to lie in order to defend her husband, but the woman knows that if she lies without being bound to, she sins mortally [manuscript corruption: forte, venialiter]; nevertheless if she is bound to lie in order to defend her husband and she does not lie, she knows the sin to be mortal, because it is a great injury to her husband [tamen si teneretur mentiri pro defendo marito et non mentiretur, scit esse mortale, quia est magna injuria marito]. In this case, I say that she ought rather to lie because by not lying she sins mortally; but by lying in a case of doubt, she sins venially; and therefore less evil should be chosen between two evils. Ergo. And therefore through this [standard] is normed several [cases] which can come about [Et ideo [?] per hoc regulentur aliquot que possunt evenire]. 741 742 Gregory Pine, O.P. 9. But nevertheless when someone is thus doubtful, as according to both parts there were equal sin, then, whatsoever one does, he does not sin because it is reckoned to him as invincible ignorance. But plainly these cases never occur. The articles in the prima secundae on doubtful or erring conscience soon became the locus classicus for full-length treatises on the newly formulated moral systems. The text taken here from Vitoria’s ordinary lectures is rather brief by comparison to later theorists. That being said, certain emphases of those later accounts are already evident. In the Summa theologiae, St. Thomas settles upon the conclusion that erring conscience binds but does not excuse. All choice, St. Thomas teaches, is informed by an intellectual component with which the appetitive or volitional component moves, more or less, in concert. Thus the good is chosen as apprehended, and the will is good only insofar as it conforms to the rule of reason. In the case of erring conscience, a defect introduced by the intellect conditions the will in a somewhat strange fashion. Since the will is bound by the intellectual component which informs its motion, it would seem that error would excuse from sin. And yet, it does not. The conscience binds, but does not excuse. The moral agent with a malformed conscience appears to be trapped—a moral phenomenon called perplexus or perplexitas. Now, St. Thomas was fully aware of perplexus, and avoids it in the case of erring conscience. The bound erring conscience does not qualify for perplexus simpliciter, but only secundum quid. One can always have recourse to the further formation of conscience. St. Thomas sees no need to devise a conceptual structure for exculpating one “forced” to choose between two evils. Rather he indicates the way forward through growth in the virtue of prudence.67 In Vitoria’s commentary, the emphasis in the investigation of erring See St. Thomas Aquinas, De veritate, q. 17, a. 4, ad 8: “One whose conscience tells him to commit fornication is not completely perplexed, because he can do something by which he can avoid sin, namely, change the false conscience. But he is perplexed to some degree, that is, as long as the false conscience remains. And there is no difficulty in saying that, if some condition is presupposed, it is impossible for a man to avoid sin; just as, if we presuppose the intention of vainglory, one who is required to give alms cannot avoid sin. For, if he gives alms, because of such an intention, he sins; but, if he does not give alms, he violates the law” (trans. James V. McGlynn, S.J. [Chicago: Henry Regnery, 1953]). 67 The Incipient Probabilism of Francisco de Vitoria 743 conscience has subtly shifted. First, Vitoria begins with a reworked concept of doubt, a term that does not appear once in St. Thomas’s treatment of ST I-II, q. 19. For St. Thomas, a truly doubtful conscience, inclining neither more to one position or the other, ought to take the safer course. Vitoria acknowledges that he is using doubt in a modern sense, and so gives two definitions. Interestingly, his first definition of doubt describes the setting of probabilistic reasoning, as when one weighs more and less probable opinions. Vitoria states that, in any difficult case of conscience, one almost inevitably ends up acting against a probable opinion (provided reasons are arrayed on both sides), and so he must elect to act against a probable opinion. Otherwise, a perplexus would arise. And yet, in a place where one would expect a probabiliorist read, he appears decidedly probabilist: “Because it stands that a literate man should think over two probable opinions; then, whatsoever opinion he follows, he does not sin, and nevertheless he acts contrary to a probable opinion.” The paradigm of moral agency is the literate man, and his discovery of conflictual probable opinions leaves him radically free. The second definition of doubt given in the next paragraph holds for a more traditional sense, quoting a text from St. Thomas: “There can exist some doubt as whenever the intellect does not incline more strongly unto one part than unto another.”68 In commenting this sense of doubt, Vitoria appears to uphold the traditional position, claiming that one ought not to risk mortal sin if there is indeed true fear thereof. At this point, he introduces the complication of perplexus, citing two discrete cases. Paragraph 6 details the example of a man and a woman. The woman is asking the man to render the marriage debt, but he does not know if this is his wife. Paragraph 7 details the example of a woman who does not know whether she should lie to defend her husband. In paragraph 8, Vitoria proposes a fascinating novelty: “We respond that in these doubtful cases, we can follow the moral standard, namely that less evil should be chosen from two evils, but known evil should never be chosen.” Rather than demonstrating that the perplexus is only apparent or secundum quid, he concedes that one should choose the lesser evil among two evils (“scilicet quod minus malum est eligendum de duobus malis”). This beggars belief as an exposition of St. Thomas’s text. The unity of the moral life as envisioned by St. Thomas forbids this type of moral tragedy.69 Evil ST II-II, q. 71, a. 4, ad 3. Not insignificantly, this article speaks to the phenomenon of an uncertain judge. 69 See Alasdair MacIntyre, After Virtue (Notre Dame, IN: Notre Dame University Press, 1981), 142–45. and parallel passages in Alasdair MacIntyre, Whose Justice? 68 744 Gregory Pine, O.P. cannot be the object of a human act except when perceived as an apparent good. Only good (or the appearance thereof) motivates appetite. There are grounds for arguing here that, in Vitoria’s understanding, it is the object as comparatively less-evil which engages the moral agent. When he applies the principle, the incongruity is even starker. In one of his test cases, Vitoria concedes that one can lie permissibly, an action St. Thomas held to be malum in se. Vitoria goes so far as to say that one can be circumstantially bound to lie, and the omission thereof constitutes grounds for a mortal sin (see paragraph 8). The subsequent explanation relies heavily on the notion that venial sin is to be preferred to mortal, and that doubt is equivalent to invincible ignorance (a subject treated earlier). Here, Vitoria’s repurposing of concepts has led to conclusions that reveal an incipient probabilism. This important text highlights the connection between preoccupation with epistemic doubt and probabilism. Recourse is made to the literate man, the expert of moral knowledge. Competency for decision-making is professionalized. The shift toward authority and away from the interior coherence of philosophical and theological argumentation gives his reasoning a positivistic and very practical shape. He has wrestled with the question of lying in a violent and ruthless age. But one cannot help but wonder if the practicality has compromised some of his fundamental moral theory. Text 5: Commentary on ST II-II, q. 47, a. 4 ( from the ordinary lectures of 1534–1535)70 1. Aristotle in Nicomachean Ethics, book 6, enumerates the intellectual virtues and says that opinion is not a virtue. The reason—he says—is that it pertains to the ratio of virtue that it is not indifferent to good and to evil; but opinion is of this sort because sometimes it is true and sometimes it is false: therefore it is not an intellectual virtue. And nevertheless prudence is nothing other than opinion. It is proven thus, because prudence turns upon [versatur circa] the judgment of contracts, namely whether they are licit or illicit, and in this matter there is no evidence to be had, for prudence does not advance [procedit] by evidence. For it is evident that one should not kill. Nevertheless if [someone] wants to take my cloak, it is not Which Rationality? (Notre Dame, IN: Notre Dame Press, 1988). Francisco de Vitoria, O.P., Comentarios a la Secunda Secundae de Santo Tomás, vol. 2, De Caritate et Prudentia (qq. 23–56), ed. Vicente Beltrán de Heredia, O.P. (Salamanca: Biblioteca de Teólogos Españoles, 1932), 357–60 (the translation of the text is my own). 70 The Incipient Probabilism of Francisco de Vitoria 745 evident whether it is licit to kill him or not, but is rather a matter of opinion [sub opinione]; and nevertheless opinion is not a virtue: therefore neither is prudence . . . 2. Having supposed that opinion is sufficient for acting well morally, I say to the argument (which says that opinion is not a virtue) that Aristotle does not deny that some opinion is not a virtue, because it does not pertain to the ratio of opinion that it is true [de ratione opinionis non est quod sit vera]; and if it is true, it will be a virtue. And it pertains to the ratio of knowledge that it is a virtue, because all suchlike perfects the intellect. But if opinion is false, it will not be a virtue. So, since it pertains to the ratio of prudence that it is not false, therefore it is a virtue. This passage gives an objection and its response. An incautious reading invites any number of genre errors. One must note first that specious reasoning used in objections is often refuted in the responses; but, when the author fails to refute every aspect of the objection, that does not necessarily mean he has conceded the point(s). In the objection (paragraph 1), Vitoria syllogizes in the following way: virtue inclines always to good; opinion can incline to both good and evil; therefore opinion is not a virtue. Prudence, as a species of opinion (a point taken for granted), is therefore not a virtue. In the response, Vitoria does not challenge the assumption that prudence is a species of opinion. He argues though that Aristotle allows for opinion to be virtuous provided it inclines to the good; now— for Vitoria—prudence is just such an opinion, and therefore qualifies as a virtue. It is interesting to see how Vitoria depreciates the epistemological value of prudential knowledge. As mentioned earlier, dialectical knowledge, though admittedly less certain than science/knowledge in the strict sense, nevertheless occupies a rank above the “contentious” knowledge (doxa) described by Aristotle in the first chapter of the Topics.71 To reduce prudence to the category of opinion—a move that St. Thomas never makes—fails to appreciate prudence’s basis in indefectible first principles (synderesis). These first principles—identified alternately with the ends of the moral virtues and the roots of the natural law—incline man to the apprehended good in a way far beyond what mere opinion can muster.72 Aristotle, Topica 1.1.100b23–26. See ST II-II, q. 47, a. 6. 71 72 746 Gregory Pine, O.P. Clearly, prudence is far less robust in Vitoria’s understanding than in that of St. Thomas. The changes acknowledged in the discussion of the previous texts have come home to roost. As conscience and its complex apparatus begin to grow, a concomitant withering of prudence has begun. Summation of Textual Evidence These passages have served to highlight the ways that Vitoria’s moral theory betrays an incipient probabilism. In the course of the exegesis, certain departures from a classically Thomistic understanding appeared. Vitoria places authority in a position of prominence. He also makes theological proof to rely more on external authority and less on argumentation. He cedes to authority more significant determinative power and may in the process have undermined the integrity of the virtue of prudence and practical moral reasoning. In addition, the focus on resolving doubtful conscience over and against the virtuous formation of practical reason shifts emphasis away from a traditional conception of morality to that of a more therapeutic probabilist rationalization. Conclusion And so, while the traditional narrative credits Bartolomeo de Medina with the inception of probabilism, there is ample reason to identify some of its essential contours in the teaching of his esteemed professor. Vitoria certainly plays his part in the transition from high Scholasticism to the probabilist moral systems. In Vitoria, the theological worlds of sixteenth-century Europe met, mingled, and took new shape. By a novel fusion of nominalist, humanist, and Thomist principles and emphases, Vitoria contributed to laying the groundwork for what came, in time, to be an entirely new tradition of moral theory. And so, in contrast to what overly facile descriptions of his Thomistic caste of mind might suggest, Vitoria is decidedly his own man. Whether his moral theory in general is more original than many imagine falls outside the scope of this essay. At the very least, there are reasons to believe that his place in the formation of probabilism is indicative, and that, as a result, he can only be used to bridge the medieval and modern worlds with requisite care and caution. N&V Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 17, No. 3 (2019): 747–768 747 The Experience of Eucharistic Beauty in Albert the Great’s De corpore domini1 Sr. Albert Marie Surmanski, O.P. University of St. Thomas Houston, TX At first glance, the insight that links beauty and the Eucha- rist seems to be an obvious Catholic intuition. We surround the Eucharist with the beautiful—hymns, flowers, pressed linens. We reserve the Eucharist in ornate vessels. The monstrance in particular, which typically features jeweled rays emanating from a central host, speaks a message about the beauty concentrated in and flowing from the sacred host. Yet the monstrance could easily provoke a confused reaction reflection from someone coming into a church and seeing the Eucharist for the first time. What is it that those beautiful rays surround? A small white circle of bread. It is not colorful, nor does it feature intricate designs. It is not actually beautiful in appearance. What, then, is its relation to beauty? What is it about the sacrament of the Eucharist that makes it appropriate to depict it as a central point from which beauty flows upon the world? While questions about Eucharistic beauty can be (and have been) traced through many authors,2 this essay will investigate the beauty of the Eucharist in only one: Albert the Great, the thirteenth-century Dominican theologian, bishop, and teacher of Thomas Aquinas. For Albert, the beauty that the Eucharist bears is metaphysically grounded in the being of God. It Part of this essay was presented at the Notre Dame “Ethics and Culture Conference: You are Beauty,” November 2016. 2 See, for example, Hans Urs von Balthasar’s multivolume The Glory of the Lord: A Theological Aesthetics, 7 vols. (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1983), or Ann W. Astell, Eating Beauty: The Eucharist and the Spiritual Arts in the Middle Ages (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2006). 1 748 Sr. Albert Marie Surmanski, O.P. blossoms into human experience through the reception of the sacrament and through faith, uniting the Church, forming the moral life of believers, and ultimately shaping Albert’s own artistic imagination. Analysis of Albert on Eucharistic beauty reveals that human persons may experience various different “levels” of the beauty of the Eucharist. All these levels require engagement with the senses because of the sensible nature of sacraments. It will, however, be the condition of the one encountering the Eucharist that will determine how deeply its beauty is perceived. Those united to God through explicit faith and charity will recognize God’s beauty poured out in the Eucharist and be interiorly changed by receiving it. Those who believe but who do not conform their lives to Christ’s own can recognize Christ’s presence but are not able to be nourished by this beauty without prior conversion. Those who do not believe may be drawn toward God by the outward beauty of the liturgy. Albert’s theology has several significant implications. It suggests that an outwardly beautiful liturgy should be an important tool for teaching and evangelization. It also confirms the traditional teaching that only those in the state of grace should receive the Eucharist.3 This essay will focus primarily on Albert’s treatise De corpore domini, a late work written most likely in the 1270s, several years after his years of pastoral concern as bishop of Regensburg.4 The work itself is both pastoral and doctrinal, arranged around six names for the Eucharist connected There are historical precedents and doctrinal arguments for the judgment that those who are unrepentantly failing to live a life in accord with the moral truths taught by Christ should not receive the Eucharist. See John Corbett, O.P., Andrew Hoffer, O.P., Paul J. Keller. O.P., Dominic Langevin, O.P., Dominic Legge, O.P., Kurt Martens, Thomas Petri, O.P., and Thomas Joseph White, O.P. “Recent Proposals for the Pastoral Care of the Divorced and Remarried: A Theological Assessment,” Nova et Vetera (English) 12 (2014): 601–30. Albert himself makes this judgment on systematic and historical grounds, and rightly so, since these are the grounds which decide the question. See Albert the Great, De corpore domini, dist. 6, tract. 4, ch. 3, in Opera Omnia, vol. 38, ed. Auguste Borgnet (Paris: Vives, 1899). 4 The authenticity of De corpore domini has been called into question in recent years, with important scholars on both sides of the question. In favor of Albertine authorship, see Henryk Anzulewicz, “The Systematic Theology of Albert the Great,” in A Companion to Albert the Great: Theology, Philosophy and the Sciences, ed. Irven Resnick (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 15–68, at 64; against Albertine authorship, see Albert Fries, Der Doppeltraktat uber die Eucharistie unter dem Namen des Albertus Magnus (Aschendorff: 1984). Even those who deny that De corpore domini was written by Albert recognize that the author drew heavily on Albert’s theology. 3 The Experience of Eucharistic Beauty in Albert the Great's De corpore domini 749 to the liturgy: grace, gift, food, communion, sacrifice, and sacrament. There are large systematic sections of the work which echo the structure of articles in Albert’s Commentary on the Sentences, but there are also poetic passages, meant to stir the devotion of the reader through beautiful language. The pastoral-devotional character of De corpore domini means that this work shows a stronger attentiveness to the beauty of the Eucharist than Albert’s other Eucharistic writings.5 Albert does not explicitly analyze the beauty of the Eucharist in this work. Rather, he assumes it, refers to it, and seeks to add to it by himself surrounding the Eucharist in beautifully crafted words. Albert’s other significant works which treat the Eucharist are his commentary on the Mass, De mysterio missa, which was written as a companion-work to De corpore domini, and two early works from the 1240s: a short treatise on the sacraments, De sacramentis, and his more detailed Commentary on the Sentences.6 Beauty in Albert Albert defines beauty in his Commentary on Dionysius’s Divine Names, chapter 4. Here, he gives the characteristics of beauty. (1) It is a “resplendence of accidental or substantial form [shining] upon ordered material parts, or men or actions.” 7 This is the “specific difference of beauty” and the heart of his definition. He also mentions that beauty (2) is attractive as a good and an end, (3) involves a unification and order in the beautiful For an introduction to the history and theology of De corpore domini, see the introduction to the English translation: Albert the Great, On the Body of the Lord, trans. Sr. Albert Marie Surmanski, O.P., Fathers of the Church Medieval Continuation 17 (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2017). The translations in this article have been prepared with reference to that translation but vary from it in places. 6 Albert the Great: De mysterio missae, in Opera Omnia, vol. 38, ed. Auguste Borgnet (Paris: Vives, 1899); De sacramentis, in Opera Omnia Sancti Doctoris Alberti Magni, Cologne ed., vol. 26, ed. Albertus Ohlmeyer, O.S.B. (Munster: Aschendorff, 1958); Super IV Sententiarium, in Opera Omnia, vol. 30, ed. Auguste Borgnet (Paris: Vives, 1894). 7 Albert the Great, Super Dionysium de Divinis Nominibus, ch. 4, q. 72, sol.: “Ratio pulcri in universali consistit in resplendentia formae super partes materiae proportionatas, vel super diversas vires vel actiones” (Opera Omnia Sancti Doctoris Alberti Magni, Cologne ed., vol. 37, ed. Albertus Ohlmeyer, O.S.B. [Munster: Aschendorff, 1972], 182). A segment of this work of Albert was for years attributed to Aquinas’s De pulchro et bono. In comparing the two editions, question 72 in Albert’s De divinis nominibus is listed as question 1, a. 2, of Aquinas’s De pulchro et bono. 5 750 Sr. Albert Marie Surmanski, O.P. thing, and (4) comes from the first beauty, God.8 Albert’s definition has both Platonic and Aristotelian elements. It is Platonic in that beauty comes from God, the most perfect and first beauty. Albert’s language of “resplendence” shining down and through a beautiful thing is a type of Platonic emanation. His definition shows influence by Aristotelian philosophy in that each thing has its own form. The beauty of an individual thing is not merely measured by its relation to God or an ideal form, but to the proportion of its parts as ordered by its own form. In showing both Platonic and Aristotelian influences, Albert’s definition of beauty is consistent with the general tendencies of his philosophy.9 Albert never includes beauty in a formal list of transcendentals, but he does treat it as a transcendental quality in his commentary on Dionysius’s Divine Names.10 He sees that beauty applies analogously to various levels of being. God is the first beauty, the source of all others. He alone of all beautiful things is not made beautiful by a proportion of parts. Albert does not emphasize harmony between the persons of the Trinity in his understanding of the proportionality of divine beauty. Instead God is beautiful by being proportionate to himself in his oneness, by having multiple attributes, and by being that to which all other beautiful things are related.11 Created reality is also beautiful: material beings, human persons, and actions can all be beautiful when ordered in all of their parts according to their own form. At the material level, color is part of the resplendence of beauty; on the moral level, beauty is revealed in appropriateness of action.12 For Albert, beauty has a strong connection to truth and goodness. The beautiful is like the true in that encountering it involves apprehension. It differs from the true in that apprehending the beautiful involves recognizing an attractive goodness in that which is apprehended. In this way, it comes after truth.13 It overlaps with goodness in that the beautiful is desirable as an end. In his Commentary on the Divine Names, Albert sometimes treats the beautiful, pulchrum, as a type of good, along with the simple good, bonum, and the honorable good, honestum. Albert distinguishes beauty from the two other types of good in that beauty involves an Albert the Great, De divinis nominibus, ch. 4, q. 72, sol. (p. 182). For a treatment of Platonic sources in Albert, see Henryk Anzulewicz, “Plato and Platonic/Neoplatonic Sources in Albert,” in Resnick, Companion to Albert the Great, 595–600. 10 See Francesca Aran Murphy, Christ the Form of Beauty: A Study in Theology and Literature (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1995), 213. 11 Albert, De divinis nominibus, ch. 4, q. 73, ad 1 (p. 183–84). 12 Albert, De divinis nominibus, ch. 4, q. 72, sol. (p. 182). 13 Albert, De divinis nominibus, ch. 4, q. 71 (p. 181). 8 9 The Experience of Eucharistic Beauty in Albert the Great's De corpore domini 751 emphasis on the proportionate order which perfects a thing, rather than the aspect of desirability which the thing has from being perfect.14 Albert’s understanding of beauty is dynamic. The beautiful form of a thing comes forth from God, but it really is part of the thing itself, shining out in the parts of the beautiful object. The dynamism is that of the “radiance” of beauty—a dynamism not of physical movement, but of creative origin and communicative power. It is the dynamism of the true which impacts the mind of the knower; the dynamism of the good which draws desire to itself. The beautiful is the true as it is revealed through a well-proportioned good; it is a good that is sought for its lovely perfection. Albert’s understanding of beauty has been called “objectivist,” because for him, while beauty is perceivable, it is not caused by human perception.15 It is constituted neither in the mind itself nor by a relationship between the mind and the beautiful thing. For Albert, a radiance of form really does shine through beautiful things whether or not the lovely proportionality is recognized by mankind. The Dynamic of Eucharistic Beauty Albert’s metaphysical understanding of beauty as unifying and dynamic applies to the Eucharist as beautiful. Eucharistic beauty connects and unifies several levels of being: the divine, the human, the moral, the ecclesial, and the liturgical. It crowns a sapiential understanding of reality as ordered by God’s wisdom, offering strong suggestive arguments that the beauty of a well-ordered moral life accords best with this sacrament. The Eucharist is a locus of beauty because it contains Christ, who is God. Albert firmly grounds beauty in the “splendor of the divinity” which is the source and exemplar of all other beauty.16 Insofar as this nature belongs to Christ as the Second Person of the Trinity, he is the beautiful image of the Father, beautiful because the whole divine nature resides in him. Coming forth from the Father, eternally and in the Incarnation, he radiates the divine beauty to mankind. Since Christ is substantially present in the Eucharist, “there is splendor in the bread.”17 Albert, De divinis nominibus, ch. 4, q. 72, sol. (p. 182). This essay does not intend to answer the often-intensely argued question about whether beauty fulfills all of the characteristics of a transcendental for the Scholastics. Here, it is enough to recognize that, for Albert, it transcends many of the categories of reality and is seen as flowing from God. 15 Umberto Eco, Art and Beauty in the Middle Ages (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2002), 26. 16 De corpore domini, dist. 1, tract. 1, ch. 6: “Splendorem deitatis.” 17 De corpore domini, dist. 3, tract. 1, ch. 1: “In panibus splendorem habet.” 14 752 Sr. Albert Marie Surmanski, O.P. Christ’s presence in the Eucharist is stable and substantial, but it is a presence as spiritual food, meant to be eaten by the faithful. When we receive the Eucharist, we share in an outpouring of beauty from the Trinity. Albert links Trinitarian procession to the movement of our redemption and to Eucharistic eating, using the language of the radiation of beauty from God. He speaks about the glory or claritas of the divine nature, saying: For the glory which the Father gave to the Son to be made perfect, is the glory by which he shines in all the members of the mystical body. For the glory of Christ flashes and shines in all of them. . . . He gives us his glory, which the Father gave [him] to make perfect in the world by pouring himself into us spiritually and sacramentally, and so we are one body with him. . . . For in this way the Father is shining in Christ the man in his humanity, through the consubstantial divinity.18 Albert summarizes redemption in this image of a shining forth from the Trinity. God’s goodness radiates on the world through Christ, touches humanity, and through the Eucharist, brings beatified mankind back into communion with the Trinity. Albert’s treatment of divine beauty in De corpore domini differs slightly from that in his Commentary on the Divine Names because Albert includes the procession of the Son from the Father in his description of the procession of divine beauty. The emphasis on the integrity of the divine nature as true divine beauty remains the same in both works. Albert’s vision is echoed in a quote by Hans Urs von Balthasar: “Whoever had been able to read the image of the Son who bled to death on the Cross, will not be really ‘surprised’ by the prolongation of this commitment in the Eucharist. The Eucharist will be regarded by such a person only as a dimension emerging from that first commitment.”19 Like von Balthasar, Albert envisions the Eucharist as an extension of the outpouring of redemption. Albert’s general theological schema of coming forth Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 1, ch. 5: “Claritas enim quam Pater perficiendam dedit Filio, est claritas qua claret in omnibus membris corporis mystici. In omnibus enim illis fulget et lucet claritas Christi. . . . Sic ergo influendo se nobis spiritualiter et sacramentaliter nobis suam dat claritatem, quam sibi Pater dedit in mundo perficiendam, et sic unum sumus cum ipso corpus. Et sic claret Filius in Patre secundum unam et eamdem substantiam deitatis clarissimam.” 19 Von Balthasar, Glory of the Lord, 1:440–41. 18 The Experience of Eucharistic Beauty in Albert the Great's De corpore domini 753 and return to God has been described in terms of exitus–perfectio–reductio.20 He seems to be following this movement in his Eucharistic theology. This exitus—perfectio—reductio movement is seen when Albert speaks of the “golden chain” of Trinitarian love described in John 17:22–23: This is the golden chain, by which we are joined and from many are led back to the one from which we came. For the Father is entirely one, from whom as from a font the Son is born, and the Holy Spirit proceeds from the Father and the Son. Now the Holy Spirit is the bond of this union. . . . Now the form to which we are bound is the Son, the form of the eternal Father, and is the sacrament of the body and blood, by which we are incorporated into Christ and so in the Son we are led back to the heavenly Father of every good, and in him we enjoy every good of the Son in the sweetness and beatitude of the Spirit. And all who fall from this chain perish.21 By the Eucharist we are linked up to the Son by the power of the Holy Spirit, who is the “bond” of the union of Father and Son. Although the word beauty is not used here, the language is very similar to Albert’s earlier definition of beauty in that he speaks about how a “form,” in this case the Son’s conformity to the Father in the divine nature, orders those united to it, and is, in turn, expressed through them. Here we see beauty as transcendental: present in the perfection of the divine nature, present in us as we know and love God and are touched by his goodness and grace. Albert gives a vision of the life of the Church as wisely ordered and made beautiful by the divine life. Reception of Eucharistic Beauty and Virtue How does this beauty touch and transform human experience? In Albert’s writing, Eucharistic beauty is experienced in two ways through the effective nature of the sacrament. The first of these is that the Eucharist causes See Anzulewicz, “Platonic Sources,” 596. Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 3, tract. 1, ch. 8: “Haec est catena aurea, qua colligamur et a multis reducimur ad unum unde exivimus. Pater enim omnino unus, a quo sicut a fonte Filius nascitur, et a Patre et Filio procedit Spiritus sanctus. Spiritus autem sanctus hujus unionis est vinculum. . . . Forma autem cui alligamur, Filius est, forma Patris aeterni, et sacramentum corporis et sanguinis est, quo Christo incorporamur, et sic in Filio ad omnis boni Patrem coelestem reducimur, et in illo fruimur omni bono Filii in Spiritus dulcedine et beatitudine. Et omnes ab hac catena recedentes, pereunt.” 20 21 754 Sr. Albert Marie Surmanski, O.P. an increase in love of God in those who receive it.22 This is a beautifying action in that it increases the spiritual life of the one who receives it, healing her weakness. Albert understands all of the sacraments to be remedies for sin.23 The Eucharist brings its unique type of healing by causing “the restoration of the lack in spiritual life which man incurred through long abstinence from spiritual food.”24 In this quote, Albert uses the image of feeding someone who is starving. One who finally has access to food after a period of starvation will become more beautiful as she is able to eat well again; she will also be more vivaciously beautiful in her actions now that she once again has energy. This increase in spiritual life and charity makes the one who receives it more virtuous. To grow in virtue is to become more beautiful, more like Christ, “the most beautiful king and the font of grace.”25 Albert repeatedly talks about “splendor of holiness.”26 His definition of beauty itself refers to a type of beauty “resplendent in ordered deeds.” Grace overflowing into virtue orders the human person within, shining outwardly in a virtuous life. In a poetic passage, Albert says that the Eucharist “penetrates with the sublimity of divinity, wafts with the fragrance of virtue, and causes spiritual beauty by which it makes [us] like the most beautiful king.”27 Thus the beauty of the Eucharist is revealed in its power to make those who receive it live beautiful lives. In this dynamic, the Eucharist does not so much act through beauty as through the divine power which nevertheless is beautiful and which causes beauty by its healing power. Then, God’s presence in the person is made visible through the holy life of the one who is united to Christ through the Eucharist. Albert’s theological understanding draws on the first letter of John, which speaks about recognizing that the love of God is present in one who is able to keep the commandments. “And by this we may be sure that we know him, if we keep his commandments. . . . Whoever keeps his word, in him truly love for God is perfected” (1 John 2:3, 5; RSV, Catholic Edition [CE]). Keeping the commandments is a way of showing love of God. Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 1, ch. 2. Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 1, tract. 1, ch. 6. 24 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 2, tract. 3, ch. 1: “Substantialis autem effectus est restauratio deperditi in spirituali vita, quam homo incurrit ex longa abstinentia cibi spiritualis.” 25 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 1, ch. 3: “Pulcherrimo regi et fonti gratiarum.” 26 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 1, ch. 6: “Splendore sanctitatis.” 27 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 1, ch. 3: “Sublimitate deitatis penetrat, odore virtutum flagrat, et splendore plenae gratiae pulchritudinem inducit spiritualem, qua pulcherrimo regi et fonti gratiarum assimilantur.” 22 23 The Experience of Eucharistic Beauty in Albert the Great's De corpore domini 755 Conversely, the ability to live a life which lovingly follows the commandments is a sign of the power of grace at work within a person. John’s letter speaks of the “true light” of Christ “shining” in the world and in the life of those who follow Christ (1 John 2:11). Albert echoes this language when he speaks about Christ’s glory “shining” through those who love him. Albert affirms that he has the theology of 1 John in mind when he quotes 1 John 3:9—“Whoever is born of God, does not commit sin, for his seed remains in him, and he cannot sin, because he is born of God”—to support the assertion that the body of Christ “draws man to itself by its power and transforms [him] into himself.”28 Albert understands that the grace of Christ given through the Eucharist powers the moral life. Reception of Eucharistic Beauty and Mystical Experience The second way in which the Eucharist is experienced as beautiful through its effectiveness occurs when receiving the Eucharist involves the experience of mystical love. Albert describes the one receiving the Eucharist as the bride from the Song of Songs who eats the fruit from “the tree of life, fair and beautiful.”29 She is not only “justified by the law” of righteousness given in the Eucharist but also tastes “the honey-flowing sweetness” of the sacrament and is so “inebriated with the most precious blood” that she boasts “that she is loved by God.”30 The language and thought of this section are indebted to the mystical theology of St. Bernard, love of whose thought is a signal characteristic of the genre of monastic literature by which De corpore domini is influenced.31 In another place Albert writes: “For fire penetrating into the marrow teaches the power of this love, by which Christ pours himself into us and draws us into himself; nor can anyone know this power other than by intimate love.”32 There is a mystical knowledge here in which the presence of Christ is recognized through the impact on the will and emotions of the Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 3, tract. 1, ch. 8: “Sua virtute hominem ad se trahit et in se transformat” (Biblical quotation according to Albert’s text). 29 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 1, ch. 2: “Fructum . . . quia nobis lignum vitae exhibuit pulchrum et decorum.” 30 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 1, ch. 2: “delectare in melliflua dulcedine . . . vino pretiosissimi sanguinis fuit inebriata. . . jactabat se a Deo habuisse affectus.” 31 Jean LeClerq, The Love of Learning and the Desire for God: A Study of Monastic Culture, trans. Catharine Misrahi (New York: Fordham University Press, 1961), 103. See also, Surmanski, “Introduction,” in On the Body of the Lord, 7–12. 32 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 1, ch. 2: “Ignis enim in medullas penetrans erudit quae sit vis istius amoris, quo sic nobis Christus se infundit, et nos sic intrahit intra seipsum: nec alius potest scire quam amor intimus hanc virtutem.” 28 756 Sr. Albert Marie Surmanski, O.P. recipient. The poetic and descriptive language that Albert uses shows that he considers this experience of Eucharistic delight to be beautiful. Is it correct, though, to characterize the loving knowledge found in the Eucharist as a “beautiful experience”? In doing so, I am saying that it contains a delight that speaks of the union with God which is taking place. How is this delight something beautiful? Very often, especially in objectivist theories of beauty, beauty is connected to the eye and ear because of the cognitive content of sight and hearing, while for the same reason, the pleasure of eating is not understood as a gateway to beauty.33 I remember pondering this question years ago as an undergraduate philosophy student but also the daughter of a farmer. I remembered the taste of fruit from our trees. Most often, the first bite of freshly picked apple was pleasant—a moment of delight. Yet this pleasure was not just a delightful sensation—it really did communicate something about the goodness and integrity of the fruit. A sound, healthy apple reveals its healthiness34 in its flavor, while a wilting, wormy apple reveals its state too through the tongue of the unfortunate who bites into it. The joyful pleasure of tasting a delicious apple came not only from the sugar, but the communicated perfection of that year’s crop and God’s bounty. There was a cognitive element in the experience of taste. Of course, when Albert speaks of delight “tasted” in the Eucharist, he is not speaking about the pleasant taste of the Eucharistic bread, but an interior delight. This is not the “taste and see” that the bread is fresh, but the “taste and see that the Lord is good” (Ps 34:8; RSVCE) of Scripture.35 The love infused by the sacrament moves the will to an increase in charity. In doing so it impacts the emotions, giving an experiential knowledge of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist. This is a pleasant and desirable knowledge. It is a perception of beauty, since in it the interior ordering of charity “shines” strongly enough to give the recipient a real perception of Christ’s presence. For example, see Francis J. Kovach, Philosophy of Beauty (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1974), 58. Here, Kovach distinguishes physical or moral possession of an object from the cognitive possession of it needed for beauty, pointing out that, “there is no physical union taking place in aesthetic experience between the beholder and the beheld object, and there cannot even be any such union.” Or, see Nicolas of Cusa, Sermon 243: “Tota pulchra es, amica mea, et macula non est in te” (Opera Omnia, vol. 29, fasc. 3, Sermones IV(1455-1463), ed. Walter Andreas Euler and Harald Schwaezer [Hamburg: Felix Meiner, 2002], 254–55; quoted in Astell, Eating Beauty, 2). 34 This is so in all analogous senses of the word, since an apple really is alive, it is a sign of the state of the tree, and is healthy to the one who eats it. See Aquinas, Summa theologiae [ST] I, q. 13, a. 5. 35 Although Albert does have harsh words for those who would use inferior or sour wine for the Eucharist (De corpore domini, dist. 3, tract. 2, ch. 2). 33 The Experience of Eucharistic Beauty in Albert the Great's De corpore domini 757 These two first considerations (the beauty of virtue and the beauty of mystical awareness as both caused by the Eucharist) link conversion of heart to the beautiful. In these instances, the moral is tied directly to the aesthetic. In the first case, the beauty of Christ will only shine in the life of the one who receives him with love and wills to live by his moral law. Christ’s grace powers the moral life, but the nature of virtue requires human assent and effort. Otherwise, the radiance of Christ’s beauty would be thwarted, the resplendence stopped by the opacity of sin. In the second, for the interior presence of Christ to be perceived through love, love of God must burn in the heart of the person.36 It is true that someone who does not love God could glimpse beauty in a supernaturally virtuous life, or could read and be moved by Albert’s account of Eucharistic experience, but the fullest experience of the effective beauty of the Eucharist belongs to one who also loves. It is only in such a person that the beauty of the Eucharist would truly “shine through” all of the levels of the recipient’s personality, achieving that for which it was given. If, for Albert, beauty truly is “resplendence . . . [shining] upon ordered material parts, or men or actions,” the action of refusing to allow one’s moral life to be ordered by the teaching of Christ would block the “shining” of the Eucharist and thereby make its reception pointless. Reception of Eucharistic Beauty and the Church What has been said about the Eucharist causing beauty in the life of an individual by uniting him to Christ is truer still of the Church. Albert extensively treats the way in which the Eucharist beautifully unites the Church. He references the Eucharistic body as the source of the mystical body of the Church throughout his work. He gives it special attention in distinction 4. Here, he traces the exitus–perfectio–reductio schema in the light of communion. Albert describes the various levels of communion that are deepened through the reception of the Eucharist. The list begins with communion with God, then continues through the angels, the saints, the mystical body, spiritual goods, sufferings, and material things through works of mercy. The reductio is suggested in the final chapter of this distinction which returns to God, reiterating that the Eucharist causes the “truest communion of the divine and the human.”37 Jordan Aumann, O.P., considers such a contemplative awareness of God’s presence to give “the soul moral certitude that it is in the state of grace” (Spiritual Theology [New York and London: Continuum, 2006 (orig. 1980)], 333). 37 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 4, ch. 7: “Facit etiam divinorum et humanorum haec communio verissimam communionem”. 36 758 Sr. Albert Marie Surmanski, O.P. A quotation from chapter 3, which treats communion with the saints, sums up the way in which Albert sees the unity and diversity of the Church as beautiful: So we have the virtues of the patriarchs, the revelations and illuminations and enjoyments of the prophets, the justice of the lawgivers, the announcements and proclamations of the heralds of Christ announcing with John the Baptist, the honors of the apostles, the victories of the martyrs, the holiness of the confessors, the religion of the monks, the purity of the anchorites, the sound doctrine of the doctors, the purity of the virgins, the mourning of the widows, the domestic works of mercy, the concerns of the nations, the penitential laments of the penitent, the splendor of the integrity of the innocent, and all the merits of the saints, for all these things which flowed from Christ into his mystical body, come to be from the power of his body and blood and are carried and redound from one to the other through the charity of the Spirit of Christ.38 This quote, consisting of rhythmically proportioned and repeated phrases all related to a central idea, poetically echoes Albert’s understanding of the beautiful but diverse unity of the Church. The charity of Christ flows into and unites all of these different members into one body. The same beautiful dynamic of power flowing from the Trinity heals and orders the Church as it does the person. It might seem odd to treat the Church after the individual rather than before. Albert is, indeed, aware that the Eucharist is confected within the Church. He is a strong sacramental realist who holds that an ordained priest is needed to consecrate the sacrament.39 Thus, the power to cause the healing reality signified is present only in the Apostolic Church. Albert holds the strong position that those who are not in full communion with Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 4, ch. 3: “Sic habemus virtutes Patriarcharum, revelationes et illuminationes et fruitiones Prophetarum, justitias Legislatorum, demonstrationes et praeconia praeconum Christi cum Joanne Baptista demonstrantium, dignitates Apostolorum, victorias Martyrum, sanctitates Confessorum, religionem Monachorum, puritatem Anachoritarum, doctrinas saluberrimas Doctorum, munditiam Virginum, luctum Viduarum, eleemosynas domesticas, curas gentium, poenitentiae lamenta poenitentium, splendorem honestatis innocentium, et omnia merita sanctorum: haec enim omnia quae a Christo in corpus ejus mysticum fluxerunt, in efficientia corporis ejus et sanguinis consistunt, et de quolibet in quemlibet per charitatem spiritus Christi referuntur et redundant.” 39 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 6, tract. 4, ch. 2. 38 The Experience of Eucharistic Beauty in Albert the Great's De corpore domini 759 the Catholic Church cannot confect the Eucharist meritoriously.40 Yet, even though the Eucharist always impacts the individual as a member of the Church, Albert puts strong emphasis on the charity within the individual. It is in the forefront even when he talks about the Eucharist building up the Church. In the long quote given above, it is the grace of God received through Holy Communion which connects the individual members of the Church. Albert understand the Eucharist, and the strengthening of charity which it gives, to be what builds up the Church by binding individuals more strongly to Christ. 41 Perception of Sacramental Beauty through Faith Up to this point, our consideration of Eucharistic beauty has been tied to the Eucharist as effective in those who receive it, a beauty resplendent through its impact on the will. What about the simple perception of beauty in the Eucharist? Let us take the case we started with of someone who comes into a church building and sees the consecrated host. How is this host perceived as beautiful? We now begin to consider the Eucharist specifically as a sacramental sign or symbol.42 As a sacramental sign, the Eucharist has a beauty which must be read by the eyes of faith. Albert teaches that the sacrament itself is beautiful because through it we perceive the presence of Christ. The ontological is foundational again—Christ is present, so there is beauty there to shine. Expounding Isaiah 11:10, which calls the Messiah’s tomb “glorious,” Albert says: “And his tomb, in which in which he was held and hidden, that is, the sacramental forms, will be glorious since in them we adore the hidden Lord Jesus Christ.”43 Glory, here, has to do with the perception of Christ’s presence. Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 6, tract. 4, ch. 2. See Antonio Piolani, Il Corpo Mistico e le sue relazioni con l’Eucharistia in S. Alberto Magno, Studia di Teologia Medievale della Pontificia Universita Lateranense 1 (Rome: Pontificia Universita Lateranense, 1960), 167. Piolani finds this point to be generally consistent through Albert’s theology. When Albert speaks about the sacramental character given in Baptism, he prefers to speak about it as ordered to faith or grace than to the Church. It is the shared faith and charity that are more important for him in making persons members of the Church. See for example his Commentary on the Sentences, where he describes character (among other definitions) as “a sign of the nature of the grace which is the effect of the sacrament [character est signum naturale gratiae quae est effectus sacramenti]” (Albert, Super IV Sententiarum, d. 6, a. 4). 42 Although, the sensible nature of the Eucharist, which is an essential part of its nature as a sacrament, was presupposed above when we spoke about people receiving the Eucharist. 43 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 6, tract. 1, ch. 1: “Et sepulcrum ejus quo conditur et 40 41 760 Sr. Albert Marie Surmanski, O.P. Similarly, when speaking about the elevation of the host at Mass, he says that we see “the Lord who is coming . . . again showing himself exalted on the Cross.”44 The sacrament enables the recognition of the presence of Christ. How is the recognition of Christ possible? The recognition of Christ in the host which Albert describes would require first of all knowledge received through faith. It would also require the sensibly perceived host, as well as the knowledge that the consecration took place. What happens when the Eucharistic Christ is adored in the sacrament is not only an act of faith; it is a sacramental experience.45 Both the knowledge of faith and the data of physical sight need to be held together in one experience for the sacrament to be truly appreciated. If beauty is the resplendence of the form of a thing shining through its appearance (according to Albert’s definition), then beauty is present here because the reality of Christ’s sacrificial presence “shines” through the host when the host is seen with the eyes of faith. This seems to be what Albert describes when he speaks about the Lord “showing himself exalted on the Cross” in the Eucharist.46 This is not a natural physical beauty, although it is beauty manifesting itself through the sensible presence of the host. What is the content of this “knowledge of faith” that is brought to the recognition of Christ’s Eucharistic presences? Essentially, it is that Christ, who is God and our Redeemer, is truly present through Eucharistic change. Yet faith’s content is richer than this. Albert does not want the action of the mind in perceiving the Eucharist to stop merely at the presence of Christ. He wants the one receiving communion to meditate richly on Christ, his great love for humanity, his goodness, his deep suffering, his true divinity, and many other attributes. These attributes are present in Christ in the Eucharist, but cannot be perceived directly. The recognition of how great is the One who is present, just like the fact of his presence, needs to come through the theological reflection that enriches faith. Thus, the beauty of the Eucharist will be recognized and experienced more deeply when the one perceiving the Eucharist has a deeper and more explicit faith. absconditur, scilicet formae sacramentales, erit gloriosum: quia in ipso conditum adoramus Dominum Jesum Christum.” 44 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 6, tract. 1, ch. 1: “Dominum venientem . . . suam in cruce exaltationem iterum ostendentem.” 45 The word “sacramental” here is used to refer to an experience that involves the sensible sacrament. In his own terminology, by “sacramental reception of communion,” Albert always refers to actually eating the sacrament. 46 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 6, tract. 1, ch. 1: “Dominum suam in cruce exaltationem . . . ostendentem.” The Experience of Eucharistic Beauty in Albert the Great's De corpore domini 761 Albert admonishes his reader to spend time in meditative reflection. He says: “When we ponder the charity of Christ in that he offered himself in sacrifice for us, when we ponder his gentleness in suffering, and when we attend to his devotion in offering himself for us, his generosity in giving himself for us, [and] his kindness in bringing us to this table, our hearts become tender toward this food, and kindle in complete devotion of heart, and burn in love, and he who burns in meditation is thus digested by fire into the likeness of this food.”47 Albert skillfully paints a beautiful picture of the goodness of Christ. He wants the memory of faith to involve true doctrine, but also to be connected to beautiful and moving words and images, so that imaginative memory as well as intellectual knowledge come into play in sacramental experience. It is important to note that, although the question that begins this section asks what content the knowledge of faith and the eye bring to the Eucharist, most of the quotes from Albert refer to someone seeing the Eucharist in a moment of adoration connected to actually physically receiving the sacrament. Albert does allow that Catholics at Mass may sometimes only receive the Eucharist “spiritually.” He is almost forced into this recognition by the wide-spread custom at his time of very infrequent lay reception of the Eucharist.48 Yet, for him, seeing should not be divorced from eating. The body of the Lord is meant to be recognized under the sacramental species as Christ giving himself as spiritual food meant to be consumed by the faithful.49 Further, Albert’s theology of perception provides a necessary element in his understanding of Eucharistic change. Albert believes that Christ is present in the Eucharist through the transubstantiation of the bread into his body. He uses the Aristotelian terminology of substance and accidents; in consecration of the Eucharist, the substance of the bread and wine is changed into Christ’s body, while the accidents remain.50 Among Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 3, tract. 1, ch. 6: “Quando enim cogitamus charitatem Christi in hoc quod pro nobis se in sacrificium obtulit, cogitamus mansuetudinem patientis, et advertimus devotionem se pro nobis offerentis, largitatem se pro nobis exhibentis, benignitatem nos ad mensam hanc rapientis, dulcescit cor nostrum ad cibum hunc, et in tota cordis devotione accenditur, et fervet in amore, et sic ad similitudinem istius cibi digeritur per ignem qui exardescit in meditatione.” 48 See, Sr. Albert Marie Surmanski, O.P., “Adoring and Eating: Reception of the Eucharist in the Theology of Albert the Great,” Antiphon 20, no. 3 (2016): 213–40. 49 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 2, tract. 2, ch. 1. 50 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 6, tract. 2, ch. 1. 47 762 Sr. Albert Marie Surmanski, O.P. the reasons he gives when arguing in favor of transubstantiation is that accidents have the function of signifying a substance. While the substance of the bread is there, its accidents signify the presence of the substance of bread. After the change, these accidental forms remain to signify the presence of Christ’s body. Albert writes, “Therefore, the substances of bread and wine should not remain in the sacrament, but only the accidents, made to spiritually signify spiritual nourishment by the change.”51 The purpose of the sacramental species remaining is to make this recognition possible. Part of the very reason why transubstantiation was the type of change divinely chosen to occur in the Eucharist is so that sensible accidents will remain unchanged to indicate the body of Christ. 52 Perception of Christ through Bread and Wine Let us look more closely at the sacramental bread. I said earlier that the host does not look beautiful. Yet, in Albert’s thought, it is not merely a “placeholder” that indicates the presence of Christ. Read in the light of Scripture, Albert understands the elements of the Eucharist, bread and wine, to themselves bring a depth of meaning to the sacrament, which enriches the perception of its beauty.53 First, it is meaningful that Christ is given under the appearance of food. The appearance of bread and wine do not merely signify the presence of Christ’s body; they signify Christ as given as “spiritual food” for the faithful.54 This speaks about the generosity of God in his desire to care for his people. Albert compares Christ giving himself as food in the Eucharist to King Darius in the book of Daniel giving a great banquet. This banquet shows the “beauty of [Christ’s] magnificence in that he made a brilliant and great feast in this sacrament for all his subjects.”55 The Eucharist given as food shows Christ’s beautiful bounty. The connection of the Eucharist to Christ’s bounty suggests a further Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 6, tract. 2, ch. 1: “Ideo substantia panis et vini non debent manere in sacramento, sed accidentia tantum per translationem factam ad spiritualia signantia nutrimentum spirituale.” 52 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 6, tract. 2, ch. 1. 53 For an analysis of these levels of sacramental perception in Albert, without reference to beauty, see Sr. Albert Marie Surmanski, O.P., “Sign and Symbol: Sacramental Experience in Albert’s De corpore domini,” New Blackfriars 97 ( July 2016): 479–91. 54 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 2, tract. 2, ch. 1: “Cibus spiritualis.” 55 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 3, tract. 1, ch. 1: “Suae magnificentiae demonstrans decorem in hoc quod tam lautam et magnam in sacramento fecit coenam omnibus vernaculis.” 51 The Experience of Eucharistic Beauty in Albert the Great's De corpore domini 763 reason why the restriction of access to the Eucharist can be difficult for some to accept. Is not God’s bounty, seen in the pouring out of Christ’s blood on the Cross, given to all? Yes, but not all receive this redemption. And does not the recognition that not all may receive the Eucharistic food appropriately express that not all have allowed their souls to be washed in Christ’s blood? For Albert, bread and wine evoke also the natural goodness of creation. Albert describes bread as a “sweet and rich food.”56 With his scientific turn of mind, Albert goes through a long analysis of different foods and grains, concluding that wheat bread is the best food and noblest food known to humanity, and therefore very appropriate for use in the Eucharist.57 He does the same to prove that wine is the best drink known to mankind.58 Albert may go too far when he thinks he has to prove that bread and wine are the best food and drink, but it is clear that he understands that the wheat bread and grape wine used in the Eucharist evoke the beautiful and healthy properties of the natural world. The knowledge of faith which makes sacramental experience beautiful also includes the historical—the beauty of God’s kindness to the people of Israel and of Christ’s love. Turning to the Old Testament, Albert draws on the Psalms to characterize bread as given “to strengthen man’s heart” (Ps 104:15).59 He invokes the manna in the desert to remind his reader of the divine origin and sustaining sweetness of the Eucharist (see Exod 16:16– 17).60 The bread of the Eucharist recalls Christ, joyfully giving himself to us at the Last Supper.61 Albert follows a similar (but even more entertaining) exercise in regard to wine “to gladden the heart of man” (Ps 104:15).62 Here again, the knowledge of faith, preserved through by the community Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 1, ch. 4: “Dulcis et pinguis.” Although Albert might be showing exaggerated concern in trying to prove that bread is the best food, I have met people with wheat allergies or celiac disease with sincere questions about why Christ chose as matter for the Eucharist something that is unhealthy for many people. While the answer must lie in weaknesses in our genetics or our way of growing or preparing wheat, the query underlines the signifying power of the matter of the Eucharist. 58 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 3, tract. 2, ch. 1. 59 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 1, ch. 4: “Panis cor hominis confirmat.” 60 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 1, ch. 1. 61 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 1, ch. 4. 62 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 3, tract. 2. ch. 1: “Vinum laetificat cor hominis.” For a more detailed analysis of how Albert “reads” the Eucharistic wine, see Sr. Albert Marie Surmanski, O.P., “The Joy of Christ in St. Albert’s De corpore domini,” in Wisdom and the Renewal of Theology: Essays in Honor of Matthew L. Lamb, ed. Thomas P. Harmon and Roger W. Nutt (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2016), 138–48. 56 57 764 Sr. Albert Marie Surmanski, O.P. of the Church, adds to perception of Eucharistic beauty.63 Albert seems to intend that all he has recounted will inform the one receiving the Eucharist as part of the content of faith brought to the sacrament. Thus, while the simple white circle of bread might, of itself, be physically lacking in beauty, the weight of history and imagery which it should evoke is heavy indeed. Poetic and Liturgical Implications This leads to a final way in which the Eucharist is a locus of beauty—it should inspire the Church to surround it in beauty. This has been shown already in many of the selections from Albert. De corpore domini is one of Albert’s most beautiful works. In it, the Eucharist has become a muse for him, inspiring him to express the beauty of Eucharistic experience through the best of his own poetic prose. In speaking about the wisdom of God in giving the Eucharist under the forms of bread and wine, Albert piles quote upon quote, image upon image, using as beautiful language as he can find in Scripture, and adding to it his own words of praise. Albert is not just adding to our information about the Eucharist. He is drawing upon all of the beauties of creation and of Biblical imagery and language, heaping them all up at the feet of Christ in the Eucharist. In places he goes so far as to wrench biblical passages out of their more obvious context. For example, the Lover from the Song of Songs “gazing in at the windows, looking through the lattice” (Song 2:9) becomes Christ, looking out at us from the sacramental species of the Eucharist.64 He can do this because, as the place where the ever-beautiful divine life is communicated to humanity, the Eucharist (considered in connection with the Incarnation and redemption) is the key to the entirety of the divine plan. Any other resplendent communication of any sort of beauty only echoes this central event. The Church also surrounds the Eucharist in the beauty of appropriate rites and objects. Vestments are used at Mass to express the life of holiness of the priests, “the cleanness and virtues which there should belong to the ministry of so great a sacrament.”65 Albert connects the vestments to the Insofar as the qualities of bread can be experienced by anyone, and anyone can read the Old Testament as literature, if not history, this level of signification is, to some extent, open to anyone gazing on the Eucharist. Of course, in itself, it is not fully explanatory. For example: It will not speak of spiritual, only physical nourishment; the Old Testament will not speak of God’s real providential action in history; and if only the eloquence of bread is heard, why adore the host? 64 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 3, tract. 3, ch. 2. 65 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 6, tract. 4, ch. 2: “Vestes sunt de bene esse, ut osten63 The Experience of Eucharistic Beauty in Albert the Great's De corpore domini 765 effect which reception of the Eucharist has in leading to eternal life. The Church itself represents heaven, while the vestments represent the glory that will clothe the resurrected body. “A temple and all its ornaments are symbolic signs of the heavenly beauty. . . . The splendor of the vestments of the pontiff and of the priests and of the other ministers are symbolic signs of the clothing in which those blessed will be clothed in the divine light and beauty.”66 The being of the Eucharist is expressed in the simply tangibly beautiful. Since this tangible beauty speaks of the greatness of God and is meant to inspire those who see it to live in a way worthy of God’s glory, there is a very serious obligation to celebrate the liturgy with beauty and dignity. So, the expression of physical beauty with which we surround the Eucharist, in a way “completes” the outpouring of divine beauty in the Eucharist. It is a way of joyfully saying “amen” to the whole content of faith and the call to conversion given in the Eucharist. It is also a way of speaking of the beauty of the Eucharist to others—both our fellow members of the Church and others who might visit. Analysis of Recipients What does this overview suggest in regard to the perception of Eucharistic beauty by different “observers”? Some levels of Eucharistic signification do not require active charity to be perceived, but only faith. A believing member of the Church can attend Mass and gaze upon the host with a rich awareness of the presence of Christ and the mighty works of God. Yet the love of the recipient would color what he perceives. If beauty involves a recognition of the true as desirable (as it does in Albert’s definition), living charity would be needed to appreciate Christ’s Eucharistic gift as deeply beautiful—something desirable for the life of the believer which is effective as a motivation to act. One not in the state of grace would have a different sort of desire for the Eucharist. He could experience a recognition, by faith, that the Eucharist is something desirable in itself, but would not have the same effective recognition of it as desirable for him. Perhaps he would experience an emotional nostalgia for past communions, or a desire to participate fully in the Christian community. Since the recognition of the goodness of 66 dant munditiam et virtutes quae in ministerio tanti sacramenti esse debent.” Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 6, tract. 1, ch. 1: “Templum et omnis ornatus ejus sunt signa parabolica coelestis pulchritudinis, . . . splendor vestium pontificalium et sacerdotalium et aliorum ministrorum signa sunt parabolica amictus illius quo lumine et decore divino in coelis erunt beati induti.” 766 Sr. Albert Marie Surmanski, O.P. the Eucharist would be weaker, he would have a weaker perception of its beauty.67 Someone who prefers some sinful obstacle over the grace of the Eucharistic Christ does not behold the desirable beauty of Christ with clear sight. An attenuated appreciation of the Eucharist could be present even in a non-believer—the bystander mentioned in our introduction who opens the door of a Church and is confronted with Eucharistic adoration. Such a person could learn the content of the Church’s faith and hold it in mind when he gazed on the Eucharist. He would not accept the teaching about Christ’s presence in the host as true, but could ponder the complex synthesis of meaning in the Eucharist and the power that it exercises on believers. The agnostic lawyer “Smoky” from Caryll Houselander’s A Rocking-Horse Catholic comes to mind.68 Depending on how such a person understood the Church, he might find the Eucharistic “story” to be either aesthetically pleasing and intriguing or perhaps revolting and frightening. His reaction would likely be influenced by the liturgical appointments and demeanor of the worshipping congregation. Albert himself does not investigate the question of the perception of Eucharistic beauty by those with different dispositions of faith and charity, but he does address the effect of the reception of the Eucharist on various recipients. Albert uses the traditional threefold schema of sacramentum tantum (the sacrament alone), res et sacramentum (the reality and the sacrament), and res tantum (the reality alone) to discuss the various aspects of the sacrament. In the Eucharist, for Albert, the sacramentum tantum is the appearances of bread and wine, the res et sacramentum is the true body of Christ, and the res tantum is the grace of deeper union with Christ. The sacramentum tantum and res et sacramentum are present in the Eucharist; the sacramentum tantum is the grace that it causes in a worthy recipient.69 One who receives the Eucharist in the state of grace receives all three levels, which, in De corpore domini, Albert calls a reception that is both spiritual and sacramental.70 One who eats the Eucharist without love of God (sacramental reception only) receives only the first two levels of sacramentum tantum and res et sacramentum. He commits the grave sin of sacrilege. One See Corbett, “Recent Proposals,” 616, for a description of this sort of “imperfect desire” which is not strong enough to overcome attachment to some “grave obstacle to perfect communion with Christ.” 68 Caryll Houselander, A Rocking-Horse Catholic (London: Catholic Way, 2013). 69 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 6, tract. 3, ch. 1. For an in-depth analysis that takes into account developments in Albert’s use and understanding of these terms, see Surmanski, “Adoring and Eating,” 224–32. 70 Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 6, tract. 4, ch. 3. 67 The Experience of Eucharistic Beauty in Albert the Great's De corpore domini 767 who has an ardent desire for the Eucharist but is prevented from receiving sacramentally, can sometimes receive the grace alone (spiritual reception).71 This threefold schema can be helpful in understanding our analysis of Eucharistic beauty. One who saw the Eucharist with no faith or knowledge of the Catholic faith, would see the sacramentum tantum—only the appearances of bread and wine, along with their liturgical adornments. The only beauty that would reach such a person would be that immediately accessible to the senses through the liturgy and through the virtuous lives of believers. Someone who had faith in Christ, but not effective love, could penetrate more deeply into the beautiful reality of the Eucharist and recognize also the res et sacramentum—the body of Christ as present. For such a person, the knowledge of Christ’s beautiful presence in the Eucharist should be a call to conversion. The beauty of a moral life which reflects Christ is lacking in such persons. Any glimpse that they have through faith of the beauty of the Eucharist should shine light upon the disharmony in their lives, confronting them with the truth that they are not living in holiness, and speaking to them of the merciful goodness of God, which should be valued above any created good. One who gazes on the Eucharist with both faith and love, having some degree of effective love of Christ within him, would be drawn also by the res tantum to experience the Eucharist as desirable with supernatural charity. This person would also be able to experience the Eucharistic beauty as effective, by receiving the Eucharist fruitfully. Conclusion These considerations enable us to appreciate more fully the unifying power of beauty in Albert’s thought. Just as the rays of a monstrance spread out from the central host, Albert’s analysis connects the metaphysical reality of God’s goodness to the healing effects of the redemption, personal mystical experience, the moral life, and liturgical dignity. He offers a speculative vision of reality in which everything is connected to the wise Creator and meant to be brought progressively into harmony with the grace offered by Christ. This vision helps to explain why those who are not living in accordance with the moral teachings of the Church may find the Eucharist attractive, insofar as they glimpse the truth and power of the Eucharist. It also supports traditional teaching that only those who allow their lives to be transformed by the power of the Eucharist should receive the sacrament. In offering this vision, Albert emphasizes the practical importance that Albert, De corpore domini, dist. 6, tract. 4, ch. 3. 71 768 Sr. Albert Marie Surmanski, O.P. everything in the Church be, as far as possible, in accordance with the beauty of the Eucharist. This would entail beautiful liturgical celebrations arranged appropriately to “speak” the beauty of the Eucharist into various cultures and places as Albert spoke it in the Latin of his time. It would entail the work of speculative theology, so that the nature of the God present in the Eucharist could be appreciated. It would entail devotional meditation, so as to help the mind and emotions assimilate the content of faith. It would entail the teaching of moral theology so the shape of a life lived in imitation of Christ could be understood clearly. It would entail moral conversion, coupled with a sincere effort to cooperate with the grace of the Eucharist so as to live in accordance with the mystery received. Albert’s vision of Eucharistic beauty is challenging, but also encouraging as it emphasizes the divine abundance offered by Christ in the sacrament. N&V Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 17, No. 3 (2019): 769–810 769 The Humility of God: On a Disputed Question in Trinitarian Theology John R . Betz University of Notre Dame Notre Dame, IN “Do you want to grasp the majesty of God? First grasp the humility of God. . . . When you grasp his humility, you will rise with him. —Augustine, Sermones1 The property of love is never to seek itself, to keep back nothing, but to give everything to the one it loves. —John of the Cross, Spiritual Canticle2 Among the more disputed theological questions of the last fifty years has been the question of whether the kenosis of the Son 1 2 Sermon 117, ch. 10, no. 17: “Vis capere celsitudinem Dei? Cape prius humilitatem Dei. . . . Cum ceperis humilitatem eius, surgis cum illo.” Cf. De catechizandis rudibus 4.8: “Magna est enim miseria superbus homo, sed maior misericordia humilis Deus” (“It is surely a great misery to be a proud man, but an even greater mercy that God is humble”). Thanks to Brian Daley for this reference, for his gracious comments on this article, and for showing how the Angelic Doctor could stand to be supplemented by Ignatius, among others. Indeed, Ignatius’s late epitaph is a key to the argument advanced here: “non coerceri maximo, contineri minimo, divinum est” (“To be uncoerced by the greatest and held by the smallest is divine”). Thanks also to Michael Altenburger, David Hart, Nicholas Healy, Michael Magree, S.J., Aaron Pidel, S.J., and Alexis Torrance for help with or helpful comments on various aspects of this article. Finally, I would like to thank Matt Levering, for whom this was written, and to whom, logically, it is also dedicated. John of the Cross, Collected Works of John of the Cross, trans. Kieran Kavanaugh, O.C.D., and Otilio Rodriguez, O.C.D. (Washington, DC: ICS, 1991), 351. 770 John R. Betz of God in time (Phil 2:6–11) points to a kenosis within the immanent Trinity as its transcendent archetype. Hans Urs von Balthasar famously answered this question in the affirmative, and strikingly so: not only does the temporal kenosis of the Son reflect an eternal kenosis in the form of the Son’s eternal humility and obedience with respect to the Father; this same phenomenal kenosis invites us speculatively to consider as its ultimate transcendental condition a primordial kenosis—an Ur-kenosis—that consists in the Father’s eternally emptying himself in giving his Son all that he has and all that he is. 3 For Balthasar, in other words, the Son’s temporal kenosis is ultimately a reflection of a reflection, a mimetic enactment of the Father’s own total gift of himself in begetting him. Contemporary Thomists, on the other hand, have tended to reject the notion of an intra-Trinitarian kenosis on the grounds that it introduces a category distinctive to the economy and bound up with the contingency of creation, into the divine nature. As Bruce Marshall, among the keenest of contemporary Thomists, puts it with his sights set on Balthasar and others: “Our understanding of how the three persons are one God must not be infiltrated or ‘contaminated,’ as it were, by terms and concepts that refer only to the economy.”4 In other words, Marshall thinks, Balthasar ends up confusing theology proper (i.e., the doctrine of God) with what takes place in the economy (owing in part to the mischief he sees in Franz Anton Staudenmaier’s distinction between the immanent and economic Trinity), and as a result ascribes things to God—kenosis, (infinite) distance between Father and Son, and even a kind of suffering—that cannot be reconciled with traditional divine attributes such as simplicity and impassibility.5 Others, such as Thomas Joseph White, O.P., Joshua Brotherton, and Guy Mansini, O.S.B., have voiced similar concerns, ranging from measured reservation to outright alarm. All of them, however, worry that 3 4 5 See Hans Urs von Balthasar, Theo-Drama, vol. 4 [hereafter, TD IV] (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1994), 325. Cf. Theo-Drama, vol. 5 [hereafter, TD V] (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1998), 243: “The ontic possibility for God’s self-emptying in the Incarnation and death of Jesus lies in God’s eternal self-emptying in the mutual self-surrender of the Persons of the Trinity.” Bruce Marshall, “The Unity of the Triune God: Reviving an Ancient Question,” The Thomist 74 (2010): 17. Following Thomas, therefore, Marshall counsels, we would do well to distinguish more sharply between the processions and the missions, so that we are not tempted to back-read the latter into the former; see Bruce Marshall, “The Dereliction of Christ and the Impassibility of God,” in Divine Impassibility and the Mystery of Human Suffering, ed. James F. Keating and Thomas Joseph White, O.P. (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2009), 246–98. The Humility of God 771 Balthasar not only “projects” words and concepts proper to creatures, such as “enrichment” and “surprise,” into the divine life, but that his dramatic theology, which presents the persons of the Trinity as a veritable cast of characters, dramatis personae, willy-nilly turns Christianity into tritheism, and theology into mythology.6 Indeed, in the words of Mansini, perhaps the harshest of Balthasar’s critics, “the Trinitarian kenosis of Balthasar destroys the Trinitarian theology of the Church.” 7 Such, then, is the status quaestionis: both Balthasar and the Thomists would seem to have theologically justifiable positions. They could even be said to have grounds for anathematizing one another. If the Thomists find Balthasar guilty of mythologizing theology and destroying Trinitarian theology, Balthasarians, in turn, could argue that the Thomists have not only failed to understand the meaning of the word revelation, but have turned the phenomenal glory of God (in his kenosis) into an unbelievably sterile system, a skeleton of propositions without spirit and life. Of course, these may be exaggerations; nevertheless, we would seem to be faced with a theological impasse comparable to that between the Dominicans and the Jesuits at the time of the de auxiliis controversy—an aporia not just between the apparent positions of Thomas and Balthasar (the quondam Jesuit), but one more broadly between the journals dedicated to their respective legacies, The Thomist and Communio. How, then, ought we proceed? Should we wait for another papal decree to bring an end to the dispute, which is highly unlikely given its speculative nature and far more pressing practical concerns? Or should we at once 6 7 See: Guy Mansini, O.S.B., “Balthasar and the Theodramatic Enrichment of the Trinity,” in (not surprisingly) The Thomist 64, no. 4 (2000): 499–519; Mansini, “Can Humility and Obedience Be Trinitarian Realities?” in Thomas Aquinas and Karl Barth: An Unofficial Catholic-Protestant Dialogue, ed. Bruce McCormack and Thomas Joseph White, O.P. (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2013), 71–98; Mansini, “Obedience Religious, Christological, and Trinitarian,” Nova et Vetera (English) 12 (2014): 395–413; and most recently, “Hegel and Christian Theology,” Nova et Vetera (English) 14 (2016): 993–1001. For a more charitable but similarly critical account, see: Thomas Joseph White’s magisterial study, The Incarnate Lord: A Study in Thomistic Christology (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2015), 381–437; White, “Intra-Trinitarian Obedience and Nicene-Chalcedonian Christology,” Nova et Vetera (English) 6 (2008): 377–402. See also Joshua Brotherton, “God’s Relation to Evil: Maritain and Balthasar on Divine Impassibility,” Irish Theological Quarterly 80 (2015): 191–211; Brotherton, “Trinitarian Suffering and Divine Receptivity after Balthasar,” The Thomist 82 (2018): 189–234; and Bertrand de Margerie, “Note on Balthasar’s Trinitarian Theology,” The Thomist 64, no. 1 (2000): 127–30. Mansini, “Hegel and Christian Theology,” 999. 772 John R. Betz recognize with Paul V that the lack of theological resolution is itself a sign of mystery, and that no one school can claim to have a definitive grasp of it? This, I submit, would be a genuinely Catholic way forward, especially when two faithful Catholic theologians are in disagreement with one another. For the Catholic Church has never been the Church of Thomas alone or of Balthasar alone, or for that matter, of any one theologian alone, as Möhler reminded us vis-à-vis the spirit of the Reformation in his Symbolik. Rather, though the Church sometimes signals its preference for one theologian (as Leo XIII did by promoting Thomas in Aeterni Patris), it has from the beginning been a polyphonic Church (the Church of Peter, John, and Paul, et al.), whose distinct voices are orchestrated by the one Spirit—even if the Spirit’s polyphony is beyond our range of hearing. But this does not mean that it would be fruitless to add one’s voice to the discussion. For, trusting in the creativity of the Spirit, we may still hope for some kind of resolution that recognizes the particula veri on both sides of this debate, and therewith the possibility of their deeper integration. As White puts it with regard to Balthasar, “monolithic theological projects have to undergo revision, critique, and reconsideration so that the genuine insights of a given theological or literary genius might be integrated rightly and in true fashion into the catholicity—the universality—of the common communion of the whole church.”8 I could not agree more. To our common end, therefore, let us put Balthasar’s theology to the test to see whether it stands up to Thomistic criticism. In the process I hope to show that, while the Thomists have legitimate concerns, they are greatly mitigated by Balthasar’s unwavering commitment to the Thomistic principle of the analogia entis as he inherited it from Erich Przywara.9 For not only does the analogia entis set the metaphysical stage for Balthasar’s dramatic theology (precisely in the way that theology presupposes philosophy); it also sets important limits to its interpretation. At the same time, however, it will be necessary to call into question various certainties of the Thomists, above all their exclusion of humility from the divine nature as something defective, contingently assumed for the purposes of redemption, and unbecoming of God in himself. Here, too, Przywara will enter 8 9 White, Incarnate Lord, 437. See Werner Löser, Geschenkte Wahrheit: Annäherungen an das Werk Hans Urs von Balthasars (Würzburg: Echter, 2015), 42: “Man kann gar nicht genug herausstellen, dass von Balthasar bis an sein Lebensende darum bemüht war, ein philosophisches und theologisches Denken im Sinne der analogia-entis-Lehre zu entfalten” (“One cannot possibly emphasize enough that, to the end of his life, Balthasar strove to develop philosophical and theological thought in keeping with the doctrine of the analogia entis”; translation mine). The Humility of God 773 the picture as a uniquely mediating voice since he stands in many ways between Thomas and Balthasar. Specifically, with Przywara’s help, I hope to show how Thomas’s own teachings on divine power and simplicity are more amenable to Balthsarian emendation than meets the eye, and that Thomas’s own theology begs us to consider more carefully the conclusion that Balthasar draws: that the Almighty is also humble, not merely as an accident of the economy of salvation, but in himself. For, as Balthasar and no less a doctor of the Church than John of the Cross have recognized, it is the nature of love to lower itself, indeed, to empty itself, out of love for the beloved.10 So, then, can Thomas and Balthasar be reconciled, and with them the schools associated with them? Certainly, if in Catholic theology the theologians, no less than other members of the Church, are members of one another in one body (Rom 12:5; 1 Cor 12:25) and subject to mutual correction under the influence of their one Head. Again, this is not to deny that each side in this debate has a theologically defensible position; still less is it to suggest that truth, which we understandably associate with position, does not matter. For the truth of Trinitarian theology is indeed what is at issue here. But in Catholic theology, which understands position itself in dynamic terms (because it understands every real archē as the origin of love), neither is there any room for entrenched positions, which engender hostility and mutual suspicion. On the contrary, in Catholic theology, for reasons of Trinitarian theology as well as ecclesiology, there can never be anything more than op-position within the analogy of faith, in which oppositions are related in love (allo pros allo). And this means a charitable going forth (pros) to meet the other (allo)—not for the sake of cheap compromises that will not last, and from which nothing new can be expected, but for the sake of greater enlightenment. To this end, therefore, let us follow the advice given by Erasmus in his debate with Luther: let us have a collatio for the sake of illuminatio; let us have a real diatribe—not in the conventional understanding of the word, but in keeping with its etymological sense as a rubbing together of real oppositions in the hope of kindling a fire and producing light. Before we can bring opposing positions together, however, we need to understand them, insofar as we can, on their own terms and in light of their specific contexts. With regard to Thomas, certainly, there is no need to rehearse what others have already done, and can do better. As far as Balthasar is concerned, however, there may still be work to be done, specif10 Such is the close connection between humility and kenosis, and the reason that they will be treated here as virtually synonymous. 774 John R. Betz ically with regard to understanding the context and origins of his kenotic theology. To this end let us first consider, if only briefly, his context in the German tradition, and the literary, philosophical, and theological sources of modern kenoticism in particular. A Brief History of Kenosis in the German Tradition The first thing to keep in mind about Balthasar’s theology of kenosis is that it stands in a long tradition of German theological reflection on this topic, the most famous example of which is the so-called “kenosis controversy” that took place among Lutheran scholastics during the early seventeenth century. What was at issue in this controversy was whether the Son of God emptied himself so fully of his divinity as to abstain entirely from divine prerogatives, as the Giessen faculty argued (following Martin Chemnitz), or whether his kenosis entailed merely the cloaking of his divinity (following Johannes Brenz), which permitted the cryptic exercise of his power and authority, as the Tübingen faculty maintained.11 Since these debates were largely a matter of Christology, what was not at issue was the further question of what the kenosis of the Son of God might mean for Trinitarian doctrine.12 By the end of the eighteenth century, however, kenosis had become a broader trope for understanding all the works of the economic Trinity. For the Lutheran author and critic J. G. Hamann, for example, who developed insights of his teacher Martin Knutzen,13 it was the key to understanding 11 12 13 For a venerable account, see the entry on Christology in the New Schaff-Herzog Encyclopedia of Religious Knowledge, ed. Samuel Macauley Jackson, 13 vols. (New York: Funk and Wagnalls, 1908), 3:57–63. For an excellent and substantial historical overview, see Thomas R. Thompson, “Nineteenth-Century Kenotic Christology: The Waxing, Waning, and Weighing of a Quest for a Coherent Orthodoxy,” in Exploring Kenotic Christology: The Self-Emptying of God, ed. Stephen C. Evans (Vancouver, BC: Regent College Publishing, 2006), 74–111. See in particular Martin Knutzen’s Betrachtungen über die Schreibart der Heiligen Schrift in Philosophischer Beweis von der Wahrheit der christlichen Religion (1747), ed. Ulrich Lehner with introduction (Nordhausen: Traugott Bautz, 2005), 227–40, esp. 229–30: “Bei dieser großen Herunterlaßung der höchsten Weisheit, bey diesem ungekünstelt einfältigen Vortrage, leuchten indeßen doch hin und wieder die Strahlen der göttlichen Herrlichkeit hervor. GOTT [sic] bedeck zwar sein Antlitz in der Schrift mit dem schlecht scheinenden Vorgrage, wie Moses, weil unsere blöde Gemüthsaugen sein Anschauen vielweniger, als jene Israeliten des Mosis Glanz, vertragen können. . . . Das geoffenbarte Wort GOTTES [sic] hat, wie der vortreffliche Rollin anmerket, hierinnen eine besondere Aehnlichkeit mit dem selbständigen Worte des Lebens. Dieser eingeborne Sohn GOTTES verbarg The Humility of God 775 not only the kenotic form of Christ, but also the kenotic form of Scripture (as appropriated to the Spirit) and the kenotic form of creation (as appropriated to the Father).14 In other words, in Hamann, kenosis became a trope for understanding the unity of all the persons of the Trinity ad extra. As he put it in his Cloverleaf of Hellenistic Letters (1762): It is proper to the unity of divine revelation that, by means of the styluses [Griffel] of the holy men he inspired, the Holy Spirit should have lowered himself and emptied himself of his majesty, just as the Son of God did in assuming the form of a servant, and just as the whole of creation is a work of the greatest humility.15 Similarly, in his Aesthetica in nuce (1762), he writes: “The unity of the author is reflected in the dialect of his works—in all things one tone of immeasurable height and depth! A proof of the most glorious majesty and of the most complete self-emptying!”16 As Balthasar observes in reference to these and related passages: “It is not just that Hamann marvels at the servant-form [Knechtsgestalt] of the Word in Holy Scripture (the very notion [of Holy Scripture] is almost a contradiction!); he marvels even prior to that at the ‘humility’ of God in the speech of creation, which well before Golgotha made the law of moria, of folly (Hamann writes the word in capital letters), 14 15 16 die Größe seiner Majestät, so zu reden, unter der verächtlichen Knechts-Gestalt” (“From such great condescension on the part of the greatest wisdom, from such an unaffected and simple presentation, there nevertheless gleam here and there the beams of divine glory. Like Moses, GOD [sic] covers his face in Scripture with what to all appearances is a poor presentation; for the dim-witted eyes of our minds can bear his appearance even less than the Israelites could bear the glory of Moses...In this respect, as the excellent Rollin has observed, the revealed Word of GOD bears a certain similarity to the Word of Life himself. This only-begotten Son of GOD hid the greatness of his majesty, so to speak, beneath the contemptible form of a slave [Knechtsgestalt]”; translation mine). For Hamann’s understanding of Scripture, see John Betz, “Glory(ing) in the Humility of the Word: The Kenotic Form of Revelation in J. G. Hamann,” Letter and Spirit 6 (2010): 141–79, and Betz, After Enlightenment: The Post-Secular Vision of J. G. Hamann (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009), esp. 43–45, 84–87, and 113–28. Johann Georg Hamann, Sämtliche Werke, 6 vols., ed. Josef Nadler (Vienna: Herder, 1949–1957), 2:171 (translations from Hamann are my own). As Hamann also put it to Kant around the same time, “creation is not a work of vanity, but of humility, of condescension”; see Johann Georg Hamann, Briefwechsel, 6 vols., ed. Walther Ziesemer and Arthur Henkel (Wiesbaden: Insel, 1955–1975), 1:452. Hamann, Sämtliche Werke, 2:204. 776 John R. Betz into the law of the world.”17 In sum, for Hamann, kenosis and humility—for present purposes the two are interchangeable—are not accidental features of God’s self-revelation, but consistent characteristics of it. To be sure, when Hamann speaks of divine humility or kenosis, he has in mind the economy of salvation, and especially the ways in which God, by virtue of his humility, remains hidden from the proud in the midst of his self-revelation, in keeping with Christ’s words: “I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that you have hidden these things from the wise and the understanding and revealed them to babes” (Matt 11:25). Accordingly, with a keen eye for divine ironies, he liked to point out to his “enlightened” and “mature” contemporaries that God’s ways will invariably be obscure and incomprehensible to all who rely on (superficial) reason alone, who in the blindness of their pride cannot see in the earthiness of creation, in the sometimes crude stories of Israel, and in the lowly figure of the carpenter’s son the reality of a deeper Logos who falls consistently beneath their gaze. Furthermore, for Hamann, humility serves an important purpose within the economy of salvation: it keeps at a distance and bars from the mysteries by an implicit rather than explicit judgment anyone who would refuse to humble himself and bow before a Logos deeper—and therefore higher— than his own.18 But as these same passages also suggest, for Hamann, humility is not simply a feature of the economy of salvation. For “the unity of the author is reflected in the dialect of his works.”19 In other words, Hamann gives us every reason to believe that there is a connection between the humility God shows in the economy of salvation and the nature and unity of God in se, and that the works of the Trinity ad extra are an analogous expression of the nature of the Trinity ad intra.20 In what sense humility might be predicated of the persons of the immanent Trinity, however, or in what 17 18 19 20 Hans Urs von Balthasar, Apokalypse der Deutschen Seele: Studien zu einer Lehre von letzten Haltungen, vol. 1, Der Deutsche Idealismus (Einsiedeln: Johannes, 1998), 60. As he puts it, again in the Cloverleaf of Hellenistic Letters: “If the divine style elects the foolish—the trite—the ignoble—in order to put to shame the strength and ingenuity of all profane authors: then it almost goes without saying that eyes that are illumined, inspired, and armed with the jealousy of a friend, an intimate, a lover are required in order to see in such disguise the beams of heavenly glory” (Hamann, Sämtliche Werke, 2:171). Hamann, Sämtliche Werke, 2:204 (my emphasis). This is corroborated by Hamann’s consistent existential refusal to separate thought from life, form from content, etc., as when he quotes Buffon with approval, saying: “Le style est l’homme même” (Sämtliche Werke, 4:424). The Humility of God 777 sense the unity of God in se might be a function of humility, Hamann does not say, except to suggest throughout his writings, almost as their basso continuo, that in God majesty and abasement, glory and kenosis, Golgotha and Scheblimini are one—and that the irony of the “Enlightenment” was that the Aufklärer, who believed themselves to be enlightened, were blind to this revelation.21 As Balthasar keenly observes, anticipating one of the great themes of his theology: “This revelation of the humility of God is that of His glory.”22 While Hamann himself was averse to the kind of speculation one subsequently finds in German Idealism, such ideas, allowing for a possible admixture of Lurianic Kabbalah, were readily picked up by Schelling and Hegel, each of whom, for all their other differences, came to understand creation in terms of a divine kenosis—whether as a matter of divine necessity (Hegel) or divine freedom (Schelling). As Schelling put it, inspired by his first enthusiastic reading of Hamann: “The external creation, says J.G. Hamann, is a work of the greatest humility; the spiritual doctors are unanimous in their view of creation as an act of condescension.”23 Whatever one makes of Schelling’s reading of Hamann, which was at the heart of his vitriolic debate with Friedrich Jacobi in 1811, the concept of kenosis subsequently became an important feature of his philosophy, especially his late philosophy of revelation, which represents his (and philosophy’s) most sophisticated attempt to understand the doctrine of the Trinity.24 21 22 23 24 Hamann, Golgotha and Scheblimini!: Von einem Prediger in der Wüsten [sic], in Sämtliche Werke, 3:291–320. Scheblimini is a reference to Ps 110:1 and, specifically, to the majesty indicated by the phrase “Sit Thou at my right hand” (šēb lîmînî). Balthasar, Apokalypse, 1:60. Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von Schelling, Sämmtliche Werke, ed. K. F. A. Schelling, 14 vols. (Stutgart, 1856–1861), I/8:71; cf. I/8:167–68 and I/8:181–82. While this particular statement comes from 1811, Schelling first started reading Hamann (at the latest) in 1808, having received a collection of his writings on loan from Jacobi; see John Betz, “Reading Sibylline Leaves: J. G. Hamann in the History of Ideas,” Journal of the History of Ideas 70 (2009): 93–118, esp. 103–109. It should be noted that these lectures were originally published without Schelling’s (or his son’s) permission by his bitter rival, Paulus, and therefore cannot be considered reliable. For a first-hand account of this affair, see Johann Eduard Erdmann’s Versuch einer wissenschaftlichen Darstellung der neueren Philosophie, vol. 3 (Leipzig: F. C. W. Vogel, 1853). For the original transcription of the lectures, see F. W. J. Schelling, Urfassung der Philosophie der Offenbarung, 2 vols. (Hamburg: Felix Meiner, 1992). For Schelling’s understanding of kenosis insofar as it relates to the immanent Trinity, see, for example, 52–55, in which a kenosis is attributed to the Father, the first potency, who “disappears,” so to speak, in ceding his subjectivity, his “being for himself,” to the Son, the second potency. Indeed, as Schelling 778 John R. Betz Not surprisingly, given his stature, Schelling in turn became an important conduit of modern kenoticism, leading via the Lutheran theologians of the Erlangen school, such as Gottfried Thomasius25 and (perhaps more indirectly) Johannes von Hofmann,26 to the work of celebrated British divines such as Charles Gore, A. M. Fairbairn, H. R. Mackintosh, and Frank Weston.27 As David Law observes, citing G. L. Bauer, Schelling “provides ‘the immediate link to the doctrine of kenosis’ and ‘the metaphysical basis for the application of kenosis to the concept of a personal God.’”28 But Schelling was not merely an indirect influence on the development of British theology (not to mention Coleridge); he was also a major influence on Solovyov and Bulgakov, who in turn exercised a powerful influence on Balthasar. Needless to say, the point of the foregoing has not been to give an exhaustive account of modern kenoticism, but simply to indicate, firstly, that Balthasar’s doctrine of kenosis was informed by a longstanding tradition of philosophical and theological reflection on this biblical trope, which he did not think could be ignored, and, secondly, that he was by no means an unqualified assimilator of this tradition, as his vigorous contending with Hegel—and his reservations regarding certain aspects of Bulgakov’s theology—shows.29 25 26 27 28 29 puts it, the Father is no longer himself. But in begetting the Son, the Father is also “liberated” from anything accidental in his nature and eternally established. In this sense, the Father in giving up himself to the Son is not changed, but is who he is (Exod 3:14). See David R. Law, “Gottfried Thomasius,” in The Student’s Companion to the Theologians, ed. Ian S. Markham (Oxford: Blackwell, 2013), 326–37. See Matthew Becker’s excellent study of Johannes von Hofmann, The Self-Giving God and Salvation History: The Trinitarian Theology of Johannes von Hofmann (London: T&T Clark, 2004). See David Law’s excellent treatment of Schelling in Kierkegaard’s Kenotic Christology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 140–53. For a brief history of kenosis in Protestant theology, see Paul Althaus’s entry in the third edition (1959) of Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart [RGG], ed. Kurt Galling, 3:1243–44. See Georg Lorenz Bauer, Die neuere Protestantische Kenosislehre (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 1917), 159, 162. Law, Kierkegaard’s Kenotic Christology, 140. For Balthasar’s vigorous contesting of Hegel’s form of kenoticism, see, again, Cyril O’Regan, The Anatomy of Misremembering, vol. 1. For his qualified appropriation, see Jennifer Newsome Martin, Hans Urs von Balthasar and the Critical Appropriation of Russian Religious Thought (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2015). The Humility of God 779 The Question of Balthasar’s Kenotic Theology Looking back on this brief history, we can now better see where, from a Thomistic, standpoint, Balthasar’s doctrine of kenosis becomes problematic: it is not that Balthasar, like Hamann, affirms the humility of the Trinity’s works ad extra. It is that he draws the conclusion that Hamann’s meditations on creation and the economy of salvation implied, namely, that God is humble in himself (secundum quod Deus) and that it is therefore right to ascribe humility to the divine nature. But it is not simply that Balthasar adds humility to a ready-made list of divine attributes, however unthinkable this may already be from a classical philosophical standpoint. More problematically, he infers from the Son’s self-sacrifice an eternal kenosis within the immanent Trinity as its transcendental condition—ultimately finding the archetype for the Son’s kenosis in the eternal generation of the Son from the Father, thereby making kenosis constitutive of God himself. As he strikingly puts it: “[God] cannot be God in any other way but in this ‘kenosis’ within the Godhead itself.”30 All of which raises the obvious and legitimate question: has Balthasar gone too far? From a traditional Thomistic standpoint, certainly, Balthasar’s theology could very well look like a transgression of faith in the direction of German idealism, and even of Hegel’s speculative Good Friday.31 For example, not only is he aligned with Kant at the level of method inasmuch as he infers an eternal kenosis as the “transcendental condition of the possibility” of Christ’s own (which makes the oft-cited remark of his methodological preference for Goethe over Kant an oversimplification); he is also remarkably close to Hegel inasmuch as, for both of them, kenosis is constitutive of the divine nature (albeit with the all-important caveat that, for Hegel, the divine nature is not always already constituted in eternity, in which state God does not really “exist,” but rather through God’s self-emptying into the world process). Of course, in the thick of any engagement, especially when the clashing is most intense, the sides can become blurred, to the point that one can no longer distinguish them. By the same token, Balthasar can look like Hegel even and precisely in the midst of opposing him. Indeed, not only can an antidote look like the poison it is mean to counteract; it might very well, and typically does, contain an innocuous amount of the poison itself. But legitimate questions nevertheless remain. For example, who has been 30 31 Balthasar, TD IV, 325 (my emphasis). For a strong critique of Balthasar (and other modern theologians) along these lines, see Bruce Marshall, “The Absolute and the Trinity,” Pro Ecclesia 23 (2014): 147–64. 780 John R. Betz drawn into the orbit of whom? Which Geist has more gravitational pull? Has German idealism been redeemed, or has Christianity been turned into German idealism? Has water been turned into wine, or has wine been turned into water? The answer to these questions depends upon how one answers another question, or series of questions: What does one make of the phenomenal kenosis (and humility) of the Son of God? Is it merely a contingency of the economy of salvation? Is it merely an instrument of which God once made use, the way one uses a hammer that has no intrinsic connection to the person using it? Or does it say something about the nature of God in himself? For Balthasar, as we have seen, the Son’s kenosis is not simply an external fact of redemption; it does not simply tell us how God happened to save the human race, which he might have saved differently. Nor, as significant as this in itself would be, is it merely the pattern laid down for the whole of the Christian life: “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped at [cf. Gen 3:7], but emptied himself” (Phil 2:5–7).32 For Balthasar, this same kenosis is also an apocalypse in the most literal sense of the word—an unveiling not only of the Son’s eternal obedience to the Father, but also of the nature of the Father who is revealed in his Son. Nor is this revelation partial; on the contrary, the revelation is as complete as the kenosis. As Christ himself says on the Cross: “It is finished” (John 19:30). Obviously, these words refer primarily to salvation, specifically, to the conclusion of the definitive Passover by which the redemption of humanity is accomplished. But, following Balthasar, they admit of yet another significance, for in some sense there is really nothing more to see of God than has been given to see in Christ. For all has now been revealed: not only God’s love and will for creation in Christ (Eph 1:3–14), but the very nature of the Father, who has at last been completely and perfectly revealed in his Son—who is not just any Word, but the Word, and not just any image, but the Image and “exact imprint” of his being (Heb 1:1–3). As Christ himself 32 No one is more emphatic about this than Thomas à Kempis. In the words of Christ, as he imaginatively communicated them in Imitation of Christ 3.13: “I became the most meek and least of men that you might learn to conquer your pride by following the example of My humility.” Indeed, he says, “You will make no progress in the interior life until you regard yourself as lower than everyone else” (2.2). See The Imitation of Christ, trans. and ed. Joseph N. Tylenda (New York: Vintage, 1998), 95 and 50. The inestimable importance of this book for the (making of the) saints of the modern period, from Ignatius to Thérèse of Lisieux, goes without saying. The Humility of God 781 unambiguously declares: “If you have seen me, you have seen the Father” (John 14:9). But where is Christ more visible than on the Cross, where he is lifted up for all to see (John 3:14)? As John later says, in reference to Zechariah 12:10: “They will look on him whom they have pierced” (John 19:37). In other words, according to the logic of John’s Gospel, the Father is supremely visible, not supremely hidden, in the sacrifice of his Son—as is evident in that the evangelist transitions directly from the lifting up of the Son (3:14), who is eternal life to all who believe in him (v. 15), to the heart of the Father who so loved the world that he gave his only-begotten Son (v. 16).33 But if to see Christ is to see the Father, and if the Cross is where the Father is supremely visible, and if the Son does nothing but what the Father does in giving himself away, then, seeing Christ as the mirror of the Father’s love, we have every reason to speculate with Balthasar that the Son’s self-depletion (in time) is a mimetic revelation of the Father who eternally gives his Son all that he has and all that he is—not simply sharing what is his (as if homoousios meant nothing more than a sharing of what is held in common), but sharing himself to the point that He does not “ex-ist,” so to speak, except in his Son, in whom, however, he fully exists and appears.34 But, rounding out Balthasar’s Trinitarian theology, we can say still more. For, as the Gospel reveals, the Son’s kenosis is from beginning (incarnation) to end (crucifixion) a performance in the Spirit, whose gift of life is totally—eucharistically—returned to the Father (John 19:30).35 Accordingly, for Balthasar, the Son’s kenosis on the Cross is not 33 34 35 Granted, apart from faith the one who is supremely visible is supremely hidden, more hidden, in fact, than ever before, having apparently abandoned his Son on the Cross. And so one could venture to say that it is the light of the Father (cf. Jas 1:17), which shines in the darkness—specifically, from the darkness of the Cross— that is not understood ( John 1:5). Whence Paul, too, speaks of the glory of God, the Father, shining in the face of Christ, but out of darkness as the dawning of the light of the new creation: “For it is the God who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ who has shone in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ” (2 Cor 4:6). To be sure, as a matter of patristic theological grammar, we say that the Father would not be the Father were it not for the Son—and we then go on to say that the Father does not exist prior to his generation of the Son, which is an eternal generation. But, following Balthasar, we have even more reason for underscoring the consubstantiality and unity of the Trinity if we understand the Son as not only the Father’s Word and Image, but as his very Ex-istence. Following Thomas Weinandy, O.F.M., we might even go beyond Balthasar (who speaks of a “trinitarian inversion” whereby the Son, through whom the Spirit is said to proceed, is now the one who is passively sent by the Spirit) and say that 782 John R. Betz just an instrument of salvation; nor does it merely show us the meaning of spiritual life as a life of thanksgiving to the Father to the end; nor is it merely a representation of the Trinity than which none greater could be imagined. No, as far as this world is concerned, it is for Balthasar the supreme apocalypse of that total gift and total return of self that is the dynamic structure of eternal life, in which the Son ex-ists only in and for the Father who ex-ists only in and for Him. Needless to say, Balthasar’s is a dramatic and speculatively daring theology. But if theology is an attempt to understand revelation—and if understanding is not excluded from faith, but one of its fruits, indeed, a gift of the Spirit—then Balthasar’s logic as a theo-logic would seem compelling. For if Christ solemnly says that he does nothing except what he sees the Father doing (John 5:19), indeed, that in seeing him we see the Father (John 14:9), how can his self-emptying not reveal something about the Father?36 Following Balthasar, we could put it even more strongly: not to see any analogical (or stricter) connection between what the Word does in his supreme gift of himself and what the Father does or who the Father is (for here being and act are one) would be to deny that the Son is the Son of the Father, indeed, to separate the Father from the Son—and so to undermine not only the doctrines of the Trinity and Incarnation, but the very meaning of revelation. Such reasoning, which magnifies the humility of God and refuses to reduce it to an accident of the economy of salvation, has over the past decades been remarkably persuasive, so much so that Balthasar has come to enjoy the official approbation of the Church’s magisterium—when one considers John Paul II’s naming him a cardinal before his death and Benedict XVI’s co-founding, with Balthasar and Henri De Lubac, of the international Catholic journal Communio.37 Indeed, the election of 36 37 what Christ does in time, in giving back the Spirit of Life to the Father, is an economic representation of the eternal Eucharist whereby he breathes back to the Father the Spirit of love in whom he is eternally begotten. For Balthasar’s discussion of “Trinitarian inversion,” see TD IV, 364–65. See Weinandy, The Father’s Spirit of Sonship: Reconceiving the Trinity (Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 1995). See Gerard F. O’Hanlon, The Immutability of God in the Theology of Hans Urs von Balthasar (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 44–45: “Christ’s humanity is an appropriate expression of the divinity. . . . The obedience of Christ [is] the supreme manifestation of the divine being. . . . The whole being of the Son is there to express and represent the Father.” See, for example, John Paul II, Fides et Ratio, §93: “The chief purpose of theology is to provide an understanding of Revelation and the content of faith. The very heart of theological enquiry will thus be the contemplation of the mystery of the Triune God. The approach to this mystery begins with reflection upon the mystery of the The Humility of God 783 Benedict XVI in 2005 could be said to have marked a shift away from the older dogmatics, which gave pride of place to Thomas, and a vindication of the ressourcement theologians, who once suffered censorship at the hands of the Thomists. By the same token, if one considers the range of figures included in Balthasar’s Glory of the Lord, it could be said to have signaled a shift toward a more polyphonic conception of Catholic theology as universal enough to admit not just a renewed appreciation of the Church fathers (Irenaeus, Maximus, et al.), but even an appreciation for figures outside the Catholic Church such as the Lutheran author Hamann or the Orthodox philosopher Solovyev, both of whom are included as lay witnesses in the third volume of the Glory of the Lord.38 Thomistic Criticism Understandably, however, the Thomists have not observed this development in silence, but have challenged Balthasar’s theology on a number of grounds, especially his understanding of an intra-divine kenosis. Simply put, they worry that Balthasar has introduced categories into the divine nature (faith, humility, dialogue, obedience, suffering, sacrifice, and even a kind of “death”) that do not belong there—categories that may very well be said of Christ’s human nature, contingently assumed for the purposes of our salvation, but not of his eternal divine nature. Of course, Balthasar is 38 Incarnation of the Son of God: his coming as man, his going to his Passion and Death, a mystery issuing into his glorious Resurrection and Ascension to the right hand of the Father, whence he would send the Spirit of truth to bring his Church to birth and give her growth. From this vantage-point, the prime commitment of theology is seen to be the understanding of God’s kenosis, a grand and mysterious truth for the human mind, which finds it inconceivable that suffering and death can express a love which gives itself and seeks nothing in return” (my emphasis). See also Ratzinger’s homily at the funeral liturgy for Balthasar: “No longer only private individuals, but the Church itself, in its official responsibility, tells us that he is right in what he teaches of the Faith, that he points the way to the sources of living water—a witness to the word which teaches us Christ and which teaches us how to live”; see Joseph Ratzinger, “Homily at the Funeral Liturgy of Hans Urs von Balthasar,” in Hans Urs von Balthasar: His Life and Work, ed. David L. Schindler (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1991). My thanks to Nick Healy for these references. For more on Balthasar’s method, see Cyril O’Regan, “Von Balthasar and Thick Retrieval: Post-Chalcedonian Symphonic Theology,” Gregorianum 77, no. 2 (1996): 227–60. That this has precedent in the tradition goes without saying, being based upon the famous principle of Irenaeus concerning the logos spermatikos or sperma tou logou, i.e., the seeds of the Logos scattered abroad, which the Christian, inspired by Christ, can subsequently recognize as belonging to him as, at least, partial revelations that one can in good faith gather up in his honor and to his glory. 784 John R. Betz too good a theologian not to make a number of important qualifications, as even Mansini recognizes. In the fourth volume of his Theo-Drama, for instance, Balthasar explicitly rejects all “fashionable talk of the ‘pain of God,’”39 and readily wards off any suggestion that divine kenosis entails a change in God’s nature, much less a theogony whereby God becomes God in and through a tragic world process.40 But such qualifications have not satisfied his Thomist critics. With regard to the question of change in God, Mansini writes: “It is hard to see how the invocation of a change in God unlike that which we find in our earthly experience . . . can be anything more than words.”41 Similarly, Brotherton observes, “Balthasar wants to trace [the suffering of God due to evil] back to a primordial ‘wound’ of sorts constituting the very being of God as triune.”42 Whence he concludes that Balthasar “ends up making God the primary analogate in the analogy of suffering, effectively subsuming the immanent dimension of the Trinity under the economic dimension of the Trinity in a manner differing on the surface little from Moltmann’s theology.”43 To his credit, Brotherton recognizes that things might “on the surface” seem worse than they are, and that if Balthasar speaks of a “wound” in the divine nature, it is not a wound per se, but only a wound “of sorts,” namely, a “wound” of love by which the Father is “touched” by the Son’s willingness to give himself up for the sake of the world’s redemption. It is evident, in other words, that Balthasar is speaking metaphorically, and perhaps never so much as when he speaks of the Father’s generation of the Son as a kind of “death.”44 Nevertheless, for Brotherton, following Kevin Duffy, no amount of scare quotes—or what he and Duffy call the “metaphor defense”—is enough to save Balthasar’s theology from (at the very least) incoherence. For what we see in Balthasar, in their view, is at the end of the day “an undifferentiated amalgam of metaphor and analogy,” whereby 39 40 41 42 43 44 Balthasar, TD IV, 327. Balthasar, TD IV, 324: “We cannot entertain any form of ‘process theology’ that identifies the world process (including God’s involvement in it, even to the extent of the Cross) with the eternal and timeless ‘procession of the Hypostases in God.” As O’Regan has shown, Balthasar is far too wary of Hegel (and Moltmann, for that matter) to be accused of making the immanent Trinity in some sense dependent upon its economic manifestation; see The Anatomy of Misremembering, vol. 1, Hegel (New York: Crossroad, 2014). See Guy Mansini, “Balthasar and the Theological Enrichment of the Trinity,” The Thomist 64 (October, 2000): 518. Brotherton, “God’s Relation to Evil,” 193. Brotherton, “God’s Relation to Evil,” 197. Balthasar, TD V, 84. The Humility of God 785 “literal assertions such as ‘There is super-change in God’ are accorded a quasi-metaphorical status that they [strictly speaking] do not possess.”45 To be sure, for Brotherton and other critics, such conclusions do not rule out a measure of appreciation for Balthasar’s project.46 They might concede, for instance, that Balthasar was facing a crisis of unbelief the likes of which Christian Europe had never seen, and that this called for a more dramatic response than Thomism alone could provide. They might appreciate, too, his reversal of the order of Kant’s three critiques, seeing therein a genuinely Thomistic insight that faith is not given to us in abstraction from sensible experience, but precisely in and through it (Rom 10:17; 1 John 1:1). They might even admire him as a chef d’orchestre, who called upon the full resources of the Church, including a wide variety of Christian poets, saints, and theologians, hoping to persuade his audience more by the dramatic beauty of truth—that is, by the kenotic glory of love—than by truth logically proposed. Yet the verdict remains. However appealing Balthasar’s theological aesthetics may be to a modern audience used to the theater and impatient with arguments, it comes at too high a price: the confusion of salvific realities with divine realties and the mythologizing of theology. In Brotherton’s moderate judgment (compared to Mansini): “I do not argue that Balthasar’s conclusions are dogmatically heterodox, but that they are theologically questionable and in need of a particular ‘demythologization.’”47 In view of such a verdict, is there any room for an appeal? Dare we hope that Balthasar’s theology can be “saved” and reconciled with that of Thomas? In response to the concerns of Balthasar’s critics, let us first remember what Cyril O’Regan has shown and is beyond dispute: that however close Balthasar may appear to stand to Hegel, his entire theology is in fact a dramatic attempt to inoculate Catholic theology against his influence. Granted, Balthasar also understands God to be constituted in and through a divine kenosis; indeed, as we have seen, for Balthasar God “cannot be God in any other way but in this ‘kenosis’ within the Godhead itself.”48 Therein, we might say, lies the greatest similarity between him and the Swabian Geist. But, nota bene, this is toto caelo different from saying what 45 46 47 48 See Kevin Duffy, “Change, Suffering, and Surprise in God: Von Balthasar’s Use of Metaphor,” Irish Theological Quarterly 76 (2011): 370–87. Brotherton, for example, speaks of Balthasar’s “valiant efforts” vis-à-vis Hegel to preserve the distinction between the immanent and economic Trinity, even if he does not think that he is ultimately successful (“Trinitarian Suffering and Divine Receptivity,” 200). Brotherton, “Trinitarian Suffering and Divine Receptivity,” 200–34. TD IV, 325 (my emphasis). 786 John R. Betz Hegel says, namely, that God would not be God without his kenosis and self-recuperation in and through the world process. Therein lies the “greater dissimilarity” between them: for Balthasar, the difference between Creator and creature is never erased, not even in Christ, who is the perfect union of the two. If this last point is to be appreciated, however, we need to underscore Balthasar’s implicitly Thomistic commitment to the analogia entis as he inherited it from Przywara.49 For once we do, it becomes apparent that Balthasar is, in fact, much closer to Thomas than many of his critics realize. It also mitigates considerably their concern that he carelessly introduces human concepts such as suffering into the divine nature, since the analogia entis rules out any confusion of Creator and creation, and any linear attribution of human concepts to the divine nature, from the start. Admittedly, this metaphysical commitment gets obscured as Balthasar’s theo-drama unfolds, for the point is the drama itself, not the staging, and that the audience be moved to an appropriately mimetic response. But the analogia entis is nevertheless the metaphysical scaffolding upon which the entire performance depends. 49 See James Zeitz, “Przywara and von Balthasar on Analogy,” The Thomist 52 (1988): 473–98. Of course, the analogia entis as a Thomistic (or Catholic) doctrine has been the subject of much controversy—not just on the ecumenical front, but among Thomists themselves. Herbert McCabe, for example, argued that, according to Aquinas, “analogy is not a way of getting to know about God, nor is it a theory of the structure of the universe, it is a comment on our use of certain words” (McCabe’s commentary in Summa Theologiae, vol. 3, Knowing and Naming God [London: Eyre and Spottiswoode, 1964], 106). A similar position was taken by Ralph McInerny. See McInerny, The Logic of Analogy (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1961), Studies in Analogy (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1968), and Aquinas and Analogy (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1996),152–53. For a more traditional view, see, inter alia: Joseph Owens, “Analogy as a Thomistic Approach to Being,” Medieval Studies 24 (1962): 303–22; John F. Wippel, The Metaphysical Thought of Thomas Aquinas: From Finite Being to Uncreated Being (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America, 2000), 146–47; Wippel, Metaphysical Themes in Thomas Aquinas (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1984), 136; and, more recently, Steven A. Long, Analogia Entis: On the Analogy of Being, Metaphysics, and the Act of Faith (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2011). In what follows I take for granted that the traditional view of the matter is correct, and that the analogia entis is an entailment of Thomas’s metaphysics and, specifically, his understanding of the real distinction. For a defense of this position, see the introduction to Przywara’s Analogia Entis: Metaphysics: Original Structure and Universal Rhythm (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2014), 40–41; all English translations from Przywara are my own. The Humility of God 787 In the next section it will therefore be important to review, firstly, the nature of the analogia entis as Przywara understood it (this will help to clarify the role of metaphor and analogy in Balthasar’s theology), and secondly, the entailments of the analogia entis with regard to apophaticism and divine simplicity. For once we do, it becomes evident that Balthasar is actually far more indebted to Thomas—and that there is more common ground between them—than meets the eye.50 It will also become evident that Thomas’s understanding of divine simplicity is more capacious than meets the eye—so capacious, in fact, that positions which at first seemed contradictory might in divine simplicity be reconciled. Indeed, I would dare to suggest that, the better we understand Balthasar, the closer we come to Thomas, and that the better we understand the whole Thomas, the closer we come to Balthasar as well.51 The Analogia Entis and Trinitarian Doctrine As we have already seen, one of the chief charges made against Balthasar is that—going beyond the orthodox ascription of faith, obedience, suffering, and death to the hypostatic experience of the incarnate Son—he has introduced these realities into the divine nature as well, making God in his eternal nature the primary analogate of these terms (e.g., the Father’s kenotic begetting of the Son is the archetype of every sacrifice and sacrificial death, the Son’s eternal fidelity to the Father is the archetype of all faith, and so forth). All of which amounts to the charge that Balthasar fails to observe the metaphysical difference between Being and becoming, between the immutable Creator and the mutable creature, and the corresponding epistemic humility that this difference would seem to require, presuming instead, as Karen Kilby has charged, something like an “insider’s view” of the workings of the immanent Trinity.52 We are thus faced with a 50 51 52 See Jim Buckley’s groundbreaking essay, “Balthasar’s Use of the Theology of Aquinas,” The Thomist 59, no. 4 (1995): 517–45, in which he masterfully constructs the dispute between the two theologians, which cannot be established on the basis of any single text or comment of Balthasar, thereby setting the stage for further dialogue. Indeed, pointing the way to reconciliation, Buckley not only shows the common ground between them, examining Balthasar’s “persistent and massive use of Aquinas’s theology” (538), and noting his praise for Thomas’s metaphysical genius (530–31); he also shows (538–39) that Balthasar’s criticisms of Thomas do not necessarily stand up to scrutiny, and are, in any event, not as weighty as they might at first appear. See Erich Przywara, “Thomas von Aquin als Problematiker,” Stimmen der Zeit 109 ( June 1925): 188–99. See Karen Kilby, Balthasar: A (Very) Critical Introduction (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2012), esp. 112–14. See also D. C. Schindler, “A Very Critical Response 788 John R. Betz rather perverse irony: in the view of Balthasar’s critics, the theologian who extolled the glory of divine humility, like none since Hamann, is guilty of presuming to know too much about it. In response to this charge, the first thing to emphasize in Balthasar’s defense is that, according to the terms of the analogia entis, as Przywara and Balthasar both understood it, any univocal predication of creaturely terms such as faith, obedience, suffering, and death to God in his eternal nature is out of the question. For what the analogia entis at its simplest signifies is what the Fourth Lateran Council stated in 1215 in its edict against the Trinitarian teachings of Joachim of Fiore—that no similarity can be noted between Creator and creature without also noting their greater dissimilarity (“inter creator et creaturam non potest tanta similitudo notari quin inter eos maior dissimilitudo notanda”).53 In other words, however much one can say about God, even on the sound basis of revelation, ultimately requires an apophatic admission of incomprehension, and a correspondingly humble submission of all human concepts to the God who is “ever greater”—semper maior. As Augustine famously says and Przywara never tires of repeating, God is not God if you comprehend [him]—si comprehendis non est Deus.54 Thus, if we say with Balthasar with regard to the immanent Trinity that the Father’s begetting of the Son is a kind of “death,” or that the relation of the Son to the Father is a kind of eternal “fidelity” and “obedience,” we have to remember that we are speaking analogically, and that what is said is simultaneously unsaid because we do not, strictly speaking, know what we are saying. In other words, we have to remember that the analogia entis is essentially an apophatic qualifier on every cataphatic assertion. And since what is at issue here vis-à-vis Balthasar’s critics is precisely Balthasar’s understanding of the immanent Trinity, it is all the more important to keep in mind—what Balthasar knew very well—that the analogia entis was formulated precisely as a corrective to what the Lateran IV deemed to be Joachim’s overreach in the matter of Trinitarian doctrine. 53 54 to Karen Kilby: On Failing to See the Form,” Radical Orthodoxy: Theology, Philosophy, Politics 3 (September 2015): 68–87. Heinrich Denzinger, Enchiridion Symbolorum, ed. Peter Hünermann, 43rd ed. (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2012), no. 806. The council, it should be noted, did not coin the term analogia entis. Rather, it was Przywara who drew the connection, in order to underscore the apophatic finality of any properly Catholic understanding of analogy. Augustine, Sermon 117, ch. 3, no. 5, and Sermon 52, ch. 6, no. 16. We ought underscore here that such humility is to be carefully distinguished from agnosticism, which lacks any kataphatic footing and has no basis in revelation. The Humility of God 789 To be sure, Balthasar is not Przywara, and one must make allowances for differences in theological style. Przywara was the more apophatic of the two; Balthsasar, the more cataphatic. Likewise, Przywara’s spirit is more that of a Pseudo-Dionysius or a Carmelite, as one sees from his Analogia entis (which gives the final word to the Areopagite), his lifelong love for the Carmelites and translations of their poetry, and the way he reads Augustine and Thomas, always emphasizing with respect to Augustine the God who is “ever greater”—Deus semper maior—and, with respect to Thomas, the God who is known as unknown (Deus tamquam ignotus). Balthasar’s spirit, on the other hand, is more that of a Bonaventure or a Dante, who delights in God’s kenotic presence and the polychromatic riches of divine revelation. And these differences in theological style led to occasional tensions between them.55 What is important to underscore, however, is that these were tensions within the context of a lifelong friendship, just as tensions between apophatic and cataphatic styles remain tensions within the one rhythm of the analogia entis as Przywara and Balthasar both understood it. In other words, within the one rhythm of analogy proper to Catholic theology, there is no such thing as a purely apophatic or a purely cataphatic style, but at most differences in emphasis, just as the same symphonic score can be played differently depending upon the sensibility of the conductor. In this regard let us note, furthermore, that the analogia entis subdivides into two basic types of analogy, an analogia attributionis and an analogia proportionalitatis. While historically these have been understood in different ways, what is important here is how Przywara and Balthasar understood them.56 Whereas the former type of analogy emphasizes the similarity of creatures to God according to an analogy of intrinsic attribution (whereby God is the archetype and cause of the goodness that is not merely said of creatures extrinsically, but said of them really inasmuch as God himself is the cause of the goodness in them), the latter type of analogy emphasizes the dissimilarity between God and creatures, not according to a direct proportion (an analogia proportionis), but according to an indirect relation of relations: whereby the non-identity of essence and existence in creatures is related to the identity of essence and existence in 55 56 For example, at one point in the vol. 3 of Theo-Drama [TD III], Balthasar suggests that Przywara is too apophatic and that this prevented him from writing a Christology. It should be noted, however, that this is a somewhat unfair characterization, since Przywara did produce a Christology in the form of his commentary on John’s Gospel, one in which the analogia entis is finally disclosed as an analogia caritatis. See Przywara, Analogia Entis, no. 6; Balthasar, TD III; and footnote 52. 790 John R. Betz God. With the latter, in other words, comes the abyssal difference between Being and becoming: between what it means to be God, and what it means to “be” a creature. Accordingly, whatever Balthasar ascribes to the immanent Trinity on the basis of revelation—as when he speaks of the Son’s eternal obedience, or even of the Father’s self-sacrifice and “death”—is ascribed not directly, but according to the analogia entis. In other words, it is necessarily qualified by the analogical difference between the being of God and the being of creatures, which explains his frequent caveats, qualifications, and deliberate use of scare quotes. Of course, one can choose to read Balthasar’s caveats as nothing but words; and when Balthasar attempts to say that God’s joy is not changed but “increased” by the redemption of creation, one can construe this to mean that, for Balthasar, God is not perfect in himself, but admits of change, growth, and increase. And one can then go on to say that, for Balthasar, God would therefore not be fully God without the world. But is this really fair to Balthasar given everything else we know?57 I would submit that it is a valid criticism only if one disregards what we have just established: that his theology is governed by his unwavering commitment to the analogia entis.58 Having just stressed the apophatic entailment of the analogia entis, even and precisely in the midst of Balthasar’s more cataphatic theology, let us now spell out another entailment of the analogia entis, or conversely, its metaphysical foundation, namely, the doctrine of divine simplicity.59 57 58 59 Mansini, “Balthasar and the Theo-dramatic Enrichment of the Trinity,” 518. As he puts it in the preface to his Theo-Logic, considering now the whole of his trilogy: “From the first to the last the trilogy is keyed to the transcendental qualities of being, in particular to the analogy between their status and form in creaturely being, on the one hand, and in Divine Being, on the other” (see Theo-Logic, vol. 1, The Truth of the World, trans. Adrian J. Walker [San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2000], 1). The doctrine of divine simplicity, let us note, has been much disputed in recent years. Some see it as a metaphysical appendix that is no longer needed in the body of theology; others question whether it can be reconciled with divine freedom or the obvious problem of affirming a Trinity of persons. See, for instance: Alvin Plantinga, Does God Have a Nature? (Milwaukee, WI: Marquette University Press, 1980), 47; Ryan T. Mullins, “Simply Impossible: A Case Against Divine Simplicity,” Journal of Reformed Theology 7 (2013): 181–203. While this is not the place to respond to these objections, it seems to me that they are predicated upon either misunderstandings of the doctrine of simplicity or a lack of imagination with regard to what is, at the end of the day, a mystical teaching. For an excellent discussion, see Thomas H. McCall, “Trinity Doctrine Plain and Simple,” in Advancing Trinitarian Theology: Explorations in Constructive Dogmatics, ed. Oliver D. Crisp and Fred Sanders (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2014). For a The Humility of God 791 Since this is a doctrine to which Balthasar is either implicitly or explicitly committed, it should go a long way toward alleviating concerns of his critics that his theology separates the persons of the Trinity, raising suspicions of tritheism.60 It will also bring us a step closer to seeing the positive (and not just regulative) relevance of the analogia entis (or this particular entailment of it) to Trinitarian theology. As is well-known, the doctrine of divine simplicity means that any number of things that are really distinct in creatures are not really so in God. Most basically, following Thomas, it means that God as Spirit is not composed of parts, and that one would therefore err if one were to conceive of the Trinity in such terms (however unavoidable it may be at the level of dianoetic conception). It also means that God is pure actuality, having therefore no admixture of potentiality, whereas creatures are a mixture, so to speak, of potentiality and actuality. The distinction most basic to creatures qua creatures, however, even to angels, is that between essence and existence; and it is this that is at issue here. For while the analogia entis implies an analogy between pure actuality in God and a composition of act and potency in creatures, it turns on the analogy between an identity of essence and existence in God and a real distinction of essence and existence 60 well-known attempt to defend the coherence of traditional Trinitarian doctrine from an analytic standpoint, see Michael Rea’s article in The Oxford Handbook of Philosophical Theology, ed. Thomas P. Flint and Michael Rea (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2009). See Gerard F. O’Hanlon, The Immutability of God in the Theology of Hans Urs von Balthasar (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 146–47. O’Hanlon admits that Balthasar’s understanding of simplicity is more dynamic, but nevertheless shows his commitment to it. For an account of Balthasar’s Thomistic understanding of divine simplicity both as it qualifies his reception of Bulgakov and defuses criticisms of his theology, such as that of Alyssa Pitstick, see Katy Leamy, The Holy Trinity: Hans Urs von Balthasar and his Sources (Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 2015). As Leamy rightly concludes, “Balthasar’s Trinitarian theology maintains the fullness of Divine Simplicity while positing the completeness of God’s self-revelation in Jesus Christ, particularly in his suffering and death. He is able to do this, not by positing an additional concept (Sophia) that somehow ‘bridges’ the distance between God and creation, but rather by following a Thomistic understanding of relation, where the single Act that constitutes the Divine Essence is the basis both for absolute unity and infinite difference, and then by extending this notion of relation analogously to the Creator/creature relationship” (76). Likewise, with regard to Pitstick’s polemical monograph, Light in Darkness: Hans Urs Von Balthasar and the Catholic Doctrine of the Descent into Hell (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, MI, 2007), Leamy shows that Pitstick’s charges rest upon a misunderstanding of the paradoxical nature of divine simplicity. This is an important point to which I will return presently. 792 John R. Betz in creatures. But if this is so, if what is meant by divine simplicity is, most precisely, that God alone is an identity of essence and existence, and that this identity belongs exclusively to him who can say “I am who [or what] I am,” what else might this mean—and what might it mean for Trinitarian theology? Needless to say, the analogia entis is a phrase that can be reduced to a slogan, however rich its signification, but if we are to understand its entailments, especially for Trinitarian theology, we need to pause here and appreciate the mystery to which it points. For what it says is that what finite minds cannot by any stretch of the imagination unite—essence and existence—are identical in God. But if this is so, then God might very well also comprise in his unique simplicity other characteristics that finite minds, inasmuch as they operate at the level of dianoia and not spiritual noesis, cannot reconcile. Take, for example, the apparent opposites of justice and mercy: we hold as a matter of revelation that God is both just and merciful, indeed, that his righteousness is revealed precisely in the gospel of the forgiveness of sins (Rom 1:17), even though we cannot fathom how this could be so—how in God justice and mercy are unfathomably one. But if this is so, we are only a step away from seeing what the Gospel begs us to consider: that God in his eternal nature is precisely what we see in Jesus Christ, an inscrutable identity not just of justice and mercy, but also of strength and weakness, majesty and humility, glory and kenosis. For the same Jesus Christ who in his forgiveness of sins is the righteousness of God is also, in his kenosis, the glory of God; indeed, the scandalous impotence of his Cross is the royal seat of his power, from which he draws and subjects all things to himself (cf. John 12:32). The Heart of the Matter: The Question of Divine Humility Now, as we have seen, Thomas seems to have doubted this possibility, because he did not believe that God could by nature be humble. Obviously, he believed that Christ was humble, as Scripture attests, and poignantly comments on the fact in any number of places.61 (It should also be underscored that Thomas understood humility to be a virtue—which is no small thing when one considers that the ancients did not regard it as such.) But he did not draw from this the inference that the Son of God, by nature, is humble. For, he reasoned, while humility is fitting for creatures—and for Christ insofar as Christ had to show creatures how to be creatures—it 61 See, for instance, his beautiful Commentary on the Gospel of John, trans. Fabian Larcher, O.P. and James A Weisheipl, O.P., with an introduction and notes by Daniel Keating and Matthew Levering (Washington, DC: CUA Press, 2010). The Humility of God 793 would be an imperfection in the divine nature, in God qua God. As he puts it in a passage that Mansini has cited as evidence against Balthasar’s theology: A thing is said to be perfect in two ways. First absolutely; such a thing contains no defect, neither in its nature nor in respect of anything else, and thus God alone is perfect. To Him humility is fitting, not as regards His Divine nature, but only as regards His assumed nature. Secondly, a thing may be said to be perfect in a restricted sense, for instance in respect of its nature or state or time. Thus a virtuous man is perfect: although in comparison with God his perfection is found wanting, according to the word of Isaiah 40:17, “All nations are before Him as if they had no being at all.” On this way humility may be competent to every man.62 Clearly for Thomas humility is right and just in the case of imperfect creatures, who are like nothing before God. But, Thomas reasonably asks, how could humility be admitted in God’s case, since God is perfect and the one before whom all others must bow? Before whom, after all, would God need to be humble? Hence his conclusion: “Humility cannot befit God, who has no superior, but is above all.”63 Furthermore, Thomas observes, humility implies the distance between a lord and his subject; if humility were admitted in God, it would therefore imply disproportion in God, which is inconceivable—as though there could be anything in God to which God himself could be subject. Thus, Thomas not unreasonably concludes, humility in God would be a sign of defect, not perfection; weakness, not strength; impotence, not omnipotence. Moreover, to admit humility into the divine nature would be to open the floodgates to other imperfections such as vulnerability and suffering. And before you know it one will have denied that God in his divine nature is impassible, leading to the shipwreck of Christian theology. Such concerns should not be dismissed out of hand—least of all the 62 63 Aquinas, Summa theologiae [ST] II-II, q. 161, a. 1, ad 4. Summa contra gentiles [SCG] IV, ch. 15: “Though the virtue of humility cannot attach to Christ in His divine nature; it may attach to Him in His human nature and His divinity renders His humility all the more praiseworthy, for the dignity of the person adds to the merit of humility; and there can be no greater dignity to a man than his being God. Hence the highest praise attaches to the humility of the Man God, who to wean men’s hearts from worldly glory to the love of divine glory, chose to embrace a death of no ordinary sort, but a death of the deepest ignominy.” 794 John R. Betz concern about divine impassibility.64 For they do justice (in a good way) to the God of the philosophers.65 The question, however, is not whether Thomas does justice to the God of the philosophers, but whether in this particular point he does justice to the God of revelation. To be sure, there is none before whom God must be humble, and so, philosophically speaking, there is no need for it. But, of course, neither is there any philosophical necessity for love, and by the same logic one could say it is proper for creatures to love God, but not for God to love creatures—they are, after all, less loveable than himself. Indeed, from an Aristotelian standpoint, to love them would be beneath him. But, obviously, revelation teaches us differently, raising the question of whether here, too, but now with respect to the question of humility, the God of the philosophers stands in need of theological revision according to the principles of Thomism itself—to wit, that faith does not destroy but presupposes and perfects reason ( fides non destruit sed supponit et perficit rationem). One must also consider that Thomas’s conclusions about humility strike a discordant note within the larger tradition. In Athanasius, for example, humility is not simply an attribute of Christ’s human nature, but “belongs to the divine nature directly.”66 For Augustine, who speaks freely of “a humble God,”67 it is nothing less than the sign of the true religion.68 64 65 66 67 68 But that is not even what is at issue here, because Balthasar, too, affirms divine impassibility, even and precisely when he seems to deny it. For God’s suffering on our behalf in Christ is not a wounding of God’s nature, as though it effected some kind of change therein, but rather its apocalypse, an expression of the fact that God, according to his essence, is love, which nothing, not even sin and the utmost defiance of creation, changes. Indeed, Catholic theology owes a debt of gratitude to the philosophers for preserving theology from mythology, and ensuring that the Gospel of the one and true Logos incarnate in Christ does not become, however inadvertently, a Mytho-Logos. See, in this regard, Matthew Levering’s important work Scripture and Metaphysics (Oxford: Blackwell, 2004) and Reinhard Hütter’s review in Pro Ecclesia 14, no. 1 (2005): 108–10. See also Hütter, “The Directedness of Reasoning and the Metaphysics of Creation,” in Reason and the Reasons of Faith, ed. Paul J. Griffiths and Reinhard Hütter (New York and London: T&T Clark, 2005), 160–93. See Khaled Anatolios, Retrieving Nicaea: The Development and Meaning of Trinitarian Doctrine (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2011), 119. One of the most striking aspects of Anatolius’s study is how it draws out and underscores the theme of divine humility in the Church Fathers—almost as if the development of Trinitarian doctrine were essentially about this one mystery of divine self-abasement, which Arius and Eunomius et al. could not fathom. Augustine, De catechizandus rudibus 4.8 [On Catechizing the Uninstructed]. The most obvious example of this is what Augustine says in books 6 and 7 of the Confessions about the Platonists and the Manichees, who in their pride cannot The Humility of God 795 And then there are modern saints of the Eastern Church, such as Silouan and Elder Sophrony, who speak not with words alone, but with tears shed from experience, of the humility of the Holy Spirit.69 All of which strongly suggests that there is more to humility (and poverty and meekness) than meets the eye, and that it possess a greater range of significance (from the human to the divine) than Thomas in his pre-visionary writings was prepared to admit.70 Thus far, however, the Thomists have not been persuaded. On the contrary, in the name of good distinctions, they see humility as a contingency of salvation and a quality that God would not otherwise possess. But this, in turn, raises a number of serious problems, because it amounts to saying that God is only apparently humble and that in himself he is not. And then, before you know it, we have severed the bond between the immanent and economic Trinity, and revelation no longer means revelation. But could this be? Must we not rather, following Balthasar, posit something in the immanent Trinity, something like the humility we see in Christ, that is the transcendental condition for the possibility of so dramatic a revelation? Can we really say that Christ’s humility reveals nothing about his divinity—about God in himself? Could humility be so prized by the saints, and so characteristic of the Mother of God, her virtue par excellence, as it were, were it not reflective of the nature of her Son, 69 70 see the humility of God, whether in Christ or in Scripture. See Brian Daley, “A Humble Mediator: The Distinctive Elements in St. Augustine’s Christology,” Word and Spirit 9 (1987): 100–17. See Archimandrite Sophrony, Saint Silouan, the Athonite (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir Seminary Press, 1999), 43: “What was the essence of God’s prescription to Father Silouan [viz. Keep thy mind in hell and despair not]? It was not an abstract, intellectual disclosure but an intimation which existentially revealed to his soul that the root of all sin, the seed of death, is pride: that God is humility, and therefore the man who would ‘put on’ God must learn to be humble. Now Father Silouan realised that Christ’s supreme, ineffably sweet humility, which he had experienced at the time of his vision, is an inseparable feature of Divine love, of Divine Being. Now he really saw that all ascetic striving must be directed towards acquiring humility. Now did his soul triumph—triumph after a fashion ignored by the world. It had been given him to know the great mystery of Being, to know it existentially. O, how gracious is the Lord—He reveals His mysteries to His humble servant and instructs him in the ways of eternal life! Now Silouan will cling with the whole strength of his soul to the path shown him by God Himself.” Thanks to Alexis Torrance for help with this citation. For instance, as Alexis Torrance has pointed out in conversation, one would do well to distinguish between ascetical humility, as an expression of repentance for sin, and the perfect humility of Christ, who had no sin, but was nevertheless humble. 796 John R. Betz the nature of God himself, who says, “learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart” (Matt 11:29)? Is not her glory, like that of her Son, bound up precisely with her humility? My point, in any event, is that Scripture and Tradition give us very good reasons to find Thomas’s answer to this particular question wanting—not to mention other reasons we might have to be troubled by it.71 So, once again, we see that each side in this debate has legitimate concerns, which we might now summarize as follows. The Thomists are concerned that, if Balthasar’s theology is true, then the God of the philosophers has de facto given way to the gods of the poets, and we are no longer talking about Theo-drama, but Theo-drama; in other words, theology as reasoned discourse about revelation has given way to mythology. For their part, the Balthasarians are concerned that the Thomists are insufficiently attentive to the humble depths of divine love, and to what the economic Trinity reveals about the immanent Trinity—to the point of severing the connection between the immanent and economic Trinity and saying that the nature of God in his self-revelation is one thing and that God in his eternal nature another. Thus, even after showing Balthasar’s Thomistic credentials, we seem to have made no progress. We find ourselves back at our original question: Can Balthasar be reconciled with Thomas? Can a conception of intra-divine kenosis be reconciled with a doctrine of divine perfection and simplicity? On the face of it, this would seem to be impossible except in the sense already indicated: that the Catholic Church is big enough for both theo71 For instance, do we really believe in a sovereign power in which there is no trace of humility? Can we even imagine such a God, or cling to such a God in love, as the Psalmist, enjoins (Ps 72:28)? To be sure, the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom (Prov 9:10), and there can be no piety in the absence of reverence. But neither can there be true piety where there is sheer terror, and a God without humility is nothing short of terrifying. Worse, it suggests pride. In their concern to defend divine impassibility, the Thomists charge Balthasar with introducing suffering into the divine nature—though this suffering for Balthasar is nothing other than the voluntary suffering of love, which knows no bounds, descending even to hell, if need be, in order to seek and to save that which is lost (Ps 139). But have the Thomists, inasmuch as they follow Thomas in this particular point, not done something worse? Have they not, by stripping God of humility, unwittingly stripped him of (the peculiar form of ) his glory? For that matter, in refusing to admit humility have they not unwittingly introduced pride into the divine nature, than which nothing more offensive to piety can be conceived? Certainly, one can err by forgetting that God is the omnipotent sovereign and subject to none; but one can also err by forgetting that God is love, and that it is the nature of love to be humble. The Humility of God 797 logians and cannot itself be reduced to any one—notwithstanding strong recommendations it might sometimes make in favor of one theologian over another. But this amounts at best to an agreement to disagree; and in the name of love it is the task of Catholic theology qua Catholic theology always to seek reconciliation even where none seems possible. But what, then, is the way forward? Curiously enough, the most obvious answer to this question, though it may have fallen beneath our notice, is the very thing in question, namely, humility—and a corresponding willingness on the part of each side to see the other as better than itself (Phil 2:3), or in this case as possessing a wisdom that is conceivably greater than its own. Otherwise, absent humility, there can be no unity, but only strife to the end, which in the context of the Church of reconciliation is insufferable. So we do, after all, have a practical way forward—something we can practice. But, as Thomas himself observes, humility is precious like nard,72 and so great a virtue that its lowliness is difficult to attain.73 Theoretically, therefore, the way forward would appear to be simpler; for it consists in nothing more than a simple intuition of the paradoxical nature of divine simplicity, in which majesty and humility, glory and kenosis, like mercy and justice, are inscrutably one.74 In the meantime, however, as long as we sojourn in the realm of dianoia, where such vision eludes us, and the greatness of lowliness proves too hard to practice, the way forward consists in gradually recognizing that both sides in this dispute not only go together, but in fact need one another—if the Thomists are to fathom the bathos of divine revelation, and the Balthasarians are to avoid inadvertently turning theology into mythology. As Mansini rightly concludes, albeit in a different context: “It’s not just that we can have everything, however; today, we need to have 72 73 74 Aquinas, Super Ioannem 12, no. 1598. As Meister Eckhart puts it, attempting to explain the exalted nature of this virtue, “humility is a root in the ground of the divinity” (The Essential Sermons, Commentaries, Treatises, and Defense, trans. Edmund Colledge, O.S.A., and Bernard McGinn [Manwah, NJ: Paulist, 1981], 190). For his part, Brotherton has defined this kind of a view as “paradoxism” and associated it with a kind of “aesthetic excess”: “By ‘paradoxism’ I mean to indicate the tendency to view affirmation of apparent contradiction as a pathway to truth, born of the notion that truth at its profoundest consists in the (at least apparent) truth of contradiction, the most radical coincidentia oppositorum” (“Trinitarian Suffering and Divine Receptivity,” 191). This is well said, even if Brotherton seems reluctant to agree with the position he thus describes. 798 John R. Betz everything.” 75 In other words, what is needed today is not the polemical posing of a choice between Thomas and Balthasar (both, after all, are faithful Catholic theologians), but a genuinely Catholic embrace of Thomas and Balthasar—precisely in the way that Przywara sought to dynamize the modern Church by advocating Augustine and Thomas, Thomas and Newman, and so forth.76 Let us, then, recognize the particula veri of the other. But let us also recognize that doing so is more than a (negative) concession that each has different gifts, for instance, that Thomas is arguably more of a philosopher than a theologian, and Balthasar more of a theologian than a philosopher.77 For Thomas and Balthasar were equally and unmistakably committed to the final unity of reason and revelation, philosophy and theology; and so truth and charity oblige us to search for the deeper unity they themselves affirmed.78 75 76 77 78 Guy Mansini, O.S.B., review of Reason with Piety: Garrigou-Lagrange in the Service of Catholic Thought by Aidan Nichols, O.P., The Thomist 73, no. 2 (2009): 341. For Przywara’s Catholic ecclesiology, and corresponding understanding of theology, see, for instance, his review of the first international conference on Thomas in Rome in Stimmen der Zeit 119 (1925): 234–36, in which he advocates a richer, more dynamic, and ultimately more Catholic correlation of Thomas and Augustine. Przywara does not stop with this correlation, however (which could move the Church closer to reconciliation with Augustine’s modern progeny in Luther et al.). In his attempt to renew the Church and so renew the world in Christ, he called upon the full resources of the Church, including not only the Franciscans and the Jesuits (Przywara could always find a place for Scotus and Suarez), but also Newman, whose works he introduced and edited, and Thérèse of Lisieux, whom he repeatedly commended as a saint for the times (as, ironically, the Church’s most powerful response, given in the form of radical humility, to the titanism of Nietzsche, Heidegger, et al.). Among his many tributes to Thérèse, see “Mystik des Nichts,” Stimmen der Zeit 122 (1932): 223–33, Heroisch (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 1936), and Crucis Mysterium: Das Christliche Heute (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 1939). For his recommendation of Thomas and Newman as a united Catholic front, see Ringen der Gegenwart, 2 vols. (Augsburg: Benno Filser, 1929). As Brian Daley has pointed out, it is from this union, so to speak, that Lonergan is subsequently born. This, at least, was Balthasar’s view of Aquinas. See The Glory of the Lord, vol. 3 (San Francisco: Ignatius, 1986), 9. As Buckley points out, however, this should not be taken as a criticism. After all, Balthasar admired Thomas’s philosophical and, specifically, metaphysical gifts. Indeed, “the vast majority of Balthasar’s uses of Aquinas are constructive rather than critical.” See Buckley, “Balthasar’s Use of the Theology of Aquinas,” 518. This is obvious enough with regard to Thomas. For Balthasar’s stipulation of the importance of philosophical metaphysics, see his Theo-logic, vol. 2, The Truth of God, trans. Adrian J. Walker (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2004), 173: “Since the The Humility of God 799 Erich Przywara: Between Thomas and Balthasar To this end, I suggest that we now consider what insights Erich Przywara might have to offer as a kind of theological-philosophical mediator between them, and for two good reasons: (1) his immense respect for Thomas as “the teacher,” to whom he dedicated the first collection of his works; and (2) Balthasar’s similarly great respect for Przywara as his teacher. In other words, Przywara stands precisely between Thomas and Balthasar, and more generally, between neo-Scholasticism and the modern world.79 More specifically, let us first consider how Przywara reads Thomas’s understanding of divine power, and whether there is more to it than 79 question about being as such is the basic question of metaphysics, the theologian cannot get around it. For him, then, there is only one conclusion: he cannot be a theologian ex professo without at the same time being a metaphysician, just as, conversely . . . a metaphysics that refused to be theology would thereby misunderstand and repudiate its own object.” In this regard Przywara is best understood not as a Scholastic, but (to borrow a phrase from Francesca Murphy) as a leading representative of a “creative Thomism” that wanted to put Thomas in conversation with the modern world—as Joseph Maréchal did vis-a-vis Kant; not, however, in order to accommodate Thomas to the moderns, but rather to show the moderns how Thomas’s thought is still alive, relevant, and able to help modern intellectual life through its own problems. In the main, however, Przywara thinks that the schools are not up to the task. Indeed, he thinks the schools tend to turn Thomas—a dynamic, living, dialogical thinker who was in conversation not only with prior Catholic tradition (Dionysius, Augustine, et al.), but also with Jews and Muslims and the best philosophy of the time—into an ossified and monolithic system of thought. In an article from 1925, for example, “Neue Philosophie: Das Problem von Philosophie Überhaupt,” Stimmen der Zeit 109 (1925): 294–95, which could be read as a clarion call for a “creative Thomism,” he asks in reference to the “rubble” of Kantianism, which by the turn of the century had been reduced to aporias, whether the Catholic schools are up to the task of addressing the crisis in philosophy: “Are they vivified by Aquinas’s genuine perspicacity and breadth of vision with regard to the fundamental problems? Or have they exchanged the original expansiveness of the master for the anxious confines of the school? Are they genuinely able to see in the modern movement of philosophical life the emerging of the features of Thomas’s [own thought], or do they bolt their doors all the more securely against the Pentecostal blowing of the Creator Spirit? The times are irretrievably past when Catholicism could multiply and cultivate its own scholastic traditions behind closed doors. What they are now facing is a call to creativity and leadership. . . . We are no longer talking about the comfortable old either-or between accommodation and rejection, but about creative criticism and critical creativity.” By the same token, Przywara faulted Scholastic Thomism for not being Catholic enough, i.e., for not recognizing the relativity of Thomas’s own theology, however towering, vis-à-vis the Church as a whole. Certainly, he believed, the Church needs Thomas, but not Thomas alone—no more than it needed Luther alone. 800 John R. Betz meets the eye, for example, whether omnipotence can tolerate any ceding of power. For if it can, we are that much closer to seeing how power could be manifest in its surrender. Next let us see how Przywara understands Thomas’s doctrine of divine simplicity, and whether there is more to it than meets the eye. Of course, we already know that, for Thomas, divine simplicity can tolerate intra-divine relations. But can it tolerate humility, which would seem to be opposed to the majesty of any classical philosophical conception of the Deity? Furthermore, can it tolerate something like an intra-divine kenosis, which would seem to disturb the tranquility of the divine nature? I would argue that it can, but for this we need to break through philosophical metaphysics to theological metaphysics, recognizing that God is not a simple abstraction, but a simple movement, namely, of love. But we are getting ahead of ourselves. With regard, first, to God’s power, Przywara’s reading strikingly shows that, for Thomas, God’s power is manifested most perfectly not in the exercise of total control—as a certain understanding of divine power would have it, which led ominously to nominalistic conceptions of divine power in the late Middle Ages, to the corruption of papal power during the Renaissance, to the dread teachings of the Reformation on predestination, and to corresponding totalitarian visions of the modern State—but in the creation and toleration of real secondary causes.80 Indeed, far from being a tyrant bent on total control or the crass exhibition of power, God is powerful enough to give up his power, even “to the point that the creature is permitted to contradict God”81—not, of course, in such a way that God’s ends could finally be thwarted, but in such a wonderful way that his will is infallibly achieved through rational creatures whose freedom he just as infallibly respects. But if this is so, then Thomas’s understanding of divine power cannot be aligned without further ado with late-medieval conceptions of it, or those conceptions one finds in Luther or Calvin, though any number of passages 80 81 De veritate, q. 11, a. 1, corp.: “Out of the eminence of its goodness, the first cause gives to other things not only their existence but the power also to be causes themselves.” Przywara, Analogia Entis, 294. Cf. De veritate, q. 5, a. 5, ad 3: “Deus plus amat quod est magis bonum, et ideo magis vult praesentiam magis boni quam absentiam minus mali. . . : ideo ad hoc quod aliqua bona maiora eliciantur, permittit aliquos in mala culpa cadere, quae maxime secundum genus sunt odibilia” (“God more greatly loves the greater good— and thus more greatly desires the presence of the greater good—than he does the absence of the lesser evil . . . : thus, in order that certain greater goods might be brought forth, he permits some to fall into evil crimes, of a kind most odious”; translation mine). The Humility of God 801 in Thomas could give the impression that he was a proto-Calvinist. For, according to the terms of Thomas’s metaphysics, omnipotence is powerful enough to tolerate and work with other powers. One could even say that God wills to be weak (in relation to what is not God) in order make room for finite creatures within his infinite life. All of which suggests once more that, in God, strength and weakness, majesty and humility, glory and kenosis, somehow go together—even paradoxically so—not just in the economy of salvation, but even as characteristics of the divine nature. Now let us consider how Przywara reads Thomas on divine simplicity. While we ordinarily think of simplicity as a simple and impoverished concept, this is not so: in fact, for Thomas, it paradoxically implies plenitude. As Thomas puts it: “It belongs to the perfect unity of God that those things that are multiple and separate in others abide in him simply and singly”; and “Whatever is contained in lower beings deficiently and partially and multiply is contained in higher beings eminently and in a certain kind of fullness and simplicity”; and, again, “In God, as in the highest summit of things, all things super-substantially preexist according to his simple being in itself, as Dionysius says (Divine Names I, 5).”82 For Thomas, in other words, divine simplicity is no bare abstraction or empty point of singularity, but a perfect fullness, a singularity in which all things that appear “multiple and separate” coincide. But if perfect simplicity includes multiplicity, inasmuch as all things pre-exist in God (the world of essences is not a separate world on which God reflects, but is known essentially in knowing himself), does this mean that God in his simplicity comprises not just things that are opposed, but even apparent contradictions, such as majesty and humility, glory and kenosis?83 Could it be that, 82 83 ST I, q. 13, a. 4, ad 3; I, q. 57, a. 1, corp. Nota bene, we are not talking here about “opposites” that admit of no reconciliation whatsoever, except insofar as one is overcome by the other. Such is the “opposition” between good and evil, or as C. S. Lewis fabulously described it in The Great Divorce, the “opposition” between heaven and hell, which can never be “married.” These, in fact, are not genuine opposites; rather, the latter term in each of these “pairs” is a privation of the reality, a shadow—long or short—of the other. In other words, evil is not a reality in its own right (it is nothing “known” by God either in the biblical or neo-Platonic sense), and so cannot be part of a real pairing of opposites that could be one in God. Rather, we are talking about opposites such as male and female that can be united and in fact are united (as in the mysterious union of man and woman in marriage) as a sign of the more extreme opposition and therefore more mysterious union between Creator and creature in Christ (Eph 5:32). The very logic of Christianity, in fact, compels us to ask this question: If Creator and creature, than which no greater opposition can be imagined, can be one in Christ, vere Deus et vere homo, is it not possible that the simplicity of the 802 John R. Betz even for Thomas, divine simplicity is, at some level, paradoxical, or at least appears so to finite minds inasmuch as they operate at the level of discursive thought (διάνοια), where things fall into this and that, and not that of noetic insight? To answer these questions we need to probe more deeply what we mean by divine simplicity. For if we admit with Thomas that divine simplicity is no mere abstraction from multiplicity, but a singularity that mysteriously contains all multiplicity, we come back inexorably to the question of the relation of the One and the many; more precisely, we come back to the question of how the many are united in the One such that the One is the One—the simple One in which all things separate and multiple coincide—and not just one item, as it were, one thing set over against many other things. All of which is related to the ancient question of the “middle” or what mediates between the One and the many. Is it the human being who possesses both a material body and a spiritual soul— whom the fifth-century neo-Platonist Hierocles described as a “middle ground” (μεσότης), being “the last thing from on high” and “the first of those below,” and whom the rhapsodic Pico described as an “intermediary between creatures” and the “marriage hymn of the world”?84 Or is it the pure spirits, the angels, whose knowledge is both receptive and productive, whose freedom is intermediate between God’s immutable freedom and the vacillating freedom of human beings?85 For Przywara, following Thomas, it is neither angels nor men who comprise the middle, for “all of these revelations of God as middle fall short of the personal revelation of God as middle in the ‘mediator.’”86 In other words, the middle is Christ (1 Tim 2:5), who by virtue of his descent transcends all creaturely forms of mediation (e.g., from the human being to angels). Indeed, as the unique “way in which God-the-middle assumes the All,” he is “the unifying head of everything from the invisible to the 84 85 86 divine nature as a simplicity comprising apparent opposites is the ground and final transcendental condition for the possibility of so exceedingly great a union? See Rémi Brague, The Wisdom of the World: The Human Experience of the Universe in Western Thought (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003), 92; see also Giovanni Pico della Mirandola, Oration on the Dignity of Man, trans. Robert Caponigri (Washington, DC: Regnery, 1956), 3: “Man is the intermediary between creatures, . . . the familiar of the gods above him as he is lord of the beings beneath him, . . . set midway between the timeless unchanging and the flux of time; the living union (as the Persians say), the very marriage hymn of the world.” See Przywara, Analogia Entis, 298. Przywara, Analogia Entis, 303, 301. The Humility of God 803 visible, not only of all persons of every age, but also of pure spirits.”87 But, for Przywara, the uniqueness of Christ consists not simply in that he is “the One” in whom God and creation are one in the hypostatic union, or even the One in and through whom God is eschatologically all-in-all (1 Cor 15:28). Przywara strikingly adds that Christ is the manifest “uniqueness” (Einzigkeit) of God himself: “the ‘All-in-one’ of the mediator [is] the immediate visibility of the oneness of God.”88 What are we to make of this statement? At the very least it suggests that, for Przywara, we can no longer speak of divine simplicity in the abstract, but must do so in reference to Jesus of Nazareth, whose unique mediation makes him the Christ, the Messiah, and therewith the manifestation of the oneness and uniqueness of the God of Israel (cf. Deut 6:4). In other words, one cannot be a thoroughgoing monotheist apart from him. But if this is so, things immediately appear more complicated. For the unity of the mediator is not simply a unity that includes multiplicity and apparent antitheses (e.g., between matter and spirit, male and female, Jew and Gentile), but a unity that bears in itself—and overcomes in itself—the real contradiction of sin. As Przywara puts it: “The mediator appears not merely as a human being (rather than pure spirit), but as the expiation for sin. . . . Hence, what is meant by the concrete form that ‘God-as-middle’ assumes in the mediator is . . . a ‘oneness’ with (through the vicarious bearing of) the nothingness of sin.”89 Far, however, from this being an admission of defect in God, it is precisely in this way, by virtue of this marvelous exchange in the “scandal of the Cross,” that Christ brings all things to perfection, which is to say, makes all things one in God.90 When, therefore, we speak of divine simplicity, what we mean is no empty singularity, nor even the ideal implication of all things in the eternal Logos, but the real unity of all things in the incarnate Logos, in whose body we see the oneness of God. Now, admittedly, this is precisely where one might want to distinguish between the unity of the Trinity from all eternity and the unity of a perfected cosmos in Christ in order to avoid any lingering specter of Hegelianism—even if we are not talking about the relation between God and creation as such, but about the relation between God and a perfected creation, which, having reached its end, has become a transparency of God 87 88 89 90 Przywara, Analogia Entis, 301. Przywara, Analogia Entis, 301. Przywara, Analogia Entis, 302; see ST III, q. 1, a. 3, corp., and De veritate, q. 29, a. 4, ad 3. Przywara, Analogia Entis, 305. 804 John R. Betz who is now all-in-all. And, in fact, this is precisely what Przywara does, underscoring the final difference between God and the perfected universe, even and precisely where Thomas himself could appear to conflate them.91 What is at issue here, however, is not whether the unity of God is reducible to the unity of a perfected universe (for Przywara, it is not), but what the unity of God in Christ says about divine simplicity. Which raises the following question: is it possible that divine simplicity might include not just things that are opposed in the way that male and female are opposed, however wonderful an image of divine simplicity their union-in-difference may be, but even contraries such as majesty and humility, plenitude and poverty, glory and kenosis?92 In other words, is it possible that a Thomistic account of divine simplicity, taken to its logical conclusion, might entail what Nicholas of Cusa meant by a coincidentia oppositorum?93 Of course, we need to be careful here if we are not to identify God as the identity of creaturely contradictions, and so succumb to Hegel’s absolutizing of dialectic.94 In light of a natural theology of polarity, Przywara, Analogia Entis, 594: “However much God may reveal himself as veiled in the ‘all in all’ of time and space, or even, in the bold words of the book of Sirach (43:27), simply as ‘the all’ (in the way that even Thomas Aquinas speaks almost interchangeably of God and the universe), . . . this same God declares himself as the Sovereign God preeminently in the ‘καιρός,’ in the breaking open of every context as the ever new turning point of an ever new turn.” See De potentia, q. 5, a. 4., corp.: “Unde idem est dictu, quod Deus omnia propter se ipsum fecit, et quod creaturas fecerit propter earum esse, quod dicitur Sap. I, 14: creavit enim ut essent omnia” (“Consequently it amounts to the same whether we say that God made all things for himself according to the text of Proverbs xvi, 4, The Lord hath made all things for himself, or that he made creatures that they might exist, according to Wisdom, i, 14, He created all things that they might be”). Cf.: De potentia, q. 3, a. 16, corp.; a. 17, corp.; ST I, q. 13, a. 4, ad 5. 92 Let us reiterate immediately that we are not talking here about “contraries” such as good and evil, since these are not real contraries, however real our experience of them as contraries may be in a fallen order. For inasmuch as evil is only a privation of being, it cannot be a contradiction per se without ceasing to be at all. 93 See, for instance, ST I, q. 47, a. 1 corp. According to Przywara, Thomas is the link between Pseudo-Dionysius and Cusanus, who explicates what Thomas implies. See also Przywara’s review, “Plotin und Nicholas von Cues,” Stimmen der Zeit 134 (1938): 263; cf. Analogia Entis, 273, 473, 487. 94 To this end, following Przywara's understanding of the analogia entis, we need to recognize that the unity of creaturely opposites (allo pros allo) is not itself divine, but only a mysterious image of the Divine. In fact, Przywara does not even allow that we call God himself a coincidence of opposites; rather, he posits that the coincidence of opposites is the veil before the mystery of God himself. See his tellingly entitled essay “Thomas or Hegel? Zum Sinn der ‘Wende zum Objekt,’” Logos: Zeitschrift für systematische Philosophie 15 (1926): 13; reprinted in Ringen 91 The Humility of God 805 however, which points to a simpler source, and a fortiori in light of Christ as totus Deus et totus homo, it should be obvious that such an understanding of divine simplicity is indeed possible—and that the “ever-greater God” (of majesty) is the “ever-smaller God” (of humility)—unless one does not see in Christ the oneness of God, or see in his kenosis the glory of God. Conclusion: An Ode to Divine Humility We have thus far intimated that humility is not only a human virtue (as Thomas himself says), but also a perfection and power of the divine nature. For it is owing to humility that God is able to condescend to become a man like any other, submit to the demands of ordinary human life, and in supreme humility take upon himself the sins of the world. To attribute such humility only to the human nature of the Son, and not to see it as an aspect of the nature of the Son of God secundum quod Deus, whose native humility is the condition of the possibility of his assuming a nature that could suffer humiliation on our behalf, would therefore seem shortsighted.95 We have, however, one more step to take in order to connect these reflections on humility with the metaphysical genius of Thomas, and to show that, as a genuine mendicant, his thought is not only capacious enough to admit divine humility, but poor enough to beg for it. But how could this be, when Thomas seems to have ruled out this possibility? The easiest way through the apparent aporia and toward a reconciliation of the Thomists and the Balthasarians, would be to sharpen our hearing and attend to the semantic range of the word “humility,” distinguishing between the requisite humility of submission, which is owed to another as a subject to a king, and the voluntary humility of love, which submits to another out of love (see Eph 5:25). For his part, Thomas seems to have 95 der Gegenwart (Augsburg: Benno-Filser, 1929), 947: “By ‘polarity’ is meant the profoundest recognition of the creaturely as such, the profoundest glimpse [Blick] into its essence as an open [aufgerissene] ‘question,’ the ‘answer’ to which is God understood as pure being beyond all polarity—not that He himself is the ‘coincidentia oppositorum,’ but that the coincidentia oppositorum [is] the revelation of what defies all creaturely comprehension, the image through which the creature intimates Him as the one who stands beyond every creaturely analogy as the Deus tamquam ignotus, the unknown God, as Thomas says in reference to the greatest knowledge of God (In Boeth. De Trin. q. 1. a. 1 ad 2).” Part of the fear here, of course, is that, if one admits humility, one eo ipso admits passibility in some form as well, but this is not so, for humility is not a passion, but a power. Let us therefore be clear, so that out of fear of betraying God’s divinity we do not end up robbing him of his glory, which is the glory of his humility: to admit divine humility is not to admit divine suffering, but only the condition of the possibility of God suffering for love’s sake. 806 John R. Betz understood humility more in terms of the former, as the appropriate virtue vis-à-vis the Creator, making it difficult, if not impossible, for him to attribute humility to the Creator himself (since in God there is absolutely no need for submission, unless one may speak paradoxically of the “voluntary necessity” of love, which “demands” it). But if the answer to this disputed question is to be Christological, and not based upon a predetermined concept of Divinity, we need to consider the humility of Christ—and not just secundum quod homo, but secundum quod Deus. For with respect to Christ’s divinity, humility does not mean the obligated submission of an inferior to a superior power, but the voluntary submission of God himself. And if this voluntary sense of humility is the transcendental condition for the possibility of the Incarnation, then we have strong theological reason to see this latter sense of humility as the primary meaning of the word to which all the other meanings of humility per analogiam imperfectly refer. For such voluntary submission is not a sign of weakness, but of strength, indeed, divine virtue, which raises yet another question for those who would deny divine humility: Could God produce such a virtue in creatures if he did not possess it himself? In other words, if God can produce wisdom in creatures because he is Wisdom Itself, could He, who invariably brings about humility in the saints, fail to be Humility Itself? But, as convincing as Christ and the saints should be, there is another way to divine humility, which leads through Thomas’s metaphysics. According to Thomas, God as the Creator is at once interior omni re, that is, intimate to all things, and exterior omni re, that is, transcending all things: “Deus sit in omnibus rebus, et intime. Deus est supra omnia per excellentiam suae naturae, et tamen est in omnibus rebus, ut causans omnium esse.”96 In other words, for Thomas, God is mysteriously immanent and transcendent at once. Nor is this teaching peculiar to Thomas. On the contrary, it goes back at least to Augustine, who was surprised and overwhelmed to discover the same thing: “tu autem eras interior intimo meo et superior summo meo.”97 Indeed, this teaching is so basic to Catholic theology that Przywara could define the analogia entis—and 96 97 S.T. I, q. 8, a. 1, corp. and ad 1: “God is in all things, and intimately. . . . [He] is above all things by the excellence of his nature, but nevertheless in all things as the cause of their being.” See Augustine, De genesis ad littera 8.26 and 8.48: “interior omni re, quia in ipso sunt omnia, et exterior omni re, quia ipse est super omnia.” (“[He is] interior to every thing since all things are in him, and exterior to each thing, since he is above all things”). The Humility of God 807 the Catholic concept of God—in precisely such terms over against every halving of the mystery, whether on the part of modern philosophies of immanence (from Spinoza onward) or dialectical theologies of one-sided transcendence (as in the early Barth). What is relevant here, however, is the question of how God is immanent to all things, and whether this is not precisely a function of humility, of condescension, of God making room, so to speak, within his infinity, withdrawing into hiddenness and even into apparent nothingness, in order to let beings freely be, in order to say, “Let there be [another] light.”98 Admittedly, humility is not the first thing that comes to mind when we think of creation. We might even consider the notion so odd that we dismiss it out of hand as apocryphal, perhaps kabbalistic, and thus outside the canon of orthodox theology. Instead, and naturally enough, we tend to conceive of creation in artistic terms. For God is the Creator—in Hamann’s phrase, the “Poet at the beginning of days.”99 Furthermore, as a work of the Father’s “two hands,” creation is at once a work of the Spirit, which is to say, a work of inspiration par excellence, and a work of the Logos on whom it is pattered as its formal cause, making the Father’s work in creation an original work of inspired wisdom. A further merit of the artistic analogy is that it helpfully illuminates the dynamic nature of God’s relation to creation, namely, as at once immanent to it and transcending it, and therefore underwrites the conception of God as we have described it in terms of the analogia entis. Take, for example, the traditional differences between a classical and a Romantic sensibility, which one sometimes finds in the same artist. According to a classical conception, the artist maintains a measured distance from his or her work, whose perfection is a thing radiant unto itself, splendid in its own integrity and proportion—on one reading of the last verse of Mörike’s famous poem: “Was aber schön ist, selig scheint es in ihm selbst” (“But what is beautiful shines by itself”).100 According to a more lyric, Romantic conception, on the other hand, the artist is not only personally invested in his or her work, but expresses himself or herself in it. Indeed, whereas the classical conception emphasizes the cool and sober distance between the artist and the artwork, the 98 99 100 As Hamann put it to Kant in the context of the Kinderphysik fiasco, “creation is a work not of vanity, but of humility, of condescension,” which Schelling subsequently affirmed, as we have seen. See Hamann, Briefwechsel, 1:452. For a discussion of the Kinderphysik fiasco, see Betz, After Enlightenment, 84–87. Hamann, Sämtliche Werke, 2:206. See “Auf eine Lampe,” in Eduard Mörike, Werke, 2 vols. (Stuttgart: J. G. Cotta’sche Buchhandlung Nachfolger, 1954), 105. 808 John R. Betz Romantic conception emphasizes the fiery, passionate, invested presence of the artist in his or her work, to the point that, in expressionism, the work is entirely an expression of the artist’s sensibility or state of mind and has no integral existence apart from the artist. Translated into theological terms, whereas the classical conception bespeaks the Creator’s transcendence and difference from creation (which God could, as it were, coolly and soberly do without: he has no need of it), the Romantic conception bespeaks the Creator’s immanence and intimacy to creation, in which he is, so to speak, passionately invested, to the point of being head-over-heels in love and self-identified with it. But if the artistic metaphor does all the work required in order to give us a sense of God’s relation to creation as at once radically immanent and transcendent, what need is there to understand creation in terms of humility? For that matter, if what is really at issue here is God’s immanence to creation, does not love get us all that we need—the love that reaches even into the depths of hell to recover the beloved, and of which even poets before and after Christ, and in secret testimony to him, from the Psalmist (Ps 139) to Rilke, have sung? Once the matter is framed this way, that is, as concerning the nature of love, which knows no bounds and holds nothing back, as John of the Cross says in the Spiritual Canticle, the shift in perspective is slight indeed. In fact, we have already arrived at our conclusion. For it amounts to seeing that humility is one of love’s perfections.101 Indeed, we can say on apostolic authority, as a matter of definition, that love is humble, that it does not seek its own (1 Cor 13:5), but lowers itself and abases itself, even to the point of becoming nothing out of love for the beloved, who may not be worthy of it (Rom 5:8). To speak of divine humility, then, is to speak of nothing new, certainly nothing heterodox, but merely of the depths—the bathos—of divine love. To be sure, we still speak truly if we say that God is “in” creation by virtue of his love, but now we can see that love, to the extent that it is genuine, always comes with and by way of humility—just as the love of the Spirit comes through the humility of the Son. So, returning to the question as to how God is interior omni rei, we can now say that it is by virtue of humility. (For that matter, following Ferdinand Ulrich, whose reading of Thomas’s metaphysics bears great importance to Balthasar’s kenotic theology, we could even say that nothing is except by humility, that is, by that kenotic gift of being whereby any 101 As Przywara puts it, humility is one of the Erscheinungsformen of genuine Christian love—the other being patience; see his late work Demut, Geduld, Liebe (Düsseldorf: Patmos, 1960), 47. The Humility of God 809 being is.102) By the same token we can say that by humility God supports all things, just as by his majesty he governs all things. In the marvelous words of Gregory the Great: In order that the Almighty God may declare to all that He is within and above, He says that heaven is His throne. Truly in order to show that He encompasses all things He affirms that He measures heaven in a palm and encloses the earth in a fist. Then He is Himself inside and outside, Himself above and below; above by ruling, below by bearing, inside by filling, outside by encompassing. And he is so inside that he may be outside, He so encompasses that He may bear, He so bears that he may preside. . . . Hence the prophet also says to the Author of all: “Thy knowledge is too wonderful for me” [Ps 138:6] . . . [and having] labored with his understanding in the knowledge of God, tiring and failing, he added: “It is mighty, I cannot attain to it.”103 As perplexing as this mystagogical passage may be, it is a fitting place to conclude. For it brings us to the threshold of the real Christological mystery where paradoxes abound, where the outside is the inside, the above is the below, the transcendent is the immanent—and thus to the threshold of the mystery we have been circumscribing all along, namely, that in God majesty and humility are one. But in the light of revelation, which is greater than the light of the philosophers, should this really surprise us? Do we not confess that Christ is fully God and fully man, that in him the way up is the way down (Eph 4:9), that in him the humble are exalted (Matt 23:12), and that by emptying himself he fills all things (Eph 1:23)? Admittedly, the foregoing might appear to be a digression from the 102 103 See Ferdinand Ulrich, Homo Abyssus: The Drama of the Question of Being, trans. D. C. Schindler (Washington, DC: Humanum Academic Press, 2018), originally published as Homo Abyssus: Das Wagnis der Seinsfrage in 1961. Although it cannot be elaborated here, this text is arguably as crucial to understanding the Thomistic elements of Balthasar’s late theology, in say, Theo-Logic, vol. 2, as Przywara’s Analogia Entis is to understanding the Thomistic elements informing Balthasar’s early theology, as in Theo-Logic, vol. 1. Any genuine engagement with Balthasar would therefore have to engage these texts as well. Gregory the Great, Homilae in Hiezechielem 2.5.11, trans. Theodosia Tomkinson in Homilies on the Book of the Prophet of Ezekiel (Etna, CA: Center for Traditionalist Orthodox Studies, 2008), 342. For the patristic and early medieval reception of Ezekiel’s vision, see Angela Russell Christman, “What did Ezekiel See?” Christian Exegesis of Ezekiel’s Vision of the Chariot from Irenaeus to Gregory the Great (Leiden: Brill, 2005). 810 John R. Betz disputed question with which we started, but it has all been for the sake of this point: that there is more to humility than meets the eye; that humility is in fact glorious, as it is in Christ, his Mother, and his saints; and that this is no accident of the economy of salvation, but a revelation of the nature of God himself.104 N&V 104 Whether, following Bruce McCormack’s reading of Barth, one understands the humility of God in terms of God’s eternal election to be for us in Christ is another question, since this, too, albeit with the qualification of an eternal election, makes humility a function of the economy. But Catholic theology can nevertheless be confident following Barth when he says: “The humility in which [God] dwells and acts in Jesus Christ is not alien to him but proper to him” (Church Dogmatics, IV/1, The Doctrine of Reconciliation, trans. G. W. Bromiley, ed. G. W. Bromiley and Thomas F. Torrance [London: T&T Clark, 2004], 193). My thanks in conclusion to Bruce McCormack for his friendship and for his invigorating work on this same topic. May it be fruitful for the whole Church. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 17, No. 3 (2019): 811–838 811 Analogy and Kenosis Anne M. Carpenter St. Mary’s College of California Moraga, CA The essay that follows deals with what, at first, appears to be a puzzle rather unrelated to kenosis, or to kenosis in the thought of Hans Urs von Balthasar: the analogy of being, what it “does” for Balthasar, and what it does not do. Nor is the essay a historical excavation of Balthasar’s metaphysical roots, though it does touch upon key influences on his thought. Nor indeed does the essay strive to make kenosis appear as the appositive solution—the idea “next to” analogy, responding to its problems under another name—for those places where the analogy of being surrenders its effective power. The relation between the two horizons, analogy and kenosis, is much more compounded than this. We will see that kenosis and its economic correlate, obedience, serve a distinct role in Balthasar’s thought, allowing him to pivot in directions that analogy cannot, or in any case does not, provide. Most markedly, kenosis assists Balthasar in moving decisively toward a theology of the Cross and the glorification of the world. Beyond yet not apart from the effort of understanding Balthasar the historical figure, there is the task of understanding Balthasar’s work, and of rendering it understandable through interpretation. It is this latter effort that is the focus of the essay here, and in interpreting Balthasar, I will move both toward and away from his own resources in order to study anew the puzzle that Balthasar is and that he presents to his readers. The essay, therefore, proceeds in the following order: first as an exploration of key elements of Erich Przywara’s analogy of being, with essential contributions from Gustav Siewerth and Bernard Lonergan; then a study of Balthasar’s metaphysical frame as it shapes the conclusion of his theological aesthetics, the transition to his theological dramatics, and founds his theological logic; finally, an examination of where the analogia entis “fails” at the last, 812 Anne M. Carpenter whence kenosis rises in a provocative and complicated way. In and Beyond the Analogy of Being Przywara’s analogy of being, as magisterially presented in Analogia Entis (1932), focuses on the “intrinsic breadth of tension proper to ‘essencein-and-beyond-existence.’”1 How he arrives here, which is to say how he arrives at an analogy that has no “ultimate” middle term,2 is fundamental to grasping what he does and not mean by “analogy.” Przywara begins his argument with what he calls “meta-ontics” and “meta-noetics.” In this, metaphysics faces a primordial decision, which is whether to ask about being with respect to the act of knowledge or being with respect to the object of knowledge.3 Przywara does not oppose meta-ontics and meta-noetics to one another so much as relate them each to the other as invested, differently, in the puzzle of being. Broadly speaking, the first finds its lineage in figures like Aristotle and Plato and others of the “classical” tradition, while the second operates in philosophers like Kant and Heidegger.4 Neither functions successfully without movement into the other, each moving from inverted directions, as it were. Meta-ontics asks about the categories of creaturely being “itself,” and cannot help but work backward from this into questions about the knower of creaturely being; meta-noetics strives to understand consciousness, and yet transcends itself to ask what it is that consciousness knows. Both, for Przywara, can be brought together—yet not united or identified—in “the problem of the act.”5 Or rather, metaphysics as a whole, a creaturely metaphysics, is engaged with the problem of the act, from which and toward which these two dynamic queries (ontic and noetic) move. With “the act,” metaphysics as a discipline cleaves itself both to consciousness and to being, to the act of knowing and the being that is known in the act, to the knower that knows only in the act of knowing being. The meta-ontic and meta-noetic thus interpenetrate. “If consciousness and being are thus connected to one another in the problems of both act and of being,” writes Przywara, “then the final problem of metaphysics must be just this mutual belonging—this ‘to one another’—itself (which is Erich Przywara, Analogia Entis, trans. John Betz and David Bentley Hart, (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2014), 131. 2 That is to say, the analogy of being is not a comparison, and it is not a comparison of two things to a third. This produces a “tension” in the analogia entis, which we will explore more in short order (see Przywara, Analogia Entis, 134–36). 3 Przywara, Analogia Entis, 121. 4 Przywara, Analogia Entis, 120. 5 Przywara, Analogia Entis, 123. 1 Analog y and Kenosis 813 to say, the structure of the ‘world’), which subsists in this ‘to one another.’”6 So, metaphysics is “about” three problems that coincide: act, being, and “to one another.” 7 It is important to realize that metaphysics, for Przywara, includes consciousness as much as it does being and act. “Even in the case of an extreme, predominantly meta-ontic method,” writes Przywara, “the meta-noetic point of departure is unavoidable.”8 The “to one another” of being thus describes not just mutual interdependence, but also transcendence; and not just transcendence in general, but also the transcendence of the thinking subject. That is to say, Przywara’s dialectical tension between “ontics” (being) and “noetics” (consciousness) does not rest at a point of opposition, but rather the tension understands the two to mutually abide in one another. In this, Przywara approximates the same insight as Lonergan. For Lonergan, the structure of cognition and the structure of the universe are isomorphic.9 They resemble one another in their essential heuristic shape. Says Lonergan: Just as cognitional activity is the becoming known of being, so objective process is the becoming of proportionate being. Indeed, since cognitional activity is itself but a part of this universe, so its heading to being is but the particular instance in which universal striving toward being becomes conscious and intelligent and reasonable.10 Here Lonergan invokes the metaphysical dictum that all created or proportionate being becomes. That is, being comes “to be” in a manner appropriate to each being that is. Lonergan casts this dictum in terms of being “becoming known” and being “heading to being,” which Przywara calls “meta-noetics” and “meta-ontics.” For both thinkers, being is, and strives to be. Przywara’s “to one another” is therefore somewhat mysterious until it receives this further development. On the one hand, with it Przywara refers to a rising ethical element inherent to metaphysics inasmuch as it makes Przywara, Analogia Entis, 123. Przywara, Analogia Entis, 124. 8 Przywara, Analogia Entis, 123. 9 Bernard Lonergan, Collected Works of Bernard Lonergan, vol. 3, Insight: A Study of Human Understanding (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008), 456–57. 10 Lonergan, Insight, 470. 6 7 814 Anne M. Carpenter way for and describes human action and the good.11 “To one another” is in this sense “toward others.” At the same time, “to one another” is the self-transcending movement of creaturely being itself. Being not only is, but also becomes; being not only becomes, but rises toward finality.12 The mutuality of noetics and ontics is in one respect the measure of creaturely metaphysics as always pointed toward or tended toward a “beyond” that it itself, that creaturely being itself, does not strictly contain. Przywara names the “problem” of metaphysics as “essence in-and-beyond existence” (Sosein in-über Dasein), and with this formula he seeks to describe the continual movement toward transcendence, and it is a formula he nuances considerably as his argument progresses.13 In another respect, the mutuality of noetics and ontics has a distinctly aesthetic cast for Przywara. Essence and existence, whether considered under the shadow of consciousness or of act, have a “liminal,” and so creaturely, quality, and so also—in their distinction and unity in an existent being—the quality of becoming (as above). Creaturely being, suspended between being and non-being, bears in itself a teleological becoming, a going toward an “ideal,” a finality, which is beautiful.14 Becoming has an aesthetic character, not in any superficial sense, but rather in the sense that the truth and goodness of being, of a being, are unified. Thomas attributes to beauty a share in truth as well as goodness, an intellective quality as well as an appetitive, which Przywara relates to the ambiguous “circle” of anima and res in a thing.15 This requires some explanation. If creaturely being is, in the particular case of any one being, an essence that is in existence, it is in existence as this or that being. At the same time, this or that being is becoming more (or less) this or that being. So, to perceive a being is at once to perceive its facticity as a thing and the “more” that it is, and that it is becoming. Here it is important to grasp that facticity and “more” are not, respectively, matter and spirit. In Thomistic terms, grasping the goodness of a being (for now we leave aside its intelligi Lonergan works out this notion of being in relation to the desire to know (see Insight, 373–75). The latter half of Insight spends its time unfolding its implications. Przywara relates the becoming of proportionate or creaturely being more directly to its stance before God (see Analogia Entis, 125–26, 157–59). 12 Przywara’s (aesthetic) discussion of energeia and morphe reflects much of this (see Analogia Entis, 125–54, esp. 152–53). Truth itself participates in the ecstatic rhythm of created being: “truth, as what is ‘beyond history,’ makes itself known always only in history, but it reveals itself ‘in history’ as ‘beyond history’” (152). 13 It first appears on Analogia Entis, 124. 14 Przywara, Analogia Entis, 126. 15 Przywara, Analogia Entis, 128. 11 Analog y and Kenosis 815 bility)16 also means grasping its formal cause. To be clear, the formal cause of a being is an explanation of that being’s existence in terms of its “shape” (as in the shape of a statue), which at once describes qualities of a being’s “whatness” (what it is) and its “whyness” (in terms of “in what way” it is what it is). Formal causality, says Lonergan, is the “intelligibility immanent in sensible data.”17 If we extend that logic, we can see how, for Thomas, the grasp of formal causality is not a grasp of form apart from matter. It could not be, since “what” and “why” are not only grasped through the sensible, but also only known in the sensible. The shape of a statue does not sit apart from its stone. We can also see that the perception of formal causality is at once a grasp of a being and a grasp of a being as caused. A being at once “is” itself and points beyond itself (to its cause) by being. This is Przywara’s in-über. These goodnesses, the “in” and the “beyond,” are not identical goods, though they are related by similitude (united by a “circle”). So Thomas says in the Summa theologiae, which Przywara himself cites.18 As of yet, we are left with a partial explanation of the ambiguous aesthetic circle of anima and res. Przywara makes it clear that beauty is the unity of anima and res, the unity of a being that is Sosein in-über Dasein. But what of “becoming,” and what of the “ideal”? That is, what of finality? First, Przywara describes how creaturely being, in its becoming, is also a “passing away.” This passing away is both chronological in the sense of “now” and “then,” and synchronic in the sense of a suspension, in any moment, between being and nonbeing. Here Przywara relies on Augustine’s image of the “cascading torrent” of creaturely being. Or, if we were to put the Augustinian idea in the language of the Confessions, we would describe how the self—even the present self—is only known through memory. For Przywara, “it is just this ‘passing away’ that gives the ‘whole’ its peculiar resonance: just as a spoken work of art depends upon Przywara offers a picture something like this, described according to “rhythm,” in Analogia Entis, 157–58. Form points always to God, but in a back-and-forth between a priori and a priori metaphysics, between questions that overlap in their mutual immanence and transcendence. “For the question concerning God and the creature is, as we have seen, the final consequence of the question concerning the ground, end, and definition. . . . But the relation between the ground, end, and definition and the grounded, directed and determined . . . is a direct likeness of the question concerning the ‘ultimate’ ground, end, and definition.” 17 Lonergan, Insight, 101–102. 18 Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae [ST] I, q. 6, a. 4; Przywara, Analogia Entis, 128. 16 816 Anne M. Carpenter each verse, each syllable, each letter, ‘passing away.’”19 Beauty appears now in the familiar Balthasarian frame as “wholeness,” and here Przywara is particularly concerned with diachronic and synchronic wholeness. Przywara returns to the theme later in his text: In that the beautiful is in an absolute sense the perfectio (in ex perfectione universi) and thus more or less convertible with God (which is what lies at the foundation of the peculiar demonism of the beautiful), it is also the maximal expression of creaturely frailty. For it constitutes itself in the ‘swinging back and forth of nothingness’ (of which music is the exemplar).20 In other words, beauty has a double-sided relationship to finality, to the why and when of becoming, that is both “horizontal” and “vertical.” Beauty is for Przywara the transcendental wholeness of a being that is becoming in time according to its form, and beauty is the perfection of a being from above, or rather, according to its finality. This lends to beauty a marked ambiguity among the transcendentals, even for Przywara, who has a definite interest in naming beauty as a transcendental. At the same time, beauty’s suspense between transcendentality and the other transcendentals, its further suspense between object and soul, between being and becoming, is what renders beauty especially helpful for a creaturely metaphysics.21 Everywhere Przywara is concerned with the analogy of being as a “suspended” reality. This is not to say that analogy is precisely halfway between equivocity and pure identity as a kind of middle term, as a point on a map. Przywara is after a dynamic that is much more complex, and complexly difficult. If a “middle” is to be had—and here Barthian suspicions begin while also receiving a response—it is the simultaneously “dissimilar” and “proportionate” middle of the beautiful, held in rhythm between apophasis and kataphasis; held in rhythm, that is, by an analogical rhythm, which is in-and-beyond.22 Nor is Przywara the only metaphysician to detect this difficulty in analogy. As Siewerth insists, “in every Przywara, Analogia Entis, 264–66. Przywara’s sources range from Augustine’s commentaries on the Psalms to De vera religione. In the Confessions, see books 10–11. 20 Przywara, Analogia Entis, 286. 21 There is something of a mirror of this argument in Przywara’s later essay “Image, Likeness, Symbol, Mythos, Mysterium, Logos” (1956), also available in the translation of Analogia Entis. 22 Erich Przywara, ”Metaphysics, Religion, Analogy,” in Analogia Entis, 409–29, at 419–21. 19 Analog y and Kenosis 817 ‘analogous’ case a complex structure of con-struction or ordering-together exists, the gathering and ordering of which is determined not by simple elements, moments or features, but by multi-elemental relations or relationships.”23 Analogy is, in other words, something of a moving target, and quite richly so. For Przywara, this movement is “rhythm.” Siewerth casts the suspension or tension of analogy in a more ontic-linguistic frame. “If one goes back to the verb (αναλέγο), one first encounters the meaning ‘picked up’ and ‘collected’ in a sense that is stronger than the simple λέγειν. Somehow the collected items are ‘taken in’ or ‘collected again,’ which evidently refers to a more unified meaning in the sense of ‘re-collecting.’”24 In this thread of argument, analogy gathers together meanings and beings and relates them to one another. The tension is in the relations-between, which includes elements of equivocation and identity as well as analogy. In Siewerth’s parlance, this tension is an “interplay” (Ineinander), one comparable to (though not the same as) Przywaran “rhythm,” in the sense that the “need for and mystery of a ‘philosophical language’ lie in this interplay of identity, analogy and equivocation in all possible words.”25 Analogy is the unfolding tension of being and language as it becomes. There is also a Lonerganian “suspendedness.” He arrives at it by a method somewhat different from either of our Germanophone interlocutors. For Lonergan, to be able to answer the question “What is being?” would require what he calls an “unrestricted act of understanding.” “Being is completely universal and completely concrete,” he argues; “apart from Gustav Siewerth, Analogie des Seienden (Einselden: Johannes, 2003), 10: “Zugleich zeigt sich, daß in jeder ‘analogen’ Sache ein komplexes Bau- oder Ordnungsgefüge vorliegt, dessen Fügung und Ordnung nicht durch einfache Elemente, Momente oder Merkmale, sondern durch mehrgliedrige Bezüge oder Verhältnisse bestimmt ist.” 24 Siewerth, Analogie, 9: “Geht man auf das Tätigkeitswort (αναλέγο) zurück, so trifft man zunächst auf die Bedeutung von ‘Auflesen’ und ‘Sammeln’ in einem gegenüber dem einfachen λέγειν verstärken Sinn. Irgendwie wird das Gesammelte ‘aufgenommen’ oder ‘wieder gesammelt,’ was offenbar auf eine einigendere Zuordnung im Sinne einer ‘Ver-sammlung’ verweist.” 25 Siewerth, Analogie, 15. “Daraus ergibt sich für das Wesen der Sprache, daß ihre isolierten Wortbedeutungen allesamt von Äquivokationen und Analogien oder auch von ‘äquivoken Analogie-bezügen’ durchwaltet sind, deren verwirrende Viefalt sich mit dem Beziehungsreichtum des analogisierenden Denkens steigert und nur durch die angestrengteste Sorgfalt in ihrer beirrenden Macht eingegrenzt und überwunden werden kann. Not und Geheimnis einer ‘philosophischen Sprache’ liegen in diesem Ineinander von Einsinnigkeit, Analogie und Äquivokation aller möglichen Worte beschlossen.” 23 818 Anne M. Carpenter it, there is nothing; and so knowledge of what being is cannot be had in anything less than an act of understanding everything about everything.”26 Human beings, though they have an unrestricted desire to understand being, do not have the capacity to make an unrestricted act of understanding. The idea of being, therefore, is absolutely transcendent.27 Proportionate being, especially proportionate rational being, is thus “suspended” in the unrestricted desire to know and its inability to know all things unrestrictedly (this would be the way God knows). Perhaps more appropriately, given how Siewerth and Przywara both wrote and revised in the 1960s while founding their works on their efforts from previous decades, the Lonergan of the 1940s also inscribes human knowing with a similar suspension.28 In this iteration, human beings have two ends, a natural and a supernatural one. Both potencies (toward an end) are “in” human nature inasmuch as the first is natural or proportionate, and the other is obediential and disproportionate (that is, supernatural).29 This is not unlike Przywara’s formulation of the problem.30 With an eye to Balthasar, there are some aspects of the Przywaran “beautiful” that require shading-in. One of the most important elements of beauty that we have yet to view is its relation to the ethical, and thus to the good. Przywara links both the true and the good to the “circle” between anima and res, with the truth of being tending toward anima, and the goodness of being tending toward res. To put it another way, the truth of being, of any proportionate being, tends toward knowing, which is immaterial; the goodness of being tends toward being-made, toward ethics.31 These are, for Przywara, “opposite directions.”32 Beauty, with its peculiarly “suspended” quality, its circle, tends toward both, and so— along with the one—assures the unity of the transcendentals.33 This would mean that Przywara’s metaphysical structure allows for finality not only in the sense of becoming according to a form, but also in the sense of a “fittingness,” a consonance, of form that is at once beautiful and good. It is a peculiarity in Przywara that Balthasar adapts and Lonergan, Insight, 666. Lonergan, Insight, 667. 28 Bernard Lonergan, “De ente supernaturali,” in Collected Works of Bernard Lonergan, vol. 19, Early Latin Theology (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2011), esp. 139–149. 29 Lonergan, “De ente supernaturali,” 147, 149. 30 See John Betz, “Translator’s Introduction” in Przywara, Analogia Entis, 49–50. 31 Przywara, Analogia Entis, 127–28. 32 Przywara, Analogia Entis, 129–30. 33 Przywara, Analogia Entis, 128. 26 27 Analog y and Kenosis 819 rearranges, perhaps most obviously in the interplay between the subjective evidence and objective evidence in Glory of the Lord, but particularly in Theo-Logic. In the first volume, for example, Balthasar’s interest in phenomenology and his tutelage under Przywara offer themselves as a transfiguration of Thomas Aquinas along the lines of the consciousness of the knowing subject. Balthasar is more thorough, or at least more descriptive, than Przywara in his attachment to phenomenological subjectivity, but Przywara’s aesthetic rhythm of ontics and noetics (and polarity) is shot through the volume. Below we will see in more detail how Balthasar tries to work out a relationship between beauty and finality specifically in TheoLogic and beyond, a move that is the similitude of Przywara’s inasmuch as he relates beauty to finality, but dissimilar in its unfolding. In perhaps more straightforwardly Thomist terms, Lonergan attributes “the dynamic aspect of the real” to finality. This is a “directed” dynamism, which Lonergan uses to describe how potency moves to act (dynamism), and how form, potency, and act are a unity (directed), and yet “just what that dynamic direction may prove to be is a further question.”34 Here Lonergan clarifies a common misnomer or confusion between final causation and formal causation. He explains: “The directed dynamism of finality is not determinate in the more obvious meanings of that term. . . . On the contrary, the essential meaning of finality is that it goes beyond such determinations.”35 Which is to say, a simplistic relationship between being and becoming presumes an exact unfolding to “some determinant individual or species or genus,” and in doing so misunderstands finality. Proportionate being comes to be in increasingly complex and more integrated manifolds, which, while available entirely to the knowledge of God, are not available in their entirety to the knowledge of human beings. Here Lonergan returns to his own version of suspendedness, as he points out that—even should we posit human knowing as somehow the “height” of created being—the desire to know remains unrestricted, and so surpasses any supposed limit or height of possibility.36 A Balthasarian iteration of this same problem focuses on the mysteriousness of being, a mysteriousness that Balthasar anchors with the ecstatic quality of beauty. In Theo-Logic, Balthasar describes how being communicates its “index” and “value,” or its truth and goodness, which co-inhere as transcendentals. The “ground” of this communication is “bottomless” or “groundless.” “All truth,” writes Balthasar, “goes back to this groundless Lonergan, Insight, 472. Lonergan, Insight, 473. 36 Lonergan, Insight, 472–74. 34 35 820 Anne M. Carpenter ground.”37 Much as in Przywara, beauty appears at this crossroad to both encapsulate and further the argument. Balthasar associates beauty in particular with the “groundlessness” of being, with the mystery of being, which cannot be fully grasped by a created mind. Beauty is “the immediate manifestation of the never-to-be-mastered excess of manifestation contained in everything manifest.”38 Beauty also testifies to the transcendentality of the good and the true, to their simultaneity, and beauty stands between them as a guarantee of their unity and of their mysterious excess.39 Balthasarian finality receives a sketch along largely phenomenological grounds as he roots the becoming of being in the becoming of the free subject who knows and wills, who desires to know in an “unlimited” way, corresponding to the limitlessness of being.40 (Here is a rather remarkable agreement with Lonergan.) Balthasar wants to “end” his metaphysics with love, which again supports a finality that is only God’s to fully know. But for Balthasar, this is cause for the subject’s free surrender to God, who is in himself, in his Trinitarian life, “groundless surrender.”41 As this extended discursus on metaphysics draws to a close, it bears saying that I am by no means insisting that Przywara, Siewerth, Lonergan, and Balthasar conceive of metaphysics identically. That is rather not the point. I am using their consonance with one another in order to understand the analogy of being not simply more accurately, but also more complexly. Their sounding-together leads to understanding, an understanding more nearly captured by the word connaissance: knowledge as knowing-together (as in its Latin root, cognosco). Our argument thus far has explored Przywaran analogy alongside some of its correlates. A fundamental law of analogy is “essence in-and-beyond existence.” This ecstatic rhythm pairs together human knowing and objective being, and their attendant philosophical traditions, without collapsing the two. Such a turn toward the knower is also visible in the likes of Lonergan through different conceptual mechanisms, but in both Przywara and Lonergan (and Siewerth), the creature ends up in “suspension” before the creator. For Przywara in particular—and Balthasar follows this impulse— the suspended-ness of a creaturely metaphysics has a particularly aesthetic Hans Urs von Balthasar, Theo-Logic: Theological Logical Theory, vol. 1, The Truth of the World [TL I], trans. Adrian J. Walker (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2000), 221–23. 38 Balthasar, TL I, 223. 39 Balthasar, TL I, 224. 40 Balthasar, TL I, 270. 41 Balthasar, TL I, 272. 37 Analog y and Kenosis 821 cast, with respect to the wholeness of being and with respect to the becoming of being. With the above established, in what follows we will begin to ask questions about these various metaphysical outlines when they fall under the light of Christology. Metaphysical Analogy and Christology Balthasar follows his mentor Przywara in associating the analogy of being with a Chalcedonean Christology. They formulate the association somewhat distinctly. My goal here is not to entirely resuscitate either Balthasar’s or Przywara’s argumentation, summaries of which can be found elsewhere.42 Here I will sketch some relevant features of the association, especially those elements that are important to the latter argument of this essay. The analogia entis is, as we have seen, an attempt to describe the infinite disproportion between God and the world while acknowledging an analogous similarity that is suffused with the mystery of its disproportion. The incarnate Son, who is himself the unconfused union of the creaturely and the divine, bears in himself this mystery of likeness and unlikeness in the relation between his two natures. This association of analogy and Christology bears with it some attendant dangers. I do not wish to repeat myself, so a quotation in which I summarize Balthasar’s position will hopefully suffice: The Incarnation cannot be made identical with the analogy of being, or God and the world are collapsed into a single horizon. Nor can the analogy of being serve as the necessary foundation for the Incarnation, or Barth was right all along: the analogy of being is really the single principle upon which Catholicism rests regardless of Christ. The Incarnation can fulfill the analogy of being, but not in such a way that the Incarnation is made necessary to created being or created being made necessary to the Incarnation. We are left with von Balthasar’s answer, as expressed in his Epilogue to the trilogy: the analogia entis is “made present [gegenwärtigende] in Christ.” Thus, “the essential polarity of worldly Being, whose poles can only be understood through each other,” that is, the polarity that characterizes the analogy of being and every analogous rela For Przywara, see especially Jonathan M. Ciraulo, “Divinization as Christification in Erich Przywara and John Zizioulas,” Modern Theology 32, no. 4 (2016): 479–503; for Balthasar, see Anne M. Carpenter, “Measuring Metaphysics,” in Theo-Poetics: Hans Urs von Balthasar and the Risk of Art and Being (South Bend, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2015), 82–116. 42 822 Anne M. Carpenter tionship immanent to creation, “inevitably points to an identity as ground—which however . . . cannot be constructed from the poles themselves.” The Incarnation illuminates the analogy of being because the two are not the same.43 Elsewhere, Balthasar calls the Incarnation the “concrete analogia entis.”44 It is important, however, to recall the above risks in a claim such as this. Essentially, if the Incarnation is the concrete analogy of being in a non-analogous sense, then the Incarnation is not only inevitable, but also non-gratuitous. Balthasar’s wish, alongside the recovery of the analogy of being, is to protect the absolute freedom of God to decide to save the world, and preserving this freedom requires this caution of ours. Others who fall differently on the Catholic or Orthodox spectrum of possibilities with respect to the Incarnation, or who follow Maximus the Confessor distinctly, might well respond differently to the difficulty, or to the difficulty of analogy, or they might see no difficulty at all.45 Balthasar’s interest in Barth and his hesitance toward Hegel at least suggest that calling the Incarnation the “concrete analogia entis” is a difficulty that ought to shadow our understanding of his work. It is not entirely clear how Balthasar means the claim, nor is it clear that it is to be taken as his central metaphysical claim with respect to Chalcedonean Christology. It is certainly true that Balthasar is deeply invested in and continually speculative about the unconfused, unmixed, undivided, unseparated union of natures in Christ. He clearly maps much of his understanding of the analogy of being onto this union, inasmuch as its proportions and disproportions might model the relation between the natures. This makes sense in a particularly lucid way now that we have studied analogy through the eyes of three other interlocutors: Przywara, Siewerth, and Lonergan. As in Siewerth’s brief but critical point, analogy is not related in identical ways to the things that it relates to. This would mean, in the Incarnation, that we do not have a simple or single formulation of the relation between the two natures of Christ. Or, in terms of Przywaran “rhythm,” Carpenter, “Measuring Metaphysics,” 101. Hans Urs von Balthasar, Theo-Drama: A Theological Dramatics, vol. 3, The Person in Christ, trans. Graham Harrison (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1992), 222. 45 Jordan Daniel Wood has troubled the whole matter of the degree to which Balthasar may borrow, or appropriately borrows, Maximus; see “Creation Is Incarnation: The Metaphysical Peculiarity of the Logoi in Maximus the Confessor,” Modern Theology 34, no. 1 (2018): 82–102. 43 44 Analog y and Kenosis 823 the movement in-and-beyond of our questions about created being is itself a moving viewpoint depending on the questions at hand. So too, then, with respect to the questions we might ask about the relation between Jesus’s humanity and his divinity, at least as natures. Or, to borrow from our discussion of form and finality, we might say that the Gestalt or form of Christ presents us with a unique identity between form and finality, at least inasmuch as the “what” of Christ is also a salvific “for what purpose.” In this specific way, Incarnation is salvation.46 But, to put it provocatively, this does not mean that analogy is also salvific. How it is not, not whether it is not, is really the question that matters, and it is one of this essay’s essential questions. Balthasar does not entirely follow his mentor, and as we will see in more detail below, the Balthasarian use of the analogy of being has its limits even in his own thought. Given the above considerations, it seems reasonable to say that the formulation “the analogy of being is gegenwärtigende in the Incarnation” is (at least provisionally) the nearer claim. That the analogy of being is “made present” is not so much a softening of Balthasar’s position as it is a more precise grasp of its relative meaning—and it is a highly relativized meaning. It is entirely about the relativity that obtains between the two natures, the radical disproportion and simultaneous similarity that describes the relation between the two natures as natures. Thus their relation, the relation of creation to Creator, is made present in the Incarnation. It is not a description of their union, as if the analogy of being were a ready-made tool by which divinity and humanity were brought together. Nor is it a description of the single subject of the Incarnation. This latter point will be important later. The total bearing that “concrete analogia entis” or “analogy of being made present” has on Balthasar’s work is a genuinely open question. The particular shape that I offer here seems, however, to be plausible. It also gives a peculiar shading to the disagreement, or at least difference, between Balthasar’s and Przywara’s Christologies. John Betz characterizes the former as wary of the degree of the latter’s apophaticism, while Przywara suspects Balthasar’s kataphaticism: “To judge from their correspondence, . . . Przywara concluded that Balthasar’s aesthetics moved too much in the opposite direction of his analogia entis, that is, not toward an ever greater This may or may not modify a critique of Balthasar that has him far too strongly emphasizing the Cross. That remains something of an open question. Nevertheless, for something like this logic, see Hans Urs von Balthasar, Theo-Logic: Theological Logical Theory, vol. 2, Truth of God [TL II], trans. Adrian J. Walker (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2004), 281–86. 46 824 Anne M. Carpenter dissimilarity in infinitum, and thus into mystery, but toward the greater similarity . . . Von Balthasar expresses a concern that the rhythm of the analogia entis is ultimately so dynamic as to compromise the givenness of the form of revelation.”47 For Przywara—using the Summa—the human being at first appears as the “middle” in the structure of created being, as material and spiritual, as “permeable in its spiritual life to the pure spirits who govern the corporeal.”48 Yet, for Przywara’s Thomas, it is “God who is the ‘middle’: as the one in whom alone all multiplicity and all correlated antitheses are one.”49 Przywara is quick to deny that this sense of “middle” is identical with the personal revelation of God as mediator in Christ. He is nevertheless strong in his insistence that “Christ appears as the reality of the way in which God-the-middle takes up the All [of creaturely being].”50 Or, as Przywara clarifies, “what is meant by the concrete form that ‘God as middle” assumes in the mediator is: ‘oneness with the infinite aboveand-beyond’. . . as a ‘oneness with (through the vicarious bearing of) the nothingness of sin.’”51 It should be noted again that, similar to Balthasar, Przywara does not identify the analogy of being with the Incarnation. Still less could this be possible given Przywara’s propensity to emphasize the “beyond” in the “in-and-beyond” of analogy. Przywara’s apophatic rhythm, to borrow from Betz’s characterization, nevertheless enables his courage in associating the “middle” of analogy and the mediator, Christ. It is arguable that Przywara’s insights, especially those in the latter half of Analogia Entis, receive some kind of fulfillment in Balthasar’s “relativized” analogical, Christological position. That is, Balthasar’s position offers a reconciliation of two essential claims that Przywara makes at the end of his most famous text. The first claim is as follows: “God is not truly recognized as God,” says Przywara, “until we become aware of him not merely as that ‘being than which none greater can be thought’ (ens quo maius cogitari non potest), but as that ‘being who is beyond anything that can be thought’ (aliquid supra id quod cogitari potest).”52 Thus Przywara sides with Thomas rather than Anselm, and in doing so supports a radically apophatic foundation for a “creaturely metaphysics.” The analogy of being appears here as well—and this is his second major claim—as the See Betz, “Translator’s Introduction,” 113n312. Przywara, Analogia Entis, 298. 49 Przywara, Analogia Entis, 299. 50 Przywara, Analogia Entis, 301. 51 Przywara, Analogia Entis, 302. 52 Przywara, Analogia Entis, 289. 47 48 Analog y and Kenosis 825 principle that is “the very potentia oboedientialis that stands in immediate relation to the God of supernature.”53 To expand this in somewhat more detail: for Przywara, the analogy of being is a theological position as much as, if not more so than, it is a philosophical one.54 Thus the analogy of being, which is about creatures, stands “in immediate relation” to the God who utterly transcends it (who is utterly not a creature). Przywara does not entrap God in analogy so much as lay created being at God’s feet. Were we to put this in Lonerganian terms, we could recall his position (as above) in De ente supernaturale, where he argues that the desire for a supernatural vision of God is “in” human nature as an obediential potency. Or, perhaps nearer to Przywara, we could cite Maurice Blondel’s position in L’Action, where the action immanent to a creature is inexplicable without positing a theory not of grace, but of the supernatural (whence grace).55 Przywara claims this sort of relation in a fundamental way for all of proportionate being: The analogia entis shows itself to be—in the strongest sense—a “creaturely principle” and, thus, as consisting in the illimitable openness of the movement of becoming. . . . It is the principle of a metaphysics that measures out the “all” of the creaturely: not because this metaphysics deduces the all from this principle, but because it opens itself to the all in this principle. It is the principle of a metaphysics that sees the all as ordered to God as its origin and defining end: not because it takes this principle to comprehend the all from the vantage of God, but because its openness allows it to experience the all as pointing through and beyond itself to God.56 Here we have a recapitulation of all that we have learned from Przywara: the analogy of being is a theological position, one that does not describe the “all” of creation except to describe its relation beyond itself, its transparency to the creator.57 Theo-Logic I repeats this basic image of creation, but Balthasar is less cosmic in scope as he sticks more nearly to the experience of the contin Przywara, Analogia Entis, 311. Ciraulo, “Divinization as Christification,” 488. 55 Maurice Blondel, Action: Essay on a Critique of Life and a Science of Practice (1893), trans. Oliva Blanchette (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2007), 358–62. 56 Przywara, Analogia Entis, 310. 57 Cf. Przywara, Analogia Entis, 312. 53 54 826 Anne M. Carpenter gent knower. Balthasar describes created being’s transparency to its creator variously as an “infinity” in created being that cannot be mastered and that points beyond itself,58 as a hiddenness that remains in being in its very unconcealment,59 and as an openness or opening beyond created being itself.60 Balthasar does not begin with the “in-and-beyond” of the meta-ontic and meta-noetic, but he does—in his own version of De veritate—bind together Przywara’s insights with a phenomenology of the knower of truth. “To be sure,” Balthasar writes, “truth as a whole is in principle unveiled (because all truth is truth), yet it remains infinitely transcendent and veiled in its totality. For this very reason, it awakens in the knower a yearning for more.”61 This is something of a Balthasarian “unrestricted desire to know,” since the knower desires to know all of being “as a whole,” and yet cannot attain a (divine) view of the whole of being. One of Balthasar’s most Przywaran moments early in Theo-Logic appears when he posits a “shifting middle” within the reason of the created subject, a kind of “balancing act” between reason as measure/judgment and as reception/perception.62 Przywara’s in-and-beyond receives a new calibration, as it were. The in-and-beyond of analogy receives attention not as objective/subjective, ontic/noetic approaches to being—though indeed that comes later—but as an interpenetration that occurs within the consciousness of the knowing subject. Truth is the measure of an object, the measure of a being within a consciousness, but both desire (for more) and the reception of a being that remains “other” than the knower press consciousness beyond itself in its own knowing. To put it another way, Balthasar transfigures the “rhythm” of analogy along the lines of consciousness.63 It is Przywara who says that “the mystery of unity with and in the tri-personal God . . . becomes the site of the most formal manifestation of the distance between God, the creator, and the creature.”64 Przywara insists, as we saw, that God cannot be known in se; he also insists that created being bears an obediential potency toward the transcendent Balthasar, TL I, 87–88. Balthasar, TL I, 206–16. 60 Balthasar, TL I, 39. 61 Balthasar, TL I, 40. 62 Balthasar, TL I, 42. 63 He does this especially in TL I, 267–70; cf. TL II, 81–86, which maps out a relationship with being similar to Przywara’s “circle” and borrows heavily from his “rhythm,” but Balthasar with particular attention toward Christology and continual reference to the experience of the knower. 64 Przywara, Analogia Entis, 354–55. 58 59 Analog y and Kenosis 827 God. That is, the “all” of being ecstatically moves in-and-beyond before the utterly unknowable God. Przywara thus strives for a balance, as it were, between the absolute transcendence of God and the transparency of being to God. Such a balance is maintained when Balthasar relates the two natures of Christ to one another, not as if the relation itself were the mysterious hypostatic union of the natures, but as if the relation of creation to Creator is made present in the proportion and disproportion of humanity to divinity. Whether made present or made concrete or manifested, analogy obtains “already” before the Incarnation, and yet, with the Incarnation, does not determine the inexpressible and unique union of natures in Christ. But Przywara may well be more radical than this. For him, the mysterious rhythm of analogy, the “ever greater” in-and-beyond of Lateran IV, “alone can be said constitute religion’s formal law.”65 That is, the creature as such is caught up in the suspendedness of analogy, and it is ever and always present, even in mystical experience. It describes the relationship between metaphysics and religion as well.66 Przywara adapts Walter Otto’s work on Greek religion and myth in order to situate the analogical Logos of philosophy, which oscillates between the unveiling of Logos and a retreat to myth and mystery, to symbol, and back again in a continual forward and reversed arpeggio of sorts.67 This is how Przywara can rise to a radical apophaticism, where even union with Christ is a kind of darkness of evergreater difference. Balthasar is less willing to follow Przywara’s radicality, or it may be more accurate to say he is less willing to follow how it plays out in Przywara, a full account of which is outside of our scope in this essay. Beyond a requisite deference to Barth, there are systematic reasons for this Balthasarian hesitance, as we will see below. Even as Balthasar works hard to appropriate Przywara’s understanding of the analogy of being, and indeed works to follow Przywara’s Christological use of the analogy of being, there is also a note of caution in Balthasar’s effort. That is, Balthasar’s dialogue with Barth has him framing the metaphysical claim with great care. Notice, in Theo-Logic: Przywara, “Metaphysics, Religion, Analogy,” 424. Pryzwara, “Metaphysics, Religion, Analogy,” 427–28. It also describes the relationship between Augustine and Thomas, who are ciphers for dynamics something like the meta-noetic and meta-ontic. 67 Przywara, “Metaphysics, Rhythm, Analogy,” 460–62. 65 66 828 Anne M. Carpenter God’s immanencing into the world in Jesus Christ can be neither constructed (Hegel) nor postulated (Baius) starting from the world. Precisely in John, where the world has already been created in the Logos and fashioned in conformity to him, this immanencing is received as pure “grace” (Jn 1:14, 16–17). But in light of the foregoing discussion, we realize that the incarnate Word comes into “his own property” (Jn 1:11). Hence, he does not travel merely into a foreign land (as Karl Barth says) but into a country whose language he knows, . . . the ontological language of creatureliness as such.68 Here Balthasar explicitly recalls the language of Lateran IV, especially in the preceding pages, while never quite announcing that Jesus is the concrete analogia entis. This is perhaps an attempt to preserve the grace of the Incarnation, or it is governed by Balthasar’s interest in beauty’s relationship to language and image, or both. Or, in yet another possibility, it might be an attempt to find a way “between” Augustine and Hegel.69 We might say that Przywara’s musicality is what allows him to align the analogy of being so closely with Christology, and that Balthasar is not in blanket agreement with this Przywaran “rhythm.” Understood wrongly, the association of the analogy of being with Christology results in a pan-Christ that neither Barth nor, indeed, Przywara desire. Balthasar, with “analogy of being made present” in particular, thus relativizes some of the stronger apparent implications of Przywara’s Christological claims with respect to the analogy of being, introducing his own apophaticism about how far rhythm can in fact carry a Christology.70 We will see in the next section how Balthasar does not abandon analogy so much as he pivots to a different set of insights and methods. Perhaps this difference between the two men, to whatever degree it is in fact a difference, helps to explain—while not entirely explaining—a turn in Balthasar’s Glory of the Lord that I will sketch below. Balthasar, TL II, 84; cf. 81–83. Balthasar, TL II, 85. 70 Here I speak only of implications with respect to Przywara. A full grasp of his Christological analogy has yet to really make its way into the Anglophone world, and it would do us and Przywara no good here to over-characterize Przywara. Nor indeed do I mean to be conclusive about this difference between Balthasar and Przywara so much as to notice it, as Betz has already done, and to try to make sense of it. 68 69 Analog y and Kenosis 829 Concrete Analogia Entis and Kenosis We are thus left to consider how Balthasar’s iteration of analogy operates to one extent or another in his reflections on kenosis, most especially the kenosis of the incarnate Son in the economy of salvation, which is undergirded by the eternal Ur-kenosis of the Father in the immanent Trinity. We must also genuinely wonder what Balthasar’s “concrete analogia entis” (or analogia entis “made present”) does and does not do in his functional Christology. It is already notable that, in his most important descriptions of Christological kenosis, especially the kenosis of the Cross, the analogy of being is operant in the form of a distinction between the immanent and economic Trinity. This is most readily apparent in his discussion of the glorification of Christ in volume 7 of Glory of the Lord: “We must now simultaneously see and follow two lines, that of the dispensation (in the work of salvation) and that of the Trinity (in the unity of Father and Son).” 71 Balthasar often speaks in terms of both lines, economic and immanent, which at times seems to entangle the eternal God in chronological time.72 But this would be to fail to take Balthasar at his word, which, while by no means a simple word, is a precise and consistent one. Before we can see how the above is so, we need to move backward a couple of steps to articulate Balthasar’s theology of kenosis in general. In his volume on the New Testament, Balthasar frames kenosis by first insisting on the uniqueness of the “subject” in whom there is an encounter with the totality of the world’s sin, a subject who also makes effective God’s saving will for the world. For Balthasar, this subject has to be God, since in no other case can the world’s “no” and God’s will “collide” with one another without remainder.73 He insists, then, that the subject of the kenotic “becoming sin” of the Incarnate One, and the subject of its necessary antecedent, the kenosis of the Incarnation itself, is the preexistent Son.74 Here Balthasar appears to again mire himself in a mythic God struggling against the cords of history. Notice, however, that Balthasar’s goal at the moment is (1) to establish that the Incarnation and Cross involve “the assuming of the concrete human destiny,” rather than crea Hans Urs von Balthasar, Glory of the Lord: A Theological Aesthetics, vol. 7, Theology: The New Covenant [GL VII], trans. Brian McNeil (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1989), 249. 72 See Steffen Lösel, “Unapocalyptic Theology: History and Eschatology in Balthasar’s Theo-Drama,” Modern Theology 17, no. 2 (2001): 201–25. 73 Balthasar, GL VII, 211. 74 Balthasar, GL VII, 212. 71 830 Anne M. Carpenter tureliness itself, and (2) to describe how the subject, not the natures, of the Incarnation, how that subject, is the Son.75 He is speaking of the subject of the economy, the Son, who is also the eternal Son. If Balthasar is to tread the delicate line between history and myth, he does so—when speaking in this way—to preserve the unity of divine agency, and the unity of the Incarnation. If this logic is, in its reference to natures/subject, rather Chalcedonean, then its emphasis on the single subject of the Incarnation is also rather Cyrillian. Note that the analogy of being is still operant in the above logic. For Balthasar to insist that God assumes human destiny rather than creatureliness in se maintains God’s status as God—that is, as transcendent. His explicit invocation of the two-natures doctrine of Chalcedon shows his continued awareness of Christ as concrete analogia entis, especially as we studied it in the previous section. The character of what he says shifts according to whether Balthasar is considering the natures or the subject of the Incarnation. Balthasar next moves to incorporate Mikhail Bulgakov’s understanding of kenosis. Much could be said here, and its most important qualities have been indicated by Jennifer Newsome Martin among others.76 I wish to add some notes about the metaphysical framework supporting Balthasar’s argument in this section of volume 7 of Glory of the Lord, and I will also correlate the argument to others he makes elsewhere. The Ur-kenosis of the Father that is the begetting of the Son finds a first expression in proportionate being through creation itself, and in “the second and truest kenosis” of the Incarnation, which Balthasar describes as a single, ever-intensifying or ever-more manifest event. Even here, Balthasar urges the reader to remember that “no necessity” of creation, and no “law,” can demand kenosis of the Creator.77 At one and the same time: analogy strides its way through Balthasar’s logic in order to insist that the Incarnation cannot be merely derived from created being, and Balthasar strides onward to posit something more. What God did do in history, Balthasar argues, shows us that “God could do what he did in reality do, and . . . his self-abasement and self-emptying were no contradiction of his Balthasar, GL VII, 212; see also 216–17, 223–24. Jennifer Newsome Martin, Hans Urs von Balthasar and the Critical Appropriation of Russian Religious Thought (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2015), 185–94; Martin, “The ‘Whence’ and ‘Whither’ of Balthasar’s Gendered Theology: Rehabilitating Kenosis for Feminist Theology,” Modern Theology 31, no. 2 (2015): 211–34; Katy Leamy, The Trinity: Hans Urs von Balthasar and His Sources (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2015). 77 Balthasar, GL VII, 214. 75 76 Analog y and Kenosis 831 own essence.” 78 The kenosis of the Son in the economy of salvation therefore has to be meaningful in terms of the immanent Trinity. Balthasar then sets out to show how this can be the case. The economic kenosis of the Son expresses itself in history as obedience, as the theandric willing of salvation unto the last breath and even beyond the last. This is possible in Jesus’s humanity “because obedience to God and waiting upon his will belong to the fundamental structure of the creature.” Yet Jesus’s kenotic obedience is not simply creaturely obedience; it is also a unique kenosis available only to him as Son of the Father, available by virtue of the kenosis of the Father that the Son is forever the relation to.79 Salvation is not, then, the unveiling of creaturely being as it “already” is or was to be; it is not salvation as some kind of inner form of proportionate being. Salvation is the unveiling of the Triune God who freely creates, and who freely saves.80 Jesus’s obedience extends beyond death into being-dead, in total solidarity with sinners,81 gathering them together as they cannot gather one another,82 as he endures the krisis of divine judgment not only “then” but also for all time.83 For Balthasar: This act of seizing fate and destiny, and wrenching them out of their axes, takes place in the deepest silence of death. The Word of God has become unheard, and no message forces its way upwards to speak of its journey through the darkness: for it can do this only as not-word, as not-form, through a not-land, behind a sealed stone.84 We ought to notice, even at this last aesthetic image of the Crucified One in silent solidarity with the dead, that Balthasar is eager to reiterate the involvement of the Trinity. This Trinitarianism is not only at the level of appropriating various economic deeds to one or another of the Persons, though it does involve that. It is also Trinitarian in the insistence that the single divine will of the Triune God undergirds the entire momentum of Balthasar, GL VII, 215. Balthasar, GL VII, 217. 80 Balthasar, GL VII, 218–19. “Hiddenness” and mystery reappear precisely here, since nothing within creation could anticipate the way, or rather the meaning of, the Messiah. 81 Balthasar, GL VII, 230. 82 Balthasar, GL VII, 226. 83 Balthasar, GL VII, 227. 84 Balthasar, GL VII, 234. 78 79 832 Anne M. Carpenter salvation.85 Here Balthasar is in firmly traditional territory while straining the powers of speculation to literal silence. What, precisely, has Balthasar achieved here? We cannot say that he has abandoned analogy, certainly not as its discernible struts remain in place. He has nevertheless pivoted to a distinct theological task, one not entirely contained by analogy. Or, if contained by analogy, nevertheless possessed of its own relatively independent role in Balthasar’s soteriology. Kenosis is, on the one hand, a tightly drawn analogy: the Ur-kenosis of the Father is not the kenosis of the Incarnation, but the two are bound together by the same divine subject: the Son. As the Son is eternally, so he acts in the economy. So: as in eternity he is the result of the Father’s kenosis, so the Son’s own kenosis in the economy communicates the mystery of the Father whose perfect image he is. This is, for Balthasar, how the Son can be called Eucharistic.86 But this is not really to answer the question of why Balthasar has made this turn toward kenosis, nor does it explain the “what” of his theological pivot aside from that it involves kenosis and salvation. We can say, at least provisionally, that Balthasar does not find metaphysics sufficient to describe the totality of the biblical data, especially as that data describes God’s saving action. We can also say that what God did do, that this act of redemptive kenosis on the part of the whole Trinity, forces Balthasar backward, as it were, to try to explain how redemptive kenosis is not divine self-contradiction.87 Perhaps ironically, then, recalling a previous metaphysical principle will help us begin to see what Balthasar is trying to do. Lonergan’s “finality” (final causation), as we saw above, is “dynamic” (about change), and it is “directed” (a unity of form, potency, and act). Finality is not, however, determinant in any straightforward way. That would be to confuse form and final-ness. Because being is “manifold,” is complex, and because it integrates complexly (we might imagine a whole biosphere . . . planets . . . the cosmos), human minds have to ask further questions about being, such as why it is and for what it is. I cannot use a seed to figure out the entire universe. This is because I can only know things discretely. I am not God, who is the unrestricted act of understanding for whom finality is determinate. So, when Balthasar starts to ask about “the concrete human destiny” Balthasar, GL VII, 233, 254. He sets this up as early as the first volume: Hans Urs von Balthasar, Glory of the Lord: A Theological Aesthetics, vol. 1, Seeing the Form [GL I], trans. Erasmo Leiva-Merikakis (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2009), 555–59, esp. 559. 87 Balthasar, GL VII, 214–25. 85 86 Analog y and Kenosis 833 that the Son assumes, the concrete destiny that is redeemed in the work of the Incarnation, these are questions of natural and supernatural finality, which the complexes of “analogy” and of metaphysics can assist, but cannot answer. For Lonergan, this insight requires further questions asked of finality, never to be entirely grasped; for Balthasar, the indeterminacy (so to say) of determinacy that persists in finality requires new categories to complement, or to drive, its questions. To frame the movement toward this puzzle in Balthasar still more generally: all three panels in the trilogy presume “form” under various aspects, keyed to particular transcendentals (beauty, goodness, truth); all three consider the threat of “non-form” in some way. But form and non-form, Gestalt and Ungestalt, involve the problem of obedience in both the aesthetics and the dramatics (for now we leave aside the logic). Ungestalt becomes an especially acute problem in Theo-Drama, where Balthasar wonders whether the beauty he depicts in such detail in Glory of the Lord can survive freedom’s collision with sin and death.88 In kenosis and obedience, both the aesthetics and the dramatics express concern for freedom, even as freedom is more generally the emphasis of the dramatics, especially in secondary literature. Still, the surrender of the believer to the glory of revelation is a turning of the will.89 So also obedience arises first in the theological aesthetics and carries over into the dramatics, as does kenosis. In both cases, Balthasar is concerned with freedom and with willing. This is because, for Balthasar, beauty immediately elicits the question of freedom.90 Here is a direct manner of relating beauty and finality, though conceived differently from Przywara’s. Human freedom and human history, while metaphysical in their own ways, are not exhausted by metaphysical explanation. Even without Lonergan: if Blondel’s analysis of human action includes the metaphysical and historical as distinct but simultaneous in the human agent,91 then Balthasar’s movement toward freedom seeks to describe such a simultaneity.92 The analogia entis made present in Christ can thus only ever be a partial response to and description of salvation, because it is not about human autonomy or its shipwreck. In other words, it is never quite able to Hans Urs von Balthasar, Theo-Drama: Theological Dramatics, vol. 2, Dramatis Personae: Man in God [TD II], trans. Graham Harrison (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1990), 27–28. 89 See the discussion of “attunement” in Balthasar, GL I, 213–50, esp. 235–50. 90 See Balthasar, TD II, 31–32. 91 Blondel, Action, 314–29. 92 Balthasar, TD II, 207–42. 88 834 Anne M. Carpenter describe in fullness the concrete human destiny the Incarnation assumes. This also helps to explain Balthasar’s turn, in volume 7 of Glory of the Lord, toward emphasizing the single subject of the Incarnation, since with this turn we are now more explicitly prepared to describe the theandric unity of the Incarnate One. Balthasar, ever reliant on Maximus the Confessor, conceives of this theanthropic activity as a unity of divine and human willing.93 While it may well be the case that Maximus goes elsewhere in his ultimate synthesis,94 it is certainly the case that Balthasar makes this theological move. He turns to Bulgakov. Given the above, it is too simple to say that kenosis and obedience are a theological response to the problem of freedom in history. The claim nevertheless foregrounds an essential Balthasarian concern, which is a concern for human existence and human action as lived out in the concrete world. Przywaran apophatic rhythm receives a reply, or better, the prompt of a further question: what of history? What of being in-and-beyond human history? This is, as we have seen, a question that metaphysics can found but cannot answer. By this I do not mean to deny a certain difference of kataphatic and apophatic emphasis between Przywara and Balthasar. It is, instead, to unveil a difference—I do not quite say disagreement—between the two men, a difference operating at a distinct theological register. This difference is easier to see in Balthasar’s description of Christ’s glorification, as he lays it out in direct response to his own theology of kenosis in Glory of the Lord. Balthasar begins by recalling the mysteriousness of the resurrection, whose glory is at once manifest and hidden. This is an attempt to avoid rendering glorification into a purely gnosiological, conceptual endeavor.95 It also aids Balthasar in emphasizing that the obedience of the Son is an expression of his divinity, specifically of the Trinitarian decision to save the world, rather than serving as an expression of a (merely) “spontaneous decision of his human ego.”96 A human ego’s decision is, at least in some sense, comprehensible; the divine decision is not. The hiddenness and manifestness of the glory of Christ stresses the affirmation of his divinity, but this affirmation is not to be separated out from the event of the Cross. So: if, in Philippians 2, Jesus is exalted after his obedience unto death (2:9), then Balthasar reads this exaltation as because of Jesus’s obedience, which Balthasar interprets as fundamentally Trinitar Hans Urs von Balthasar, Cosmic Liturgy: The Universe According to Maximus the Confessor (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2003). 94 See Wood, “Creation is Incarnation,” 97–98, 101. 95 Balthasar, GL VII, 242–43. 96 Balthasar, GL VII, 247. 93 Analog y and Kenosis 835 ian. Jesus’s obedience, then, is not only the economic expression of who he is as eternal Son; it is also the working out of, the execution of, the divine will to save. Thus Balthasar vacillates between speaking of the Father’s will for salvation as carried out by the Son in the Spirit—that is, speaking in terms of an economic expression of intra-Trinitarian life—and speaking of it in terms of the one Triune God’s will for salvation.97 Balthasar uses both modes, intra-Trinitarian and Trinitarian unicity, in order to insist that “the ray of the supramundane love (Jn 17:5) does not only fall upon the obedience of the Cross to transfigure it: it breaks forth from within this obedience too.”98 Jesus’s agreement to the Cross and resurrection is at once a theandric act by which human willing is united to salvation, and an expression of a “yes” already given, the “yes” by which the Trinity decides for creation (first kenosis) and for salvation (second, “truest” kenosis). The first sense of agreement is the much-explored intersection of Balthasar and Maximus the Confessor over the two wills of Christ; the second sense of agreement is the intersection of Balthasar and Bulgakov over kenosis. There is, however, a third, “hidden” sense of agreement by which Balthasar opens the way to the Christian moral life and a theology of history. If the first two kenotic agreements to salvation are Christological properly speaking, this third is Christological by way of participation. Furthermore, this participation is, while not non-ontological, nevertheless a “leaning-in” to Maximus and to Bulgakov to deal in categories other than those of being. Close on the heels of his own summary, Balthasar turns to the work of the Spirit and of the Church. Because he has traced a line of obedience from the Trinity to Christology, he is able to extend that line into the life of the Church: Fraternal love is continually described as obedience to the new commandment of Jesus (Jn 13:34; 14:15, 24; 15:10–17), because it takes on then the form of his own love; thus and only thus does it become for the world the testimony that cannot be refuted (“so that all may recognize,” 13:35), not in virtue of its own power, but as nourished and borne by the testimony of the Spirit, in remembrance and interpretation. . . . When later the Holy Scripture of the new covenant becomes the document of the self-understanding of the Church in her obedience to Jesus’s word, commandment and See Balthasar, GL VII, 248–49. Balthasar, GL VII, 250. Or on the next page: “But the obedience of the Son is itself eternal love” (251). 97 98 836 Anne M. Carpenter example, then it will necessarily be the “announcement that brings to mind” what happened in divine truth under the cover of historical phenomena.99 Christian love, as obedience to love, is both verb and noun: Christian obedience means “to love,” and this obedience to love is obedience to “Love.” Analogy supports the stage even here, since Christian obedience falls under the “form” of Jesus’s obedient love rather than falling under identification with that love. At the same time, the life of the Church as a life of loving remembrance of divine truth revealed in history rises upward beyond “mere” analogy and ontology. The glory of God in Christ is the sharing of a life precisely as a life. A life that is to be lived. Kenosis, economically expressed in Jesus’s obedience, becomes the sharing and enabling of a life. We have at last arrived at where we have striven to be, which is with a sense of where in Balthasar’s thought analogy makes way for kenosis, and where kenosis, while not a supplement to analogy, nevertheless enables something theologically distinct. It is, in a way, a simple thesis: Christ, as the analogia entis made present, is more than the analogia entis made present. Salvation is more than this, too, as Przywara and Balthasar would surely agree.100 The thesis takes a more complex turn if we consider the elements of Balthasar’s move “away” from analogy and, differently but no less really, away from Przywara. Balthasar constrains the Christological analogia entis to the relation between the natures, as amplified by Maximus the Confessor’s use of Chalcedon, to describe the theandric unity of the two wills of Christ. Balthasar also moves to consider the single, unique subject of the Incarnation, the Son, as defined by his intra-Trinitarian life, its economic expression, and the double role of kenotic obedience: the Son’s obedience to the Father as Son, thus unveiling in time his eternal relation to the Father; and the Son’s agreement to the Cross and resurrection as the manifestation of the single divine will to save. Kenosis and obedience, enmeshed as they are for Balthasar in freedom and willing, thus make way for the beginnings of a theology of history, which he sets out to articulate elsewhere, and which this essay simply stages. If Przywara saw too much kataphatic unveiling in Balthasar’s Glory of the Lord, it is perhaps because Balthasar sets out not to explain the mystery of glory itself, but to describe the mystery with an interest in setting out Balthasar, GL VII, 255. Of this agreement, I cannot say much, though it is at present an exciting and interesting lacuna in Anglophone Przywara scholarship. 99 100 Analog y and Kenosis 837 the conceptual framework for his dramatics and its theory of history. Or, to put it in terms of more recent scholarship, there are those that suspect that Balthasar’s view of “the whole” is too wide-ranging and confident for theology.101 That may or may not be the case, and there is no space to decide one way or another here. But this critique needs to recollect the metaphysical framework of finality, which leaves the analogia entis at loose ends, and in response to which Balthasar adopts a complex deployment of kenosis and obedience. This deployment is not Balthasar’s guesswork for what takes place where human thought dare not travel. It is his theoretical mechanism for describing the working out of finality in history, which is wholly determinant only from God’s point of view. Obedience is not the end; it is the urgency of the present moment, which is the only view we have. Or, to locate it in terms of Balthasar’s influences: Przywara’s analogical rhythm gives way to Blondel’s theory of action. Conclusion We are left to remember the large and complicated matter of the Balthasar of history and the Balthasar of interpretation. Does the entangling of various Thomists (Przywara, Siewerth, Lonergan), the analogia entis, and a Balthasarian iteration of Bulgakov’s kenosis describe the theologian, or a desired version of the theologian? It is hard to say definitively, though it has not been the goal of this essay to articulate the Balthasar of pure history, should such an interpretation be possible at all. It is perhaps much more the case that the connaissance made possible by the sources gathered above is conveniens with respect to the fundamental shape of Balthasar’s work. In terms of Balthasar’s metaphysics, scholars have been wont to consider Balthasar to be the theologian of the analogy of being, the theologian of the transcendent God who is (as in Nicholas of Cusa) Non-Aliud. This is not wrong. It is even essential. It is also but the scaffolding holding together the stage, and it is not all the metaphysical or even Thomist scaffolding at that. To summarize: Przywara’s analogical “in-and-beyond” appears in Balthasar in more radically phenomenological and less radically Christological terms, and Balthasar effects this transformation by means of his interpretation of Maximus the Confessor’s theandric willing, whereby the two natures of Christ—which relate to one another according to the logic of the analogia entis—transcend mere analogy through Christ’s united willing, and through the single subject of the Incarnation, which is the divine Son. Balthasar continues his arc away from, or perhaps, distinctly Karen Kilby, Balthasar: A (Very) Critical Introduction (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2012). 101 838 Anne M. Carpenter from and not without, analogy via his description of Jesus’s kenotic obedience. Kenosis, obedience, freedom, and willing become major features of his theological dramatics, but arrive first in an aesthetic context in Glory of the Lord. Balthasar thus prepares the transition from aesthetics to dramatics. To put the move in terms that echo the aesthetics: the glorification of Christ, brought about because of his obedience in the Spirit, makes possible a mysterious participation in that glory, where the Spirit incorporates to Christ’s body, and makes to be, every free act of Christian obedience to the command to love. In the theological logic, the movement appears again: analogy also surrenders to what is “more than” itself, this time to the truth of God in history. Balthasar’s turn toward kenosis is thus, in metaphysical terms, a turn toward a method of working out metaphysical (natural and supernatural) finality from the perspective of created being. That is, from the perspective of human history. So it is that Balthasar’s final word at the end of each panel in his triptych is not analogy, but rather N&V the mysterious ecstasis of praise. Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 17, No. 3 (2019): 839–869 839 Kenosis, Christ, and the Trinity in Thomas Aquinas Gilles Emery, O.P. University of Fribourg Fribourg, Switzerland In order to grasp the notion of the kenosis (exinanitio) of Christ according to Thomas Aquinas, we propose a study comprised of four parts. The first part looks into the exegesis of Philippians 2:6–8 in Aquinas’s commentary on St. Paul. The second provides some further details, drawn from other works of Aquinas, regarding the exinanitio of the Son. The goal of these two first parts is specifying the way in which Aquinas understands kenosis in the context of Philippians 2. They are indispensable for understanding the question of kenosis as it is presented in Aquinas without beginning by projecting upon his work problematics that are foreign to him. A third part offers a brief survey of Trinitarian “processions,” “missions,” and creation, in order to clarify the Thomistic meaning of the exinanitio. Lastly, in the fourth part, we present two Trinitarian foundations of the kenosis of the Son that Aquinas develops in reference to Philippians 2.1 1 In the references to Aquinas’s works, the numbers (no., nos.) refer to the numbering of the Marietti edition: Super epistolas S. Pauli lectura, ed. Raffaele Cai, 8th rev. ed., 2 vols. (Turin and Rome: Marietti, 1953); Super evangelium S. Ioannis lectura, ed. Raffaele Cai, 5th rev. edition (Turin and Rome: Marietti, 1952); In librum beati Dionysii de divinis nominibus [In de div. nom.], ed. Ceslas Pera (Turin and Rome: Marietti, 1950); Liber de veritate catholicae fidei contra errores infidelium seu Summa contra gentiles [SCG], vols. II and III, ed. Ceslas Pera, Pierre Marc and Pietro Caramello (Turin and Rome: Marietti, 1961). I used the Leonine edition for all other works, except for: Scriptum super libros Sententiarum, vol. I, ed. Pierre Mandonnet (Paris: Lethielleux, 1929); vol. III, ed. Marie-Fabien Moos (Paris: Lethielleux, 1933); Catena aurea in quatuor evangelia, ed. Angelico Guarienti, 9th ed., 2 vols., (Turin and Rome: Marietti, 1953); De potentia and De unione Verbi incarnati, in Quaestiones disputatae, vol. 2, ed. Pio Bazzi, Mannes Calcaterra, Tito 840 Gilles Emery, O.P. Aquinas’s Commentary on Philippians 2 In the writings of Thomas Aquinas, the notion of “kenosis” (exinanitio) is essentially ethical and Christological. If one considers the context of Philippians 2, the interpretation of Thomas is “moral,” as in most of the Fathers of the Church and medieval authors: St. Paul exhorts Christians to fraternal unity, to the virtue of humility, to respect for others, and to mutual care. Like most of his contemporaries and his patristic sources,2 Thomas does not have knowledge of the liturgical origin of Philippians 2:6–11 (he does not know that it is a hymn) and he has not clearly understood the literary unity of verses 6–11. He connects these verses to verse 5, which he interprets as a call to “be humble” and to “hold by experience what was in Christ Jesus.”3 The example of Christ (exemplum Christi) includes three moments: first, the majesty of Christ (Christi maiestas: Phil 2:6); second, his humility in his Incarnation and his Passion (eius humilitas: Phil 2:7–8); third, his exaltation (exaltatio: Phil 2:9–11). This ensemble is concluded by an exhortation to do the good according to the example of Christ, and thereby to accomplish the works of salvation (Phil 2:12–18). This final exhortation directly takes up the example of Christ: “Since Christ thus humbled himself and was exalted for it, you ought to realize that if you are humbled, you shall also be exalted.”4 Aquinas does not set in opposition (as is sometimes done today in the exegetical literature on Philippians 2:5–115) the Trinitarian and Christological interpretation on the one hand, and the moral or ethical interpretation on the other hand. His general framework is that of the exemplum of Christ (moral interpretation) which includes, at its center, the mysterium of Christ (Trinitarian and Christological interpretation).6 In Thomas’s exegesis, the Trinitarian and Christological doctrine of verses 6–11 finds a S. Centi, et al. (Turin and Rome: Marietti, 1965), 7–276 and 421–35. English translations of Aquinas’s Latin texts are taken, with modifications, from dhspriory. org/thomas. Unless otherwise noted, other translations are my own. 2 See Gilbert Dahan, “L’exégèse médiévale de Philippiens 2, 5–11,” in Philippiens 2, 5–11: La kénose du Christ, ed. Matthieu Arnold, Gilbert Dahan, and Annie Noblesse-Rocher, Études d’histoire de l’exégèse 6 (Paris: Cerf, 2013), 75–113, at 77–84. See also Michel-Yves Perrin, “Variations tardo-antiques sur Philippiens 2, 5–11,” in Arnold, Dahan, and Noblesse-Rocher, Philippiens 2, 5–11, 41–73, at 45–46. 3 Super Phil 2, lec. 2 (no. 52): “Dicit ergo: sitis humiles, ut dixi, ideo hoc sentite, id est experimento tenete quod fuit in Christo Iesu.” 4 Super Phil 2, lec. 3 (no. 75). 5 Cf. Perrin, “Variations,” 51–54. 6 Super Phil 2, lec. 1 (no. 44); lec. 2 (nos. 51 and 56). Kenosis, Christ, and the Trinity in Thomas Aquinas 841 place, by a kind of inclusio, within a moral exhortation (it is preceded and followed by ethical teaching) whose principal themes are the humility and obedience that should be present in the Christian community.7 In his commentary on St. Paul, Thomas identifies the subject of the kenosis as the person of Christ (Christus) according to his divinity (in forma Dei), that is to say the Son as “true God” (verus Deus) according to his “equality” (aequalitas) with the Father.8 In other places, he designates the subject of the kenosis as the “Word of God” (Verbum Dei),9 or the “Son of God” (Filius Dei),10 or even simply “God” (Deus).11 In accord with St. Cyril of Alexandria, the subject of the kenosis is also designated as the “Only-Begotten” (Unigenitus)12 or the “true Son of God” (verus Dei Filius).13 In every case, conforming to the tradition of interpretation dominant among the pro-Nicene Fathers, the preexistence of the Son is clearly underlined: “It is said that he was in the form of God; therefore, he was in the form of God before taking the form of a servant.”14 In the exegesis of St. Thomas, the act of kenosis (v. 7: semetipsum exinanivit) concerns the “mystery of the Incarnation” (mysterium incar One finds a similar interpretation in the exegesis of the similar passage of 2 Corinthians 8:9 (“though he was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, so that by his poverty you might become rich”). Aquinas places at the forefront the exemplum of Christ (Super II Cor 8, lec. 2 [no. 294]), which he then develops in two ways (no. 295): first, the exemplum properly so-called (moral interpretation); second, the sacramentum (the mystery of Christ the Savior). The binary sacramentum-exemplum is common in the patristic sources of St. Thomas, especially in St. Augustine and St. Leo the Great; for Augustine, see Albert Verwilghen, Christologie et spiritualité selon saint Augustin: L’hymne aux Philippiens, Théologie historique 72 (Paris: Beauchesne, 1985), 295; for Leo, see Laurent Pidolle, La christologie historique du pape saint Léon le Grand, Cogitatio fidei 290 (Paris: Cerf, 2013), 107–108. 8 Super Phil 2, lec. 2 (no. 54). 9 See, for instance, SCG IV, ch. 34 (nos. 3715 and 3718). 10 See, for instance, De unione Verbi incarnati, a. 1, resp. 11 SCG IV, ch. 34 (no. 3721): “legitur quod Deus sit exinanitus, Philipp. 2,7, Exinanivit semetipsum [We read in Philippians (2:7) that God has been emptied: ‘he emptied himself ’].” 12 Catena in Matt 1, lec. 1 (Marietti ed., 1:11). St. Cyril of Alexandria, First Letter to the monks of Egypt; English translation in John A. McGuckin, St. Cyril of Alexandria, The Christological Controversy: Its History, Theology, and Texts (Leiden: Brill, 1994), 245–61, at 252 (see PG, 77:24). 13 Catena in Lucam 14, lec. 4 (Marietti ed., 2:207). 14 Super Phil 2, lec. 2 (no. 62): “dicitur cum in forma Dei esset. Ergo prius in forma Dei erat, quam acciperet formam servi.” Cf. SCG IV, ch. 34 (no. 3715): “[Phil 2:6–7] must be understood of the Word of God who was first [prius] eternally in the form of God, that is, in the nature of God, and later [postmodum] emptied himself, made in the likeness of men.” 7 842 Gilles Emery, O.P. nationis), while the humiliation of Christ (v. 8: humiliavit semetipsum) relates to the “mystery of his Passion” (mysterium passionis).15 Concerning the kenosis itself, Thomas’s exegesis proceeds in four steps that we may summarize in the following manner: (1) the self-emptying of the Son, (2) the personal identity of the Son who underwent kenosis, (3) the truth of Christ’s humanity and its kenotic conditions, and (4) the heresies to which Aquinas pays a special attention in his theological exegesis of Philippians 2. “He Emptied Himself ” The principal sources of medieval theologians concerning the exinanitio of Christ are St. Ambrose, St. Augustine, Ambrosiaster, and St. Gregory the Great.16 The exegesis of Thomas is not limited, however, to reprising that of his sources: it offers advances and shows originality on many points. First, Thomas clarifies the meaning of the verb exinanivit: He emptied himself. But since he was filled with the divinity, did he empty himself of that? No, because he remained what he was; and what he was not, he assumed. But this must be understood in regard to the assumption of what he had not, and not according to the assumption of what he had. For just as he descended from heaven, not that he ceased to exist in heaven, but because he began to exist in a new way on earth, so he also emptied himself, not by putting off his divine nature, but by assuming a human nature.17 On the one hand, the divine immutability of the subject of the kenosis is clearly affirmed, in words that literally reprise the exegesis of St. Augustine and St. Leo the Great, in particular the formula “quod erat permansit et quod non erat, assumpsit” (“he remained what he was, and he assumed Super Phil 2, lec. 2 (no. 56). On Phil 2:7 as signifying the “mystery of the Incarnation” (mysterium incarnationis), see also Catena in Marcum 1, lec. 12: “exinanitionis, idest incarnationis mysterium” (Marietti ed., 1:443); Summa theologiae [ST] III, q. 39, a. 6, obj. 2. 16 See Dahan, “L’exégèse médiévale,” 76–77 and 92–93. 17 Super Phil 2, lec. 2 (no. 57): “Dicit ergo Sed semetipsum, etc. Sed quia erat plenus divinitate, numquid ergo evacuavit se divinitate? Non, quia quod erat permansit et quod non erat, assumpsit. Sed hoc est intelligendum secundum assumptionem eius quod non habuit, sed non secundum assumptionem eius quod habuit. Sicut enim descendit de caelo, non quod desineret esse in caelo, sed quia incepit esse novo modo in terris, sic etiam se exinanivit, non deponendo divinam naturam, sed assumendo naturam humanam.” 15 Kenosis, Christ, and the Trinity in Thomas Aquinas 843 what he was not”). 18 On the other hand, the kenosis is understood as the assumption of a human nature, that is to say, as the Incarnation. In many other passages, Thomas expressly identifies the exinanitio of Philippians 2:6–7 with the hypostatic union19 or the Incarnation.20 In his commentary on the Epistle to the Philippians, Aquinas understands the exinanitio as the “Incarnation”21 or the “union in the person.”22 Because the exinanitio involves no modification, loss, or diminution of the divinity of the Son, it is necessary therefore to specify in what sense the Incarnation is an exinanitio. Here is Thomas’s explanation: [The Apostle] beautifully says that [Christ] emptied himself, for the empty is opposed to the full. For the divine nature is adequately full, because every perfection of goodness is there. But human nature, as well as the soul, is not full, but in potency to fullness, because it was made as a slate not written upon. Therefore, human nature is empty. Hence he says, he emptied himself, because he According to Verwilghen, this is “the most global and most general formula” used by St. Augustine for defining the forma servi in the kenosis (Christologie et spiritualité, 209). For the use of the same formula by Leo the Great, see Pidolle, La christologie historique, 93. 19 See, for instance, Compendium theologiae I, ch. 203: “Hanc enim unionem Dei et hominis Apostolus exinanitionem nominat, dicens Phil. II de Filio Dei ‘Qui cum in forma Dei esset, non rapinam arbitratus est esse se equalem Deo, sed semet ipsum exinaniuit formam serui accipiens (This union of God and man [in the Incarnate Son] is called by the Apostle an ‘emptying’; in Philippians 2:6 he says of the Son of God: ‘Who, being in the form of God, thought it not robbery to be equal with God, but emptied himself, taking the form of a servant’)’” (Leonine ed., 42:159). The same statement is found in the question De unione Verbi incarnati, a. 1, resp. (“Apostolus ad Philipp. hanc unionem exinanitionem Filii Dei vocat [In the letter to the Philippians, the Apostle calls this union an emptying of the Son of God]”) and in Super Ioan 1, lec. 7 (no. 176, on John 1:14: “Apostolus enim Phil. II unionem Dei et hominis exinanitionem vocat [The Apostle calls the union of God and man an emptying]”). See also Super Col 2, lec. 2 (no. 98). 20 See, for instance, SCG IV, ch. 27 (no. 3636). Aquinas indicates here two biblical passages that bear witness to the revelation of the Incarnation (“Hanc autem Dei incarnationem mirabilem auctoritate divina tradente, confitemur [We confess this marvelous Incarnation of God, which divine authority hands down]”): John 1:14 and Phil 2:6–7. 21 Super Phil 2, lec. 2 (no. 62): “Apostolus incarnationem nominat exinanitionem (The Apostle calls the Incarnation an emptying)” (see also no. 56). 22 Super Phil 2, lec. 2 (no. 62): “Ipse semetipsum exinanivit, ergo est unio in persona (He himself emptied himself: therefore, the union is in the person).” 18 844 Gilles Emery, O.P. assumed a human nature. 23 The exegesis of Thomas is completely literal: the verb exinanire is understood to the letter as “to become empty.” Therefore, semetipsum exinanivit signifies: “he emptied himself.” Aquinas also knows the word vacuatum (literally: “made empty”) as an equivalent to exinanitus.24 This exegesis is not common among Aquinas’s contemporaries. Its originality consists first in opposing the “emptiness” of the humanity to the “fullness” of the divinity (cf. Col 2:9), and second in understanding this “emptiness” as signifying the potentiality of the soul or the human nature with respect to the acquisition or reception of a perfection or plenitude. Certainly, Aquinas does not reduce human nature to the soul (since human nature consists in the substantial union of the soul and the body), nor does he reduce the soul to the intellect, but he “pulls” human nature somewhat toward the soul, in order to make the most of the Aristotelian doctrine of the tabula rasa that he applies to the intellect (and by extension to the soul), and in order to show that the human nature is “empty” as a tabula rasa. The expression tabula rasa is not very frequent in Aquinas: when Thomas cites Aristotle from De anima 3.4.430a1, he omits the adjective rasa.25 This expression first relates to the possible intellect. It signifies that, before understanding in actuality, the intellect is in potency in relation to intelligibles “like a tablet on which nothing is written in act, but several [things] can be written on it; and this also happens in the possible intellect, because no intelligible is in it in act, but only in potency.”26 On this basis, we should note Super Phil 2, lec. 2 (no. 57): “Pulchre autem dicit exinanivit. Inane enim opponitur pleno. Natura autem divina satis plena est, quia ibi est omnis bonitatis perfectio. Ex. XXXIII: Ostendam tibi omne bonum. Natura autem humana, et anima non est plena, sed in potentia ad plenitudinem; quia est facta quasi tabula rasa. Est ergo natura humana inanis. Dicit ergo exinanivit, quia naturam humanam assumpsit.” 24 Catena in Matt 1, lec. 1 (Marietti ed., 1:11). 25 The Latin translation of Aristotle on which Thomas comments in his In de anima is the following: “Potencia quodam modo est intelligibilia intellectus, set actu nichil, ante quam intelligat. Oportet autem sic sicut in tabula nichil est actu scriptum, quod quidem accidit in intellectu” (Leonine ed., 45/1:214). This text can be translated as follows: “The intellect is, in a way, potentially all intelligibles; but it is actually nothing [of them] until it understands. What happens in the intellect has to be like [what happens on] a tablet on which nothing is actually written upon. For the sources of Thomas and the parallel places, see the long note by the Leonine editor, Fr. René-Antoine Gauthier (Leonine ed., 45/1:215). 26 In III de anima, ch. 3 (Leonine ed., 45/1:215): “Intellectus igitur dicitur pati in quantum est quodam modo in potencia ad intelligibilia, et nichil eorum est actu, ante quam intelligat. Oportet autem sic esse sicut contingit in tabula in qua nichil 23 Kenosis, Christ, and the Trinity in Thomas Aquinas 845 that Aquinas often uses the word “intellect” for “soul” by synecdoche (that is, when the name of a part is used to refer to the whole). In the Summa theologiae [ST], for instance, before showing that the soul’s powers differ from the soul’s essence,27 Aquinas writes that “the human soul . . . is called the intellect or the mind.”28 And even when the soul is distinguished from the possible intellect, we speak of the soul in the light of what we know about its powers.29 In this way, potency applying to the possible intellect is extended to the soul. Further, such attribution of potency to the soul is consistent with Aquinas’s teaching, since the human soul, though being the act of the body (according to Aristotle, the soul is defined as “the first act of a physical organized body having life potentially”30), still remains in potency under two aspects: first, with regard to its operations;31 and second, with regard to the act of being (esse).32 And therefore, since not only the body but the soul as well is marked by a potency, human nature est actu scriptum, set plura possunt in ea scribi; et hoc etiam accidit in intellectu possibili, quia nichil intelligibilium est in eo actu, set in potencia tantum (The intellect is called passive insofar as it is, in a way, in potency to intelligible [objects], and nothing of them is actual [in the intellect] until it understands. It is like a tablet on which nothing is yet written, but many [things] can be written. What happens in the possible intellect has to be like what happens on a tablet on which nothing is actually written upon, but many [things] can be written on it. And this also happens in the possible intellect, because nothing of the intelligibles is in it actually, but only in potency).” See also ST I, q. 79, a. 2, resp.; q. 101, a. 1, sc.). 27 ST I, q. 77. 28 ST I, q. 75, a. 2, resp.: “Relinquitur igitur animam humanam, quae dicitur intellectus vel mens, esse aliquid incorporeum et subsistens.” 29 Cf. ST I, q. 77, a. 1, ad 7. 30 See, for instance, SCG II, ch. 61 (no. 1397): “Aristoteles . . . definit animam dicens quod est actus primus physici corporis organici potentia vitam habentis.” 31 ST I, q. 76, a. 4, ad 1: “Aristotle does not say that the soul is the act of a body only, but ‘the act of a physical organized body having life potentially.’ . . . The soul is said to be the ‘act of a body, etc.’ because by the soul it is a body, and is organic, and has life potentially. Yet the first act is said to be in potency to the second act, which is operation [actus primus dicitur in potentia respectu actus secundi, qui est operatio]; for such a potency [talis enim potentia] ‘does not reject’—that is, does not exclude—the soul.” 32 ST I, q. 75, a. 5, ad 4: “Everything participated is compared to the participator as its act [omne participatum comparatur ad participans ut actus eius]. But whatever created form be supposed to subsist ‘per se,’ must have existence by participation. . . . Now participated existence is limited by the capacity of the participator; so that God alone, who is his own existence, is pure act and infinite. But in intellectual substances there is composition of actuality and potentiality, not, indeed, of matter and form, but of form and participated existence [in substantiis vero intellectualibus est compositio ex actu et potentia; non quidem ex materia et forma, sed ex forma et esse participato].” 846 Gilles Emery, O.P. clearly appears to be “in potency to fullness,” in such a way that the tabula rasa which characterizes the possible intellect is extended to human nature. So, applied to the Incarnation, this example means that the kenosis of the Son of God concerns not only the assumption of a human nature, but also the human nature itself that, in itself, is characterized by a state of “emptiness.” And in this manner, the Incarnation understood as the assumption of a human nature can indeed be understood as a “self-emptying.” The Personal Identity of the Incarnate Son Aquinas constantly insists, in a notable and oft-repeated manner, on the personal identity of the subject and the term of the kenosis. His exegesis is resolutely anti-Nestorian: this is one of its most striking characteristics for us today. Aquinas denies that, in his exinanitio, the Son assumed a human person or hypostasis. He perceives an indication of this in the fact that the Pauline text does not say “taking a servant” or “taking a slave” (servum accipiens),33 but “taking the form of a servant” (formam servi accipiens). The forma servi does not mean a human supposit, but a human nature: “human nature is the form of a servant.”34 The kenosis of Philippians 2:7 therefore means: “He took a [human] nature into his own person, so that the Son of God and the son of man would be one in person.”35 In accord with the heresiological tradition transmitted by St. Cyril of Alexandria and the Council of Constantinople II,36 Thomas identifies “Nestorianism” with the doctrine of “two sons” (one is the Son of God and the other is a human son, that is to say: one is the person of the Son and the other is the person of the man Jesus), implying that the Incarnation would be accomplished by an “inhabitation,” by grace, of the hypostasis of the Son in a human hypostasis.37 This is the principal error that Thomas seeks Super Phil 2, lec. 2 (no. 58): “Servant [servus] is the name of a hypostasis or of a supposit, which was not assumed, but the nature was; for that which is assumed is distinct from the one assuming it. Therefore, the Son of God did not assume a man, because that would lead to understand that [this] man was someone else than the Son of God.” 34 Super Phil 2, lec. 2 (no. 58): “natura humana est forma servi.” 35 Super Phil 2, lec. 2 (no. 58): “Accepit ergo naturam in persona sua, ut esset idem in persona Filius Dei et filius hominis.” Cf. ST III, q. 17, obj. 1, obj. 2, ad 1, and ad 2. 36 The thought of Nestorius himself is more complex: see André de Halleux, “Nestorius: Histoire et doctrine,” Irénikon 66 (1993): 38–51 and 163–78. 37 ST III, q. 2, a. 6, resp.: “Alia vero fuit haeresis Nestorii et Theodori Mopsuesteni separantium personas. Posuerunt enim aliam esse personam Filii Dei, et filii hominis. Quas dicebant sibi invicem esse unitas, primo quidem, secundum inhabitationem, inquantum scilicet verbum Dei habitavit in illo homine sicut in templo (The other heresy was the one of Nestorius and Theodore of Mopsuestia, who separated 33 Kenosis, Christ, and the Trinity in Thomas Aquinas 847 constantly to avoid when he explains the meaning of Philippians 2:7. This point should be noted, because it shows that Aquinas’s central concern, in his interpretation of the kenosis, differs notably from our contemporary preoccupations: in many places, when Aquinas refers to Philippians 2:7, he denies that the Incarnation boils down to an “inhabitation by grace.” And this is precisely the reason why he judges that the idea of a “kenosis of the Father” or a “kenosis of the Holy Spirit” is “false” ( falsum)38 or even “absurd” (absurdum).39 The Father and the Holy Spirit dwell in the saints by grace, but the Father and the Holy Spirit are not incarnate. Aquinas is very clear: the kenosis is (1) proper to the Son, to the exclusion of the Father and the Holy Spirit, and (2) proper to the Son in his Incarnation. Moreover, since according to Thomas (who here follows St. Cyril of Alexandria) the “Nestorian” understanding of Christ introduces a separation between 38 39 the persons. For they held the person of the Son of God and the person of the Son of man to be different, and said these were mutually united: first, ‘by indwelling,’ inasmuch as the Word of God dwelt in this man as in a temple).” On this, see Martin Morard, “Une source de saint Thomas d’Aquin: le deuxième Concile de Constantinople (553),” Revue des sciences philosophiques et théologiques 81 (1997): 21–56, at 43. Concerning typical formulae such as habitavit sicut in templo, or sicut et in aliis hominibus, Morard also notes (at 26) the influence of Pope Vigilius’s Constitutum I (cf. Denzinger, no. 417). Super Phil 2, lec. 2 (no. 62): “Constat autem quod Pater inhabitat et Spiritus Sanctus: ergo et isti sunt exinaniti, quod est falsum (It is clear that the Father indwells [in the saints], and the Holy Spirit [indwells] as well; therefore, they too are emptied: which is false).” Super Rom. 1, lec. 2 (no. 35): “Nestorius taught that the union of the Word with human nature consisted solely in an indwelling [inhabitatio], in the sense that the Son of God dwelt in that man more fully than in others. . . . This is shown to be false [falsum] by that fact that the Apostle in Philippians 2[:7] calls this sort of union an emptying of himself [unionem huiusmodi vocat exinanitionem]. But since the Father and the Holy Spirit dwell in men [inhabitant homines], as the Lord says in John 14[:23]—‘We will come to him and make our home with him’—it would follow that they, too, would be emptying themselves [essent exinaniti]; which is absurd [quod est absurdum].” The same argument is developed at great length in Compendium theologiae I, ch. 203: “Otherwise the Father and the Holy Spirit would also be emptied [exinanirentur], since they too dwell in the rational creature by grace [creaturam rationalem per gratiam inhabitant].” See also: Super Ioan 1, lec. 7 (no. 176) (“quia sic Pater et Spiritus Sanctus exinanirentur [because then the Father and the Holy Spirit would be emptied]”); De unione Verbi incarnati, a. 1, resp. (“Inhabitatio gratiae non sufficit ad rationem exinanitionis. Alioquin exinanitio competeret non solum Filio, sed etiam Patri et Spiritui Sancto [the indwelling of grace is not enough to account for the notion of ‘emptying.’ Otherwise emptying would belong not only the Son, but also to the Father and the Holy Spirit]”); Catena in Matt 1, lec. 1 (Marietti ed., 1:11). 848 Gilles Emery, O.P. the Word and the man, the “Nestorian” view would mean that the subject of the exinanitio is not a divine person but, rather the human person of the man Jesus (“it was the man who underwent kenosis”40), a position that Aquinas excludes firmly. All this shows that, in the kenosis of Philippians 2:7, Aquinas understands very precisely the Incarnation of the Son, with an anti-Nestorian accent placed upon the personal identity and unity of the subject of the kenosis: “He emptied himself: therefore it is the same who ‘was emptied’ and who ‘emptied’ [himself]. And this is the Son, because he himself emptied himself; therefore, the union is in the person.”41 This same exegesis, with the same anti-Nestorian concern, is found in the interpretation of John 1:14, Philippians 2:7, and Colossians 2:9.42 The Truth of Christ’s Humanity, and Its Kenotic Conditions In his exegesis of Philippians 2:6–8, Thomas underlines the truth of the humanity assumed (the forma servi) and its conditions. The truth of the body of Christ and of his human soul is often emphasized,43 as well as the ordinary way he lived as a man among men.44 For Aquinas, Christ’s forma servi implies not only that, as man, Christ was obedient to his heavenly Father, but also that he was obedient to his parents (during his childhood) and that he was subject to the governing authorities: he lived under the Catena in Matt 1, lec. 1 (Marietti ed., 1:11): “The Apostle says in regard to the Only Begotten: ‘Who being in the form of God did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself.’ Who is it, then, who is ‘in the form of God’? Or in what manner is he ‘emptied out’? Or how did he descend to humiliation in the ‘form of a slave’? There are some [heretics] who divide the one Lord Jesus Christ into two, that is into a man alongside the Word [in duo dividentes Christum, idest in hominem et Verbum]. These people maintain that it was the man who underwent the ‘emptying out’ [hominem dicunt sustinuisse exinanitionem], and in this way they separate him from the Word of God.” This is taken from St. Cyril of Alexandria, First Letter to the monks of Egypt, in McGuckin, St. Cyril of Alexandria, 252 (see PG, 77:24). This Letter dates from the spring of 429, when St. Cyril had heard of Nestorius’s teaching infiltrating Egypt; it is especially interesting, since it “marks the opening of the Nestorian controversy” (McGuckin, St. Cyril of Alexandria, 245n1). 41 Super Phil 2, lec. 2 (no. 62): “Item dicit: Semetipsum exinanivit, ergo idem est qui exinanitus est, et exinaniens. Sed huiusmodi est Filius Dei, quia ipse semetipsum exinanivit, ergo est unio in persona” (the emphases in the translation are mine). 42 See Gilles Emery, Présence de Dieu et union à Dieu: Création, inhabitation par grâce, incarnation et vision bienheureuse selon saint Thomas d’Aquin (Paris: Cerf, 2017), 133–40. 43 See, for instance: ST III, q. 5, ad 2; q. 14, a. 1, resp. 44 Super Phil 2, lec. 2 (no. 60); Super Ioan 2, lec. 13 (no. 246). 40 Kenosis, Christ, and the Trinity in Thomas Aquinas 849 Law (sub lege, in reference to Gal 4:4). The concrete and historical integrity of Christ’s humanity is well shown.45 On the one hand, Aquinas observes the “conformity of nature” between the man Christ and other men, in reference to Hebrews 2:17 (“Therefore he had to become like his brothers in every respect, so that he might be a merciful and faithful high priest in the service of God”).46 This teaching appears again in the preaching of Aquinas: Christ wanted to be conformed to others. This is why St. Paul [wrote] to the Philippians: “he emptied himself, taking the form of a servant, being made in the likeness of men.” Christ made himself small by taking our smallness [Christus se paruum fecit nostram paruitatem accipiendo]. And so as to show himself really small [paruum uere], he was made in the likeness of men.47 This conformity calls to mind the theme of Christ as “Head” of the Church, in the measure to which the notion of “Head,” applied to Christ, implies a conformity of nature with his members. In his writings prior to the Summa theologiae, Thomas emphasizes with great insistence the conformity of nature between Christ the Head and his members.48 And in this context, he makes reference to Philippians 2: “In the head is found a conformity of nature [conformitas naturae] to the other members; likewise in Christ with respect to other men, as it says in Phil 2[:7]: ‘Taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men, and being found in human form.’”49 This exegesis of Philippians 2:7 reprises that of St. Augustine.50 If one follows the progression of Aquinas’s works, however, this theme of the “conformity of nature” loses importance in his manner of rendering account of Christ as Head, and this theme finally only occupies a very marginal place in the Summa theologiae.51 Super Gal. 4, lec. 1 (no. 195): “As man, he seemed to differ nothing from a servant. Phil. II: ‘He emptied himself, taking the form of a servant, being made in the likeness of men, and in habit found as a man.’ Furthermore, he was under tutors and governors [sub tutoribus autem et actoribus], because he was made under the Law [sub lege factus erat] . . . and was also subject to men, as is said in Luke II[:51]: ‘He was subject to them.’” 46 Super Phil 2, lec. 2 (no. 59). 47 Sermon Puer Iesus (Leonine ed., 44/1:104). 48 See In III sent., d. 13, q. 2, a. 2, qa. 1, resp.; De veritate, q. 29, a. 4, sc 2 and resp.; Super Col 2, lec. 2 (no. 100); Compendium theologiae I, ch. 214. 49 Super I Cor 11, lec. 1 (no. 587). 50 See Verwilghen, Christologie et spiritualité, 282–84. 51 In q. 8 of the tertia pars of ST, the conformity of nature no longer intervenes in a 45 850 Gilles Emery, O.P. On the other hand, Thomas applies himself to showing the “conditions” (conditiones) of the humanity assumed. This is an important point in Aquinas’s understanding of the kenosis: not only has the Son of God assumed a human nature, but “he assumed all the defects and properties associated with the human species, except sin [defectus omnes et proprietates continentes speciem, praeter peccatum]; therefore, St. Paul says, ‘and being found in human form,’ namely, in his external life, because he became hungry as a man, and tired, and so on: ‘One who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sinning’ (Heb 4:15); ‘Afterward [he] appeared upon earth and lived among men’ (Bar 3:37).”52 The exinanitio of Christ thus includes all that, in the Summa theologiae, Aquinas treats under the rubric of “defects” of the body (defectus corporis) and of the soul (defectus animae) that Christ voluntarily assumed, that is to say, his corporeal passibility, the innocent passions of his soul, and all that concerns his state of viator (ST III, qq. 14–15).53 The exegesis of the word habitus in Philippians 2:7 (et habitu inventus ut homo: “being found in human form”; literally “and in habit found as man”) furnishes the occasion for two clarifications. First, Aquinas denies that the subject of the kenosis (the Son of God) has undergone a change with respect to his form of God. Second, Aquinas denies that the Incarnation has not brought about a change in the human nature assumed by the Son of God: the assumed human nature has indeed undergone a change (mutatio) in the sense that, by virtue of the union in the person of the Son, this human nature “was changed for the better [mutata est in melius], because it was filled with grace and truth: ‘We have beheld his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father’ (John 1:14).”54 Against Heresies Before turning to the Passion of Christ (Phil 2:8: humiliavit semetipsignificant manner, and it is displaced in the discussion of Christ as Head of the angels (ST III, q. 8, a. 4, obj. 1 and ad 1). 52 Super Phil 2, lec. 2 (no. 60). Cf. ST III, q. 14, a. 1, resp. (with reference to Phil 2:7). 53 See, for instance, ST III, q. 14, a. 1, resp. (on the bodily defects assumed by Christ): “It was fitting for the body assumed by the Son of God to be subject to human infirmities and defects [humanis infirmitatibus et defectibus].” Here Aquinas mentions three “reasons of fittingness” for this: first, satisfaction for sin, by the assumption of poenalitates due for original sin (“death, hunger, thirst, and the like, are the punishment of sin”); second, enhancement of faith in the Incarnation (with reference to Phil 2:7); third, an example of patience “by valiantly bearing up against human passibility and defects.” 54 Super Phil 2, lec. 2 (no. 61). Kenosis, Christ, and the Trinity in Thomas Aquinas 851 sum), the exegesis of Philippians 2:7 on “the mystery of the Incarnation” concludes with a discussion of the errors to which this verse has given rise.55 First of all, the interpretation of the word habitus in Philippians 2:7 leads Aquinas to exclude the third Christological opinion reported by Peter Lombard in distinction 6 of the third book of the Sentences,56 namely the “habitus theory” of the Incarnation. Thomas summarizes and refutes it thus: according to this opinion, “Christ’s humanity accrues to him as an accident [accidentaliter]. This is false, because the supposit of divine nature became a supposit of human nature [suppositum divinae naturae factum est suppositum humanae naturae]; therefore, it [the humanity] is united to him [the supposit of divine nature] not as an accident, but substantially [substantialiter].”57 We find here a summary of his interpretation of Philippians 2:6–7. The Son is united to a humanity in the unity of his divine person (in this context, substantialiter means “personally” or “hypostatically”), of such a kind that the incarnate Son is a single and identical person who subsists in two natures. Philippians 2:6–7 excludes a fortiori any form of adoptionism, because a union to God by the habitation of grace would be an “accidental” union.58 For Aquinas, the formulations of Philippians 2:6–8 exclude all the principal Christological errors. Thus, the correct understanding of the habitus and the phrase cum in forma Dei esset (which signifies the preexistence of the divine subject of the kenosis) excludes adoptionism (error Photini).59 The expression non rapinam arbitratus est esse se aequalem Deo excludes the error of Arius, which Thomas defines here as the inequality of the Son in relation to the Father (minor Patre).60 With regard to the phrase semetipsum exinanivit, as we have seen, it excludes Nestorianism (error Nestorii), since this phrase signifies “union in the person.” In his exegesis of Philippians 2:6–8, it is incontestably to Nestorianism (and to the erroneous theory of the Incarnation as inhabitation by grace) that Aquinas is Super Phil 2, lec. 2 (no. 62). See: In III sent., d. 6, q. 3; ST III, q. 2, aa. 5–6. 57 Super Phil 2, lec. 2 (no. 62). 58 On Phil 2:6–7 as excluding adoptionism, see also SCG IV, ch. 4 (no. 3369) and ch. 28 (no. 3643). 59 See Gilles Emery, “Le photinisme et ses précurseurs chez saint Thomas: Cérinthe, les ébionites, Paul de Samosate et Photin,” Revue thomiste 95 (1995): 371–98. 60 Super Phil 2, lec. 2 (no. 62): it is according to his forma servi, that is to say his humanity, that Christ is inferior to the Father (see John 14:28: “the Father is greater than I”), and not according to his form of God; because according to the forma Dei, the Son is perfectly equal to the Father (no. 55). See also: SCG IV, ch. 8 (no. 3430); Super Ioan 14, lec. 8 (no. 1970). 55 56 852 Gilles Emery, O.P. opposed the most often, and with the greatest number of details.61 In the same way, the words formam servi accipiens exclude Monophysitism (error Eutichetis).62 Lastly, the expressions in similitudinem hominum factus and habitu inventus ut homo exclude the Gnostic dualism that did not recognize the true humanity of the body of Christ (error Valentini: Christ would have taken his body from heaven),63 as well as Apollinarianism (error Apollinaris: Christ would not have had an intellectual soul, which is excluded by the words in similitudinem hominum factus). This list may appear “Scholastic,” and it certainly corresponds to a didactic intention.64 More profoundly, however, it shows two principal things: first, for Aquinas, Philippians 2:6–7 offers complete teaching about the Incarnation; second, Thomas is convinced that the exegesis that he has set forth on the basis of his patristic sources is perfectly sure and safe, to the point that the correct interpretation of these verses of St. Paul permits the theologian to accomplish the twofold task of the sage: not only to make manifest the truth, but also to exclude errors (because the exclusion of errors is part of the manifestation of the truth).65 Complements of Doctrinal Exegesis In order to grasp well Aquinas’s understanding of Philippians 2:6–7, we Besides the passages mentioned above, see also, concerning Nestorius (and Theodorus of Mopsuestia) with reference to Phil 2:6–8: SCG IV, ch. 34 (nos. 3715 and 3718); Compendium theologiae I, ch. 203; De unione Verbi incarnati, a. 1, resp.; Catena in Matt 1, lec. 1 (Marietti ed., 1:11); Super Ioan 1, lec. 7 (no. 176); Super Col 2, lec. 2 (no. 98). 62 Super Phil 2, lec. 2 (no. 62): “[This excludes] also the error of Eutyches, who said that from the two natures one nature only resulted. Therefore [according to Eutyches] Christ did not take the form of a servant, but a different one, which is contrary to what the Apostle says.” On Phil 2:6–7 as excluding the error of Eutyches, see also De articulis fidei et Ecclesiae sacramentis (Leonine ed., 42:251). 63 On Phil 2:6–7 as excluding Valentinus’s error about the Incarnation, see also SCG IV, ch. 30 (no. 3668). 64 The list of errors discussed in Aquinas’s commentary on Phil 2:6–7 is also found in his treatise De articulis fidei et Ecclesiae sacramentis, in the section on Christ’s humanity (humanitas Christi); however, this treatise adds other errors: those of the Manichaeans (distinguished from the Valentinians), of the Monothelites, of Carpocrates, and of Elvidius (Leonine ed., 42:250–51). For Aquinas’s sources on these heresies, see Aquinas, Traités: Les raisons de la foi, Les articles de la foi et les sacrements de l’Église, trans. Gilles Emery with introduction and annotation (Paris: Cerf, 1999), 206–8. 65 In SCG I, ch. 1 (no. 7), Aquinas explains that the “twofold office of the wise man” (duplex sapientis officium) is “to meditate and speak forth of the divine truth” and “to refute the opposing errors.” 61 Kenosis, Christ, and the Trinity in Thomas Aquinas 853 provide here three complements drawn from his other works. First, in numerous places, Thomas is very firm regarding the immutability and inviolable permanence of the divine nature of the Son in his exinanitio. In emptying himself, the Son took the form of a slave “without losing his divine nature,”66 “not by changing his own nature.”67 “He did not lose the fullness of the form of God,”68 since “the glorification did not absorb the lesser nature, nor did the assumption lessen the higher.”69 As a summary: “He is not said to have ‘emptied himself ’ by diminishing his divine nature, but by assuming our deficient nature.”70 Aquinas accords great importance to this aspect, so much so that he mentions it, in citing the Tome to Flavian of St. Leo the Great, in the opening lines of the praefatio of his Catena aurea: “That self-emptying (exinanitio) whereby the Invisible made himself 66 67 68 69 70 SCG IV, ch. 30 (no. 3668): “formam servi accepit, ita tamen quod divinitatis naturam non perdidit.” See Augustine’s quote in the Catena in Ioan 14, lec. 8 (Marietti ed., 2:525): “Ipse ergo Filius Dei aequalis Patri in forma Dei, quia semetipsum exinanivit, non formam Dei amittens, sed formam servi accipiens (The Son of God, being equal to the Father in the form of God, emptied himself, not losing the form of God, but taking that of a servant).” Cf. Augustine, Tractatus in Iohannis Evangelium 78.1 (Corpus Christianorum, Series Latina [CCSL], 36:523). SCG IV, ch. 34 (no. 3715): “non mutatione propriae naturae.” ST III, q. 5, a. 1, ad 2: “formae Dei plenitudinem non amisit.” Under the name of St. Augustine, Aquinas here quotes Fulgentius of Ruspe, De fide ad Petrum 21 (with reference to Phil 2:7); cf. Fulgentius of Ruspe, Opera, ed. Jean Fraipont, CCSL 91A:725: “Exinaniens ergo semetipsum, formam serui accepit, ut fieret seruus; sed formae Dei plenitudinem non amisit, in qua semper est aeternus atque incommutabilis Dominus (Emptying himself, he took the form of a slave, so as to become a slave; but he did not lose the fullness of the form of God, in which he is always the eternal and immutable Lord).” See also ST III, q. 57, a. 2, ad 2. ST III, q. 5, a. 1, obj. 2: “nec inferiorem naturam consumpsit glorificatio, nec superiorem minuit assumptio” (Aquinas here quotes St. Leo the Great, Sermon 1 on the Nativity of the Lord; cf. Sources chrétiennes [SCh] 22a:70–71). In de div. nom. 2, lec. 5 (no. 207): “Communicavit nobis, assumens nostram naturam absque variatione divinae naturae et absque commixtione ipsius et confusione ad humanam naturam, ita quod per exinanitionem ineffabilem, de qua Apostolus loquitur ad Philipp. II, nihil passus est ad superplenum ipsius, idest nihil diminutum est de plenitudine suae deitatis: non enim dicitur exinanitus per diminutionem deitatis, sed per assumptionem nostrae naturae deficientis (He communicated with us by assuming our nature, without the divine nature being changed, and without confusion of the divine nature and human nature. And so, by the ineffable emptying of which the Apostle speaks in Philippians 2, he suffered no damage as to his superplenitude, that is, nothing was subtracted from the plenitude of his divinity. He is not said to have emptied himself by diminishing his divine nature, but by assuming our deficient nature).” In this reading, Philippians 2:6–7 is understood as a foundation for the Christological dogma of Chalcedon. 854 Gilles Emery, O.P. visible, and the Creator and Lord of all things chose to join the ranks of mortals, was an act of mercy [inclinatio fuit miserationis], not a failure of his power [non desertio potestatis].”71 Unsurprisingly, Philippians 2:6–7 is invoked as biblical teaching supporting the communication of idioms:72 “He who is in the form of God is man. Now he who is in the form of God is God. Therefore God is man.”73 Aquinas makes equally clear that the exinanitio is a voluntary act of the Son who becomes incarnate, just as it is a voluntary act of the Father who sends the Son.74 Second, again in many places, Aquinas’s interpretation of Philippians 2:6–7 employs the vocabulary of “divine missions.” This vocabulary is already found in his patristic sources.75 In his theological account of the missions of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, Aquinas explains that “the [divine] person who is sent does not begin to exist where he did not previously exist, nor cease to exist where he was,” but this divine person “begins 71 72 73 74 75 Catena aurea, Praefatio (Marietti ed., 1:5). Regrettably, the Catena omits the beginning of St. Leo’s sentence: “He took on the form of a servant without the defilement of sin, thereby enhancing the human and not diminishing the divine [humana augens, divina non minuens]”; see Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils, ed. Norman P. Tanner, vol. 1 (Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press, 1990), 78. SCG IV, ch. 34 (no. 3721). ST III, q. 16, a. 1, sc (with explicit reference to Phil 2:6–7). Catena in Marcum 1, lec. 12 (Marietti ed., 1:443; quoting St. John Chrysostom): “‘That is why I have come’ (Mark 1:38). . . . In these words he manifests the mystery of his ‘emptying himself,’ that is, of his incarnation [exinanitionis, idest incarnationis mysterium], and the sovereignty of his divine nature, in that he here asserts that he came willingly into the world. Luke however says ‘To this end was I sent (missus sum)’ (Luke 4:43), which indicates the economy [dispensationem], and the good will of God the Father concerning the incarnation of the Son.” Cf. Catena in Lucam 4, lec. 10 (Marietti ed., 2:71; quoting an unidentified Greek author): “Mark says, ‘to this I came’ [ad hoc veni], showing the loftiness of his divine nature [divinitatis eius celsitudinem] and his voluntary emptying himself of it [voluntariam exinanitionem].” See, for instance, Catena in Lucam 14, lec. 4 (Marietti ed., 2:207; quoting St. Cyril): “Iste servus qui missus est, ipse Christus est, qui cum esset naturaliter Deus, et verus Dei Filius, exinanivit seipsum formam servi accipiens (That servant who was sent is Christ himself, who being by nature God and the true Son of God, emptied himself, taking the form of a servant).” See also Catena in Marcum 1, lec. 12 (see note 74 above), and Catena in Ioan 6, lec. 9 (Marietti ed., 2:427, quoting Augustine’s Tractatus XXVI,19 on John’s Gospel): “If we understand the words ‘I live by the Father’ in the sense of those below, ‘My Father is greater than I,’ then it is as if [Christ] said that ‘I live by the Father,’ i.e., I refer my life to him as to a greater life: this was done by my self-emptying, in which he sent me [exinanitio mea fecit, in qua me misit].” Kenosis, Christ, and the Trinity in Thomas Aquinas 855 to be there in some way in which he was not there hitherto,” so that the divine person’s mission means “a new way of existing in another.” 76 These expressions and other similar ones (“he did not desert heaven, but he assumed a terrestrial nature in unity of person” 77) are employed precisely for explaining the meaning of Philippians 2:6–7.78 This leads to apprehending Philippians 2:6–7 in the sense of the Incarnation understood as the “visible mission” of the Son. Third, in accord with contexts, Thomas employs other expressions for describing the exinanitio. For example, the Arian controversy over John 14:28 (“the Father is greater than I”) leads Aquinas to speak of the exinanitio as minoratio of the Son: the Son “was lessened (minoratum) by assuming the form of a servant, in such a way, however, that he exists as equal to the Father in the divine form, as it is said in Philippians 2.” 79 In his anti-Arian exegesis, Thomas associates this “lessening” (cf. John 14:28) with Hebrews 2:9: “Nor is it wondrous if . . . the Father is said to be greater than he; since he was made lesser than the angels, as the Apostle says: ‘We see Jesus, who was made a little lesser [minoratus] than the angels, for the suffering of death, crowned with glory and honor.’”80 In the same sense, Aquinas explains that, in his kenosis, “the Word of God emptied himself, that is to say, was made small [parvum factum], not by the loss of his own greatness, but by the assumption of human smallness [humana parvitas].”81 Or again: “He is said to have emptied himself [dicitur exinanitus], not by losing his fullness, but because he took our littleness upon himself ST I, q. 43, a. 1, resp. and ad 2. ST III, q. 57, a. 2, ad 2: “Sicut enim dicitur exinanitus, non ex eo quod suam plenitudinem amitteret, sed ex eo quod nostram parvitatem suscepit; ita dicitur descendisse de caelo, non quia caelum deseruerit, sed quia naturam terrenam assumpsit in unitatem personae (For just as he is said to be emptied, not by losing his fullness, but because he took our smallness upon himself, so likewise he is said to have descended from heaven: he did not desert heaven, but he assumed a terrestrial nature in unity of person).” 78 See, for instance, In III sent., d. 22, q. 3, a. 1, ad 2: “Dicitur . . . descendisse secundum divinam naturam inquantum se exinanivit formam servi accipiens, Phil. II, et inquantum per novum effectum fuit in terris, secundum quem ibi ante non fuerat (He is said to have descended from heaven . . . according to his divine nature, insofar as he emptied himself, taking the form of a servant (Phil 2:7), and insofar as he was on earth by reason of this new effect, an effect by which he was not on earth before).” 79 SCG IV, ch. 8 (no. 3430); see also Super Boetium de Trinitate, q. 3, a. 4, ad 1. 80 SCG IV, ch. 8 (no. 3430). 81 SCG IV, ch. 34 (no. 3715). 76 77 856 Gilles Emery, O.P. [nostram parvitatem suscepit].”82 The exinanitio understood as the assumption of the “smallness” of our human condition is a constant interpretation of Thomas, which one finds in numerous places.83 “‘He emptied himself ’: he made himself small not by putting off greatness, but by taking on smallness.”84 In the same vein, Aquinas interprets Philippians 2:6–7 by means of the theme of the Verbum abbreviatum: The Lord, i.e., God the Father, “will execute his brief word” [Rom 9:28: verbum breviatum faciet Dominus], i.e., [his] incarnate [Word], because the Son of God emptied himself (exinanivit semetipsum), taking the form of a slave. He is called “emptied” (exinanitum) or “brief” (breviatum), not because anything was subtracted from the fullness or greatness of his divinity, but because he assumed our thinness and smallness [nostram exilitatem et parvitatem suscepit].85 An illuminating exegesis of Philippians 2:6–7 is found in Aquinas’s explanation of Jesus’s washing of the disciples’ feet in John 13:4. The biblical text reads: “He [ Jesus] rose from supper, laid aside his garments, and girded himself with a towel.” St. Thomas offers two “mystical” (mystice) interpretations of this action, that is, interpretations that refer to the disclosure of Christ’s own mystery. The first interpretation refers to the Incarnation (the second one deals with Christ’s Passion): This action tells us three things about Christ. First, he was willing to help the human race, indicated by the fact that he rose from supper. For God seems to be sitting down as long as he allows us to be troubled; but when he rescues us from it, he seems to rise, as the Psalm (43:26) says: “Rise up, come to our help.” Secondly, it indicates that he emptied himself [exinanitio eius]: not that he abandoned his great dignity, but he hid it by taking on our smallness [non quidem ST III, q. 57, a. 2, ad 2. See also the quote from the Sermon Puer Iesus above (at note 47). 84 Super Gal 4, lec. 2 (no. 203): “Parvum se fecit non dimittendo magnitudinem, sed assumendo parvitatem.” 85 Super Rom 9, lec. 5 (no. 805). For more on this topic (with special attention to Aquinas’s sources), see Agnès Bastit, “Sermo compendiatus. La parole raccourcie (Is. 10, 23 LXX / Rom. 9, 28) dans la tradition chrétienne latine,” in Nihil veritas erubescit: Mélanges offerts à Paul Mattei par ses élèves, collègues et amis, ed. Camille Gerzaguet, Jérémy Delmulle, and Clémentine Bernard-Valette (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), 389–407. 82 83 Kenosis, Christ, and the Trinity in Thomas Aquinas 857 quod suae dignitatis maiestatem deponeret, sed eam occultaret, parvitatem assumendo]: “Truly, thou art a God who hidest thyself” (Isa 45:15). This is shown by the fact that he laid aside his garments: “he emptied himself, taking the form of a servant” (Phil 2:7). Thirdly, the fact that he girded himself with a towel indicates that he took on our mortality [assumptio nostrae mortalitatis]: “Taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men” (Phil 2:7).86 This exegesis understands the action of the washing of the feet as an explication of the kenosis. It underlines, first, the voluntary nature of the kenosis of Christ: it is by will, freely, that the Son of God emptied himself. Second, the kenosis does not involve any diminution of the divine majesty of Christ, but it signifies the assumption of our human nature. On the one hand, Thomas’s exegesis contrasts the “majesty” of the divinity and the “smallness” of our humanity. On the other hand, Aquinas adds here an important element of exegesis: the divinity of Christ is not lost but it is “veiled” or “hidden” in the Incarnation. In this connection, we note that in his Catena on Matthew, Aquinas records Origen’s exegesis explaining that, in his exinanitio, Christ exercises a limited power (virtus . . . modica) in comparison with the great power (virtus multa) that he will exercise at his glorious return at the end of time.87 Third, the Son of God has assumed not only a humanity, but also the weaknesses of our condition: Thomas mentions here “mortality” (which one can extend to the defectus that the Son has assumed, with the exception of sin). According to this exegesis, Philippians 2 and John 13 reveal the whole mystery of Christ as the incarnate Son of God. The mystery is disclosed and really given within the dispensatio. Trinitarian Processions, Missions, and Creation We have already observed that, on many occasions (in an anti-adoptionist context and above all in the anti-Nestorian context), Aquinas excludes an 86 87 Super Ioan 13, lec. 2 (no. 1746). This exegesis comes from Origen and St. Augustine. See Catena in Ioan 13, lec. 1 (Marietti ed., 2:504): Augustine, Tractatus in Iohannis Evangelium LV, 7 (CCSL, 36, 466); Origen, Commentary on John 32.4.42–53 (SCh, 385:204–9). In Origen, the episode of the washing of the feet in John 13 is the “principal image” of the kenosis of the Son; see Vito Limone, “La kénosi del Figlio: L’incarnazione di Cristo nel Commento a Giovanni di Origene,” Annales Theologici 29 (2015): 77–96, at 73–76. Catena in Matt 24, lec. 8 (Marietti ed., 1:355; for Origen’s text, see PG, 13:1677– 78). 858 Gilles Emery, O.P. economic kenosis of the person of the Father and the person of the Holy Spirit. He therefore expressly rejects any economic kenosis of the Trinity. More profoundly still, the Trinitarian doctrine of Aquinas excludes an immanent kenosis (a kenosis of the Trinity in its inner life). Indeed, Thomas apprehends the Trinitarian processions as the eternal communication of the plenitude of the divine nature in the perfect simplicity of God which excludes all mutability, because God is pure Act. The intra-Trinitarian processions amount to a pure order (ordo) of origin that excludes any confusion of divine persons. The “order” signifies that one person is distinguished from another according to origin: the Son is engendered by the Father, the Holy Spirit proceeds from the Father and the Son.88 More precisely, the divine persons are distinguished and constituted by their personal relations, in which the Trinitarian order precisely consists. First, with respect to their being (esse), these relations do not modify the divine essence, but they include the divine essence: personal relations are really identical with the divine essence, which is numerically one in the three persons. Second, with respect to their formality (ratio), the relations do not posit “something” (aliquid) but “a reference to someone else” (ad aliquid, ad aliud).89 Thus, the origins (generation and procession) bring about neither a change nor a diminution of the persons who are the subject of the act of generation and of spiration, and they imply no “distance” or “separation” between the divine persons.90 Further, for Aquinas, the divine processions do not imply any “passivity” in the Son who is begotten or in the Holy Spirit who is spirated. To proceed is an act. It is by one and the same operation that the Father begets and that the Son is born from all eternity, but this one operation is in the Father and in the Son under distinct relations: paternity and filiation.91 The same teaching applies to the procession of the Holy Spirit: it is by one and 88 89 90 De potentia, q. 10, a. 2, resp.: “It is only the order of the processions, which arises from their origin, that multiplies [processions] in God” (“Et sic solus ordo processionum qui attenditur secundum originem processionis, multiplicat in divinis”). ST I, qq. 28–30 and q. 40. ST I, q. 31, a. 2 (no diversity, no separation, no division, no disparity, no discrepancy); q. 33, a. 1, ad 1 (no diversity, no distance); q. 42, a. 5, ad 2 (no distance). 91 In I sent., d. 20, q. 1, a. 1, ad 1: “Generation signifies relation by way of an operation. . . . And although ‘to beget’ does not belong to the Son, this does not mean that there would be some operation belonging to the Father and not to the Son. Rather, it is by one and the same operation that the Father begets and the Son is born, but this operation is in the Father and in the Son according to two distinct relations.” Kenosis, Christ, and the Trinity in Thomas Aquinas 859 the same operation that the Father and the Son spirate the Holy Spirit, and that the Holy Spirit proceeds from the Father and the Son: however, in the Father and the Son this one operation possesses the relative mode of “spiration,” while in the Holy Spirit it possesses the relative mode of “procession.” Aquinas strictly maintains, as a fundamental rule, that “the only ‘passive’ that we posit among the divine persons is grammatical, according to our mode of signifying; i.e., we speak of the Father begetting and of the Son being begotten.”92 With regard to the sending (“mission”) of the Son and the Holy Spirit, it involves no distance or separation of the persons who are sent in relation to the persons who send,93 and it excludes all change in the persons sent.94 For Aquinas (and this matters for the understanding of Philippians 2:6–7), the mission of the divine person “is not essentially different from the eternal procession, but only adds a reference to a temporal effect.”95 All the change implied in the mission is found in the creature and not in the divinity of the person sent. The “newness” (novitas) that is found in God’s effects implies no newness in God himself.96 This applies not only to creation but also to the Incarnation, and therefore to the kenosis of the Son as understood by St. Thomas: the hypostatic union “is a relation [relatio] which is found between the divine and the human nature, inasmuch as they come together in the one person of the Son of God.”97 To be more precise: the relation is real in the creature, but it is “of reason” in God “since 92 93 94 ST I, q. 41, a. 1, ad 3: “Non ponuntur ibi passiones [in divinis personis], nisi solum grammatice loquendo, quantum ad modum significandi; sicut Patri attribuimus generare, et Filio generari.” ST I, q. 43, a. 1, ad 2. ST I, q. 43, a. 2, ad 2: the only change is found in the creature to which the divine person is sent. 95 96 97 In I Sent. d. 16, q. 1, a. 1, resp.: “Processio temporalis non est alia quam processio aeterna essentialiter, sed addit aliquem respectum ad effectum temporalem.” The phrase “temporal procession” (processio temporalis) refers to the same reality as the mission (missio), with a nuance: in the concept of “mission,” the relationship to the created effect is put in the foreground, whereas the phrase “temporal procession” first stresses the relationship to the sender, that is, the coming forth of the person sent (In I sent., d. 15, q. 1, a. 2, resp.). See also ST I, q. 43, a. 2, ad 3: “A mission includes the eternal procession, and adds something, namely, a temporal effect” (“missio includit processionem aeternam, et aliquid addit, scilicet temporalem effectum”). SCG II, ch. 35 (no. 1112). ST III, q. 2, a. 7, resp. As a conclusion, and quite significantly, Aquinas maintains that the hypostatic union is “something created” (aliquid creatum). 860 Gilles Emery, O.P. it does not arise from any change in God.”98 Lastly, a final clarification is required with regard to the action of God the Trinity in the world. In creating, God does not withdraw from the world, but rather he is present in the world. Creatures exist in the measure to which God is present in them, an intimate presence.99 When God acts in the world, (1) he does not withdraw in any way from creatures, but instead communicates to them a participation in his goodness, and (2) he does not lose anything of himself. “God communicates his goodness to creatures so that nothing is subtracted from him” (“Deus sic suam bonitatem creaturis communicat quod nihil ei subtrahitur”).100 This theological principle is explicitly applied to Christ’s exinanitio: nothing was subtracted from the fullness or greatness of his divinity.101 Trinitarian Foundations of the Son’s Exinanitio In the context of the exegesis of Philippians 2:6–7 (we limit ourselves to this context), Aquinas presents two Trinitarian foundations of the kenosis of the Son. The first foundation consists in the notion of “divine person” in relation to the notion of “nature.” The second foundation resides in the relation between the “form of God” (Phil 2:6) and the personal properties of the Son. Divine Personality, Nature, and Subsistence We recall first that, for Aquinas, the assumption of a human nature belongs supremely to the divine person (propriissime competit personae assumere naturam), since the act pertains properly to the person (personae proprie competit agere) and since it also pertains to the person to be the term ST III, q. 2, a. 7, resp. Aquinas considers the relations of God and the creature as a pair of relations wherein one is “real” (in the creature) and the other “of reason” (in God); cf. ST I, q. 13, a. 7. On this, see Gilles Emery, “Ad aliquid. Relation in the Thought of St. Thomas Aquinas,” in Theology Needs Philosophy: Acting Against Reason is Contrary to the Nature of God, ed. Matthew L. Lamb (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2016), 175–201. 99 See Emery, Présence de Dieu, 62–65 and 94–95. 100 SCG IV, ch. 34 (no. 3715). I have dealt at greater length with this issue in my essay “The Immutability of the God of Love and the Problem of Language Concerning the ‘Suffering of God,’” in Divine Impassibility and the Mystery of Human Suffering, ed. James F. Keating and Thomas Joseph White (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2009), 27–76. 101 Super Rom 9, lec. 5 (no. 805): “Filius Dei exinanivit semetispum . . . non quia aliquid subtractum sit plenitudini vel magnitudini divinitatis ipsius (The Son of God emptied himself . . . , not because anything was subtracted from the fullness or greatness of his divinity).” 98 Kenosis, Christ, and the Trinity in Thomas Aquinas 861 (terminus) of the assumption.102 Admittedly, to be the principle of the assumption can also belong to the divine nature in itself (natura divina secundum seipsam), since the action is brought about by the power (virtus) pertaining to the nature, “but to be the term of the assumption [esse terminum assumptionis] does not belong to the divine nature in itself, since [it belongs to the divine nature] by reason of the person [ratione personae] in whom [this nature] is considered.”103 This is why “in the primary and most proper sense, it is the person who is said to assume [primo quidem et propriissime persona dicitur assumere],” although “in a secondary sense, it can also be said that the nature assumes a nature to its person [secundario autem potest dici quod etiam natura assumit naturam ad sui personam].”104 Now, in his disputed question De unione Verbi incarnati, Aquinas formulates the following objection against the doctrine of “the union in the person”: “Nothing that is included in another stretches out to something outside. . . . But the suppositum of any nature is found in that nature, hence it is called a thing of nature. . . . So, since the Word is a suppositum of the divine nature, it is not able to stretch out to another nature so as to be its suppositum, unless one nature is brought about.”105 This objection is quite clear: the hypostatic union takes place in one nature, and not in a person that would have two natures, because the person does not extend itself beyond its nature. The core of the objection lies in the fact that a person is a person of this nature, in a manner similar to the way according to which an individual is included under a species, so that this individual cannot extend beyond this species. Here is Aquinas’s response: The person of the Word is included under the nature of the Word, nor can it extend itself to something beyond. But the nature of the Word, by reason of its own infinity, includes every finite nature. Thus, when the person of the Word assumes a human nature, it does not extend itself beyond the divine nature, but the greater receives what is beneath it. Hence, it is said in Philippians II [:6–7] that “while” the Son of God “was in the form of God, he emptied ST III, q. 3, a. 1, resp. ST III, q. 3, a. 2, resp. 104 ST III, q. 3, a. 2, resp. 105 De unione Verbi incarnati, a. 1, obj. 14: “Nihil quod comprehenditur sub alio, extendit se ad aliquid extrinsecum. . . . Sed suppositum cuiuslibet naturae comprehenditur sub natura illa, unde et dicitur res naturae. . . . Cum ergo Verbum sit suppositum divinae naturae, non potest se extendere ad aliam naturam ut sit eius suppositum, nisi efficiatur natura una.” 102 103 862 Gilles Emery, O.P. himself.” Not laying aside the greatness of the form of God, but assuming the smallness of human nature.106 In this answer, Aquinas maintains that the person of the Word cannot “extend itself ” beyond the divine nature. But this does not imply that the person of the Word cannot assume a created nature. The reason for this statement lies in the infinity of the divine nature of the Word. The created nature assumed by the Word does not add anything to the divine nature, since the divine nature cannot receive any addition. The divine nature and the human nature cannot be connumerated, because they are not of the same order. Since God is absolutely simple, he is beyond every genus. God is not part of any genus; rather, he is the principle of all genera, “outside the order of all creatures” of which he is the transcendent cause.107 And not only is the divine nature outside the order of creatures, but the divine nature or essence also contains in itself, in a supereminent mode, all the perfections that are found in creatures: “The divine essence is . . . above every genus, embracing in itself [comprehendens in se] the perfections of all genera.”108 The reference to the Son’s exinanitio in Philippians 2 makes it quite clear: because of the infinity of his divine nature, which “includes every finite nature [comprehendit omnem naturam finitam],” the person of the Son can assume a “smaller” nature in the unity of his own person. This is not far from Aquinas’s statement that “it is a greater dignity to exist in something nobler than oneself, than to exist by oneself. Hence the human nature of Christ has a greater dignity than ours, from this very fact that in 106 107 108 De unione Verbi incarnati, a. 1, ad. 14: “Persona Verbi comprehenditur sub natura Verbi, nec potest se ad aliquid ultra extendere. Sed natura Verbi, ratione suae infinitatis, comprehendit omnem naturam finitam. Et ideo, cum persona Verbi assumit naturam humanam, non se extendit ultra naturam divinam, sed magis accipit quod est infra. Unde dicitur Ad Philipp. II, quod cum in forma Dei esset Dei Filius, semetipsum exinanivit; non quidem deponens magnitudinem formae Dei, sed assumens parvitatem humanae naturae.” ST I, q. 3, a. 6, ad 2: “Quamvis Deus non sit primum contentum in genere substantiae, sed primum extra omne genus, respectu totius esse (Although God is not the first [thing] contained in the genus of substance, he is first—outside of every genus—in respect to all being).” ST I, q. 4, a. 3, ad 2: “Deus non se habet ad creaturas sicut res diversorum generum, sed sicut id quod est extra omne genus, et principium omnium generum (God is not related to creatures as belonging to a different genus, but as being outside of every genus and as being the principle of all genera).” ST I, q. 28, a. 1, ad 3: “Deus est extra ordinem totius creaturae (God is outside the order of all creatures).” De potentia, q. 8, a. 2, ad 1: “Sed essentia divina non est in genere substantiae, sed est supra omne genus, comprehendens in se omnium generum perfectiones.” Kenosis, Christ, and the Trinity in Thomas Aquinas 863 us, being existent by itself, it has its own personality, but in Christ it exists in the person of the Word.”109 The Summa theologiae offers a similar teaching. In the question asking “whether it is fitting for a divine person to assume a created nature,” an objection states that “to be incommunicable” belongs to the very notion of “person” (de ratione personae est quod sit incommunicabilis),110 so that a divine person cannot assume a created nature, since the person in which a created nature is assumed somehow “communicates” itself to the created nature that is assumed into this person, “just as dignity is communicated to the one that is assumed to a dignity.”111 Aquinas’s reply reads as follows: A divine person is said to be incommunicable inasmuch as it cannot be predicated of several supposita; but nothing prevents several things being predicated of the person. Hence it is not contrary to the notion of “person” to be communicated so as to subsist in several natures. For even in a created person several natures may come together accidentally, as in the person of one man we find quantity and quality. But the characteristic proper to a divine person is that, on account of its infinity, the coming together of natures in it [the person] is wrought not accidentally, but in subsistence.112 We find here (though without mention of Phil 2:7) the same reference to the divine infinity already seen in the disputed question De unione Verbi incarnati. In the Summa theologiae, however, infinity is attributed directly to the person. The context (the incommunicability of the person) leads Aquinas to formulate this clarification: the person is communicated to the human nature that subsists in this person, in such a way that the person conserves his incommunicability as person, since his subsistence ST III, q. 2, a. 2, ad 2. See ST I, q. 29, a. 3, ad 4. In Aquinas’s understanding of the definition of persona given by Boethius, the person’s incommunicability is signified by the “individual substance.” See also ST I, q. 29, a. 4, ad 3. 111 ST III, q. 3, a. 1, obj. 2. 112 ST III, q. 3, a. 1, ad 2: “Persona dicitur incommunicabilis inquantum non potest de pluribus suppositis praedicari. Nihil tamen prohibet plura de persona praedicari. Unde non est contra rationem personae sic communicari ut subsistat in pluribus naturis. Quia etiam in personam creatam possunt plures naturae concurrere accidentaliter, sicut in persona unius hominis invenitur quantitas et qualitas. Hoc autem est proprium divinae personae, propter eius infinitatem, ut fiat in ea concursus naturarum, non quidem accidentaliter, sed secundum subsistentiam.” 109 110 864 Gilles Emery, O.P. is not communicated to another person. In addition to the theme of the “personalization” of the human nature by and in the person of the Word, and in addition to the exclusion of Nestorianism (an omnipresent problematic), one also finds here what Aquinas explains when he defines the “grace of union,” that is to say, the hypostatic union itself: “The ‘grace of union’ [gratia unionis] is the personal being itself [ipsum esse personale] that is given gratis from above to the human nature in the person of the Word, and that is the term of the assumption (terminus assumptionis).”113 In this way, “the eternal being of the Son of God, which is the divine nature, becomes the being of man, inasmuch as the human nature is assumed by the Son of God to unity of person.”114 Here I suggest that we should consider Cajetan’s interpretation. In his commentary on ST III, q. 2, a. 2, Cajetan recalls several times the following principle as a key to understanding the relation between nature and person in the Incarnation: “Everything that is found in a person, whether it belongs to its nature or not, is united to it in the person.”115 Then, in his commentary on q. 3, a. 1, Cajetan recalls that, in the hypostatic union, nothing is added to God, but God is united to a man so that this man is God: an infinite perfection is added, not to God who is immutable, but to the human nature.116 On this basis, Cajetan focuses on the self-communication of the divine person that takes place by virtue of its infinity, and ST III, q. 6, a. 6, resp. Cf. Super Rom 1, lec. 3 (no. 46): Christ’s humanity is united to his divinity “through a union in personal being [per unionem in esse personali]: and this is called the grace of union [gratia unionis].” See also Super Ioan 3, lec. 6 (no. 544): “The grace of union . . . is a certain gratuitous gift that is given to Christ in order that in his human nature he be the true Son of God, not by participation, but by nature, insofar as the human nature of Christ is united to the Son of God in person.” 114 ST III, q. 17, a. 2, ad 2: “Illud esse aeternum Filii Dei quod est divina natura, fit esse hominis, inquantum humana natura assumitur a Filio Dei in unitate personae”; cf. ibid., resp. 115 Cajetan, In III ST, q. 2, a. 2 (Leonine ed., 11:25–29): “Omne quod inest alicui personae, sive pertineat ad naturam eius sive non, unitur ei in persona.” This principle is formulated by Aquinas himself in ST III, q. 2, a. 2, resp. 116 Cajetan, In III ST, q. 3, a. 1, no. ii (Leonine ed., 11:54). In a sense, however, something is added to the notion of “person”: “Unio naturae humanae in mysterio incarnationis non addit aliquid rationi naturae, sed bene addit aliquid rationi personae, quia addit subsistere in natura humana: et ideo unio facta est, non in natura, sed in persona (The union of the human nature, in the mystery of the Incarnation, does not add anything to the ‘reason’ of nature, but it does add something to the ‘reason’ of person, since it adds [that the person] subsists in the human nature; and therefore, the union did not take place in the nature, but in the person)” (Cajetan, In III ST, q. 2, a. 2, no. viii [Leonine ed., 11:27]). 113 Kenosis, Christ, and the Trinity in Thomas Aquinas 865 he makes this illuminating distinction: the Word is infinite radicaliter by reason of his deity, and he is infinite formaliter by reason of his personality (namely, his divine filiation), since divine subsistence (which is infinite) is formally included in the personality of the Word.117 This is perfectly consistent with Aquinas’s own teaching. On the one hand, Aquinas identifies the divine person of the Son with his relation (or personal property) of filiation;118 on the other hand, since the Son is a person who subsists by virtue of his relation of filiation, Aquinas also identifies the Son’s “personality” with his relation of filiation.119 So, it is because of the infinity of the personality of the Word, which formally includes divine subsistence, that the person of the Word can subsist in two natures by “substantifying” the human nature in himself, so that the incarnate Word is a person of human nature.120 By his Incarnation, the Word, who is a person of divine nature, becomes Cajetan, In III ST, q. 3, a. 1, no. v (Leonine ed., 11:54): “Verbum est infinitum secundum rationem deitatis radicaliter, quia ex deitate quidquid est in Deo infinitatem habet: sed secundum suam personalitatem est formaliter infinitum, quoniam personalitas divina non est constitutiva personae nisi infinitae. Et quemadmodum personalitas Verbi, scilicet filiatio divina, est formaliter subsistens, alioquin non esset constitutiva personae, quae formaliter est subsistens, ita est formaliter infinita: quia subsistentia formaliter inclusa in personalitate Verbi nec est finita (The Word is radically infinite according to the ‘reason’ of deity because, by virtue of the deity, everything that is in God has infinity; but according to his personality, the Word is formally infinite, because divine personality constitutes an infinite person. And just as the personality of the Word, that is, divine sonship, is formally subsisting—otherwise it would not constitute a person who is formally subsisting—so this personality is formally infinite: because the subsistence that is formally included in the personality of the Word, is not finite).” 118 ST I, q. 30, a. 2, ad 1: “Paternitas est persona Patris, filiatio persona Filii, processio persona Spiritus Sancti procedentis (Paternity is the person of the Father, filiation is the person of the Son, procession is the person of the Holy Spirit proceeding)” (cf. q. 32, a. 2, ad 2). 119 In I sent., d. 19, q. 3, a. 2, ad 1: “Filius ex ipsa relatione est persona subsistens; sua enim relatio est sua personalitas (The Son, by virtue of his relation [namely, filiation], is a subsisting person: for his relation is his personality).” 120 Cajetan, In III ST, q. 3, a. 1, no. v (Leonine ed., 11:55): “Filius Dei, quatenus subsistens, naturam humanam substantificat. Unde patet quod Verbum, secundum illam suae personalitatis rationem qua est subsistens, ac per hoc infinitae subsistentiae, vices humanae personae formaliter et eminenter in mysterio incarnationis supplet: est enim Verbum persona humanae naturae (The Son of God, insofar as he subsists, substantifies the human nature. Therefore, it is clear that the Word, according to the very ‘reason’ of his personality by virtue of which he is subsisting and is of an infinite subsistence, formally and eminently fills in for a human person in the mystery of the Incarnation: indeed, the Word is a person of human nature).” 117 866 Gilles Emery, O.P. a “person of human nature” (persona humanae naturae),121 without ceasing to be a person of divine nature: this is precisely the center of Aquinas’s understanding of Christ’s exinanitio. As a result, the first Trinitarian foundation of Christ’s kenosis lies in the infinity of the person of the Word, that is to say, in the infinity of his divine subsistence and personality, by virtue of his personal relation of filiation. The “Form of God” and the Personal Property of the Son The second Trinitarian foundation of the exinanitio of the Son is found in the theological explanation of the forma Dei (Phil 2:6). Most of the Latin Fathers by whom Aquinas is inspired (such as Ambrose, Augustine, and Leo) identify forma with natura: the “form of God” is the “divine nature.”122 This identification (forma = natura or essentia) appears massively in the medieval theologians (the Glossa interlinearis, Peter Lombard, Gilbert of Poitiers, etc.) and in the contemporaries of Aquinas.123 St. Thomas repeats it in many places,124 but this is not his only interpretation. In his commentary on the Letter to the Philippians, Aquinas begins by explaining the Latin word forma in the sense of natura rei. Then he brings forward a first nuance by explaining that, due to the perfect simplicity of God, “the form Aquinas, De rationibus fidei, ch. 6: “Cum igitur Filius Dei, unigenitum scilicet Dei Verbum, per assumptionem habeat humanam naturam, . . . sequitur quod sit suppositum, hypostasis vel persona humanae naturae; et cum habeat ab aeterno divinam naturam, . . . dicitur etiam hypostasis vel persona divinae naturae, secundum tamen quod divina humanis verbis exprimi possunt. Ipsum igitur unigenitum Dei Verbum est hypostasis vel persona duarum naturarum, divinae scilicet et humanae, in duabus naturis subsistens (Since the Son of God, that is, the only-begotten Word of God, has assumed a human nature, . . . it follows that he is a supposit, a hypostasis or person of human nature; and since he has the divine nature from eternity, . . . he is also called a hypostasis or a person of divine nature, insofar, however, as divine things can be expressed by human words. Therefore the only-begotten Word of God is a hypostasis or person of two natures, namely, divine and human, and he subsists in these two natures)” (Leonine ed., 40B:64). 122 Pidolle, La christologie historique, 91–92. 123 Dahan, “L’exégèse médiévale,” 85–86. 124 See, for instance, SCG IV, ch. 7 (no. 3413): “Per formam autem Dei non aliud intelligitur quam natura divina (By the ‘form of God,’ nothing else is understood than the divine nature).” See also ST III, q. 19, a. 1, resp.: “Dicit Leo Papa, in Epistola ad Flavianum: agit utraque forma, scilicet tam natura divina quam humana in Christo, cum alterius communione, quod proprium est, Verbo scilicet operante quod Verbi est, et carne exequente quod carnis est (In his Letter to Flavian, Pope Leo says: Both forms, namely, both the divine nature and the human nature in Christ, do what is proper to each in communion with the other, that is, the Word performs what belongs to the Word, and the flesh carries out what belongs to flesh).” 121 Kenosis, Christ, and the Trinity in Thomas Aquinas 867 of God” (forma Dei) is nothing else than “God himself ” (ipse Deus).125 On this basis, Aquinas introduces a second nuance by asking: “Why does St. Paul say ‘in the form’ [in forma] rather than ‘in the nature’ [in natura]?” Here is his answer to this question: Because this belongs to the proper names of the Son [competit nominibus propriis Filii] in three ways. For he is called the Son, the Word, and the Image. [1] The Son is the one who is begotten, and the end of begetting is the form. Therefore, to show the perfect Son of God [perfectus Dei Filius] he says “in the form,” as having the form of the Father perfectly. [2] Similarly, a word is not perfect unless it leads to the knowledge of a thing’s nature; and so the Word of God is said to be “in the form of God,” because he has the entire nature of the Father [totam naturam Patris]. [3] Similarly again, an image is not perfect unless it has the “form” of that of which it is the image: “He reflects the glory of God [splendor gloriae] and bears the very stamp of his nature [ figura substantiae eius; Heb 1:3].”126 This Trinitarian interpretation is extremely interesting. Aquinas affirms clearly the perfect consubstantiality of the Son with the Father (their perfect unity of nature), but he is not satisfied with a pure and simple identification or equivalence between “form” and “nature.” Rather, in Philippians 2:6, forma refers to the divine nature inasmuch as it is possessed by the Son, that is to say, the divine nature according to the proper mode that it has in the person of the Son. “Forma” here refers to the divine nature (1) insofar as the Son receives this nature through his generation from the Father, (2) insofar as the Father’s nature is perfectly expressed in the Word of the Father, and (3) insofar as the Son, being the perfect Image of the Father, reflects the Father’s glory. Put otherwise, by associating forma Dei with names proper to the Son, Thomas interprets this forma Dei in the light of the personal property of the Son signified by his three proper names.127 Thus, the point of departure of the exinanitio is found in the person of the Son inasmuch as he possesses the very nature of the Father in his proper mode, which is being the Son, Word, and Image of the Father.128 We are here very near to Super Phil 2, lec. 2 (no. 54). Super Phil 2, lec. 2 (no. 54). 127 “Son,” “Word,” and “Image” are the three proper names that Thomas sets forth in his study of the Son in ST I, qq. 34–35. 128 On the mode of existence (modus existendi) proper to each divine person, see: De potentia, q. 2, a. 1, ad 13; q. 2, a. 5, ad 5; q. 3, a. 15, ad 17; q. 9, a. 5, ad 23. 125 126 868 Gilles Emery, O.P. explanations that, in his synthetic works, Thomas puts forward to show the fittingness of the Incarnation of the Son.129 Thus, the Trinitarian foundations of the exinanitio of the Son bring us back to the teaching of Aquinas on the assumption of a human nature by the divine person and on the fittingness of the Incarnation of the Son, that is to say, to the teaching of the first questions of the tertia pars of the Summa theologiae. Conclusion For Aquinas, the exinanitio of Christ means that the Son of God assumes, in the unity of his divine person, the “smallness” or “emptiness” of a human nature with all the “defects” (body and soul) that befit his mission of salvation (and therefore that are compatible with his sinlessness). The exinanitio applies only to the Son (and not to the Father, nor to the Holy Spirit, nor to the Trinity as such), and to the Son in his Incarnation. This exinanitio does not imply any intra-Trinitarian distance, nor any change of the divine nature of the Son. It corresponds to the manner in which Thomas understands the relationships between the theologia and the economy (dispensatio).130 Aquinas offers an intertextual exegesis of Philippians 2:6–8 that he connects with other biblical texts, in particular John 1:14 and Colossians 2:9. This exegesis pays great attention to the errors that can arise, especially to Monophysitism but also, in a striking manner, to Nestorianism. The Trinitarian dimension is not absent from the theology of Aquinas on the exinanitio of the Son. This Trinitarian dimension does not imply change in God the Trinity, or distance between the persons, or modification of the Trinitarian order. Rather, Aquinas renders account of the kenosis of the Son by invoking the infinity that the person of the Son possesses in virtue of his divine nature, because this infinity allows one to understand 129 130 See In III sent., d. 1, q. 2, a. 2, resp., where the fittingness (decentia) of the Incarnation of the Son (rather than of the Father or of the Holy Spirit) is explained by means of what is proper to the Son (ex propriis ejus, in propriis ipsius: “He is the Son, the Word, and the Image”) and by means of the essential attributes that are appropriated to him (wisdom, virtus, equality, and beauty). See also SCG IV, ch. 42 (nos. 3801–803), where the fittingness of the Incarnation of the Son is explained by means of his personal property as Word and Image, and ST III, q. 3, a. 8, resp.: “It was most fitting that the person of the Son should become incarnate,” since the person of the Son (persona Filii) “is the Word of God.” ST III, q. 2, a. 6, ad 1: “in theologia, idest in deitate personarum, et in dispensatione, idest in mysterio incarnationis (in the theology, i.e. in the deity of the persons, and in the dispensation, i.e. in the mystery of the Incarnation).” See Gilles Emery, “Theologia and Dispensatio: The Centrality of the Divine Missions in St. Thomas’s Trinitarian Theology,” The Thomist 74 (2010): 515–61. Kenosis, Christ, and the Trinity in Thomas Aquinas 869 that the Son “has become what he was not, without ceasing to be what he was.”131 Aquinas also renders account of the kenosis by means of the personal property of the Son, in a manner very close to his arguments of fittingness in favor of the Incarnation of the Son. Thus, for Aquinas, the kenosis of Philippians 2:6–8 offers a complete summation of the doctrine of the Incarnation, a teaching that stands in perfect consonance with the Christology of his synthetic works. N&V See notes 17 and 18 above. 131 Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 17, No. 3 (2019): 871–891 871 Gathering Many Likenesses: Trinity and Kenosis Kenneth Oakes University of Notre Dame Notre Dame, IN Traditionally the mystery of the Trinity has consisted in the confession of the irreducible distinction, complete unity and equality, and reciprocity and mutual indwelling between the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. That the one God of Israel is revealed and acknowledged to be Father, Son, and Spirit stems from the Incarnation of the Son, the outpouring of the Holy Spirit, and their invisible missions of adoption and sanctification. A variety of arguments drawn from soteriology, revelation, liturgy, and the experience of the Church led to the confession that Father, Son, and Spirit are eternally distinct hypostases and not temporary masks or momentary activities of God. Instead, God eternally is who God is and has revealed himself to be in the economy: Father, Son, and Spirit. Similarly, arguments for the complete unity and equality of the persons were also drawn from several places: that the God of Israel is one; that creation, reconciliation, and glorification are equally the work of the Father, Son, and Spirit; that only God can reconcile and join us to God; and that only God can reveal God. That God is beyond all creaturely and finite contrasts, typically stated as a doctrine of divine simplicity or incompositeness, has helped to secure the oneness, unity, and equality of Father, Son, and Spirit by positing that each perfectly instantiates the one divine essence, that the divine essence is nothing other than the persons of the Father, Son, and Spirit, and that all of the divine perfections are entirely present within each person of the Trinity. Both the distinction of the persons and their consubstantial unity as the one God of Israel is expressed through the ideas of the eternal, ineffable, and incomprehensible generation of the Son and procession of the Spirit, with generation and procession understood as relations and activities entirely internal and immanent to the divine being 872 Kenneth Oakes and life. Inasmuch as the persons are nothing other than their relations to one another, then their hypostatic character is given through their mutually constitutive and defining relations. And because he is the Father, the Father begets the Son and spirates the Spirit. The Son is the Son because he is engendered by the Father and the one upon whom the Spirit rests. The Spirit is the Spirit because he proceeds from the Father and rests upon the Son. Finally, the reciprocity and unity of the Father, Son, and Spirit has also been expressed at the level of the persons themselves through the doctrine of circumincession or perichoresis, which indicates the mutual indwelling and in-being of the Father, Son, and Spirit. Each is fully God and fully the divine essence, and so in the Father there is also the Son and Spirit, in the Son there is also the Father and Spirit, and in the Spirit there is also the Father and Son.1 As for kenosis, the meaning of the verbs “emptied” and “humbled” (Phil 2:7, 8) and the question of their referent have been complicated issues. Does the “self-emptying” of verse 7 refer to an action of the eternal Son or to the willingness of the man Jesus to be obedient even until death?2 If it is the eternal Son who empties himself, does kenosis mean an addition of the forma servi to the forma dei, the krypsis or hiding of the Son’s glory and majesty (as in antique and medieval theologies and the Tübingen Lutherans), or does it mean a divestment or surrender of the relative divine attributes or the divine self-consciousness itself as a necessary precondition for a genuine incarnation (as in modern kenoticism)? Conversely, if it is the man “Christ Jesus” who empties himself, does this emptying mean the voluntary non-use of certain divine perfections by the incarnate Son during his earthly career (as for the Giessen Lutherans), or does it instead characterize Jesus Christ’s humility and obedience, which the apostle Paul is exhorting all Christians to imitate as suggested by the complex nesting of the verbs of verses 7 and 8 in a hymn which itself is placed within this paranetic passage? None of these questions and issues have been definitively answered. Given the technical and historically controverted nature of the idea of In the language of Thomas Aquinas, the Father is in the Son (and conversely) by essence, relation, and origin; Summa theologiae [ST] I, q. 42, a. 5; see also session 11 of the Council of Florence. 2 For historical and doctrinal background on kenosis, see: Exploring Kenotic Christology: The Self-emptying of God, ed. C. Stephen Evans (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006); David Brown, Divine Humanity: Kenosis Explored and Defended (London: Student Christian Movement, 2011); Bruce McCormack, “Kenoticism in Modern Christology,” in The Oxford Handbook of Christology, ed. Francesca Murphy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 444–57. 1 Gathering Many Likenesses 873 kenosis, it might seem imprudent to broaden the range of kenosis beyond the eternal Son or the historical Jesus, and yet a variety of modern theologians have performed just this extension of kenosis into the doctrines of God and the divine attributes, creation and providence, revelation and Scripture, and anthropology and ethics. The doctrinal expansion of kenosis and its evocative resonances have contributed to the casual use of the adjective “kenotic” to mean a variety of things: self-giving, sacrificial self-giving, humility, divestment, self-limitation, accommodation or condescension, or God’s presence and work sub contrario. Perhaps the boldest extension of kenosis, however, has been its use to describe the relations amongst the persons of the Trinity. In what follows we will consider some of the prominent advocates for the idea of an inner-Trinitarian kenosis and then evaluate the prudence of describing the mystery of the Trinity in this way. On Inner-Trinitarian Kenosis: Sergei Bulgakov and Hans Urs von Balthasar The conjunction of kenosis and the Trinitarian relations was already attempted by the mediating theologian Karl Theodor Albert Liebner in his Die christliche Dogmatik aus dem christologischen Princip dargestellt (1849).3 For Liebner, that God is self-communicating and personal love means that the Trinitarian relations themselves are to be characterized in terms of love, understood not only as being for another, but moving beyond oneself, having oneself in another, and being had by another. The eternal and inner possibility of the Incarnation is thus the eternal self-emptying of the Son before the Father which is simultaneous with the Father’s filling up of the Son by the Spirit.4 Equally, the economic subordination of the Son is not grounded in Christ’s human nature, but in the eternal subordination of the Son, a subordination which is simultaneously posited (inasmuch the Father initiates the Triune life) and sublated in the unity of the Father, Son, and Spirit. In this way, the Incarnation is the temporal enactment of the Father’s giving himself into the Son, the Son’s self-emptying before the Father to be filled with the Father by the Spirit, and the Spirit’s maintenance of the distinction and unity of the Father and the Son Karl Theodor Albert Liebner, Die christliche Dogmatik aus dem christologischen Princip dargestellt (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1849), 150. For descriptions of Liebner’s views, see Alexander Bruce, The Humiliation of Christ, in Its Physical, Ethical, and Official Aspects (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1876), 449–53, and David R. Law, “Kenotic Christology,” in The Blackwell Companion to Nineteenth-Century Theology, ed. David Fergusson (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010), 251–79, esp. 258–60. 4 See Liebner, Die christliche Dogmatik, 149–51. 3 874 Kenneth Oakes and completion of the Trinity as love and life.5 It is, perhaps, Sergei Bulgakov who offers one of the most innovative and far-reaching expansions of kenosis. Bulgakov employs the terminology of kenosis in four different doctrines: in the characterization of the divine hypostases, in the creation and preservation of the world, in the Incarnation of the Son and the outpouring of the Spirit, and in the Paschal mystery. In Unfading Light (1917) kenosis appears most frequently in discussions of the Absolute’s free and loving “sacrifice” to create the world, to become relative to it, and to enter into it in love and humility.6 Creation itself is interpreted in terms of kenosis and the Cross, and in this way creation becomes a “creative sacrifice of love.” 7 With a reference to John 3:16–17, the Cross is read as God’s ultimate purpose for creation, for “Golgotha was not only eternally pre-established at the creation of the world as an event in time, but it also constitutes the metaphysical essence of creation,”8 and the “general and primordial ‘kenosis’ of Divinity in the creation of the world pre-eternally included a concrete kenosis, the incarnation of the Son of God and the sacrifice on Golgotha.”9 The Absolute remains Absolute in itself and yet in creating sacrifices its absoluteness as regards the Absolute’s relation to the world: “The voluntary sacrifice of selfless love, the Golgotha of the Absolute, is the foundation of creation.” Bulgakov is careful to distance himself from Schelling’s idea that creation completes God or the Trinity,10 to insist upon God’s immutable blessedness and fullness,11 and to argue that there is no antagonism in the Trinity.12 Kenosis is also used to characterize the divine persons and relations themselves. When elaborating the idea of Sophia as the love of the Triune love, Bulgakov states that “the life of the Trinity is a pre-eternal act of self-surrender, of self-exhaus Isaak Dorner’s criticisms that Lieber cannot sufficiently distinguish between the Father and the Son thus seem off the mark (System of Christian Doctrine, vol. 1, trans. Alfred Cave [Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2005], 410–11). While more economically oriented as a gloss of 1 John 4:8–10, a similar argument for characterizing the Trinity in terms of love understood as self-surrender can be found in Eberhard Jüngel’s God as the Mystery of the World: On the Foundation of the Theology of the Crucified One in the Dispute Between Theism and Atheism, trans. Darrell L. Guder (London: Bloomsbury, 2014), 314–30. 6 See Sergius Bulgakov, Unfading Light: Contemplations and Speculations, trans. Thomas Allan Smith (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2012), 181–214. 7 Bulgakov, Unfading Light, 185. 8 Bulgakov, Unfading Light, 185. 9 Bulgakov, Unfading Light, 343. 10 Bulgakov, Unfading Light, 201. 11 Bulgakov, Unfading Light, 195–96. 12 Bulgakov, Unfading Light, 186. 5 Gathering Many Likenesses 875 tion of the Hypostases in divine love.”13 The idea of an inner-Trinitarian kenosis is clearly and extensively discussed in Bulgakov’s The Lamb of God (1933). The hypostases need to be described and imaged dynamically, as self-renouncing and self-moving love whereby self-affirmation and egocentricity are banished.14 The result is that paternity and active begetting become described as “the ecstasy of a going out of oneself, of a kind of self-emptying, which at the same time is a self-actualization,”15 that the Father’s “begetting is self-emptying, the giving of Himself and of His own to the Other; it is the sacrificial ecstasy of all-consuming jealous love for the other.”16 Additionally, the passive generation of the Son means that the Son is himself and finds himself in the Father, as the Father’s Son, Word, and Image such that “Sonhood is already kenosis.”17 The love of the Son for the Father is “sacrificial, self-renouncing humility,” and the Son “offers his personal selfhood in sacrifice to the Father” by being the Father’s Word.18 This eternal kenosis of the Son is the ground of the Incarnation.19 This sacrifice of one for the other is described as “pre-eternal suffering,” which does not contradict the divine beatitude, but serves as its foundation: “For this all-blessedness would be empty and unreal if it were not based on authentic sacrifice, on the reality of suffering. If God is love, He is also sacrifice, which manifests the victorious power of love and its joy only through suffering.”20 This mutual suffering and sacrifice would be tragic were it not for the work of the Holy Spirit, who is the “ joy of sacrificial love, the bliss and actualization of this love.”21 The reality and accomplishment of the love between the Father and the Son is the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit reveals what the Son says of the Father, and through the Spirit, God becomes truth and beauty.22 When Bulgakov considers Phil 2:6–8 (which he links to 2 Cor 8:9), he argues that self-emptying applies both to the eternal Son and to the man Jesus Christ, and in this way Christ’s earthly obedience is grounded in his heavenly obedience and “in the cross of the earthly path is realized Bulgakov, Unfading Light, 218. Sergius Bulgakov, The Lamb of God, trans. Boris Jakim (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2008), 95. 15 Bulgakov, Lamb of God, 98. 16 Bulgakov, Lamb of God, 98. 17 Bulgakov, Lamb of God, 99. 18 Bulgakov, Lamb of God, 99. 19 Bulgakov, Lamb of God, 177. 20 Bulgakov, Lamb of God, 99. 21 Bulgakov, Lamb of God, 99. 22 Bulgakov, Lamb of God, 101. 13 14 876 Kenneth Oakes the cross of the heavenly kenosis.”23 The kenosis enacted in the Incarnation of the Son is considered in three aspects: nature, hypostasis, and the inner-Trinitarian life. In the Incarnation, the divine nature remains unchanged and undiminished while there is a temporary relinquishing of the divine glory (which Bulgakov takes to be the Son’s humiliation). The Son sets aside his own proper will and activity and retains his filial obedience, and “His proper hypostatic act with respect to Himself, His personal self-definition, is entirely exhausted by this self-emptying or self-abolition as it were.”24 In the Incarnation, the Son’s hypostasis is “depersonalized” and manifested as a human hypostasis and in this way entirely belongs and is transparent to the Father by virtue of the Spirit’s resting upon him. Hypostatically considered, “the kenosis does not extend to the very being of the hypostasis of the Son, which is rooted in the inner, interhypostatic relationship of the Holy Trinity.”25 The kenosis of the Son in the Incarnation also does not affect the Son’s participation in the Triune life, and so “the ‘immanent’ Trinity does not know the kenosis of the Word, which exists only in the ‘economic’ Trinity.”26 The eternal Son or Logos also entirely remains himself and his participation in creation and providence is unaffected. In The Comforter (1936), Bulgakov characterizes the divine hypostases in two registers, that of mutual revelation and that of mutual self-sacrificial love. As for the former, the Father is Father inasmuch as he “renounces”27 Bulgakov, Lamb of God, 217. Bulgakov, Lamb of God, 225. 25 Bulgakov, Lamb of God, 226. 26 Bulgakov, Lamb of God, 227. While the depersonalizing of the Son and his repersonalization as a human hypostasis resembles the kenoticism of Thomasius or Gess, Bulgakov differentiates himself from Gess when arguing that “the exclusion of the Son from the Holy Trinity during the time of kenosis is compromisingly absurd, since such a supposition would signify nothing other than the total self-abolition of the Second hypostasis (as well as of its kenosis)” (Lamb of God, 226). Or again, with reference to Gess, Bulgakov states: “Christ’s ascension signifies not the return of the Logos into the depths of the Holy Trinity, which he did not leave even in the state of kenosis, but the completion of the kenosis. . . . In the eternal and supramudane being of the Holy Trinity, where there can be no events and where there is no place for time, no change could occur” (Lamb of God, 404). See also Sergius Bulgakov, Sophia: The Wisdom of God: An Outline of Sophiology, trans. Patrick Thompson, O. Fielding Clarke, and Xenia Braikevitc (Hudson, NY: Lindisfarne, 1993), 89–90. Likewise: “The kenosis of the Son after his descent from heaven, presupposes the removal of the Glory, not, certainly, in ‘heaven,’ in the ‘immanent’ Trinity, but in the world” (Sergius Bulgakov, The Bride of the Lamb, trans. Boris Jakim [Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2002], 397). 27 Sergius Bulgakov, The Comforter, trans. Boris Jakim (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerd23 24 Gathering Many Likenesses 877 his fullness, proceeds outside of himself in begetting the Son, and reveals himself in the Son.28 As begotten, the Son is the Word and Truth of the Father, lives out of the Father, proceeds out of himself back to the Father, and reveals the Father. The Holy Spirit, as the Spirit of Truth, of Love, and of the Life of the Father and Son, completes and accomplishes this mutual revelation.29 As for the latter register, Bulgakov notes that “love as such and thus all the forms of love” consists in “sacrificial self-renunciation, for the axiom of personal love is that there is no love without sacrifice,”30 and is the “reciprocity of a sacrifice without limit.”31 The relationship between Father and Son is a relation of mutual sacrifice and self-renunciation, expresses the necessary tragic moment of love, and is transformed and resolved into joy and bliss, for “there is no love without joy or bliss.”32 The Spirit undertakes its own “hypostatic self-abolition”33 in that the Spirit also does not exist for and in himself, but for and in the Father and Son by being the love, life, and comfort of the Father and Son, and then also being self-love, self-life, and self-comfort.34 Bulgakov notes that the characterization of the divine persons in terms of lover, beloved, and love itself was already present in Augustine, but that the inherent elements of love as sacrifice, tragedy, and the overcoming of tragedy were not present.35 Hans Urs von Balthasar continues a number of the themes and judgments present in Bulgakov, albeit without his sophiology and with less extension across different doctrines,36 and with the additional influences of Adrienne von Speyr, Karl Barth, Gustav Siewerth, and Ferdinand Ulrich. Explicitly following Bulgakov, von Balthasar argues that the loving and primordial “selflessness” of the divine persons is the basis both of the first kenosis of creation, especially the creation of free creatures and of mans, 2004), 63. Bulgakov, The Comforter, 63. 29 With the overtones of Schelling (Bulgakov, The Comforter, 69–72). 30 Bulgakov, The Comforter, 65. 31 Bulgakov, The Comforter, 66. 32 Bulgakov, The Comforter, 66. 33 Bulgakov, The Comforter, 181. 34 Bulgakov, The Comforter, 181. 35 Bulgakov, The Comforter, 181. 36 He states as much in Hans Urs von Balthasar, Mysterium Paschale: The Mystery of Easter, trans. Aidan Nichols (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1990), 35. On the relation between Bulgakov and von Balthasar more generally, see Gerard F. O’Hanlon, The Immutability of God in the Theology of Hans Urs von Balthasar (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 11–42, and Jennifer Newsome Martin, Hans Urs von Balthasar and the Critical Appropriation of Russian Religious Thought (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2015). 28 878 Kenneth Oakes the “second and truest kenosis” of Jesus’s death on the Cross.37 Kenosis should not be taken as a necessity of the inner divine life or as universal law, but once kenosis is seen in the Cross, then one can surmise that God’s “self-abasement and self-emptying” in Christ “were no contradiction of his own essence, but corresponded precisely to this essence, in a way that could never have been thought of.”38 In the light of what God has done in the economy, kenosis becomes a legitimate, authorized, and illuminating way of understanding the divine processions, relations, and missions.39 In addition to his inheritance from Bulgakov, von Balthasar explicitly follows and expands Barth’s arguments that Jesus Christ’s two states of humiliation and exaltation should be taken as a simultaneous humiliation of God and exaltation of humanity and that the eternal Son is defined by hypostatic obedience and humility.40 Von Balthasar realizes that his own Trinitarian theology is moving beyond Barth, as when he elsewhere notes that Barth is reticent about the divine processions,41 and when he calls the hypostatic obedience of the Son “kenosis,” which Barth does not do.42 In one of his clearer statements of his methodology considers the inner life of the Trinity, von Balthasar explains: Hans Urs von Balthasar, The Glory of the Lord, vol. 7, The New Covenant, trans. Brian McNeil (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1989), 213–14. See also von Balthasar, Mysterium Paschale, 35. 38 Von Balthasar, The Glory of the Lord, 7:213–15. 39 See von Balthasar, Mysterium Paschale, 27–36. 40 See: von Balthasar, Mysterium Paschale, 79–83; Hans Urs von Balthasar, The Glory of the Lord, vol. 1, Seeing the Form, trans. Erasmo Leiva-Merikakis (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1982), 479–80; and Hans Urs von Balthasar, Theo-Logic, vol. 2, Truth of God, trans. Adrian Walker (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1985), 354. On this topic, see Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics IV/1, The Doctrine of Reconciliation [CD IV/1], trans. G. W. Bromiley and T. F. Torrance (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1956), 192–210. 41 Hans Urs von Balthasar, Theo-Drama, vol. 5, The Last Act, trans. Graham Harrison (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1998), 236–39. 42 See von Balthasar, Mysterium Paschale, 79–83. Paul Dafydd Jones helpfully notes that the notion of obedience in Barth performs a similar function to kenosis in other theologies and that Barth generally refrains from using the term “kenosis” within his own theology (The Humanity of Christ: Christology in Karl Barth’s Church Dogmatics [London: T&T Clark, 2008], 214). One might add, however, that, in CD IV/1 and Church Dogmatics IV/2, The Doctrine of Reconciliation [CD IV/2], trans. G. W. Bromiley and T. F. Torrance (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1958), Barth frequently uses the notion of the “condescension” of the eternal Son in the Incarnation, which serves a function similar to that of kenosis. 37 Gathering Many Likenesses 879 Accordingly, there is only one way to approach the trinitarian life in God: on the basis of what is manifest in God’s kenosis in the theology of the covenant—and thence in the theology of the Cross—we must feel our way back into the mystery of the absolute, employing a negative theology that excludes from God all intramundane experience and suffering, while at the same time presupposing that the possibility of such experience and suffering—up to and including its christological and trinitarian implications—is grounded in God.43 The movement from the kenosis enacted on the Cross to the mystery of the Trinity occurs under an apophatic denial of the mundane experience and suffering and yet also presupposes the possibility and ability of God for Jesus Christ to participate in vicarious suffering and solidarity with all of those who experience suffering, abandonment, godlessness, and death. As the goal is the cross-fertilization of the doctrine of the Trinity and the Cross in such a way that the self-abasement and self-emptying are seen not as a contradiction to or a necessity of the divine essence, but as its gracious expression, von Balthasar locates this possibility and ability within the distinction and unity of the divine persons themselves through using a range of terms associated with kenosis to describe the processions and relations. The purpose or function of von Balthasar’s characterizations of the hypostatic relations in terms of giving up, self-surrender, self-expropriation, dispossession, selflessness, and personal and essential renunciation, and of the distinctions between the hypostases in terms of infinite distance, separation, and otherness, is to account for the divine activity in the economy in such a way that endangers neither the divine immutability and aseity nor God’s genuine participation and presence in the economy. In this way, the Son as infinitely other than the Father means that the Son “both grounds and surpasses all we mean by separation, pain and alienation in the world and all we can envisage in terms of loving self-giving, interpersonal relationship and blessedness. He is not the direct identity of the two but their presupposition, sovereignly surpassing them.”44 The essential donation of the Father to the Son “implies such an incomprehensible and unique ‘separation’ of God from himself that it includes and grounds every other separation.”45 The separation of God from himself in Hans Urs von Balthasar, Theo-Drama, vol. 4, The Action, trans. Graham Harrison (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1994), 324. 44 Von Balthasar, Theo-Drama, 4:325. 45 Von Balthasar, Theo-Drama, 4:325. ‘Without this personal distance in the circumincessio of the Persons it would be impossible to understand either the creature’s 43 880 Kenneth Oakes the personal distinctions of the Trinity exceeds all other separations, even those of death and hell, “for hell is only possible given the absolute and real separation of Father and Son.”46 Likewise, the Father’s begetting of the Son involves a renunciation of being God for himself, and in this way: “He lets go of his divinity and, in this sense, manifests a (divine) God-lessness (of love, of course). The latter must not be confused with the godlessness that is found within the world, although it undergirds it, renders it possible and goes beyond it.”47 Even more strongly, von Balthasar describes the Father’s begetting and spirating as “total self-giving, to which the Son and Spirit respond by an equal self-giving” as “a kind of ‘death,’ a first radical ‘kenosis,’ as one might say. It is a kind of ‘super-death’ that is a component of all love and that forms the basis in creation for all instance of ‘the good death,’ from self-forgetfulness in favor of the beloved right up to that highest love by which a man ‘gives his life for friends.’”48 The use of this language is not meant to be an eternal recapitulation of the drama of salvation within God, but the identification of the possibility, ground, and surpassing of all that occurs within the economy, even the death of Jesus Christ on the Cross. In this way, the “primal divine drama”49 is the “unfathomable precondition and source of the world’s salvation,” for “the drama of the emptying of the Father’s heart, in the generation of the Son” in the unity of the Spirit “contains and surpasses all possible drama between God and a world. For the world only has its place within that distinction between Father and Son that is maintained and bridged by the Holy Spirit.”50 This emphasis upon the distinctions of the persons is supplemented by the notion of the Trinitarian relations as a coincidence between self-possession and self-dispossession, wealth and poverty, and self-expression and self-surrender. Von Balthasar notes that “in generating the Father has not given over his substance to the Son so as not to keep it himself, but the opposite is equally true: he remains the Father as he has eternally given distance from God or the Son’s ‘economic’ distance from the Father—a distance that goes to the limit of forsakenness’; von Balthasar, Theodrama, vol. 5, 98. 46 Von Balthasar, Theo-Drama, 4:325. 47 Von Balthasar, Theo-Drama, 4:324. 48 Von Balthasar, Theo-Drama, 5:84. 49 Von Balthasar, Theo-Drama, 4:325. 50 Von Balthasar, Theo-Drama, 4:327. Or again: “It is possible to say that the generation of the Son that the Father strips himself of his Godhead and gives it over to the Son; the Father as complete self-giving, with an absolute, infinite distance that can contain all other distances. He will not be God for himself ” (von Balthasar, Theo-Drama, 4:322–24). Gathering Many Likenesses 881 over to the Son all that is his,”51 and that the Father “does not extinguish himself by self-giving, just as he does not keep back anything either. For, in this self-surrender, he is the whole divine essence. Here we see both God’s infinite power and his powerlessness.”52 Because he is the Father, the Father begets and spirates and in this way renounces being-for-himself, not simply as the divine essence, but in his own person as well. The hypostases do not jealously guard the divine essence, but instead both possess and give away the divine nature such that “we cannot say that a particular hypostasis is rich in possessing and poor in giving away, for the fullness of blessedness lies in both giving and receiving both the gift and the giver.”53 This combination of giving and of receiving both the divine essence and their personal relations means that “the hypostatic modes constitute the greatest imaginable opposition one to another (and thus no one of them can overtake any other), in order that they can mutually interpenetrate in the most intimate manner conceivable.”54 Von Balthasar is aware of some of the difficulties of and potential objections to his theology of the Trinity. In a letter to Thomas Rudolf Krenski, for instance, von Balthaar recommends that one should not belabor the point of the existence of kenosis within the Trinity, that it is meant to be the analogatum princeps of Philippians 2 and 1 Corinthians 1:17, and that kenosis belongs in quotation marks when used in this context.55 Likewise, von Balthasar recognizes that language associated with kenosis belongs within a range of other terms used for elaborating a doctrine of the Trinity. In his Epilogue, the summation of his triology, von Balthasar states that “in God himself the total epiphany, self-surrender, and self-expression of God the Father is the Son, identical with him as God.”56 Additionally, as noted above, von Balthasar notes that there is a fundamental negative limit in this venture, for there is also a denial of “intramundane” experience, suffering, and temporality, and he also clarifies that the “godlessness” present in the Father’s giving up of himself and his essence to the Son and Spirit is not the same as any type of godlessness found in the economy. He even concedes: “Their bestowal of freedom presupposes this self-emptying, this Von Balthasar, Theo-Logic, 2:135–37. Von Balthasar, Theo-Drama, 4:324–25. 53 Von Balthasar, Theo-Drama, 2:258. 54 Von Balthasar, Theo-Drama, 2:258. 55 Noted in a personal letter to Thomas Rudolf Krenski; see Krenski, Passio caritatis: trinitarische Passiologie im Werk Hans Urs von Balthasars (Freiburg: Johannes Verlag Einsiedeln, 1990), 140–41, 363. 56 Hans Urs von Balthasar, Epilogue, trans. Edward T. Oakes, S.J. (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2004), 89–90. 51 52 882 Kenneth Oakes kenosis, this exinanitio. Those who are reluctant to import such concepts into God (preferring to stay at the level of the equation relatio = persona) ought to remove these imperfect likenesses from the world,”57 although von Balthasar himself does not seem to do this removal here. Perhaps the most significant work which von Balthasar undertakes when finding in the “mystery of the absolute” the possibility of God’s work and participation in the economy while denying the univocal attribution of creaturely experience and suffering to God is his distinction between the immanent and economic Trinity. For von Balthasar: “The economic Trinity assuredly appears as the interpretation of the immanent Trinity, for the latter grounds and supports the former. Otherwise the immanent, eternal Trinity would threaten to dissolve into the economic.”58 The economic Trinity is the expression and interpretation of the immanent Trinity, which in turn grounds and supports it. This combination of claims allows von Balthasar to argue that: “The immanent Trinity must be understood to be that eternal, absolute self-surrender whereby God is seen to be, in himself, absolute love; this in turn explains his self-giving to the world as love, without suggesting that God needed the world process and the Cross in order to become himself.”59 Von Balthasar explicitly distinguishes his doctrine of the Trinity and of kenosis from that of Moltmann or Hegel,60 as the former eliminates the distinction between the economic and immanent Trinity and the latter understands kenosis in terms of God’s essence, in the register of the necessary, and as the concretization of an abstract Trinity.61 Nevertheless, for von Balthasar, the immanent Trinity can be characterized in terms and actions from the economy, such as self-surrender, absolute love, and self-giving, inasmuch as the distinction between the immanent and the economic allows one to deny that God needed the world or the Cross to become himself, or that God was virtual, or abstract, or self-enclosed without creation. Hans Urs von Balthasar, Theo-Logic, vol. 3, The Spirit of Truth, trans. Graham Harrison (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2005), 241. 58 Von Balthasar, Theo-Drama, 3:508. See also von Balthasar, Mysterium Paschale, 35, and Theo-Drama, 3:157. 59 Von Balthasar, Theo-drama, 4:322–23. 60 For an exploration of the differences between Hegel and von Balthasar on kenosis, see Cyril O’Regan, Anatomy of Misremembering: Von Balthasar’s Response to Philosophical Modernity, vol. 1, Hegel (New York: Crossroad, 2014), 165–67, 209, 229–31, 358. 61 Von Balthasar, Mysterium Paschale, 23–36. 57 Gathering Many Likenesses 883 Evaluation A series of powerful arguments have recently been levied against such epistemologically rich and metaphysically luxuriant theologies of the Trinity and the divine life. There has been the stress for a renewed apophaticism within the doctrine of the Trinity;62 the insistence that the economy is primarily enacted for us and for our salvation, rather than an event within or an enrichment of God’s own life;63 the reassertion of the evangelical importance of divine apatheia as the true basis and promise of the annihilation of sin, evil, and suffering;64 the argument that one should acknowledge the difference between the missions and the processions, given that the Father, Son, and Spirit are present to and acting within a world wounded by sin and marked by finitude;65 the worry that the projections involved in these ventures presume competitive relations between the members of the Trinity;66 the claim that the idea of an inner-Trinitarian obedience on behalf of the Son ruptures the single divine will;67 and the argument that the identity of the economic and immanent Trinity imperils the freedom and transcendence of God.68 The reminders are entirely salutary and all of Karen Kilby, “Perichoresis and Projection: Problems with Social Doctrines of the Trinity,” New Blackfriars 81, no. 956 (October 2000): 432–45; Kilby, “Aquinas, the Trinity, and the Limits of Understanding,” International Journal of Systematic Theology 7, no. 4 (2005): 414–27; Kilby, “Is an Apophatic Trinitarianism Possible,” International Journal of Systematic Theology 12, no. 1 (2010): 65–77. 63 Kathryn Tanner, “Social Trinitarianism and its Critics,” in Rethinking Trinitarian Theology: Disputed Questions and Contemporary Issues in Trinitarian Theology, ed. Robert J. Woźniak and Giulio Maspero (London: T&T Clark, 2012), 368–86. 64 David Bentley Hart, The Beauty of the Infinite: The Aesthetics of Christian Truth (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2003), 157–67. 65 Herbert McCabe, God Matters (London: Continuum, 2005), 48–52; Kathryn Tanner, Christ the Key (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 180–87. 66 Linn Marie Tonstad, God and Difference: The Trinity, Sexuality, and the Transformation of Finitude (New York: Routledge, 2016); Kevin Vanhoozer, Remythologizing Theology: Divine Action, Passion, and Authorship (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 394, 130. 67 Thomas Joseph White, O.P., “Intra-Divine Obedience in Karl Barth and Nicene-Chalcedonian Christology,” Nova et Vetera (English) 6, no. (2008): 377–402, material of which reappears in White, The Incarnate Lord: A Thomistic Study in Christology (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2017), 277–307. 68 Paul Molnar, Divine Freedom and the Doctrine of the Immanent Trinity: In Dialogue with Karl Barth and Contemporary Theology (London and New York: T&T Clark and Continuum, 2002); Molnar, Faith, Freedom and the Spirit: The Economic Trinity in Barth, Torrance and Contemporary Theology (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2015). 62 884 Kenneth Oakes them are worth heeding inasmuch as the doctrine of the Trinity is first and foremost a mystery of the faith. When evaluating Bulgakov’s and von Balthasar’s proposals for an inner-Trinitarian kenosis, it might be helpful first to indicate how much conceptual labor, definition, and redefinition are undertaken when explicating the doctrine of the Trinity.69 Terms and concepts such as “person,” “relation,” “essence,” “generation,” and “procession” undergo drastic rarefaction when employed within doctrines of the Trinity. While conscripted for the sake of evangelical necessity, in and of themselves these terms stand as inadequate and problematic: from “person” there needs to be removed the connotation of individual consciousness; from “relation” there need to be removed suggestions of reference to another who does not share the same essence, as well as of accidental existence; from “essence” there need to be removed ideas of composition, division, and separation; and from “generation” and “procession” there need to be removed notions of transitive movement, temporality, materiality, change from potency to actuality, and suffering. This apophatic removal can be driven by the exigencies of the divine simplicity,70 or by a logic of perfection and excellence (which should proceed carefully so as not to denigrate the goods of finite creatures in a mistaken attempt to elevate God further), or by a desire to secure the infinite ontological difference between Creator and creation.71 Clarification and redefinition are still necessary once we move beyond these preliminaries: the names of the persons—Father, Son, and Spirit, or Principle, Fount, Word, Image, Gift, Love—are themselves analogical (terms taken from creatures to speak of God but of which God is the analogans and creatures the analogata) and must be conceptually purified As Kilby has aptly put it, “terms such as ‘processions,’ ‘relations’ and ‘perichoresis’ might be considered technical ways to articulate our inability to understand rather than rich conceptual resources which shed some light on the Trinity” (“Apophatic Trinitarianism,” 67–68). Or in the words of John Webster, “the doctrine of eternal generation is not confident projective ontotheology; it become a matter for theological inquiry at a certain risk, and may be approached only after some clear spiritual and intellectual protocols have been put in place” (God Without Measure: Working Papers in Christian Theology, vol. 1, God and the Works of God [London: Bloomsbury, 2016], 32). 70 As when Bernard Lonergan notes, “we likewise do not know what divine understanding is or what the divine word is or what divine love is, or what is meant by generation or spiration or procession or relation or property or notional act or anything else what is really identical with God” (The Triune God: Doctrines, trans. Michael G. Shields [Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009], 589). 71 Webster, God Without Measure, 1:32–34. 69 Gathering Many Likenesses 885 and shorn of misleading associations: the personal property of the innascibility of the Father is still a comparison and reference to the personal properties of the Son and Spirit; to be generated or spirated is just as divine as to generate and spirate; origin does not denote superiority or priority; and while the statement that the “Father begets the Son” suggests the pre-existence of the person before the relation, this linguistic difficulty can be accounted for by a recognition of differences in the mode of signification, whether by relation or by substance, by act or by form, and by stressing how the Son and the Spirit are themselves co-eternal (or even autotheos) by nature. In light of the necessity for this constant removal of problematic conceptual collateral, it is reasonable when Thomas Aquinas maintains that intellectual emanation provides the most helpful or least misleading analogy for understanding procession. Thomas notes: “Yet, above them all the procession of the word from the intellect represents it more exactly; the intellectual word not being posterior to its source except in an intellect passing from potentiality to act; and this cannot be said of God.” 72 Bernard Lonergan takes this argument even further when he suggests that “there remains no likeness of nature to the mode of divine procession except the intellectual emanation through which a conscious act originates from a conscious act according to a conscious and autonomous mode.” 73 There seems to be a difference between Thomas and Lonergan, however, as indicated in the shift from “represents it more exactly” to “no likeness . . . except.” Earlier in the same question from the prima pars, for instance, Thomas states: As Augustine says (De Verbis Domini, Serm. 38), no mode of the procession of any creature perfectly represents the divine generation. Hence we need to gather a likeness of it from many of these modes, so that what is wanting in one may be somewhat supplied by another; and thus it is declared in the council of Ephesus: Let Splendor tell thee that the co-eternal Son existed always with the Father; let the Word announce the impassibility of His Birth; let the name Son insinuate his consubstantiality.74 ST I, q. 42, a. 2, ad 1. Bernard Lonergan, The Triune God: Systematics, trans. Michael G. Shields (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2007), 181. For a comparison of Lonergan and Balthasar on the Trinity, see Peter Drilling, “Relating the Theologies of Hans Urs von Balthasar and Bernard Lonergan on Divine Action in the World,” Irish Theological Quarterly 81:3 (2016): 267–83. 74 ST 1, q. 42, a. 2, ad 1. 72 73 886 Kenneth Oakes Such reasons for employing the diversity of names for the second person of the Trinity are also present in Thomas’s lectures on John: An example of this, to a limited degree, appears in fire and in the brightness issuing from it: for this brightness issues naturally and without succession from the fire. Again, if the fire were eternal, its brightness would be coeternal with it. This is why the Son is called the brightness of the Father: “the brightness of his glory” (Heb 1:3). But this example lacks an illustration of the identity of nature. And so we call him Son, although in human sonship we do not find coeternity: for we must attain our knowledge of divine things from many likenesses in material things, for one likeness is not enough. The Council of Ephesus says that the Son always coexists with the Father: for “brightness” indicates his unchangeability, “birth” points to the Word himself, but the name “Son” suggests his consubstantiality. And so we give the Son various names to express his perfection, which cannot be expressed by one name. We call him “Son” to show that he is of the same nature as the Father; we call him “image” to show that he is not unlike the Father in any way; we call him “brightness” to show that he is coeternal; and he is called the “Word” to show that he is begotten in an immaterial manner.75 The appeal to the venerable and varied names of the second person of Trinity allows for the inevitable deficiencies of one to be supplemented by likenesses drawn from another for the sake of expressing the Son’s perfection: a Splendor being radiated eternally, an Image which illustrates exact similitude, a Word being uttered immaterially, and a Son of the same essence being birthed impassibly. To be sure, Thomas privileges “Word,” and thus “intellectual emanation,” among these names and concepts,76 but this privileging and conceptual regulation stems from the precision and minimalism possible for this Scriptural name for the second person. From these various names and concepts, Word and intellectual procession best respect both the exigencies of confessing three equal and co-eternal hypostases constituted by their mutual relations and the ineffable nature of generation and proces Aquinas, Super Ioan 1, lec. 1 (Marietti nos. 41–42), as in Commentary on the Gospel of St. John, trans. James A. Weisheipl, O.P. (Albany, NY: Magi Books, 1980). 76 See Gilles Emery, O.P., The Trinitarian Theology of Thomas Aquinas, trans. Francesca Aran Murphy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 194. 75 Gathering Many Likenesses 887 sion. With both this confession and apophatic baseline there co-exist other names and concepts, as when Thomas notes (as quoted just above) that “we need to gather a likeness of it from many of these modes” and “must attain our knowledge of divine things from many likenesses in material things, for one likeness is not enough.” There has been a long precedent of drawing Trinitarian concepts, terms, and analogies from the realms of the physical (generation and spiration), the intellectual and volitional (the immanent procession of Word and Love; memory, understanding, will), and the interpersonal (lover, beloved, and love itself). There have also been elaborations of the Trinity through terms and analogies from revelation, glorification, self-communication, the nature of the good, and personhood. The likenesses being gathered when describing the Trinity in terms of kenosis and related terms come from a modality of interpersonal love.77 More specifically, both Bulgakov and von Balthasar develop their doctrines of the Trinity through elaboration of the claim that “God is love” (1 John 4) and its surrounding context of the visible mission of the Son. This form of interpersonal love, the extravagant, self-giving, and sacrificial love of God and the Son, is then adopted for use amongst other names and terms for describing the persons, the relations, the processions, and the essence. In other words, the suggestion is that the mutual self-constitution of the persons—traditionally described in the language of the three personal properties of paternity, filiation, and spiration, and their inseparability—can also be glossed in the more immediately evangelical modalities of love: self-giving, self-surrender, self-renunciation, and mutual openness and transparency.78 These modalities of “love” are then applied both notionally (as the spirating of the Spirit as love and the Spirit’s perfecting of the mutual love of the Father and Son) and essentially (as Father, Son, and Spirit love themselves and After Augustine and before the nineteenth-century mediating theologians, it was Richard of St. Victor who developed the Trinity under the aspect of interpersonal love and that the perfection of love in God means that the relation and love between the Father, Son, and Spirit is in no way egoistic or partial or self-depleting. See his line of argument and description in his On the Trinity, bk. III. 78 One of the primary semantic difficulties of this way of speaking is that the Father has no ‘self,’ either to give or to have or to empty or to surrender, in isolation from the Son and Spirit. However, this semantic difficulty is shared by any account of the divine persons when they are signified by substance or form rather than by relation or act, as von Balthasar himself was aware: “The Father must not be thought to exist ‘prior’ to this self-surrender (in an Arian sense): he is this movement of self-giving that holds nothing back” (Theo-Drama, 4:323). 77 888 Kenneth Oakes each other by essence).79 Additionally, the mutual and reciprocal constitution of Father, Son, and Spirit is being glossed in terms of interpersonal love as both giving oneself to and receiving oneself from another, and is then further expanded through the venerable practice of the coincidentia oppositorum, as the coincidence and surpassing of the pairs of fullness and emptiness, self-possession and self-reception, being oneself from another and being oneself in another, and power and powerlessness. More problematic in the proposals of Bulgakov and von Balthasar, however, seems to be the suggestion of loss, diminution, separation, tragedy, and death within and amongst the Trinitarian relations. The intent of such language is clear and laudable: that whatever occurs in the economy is always already preceded and established and always already preempted and resolved in the immanent relations. In other words, the sending of the Son and Spirit presupposes and reflects their generation and procession and the selflessness of the Father, while the abandonment and death of the Son presupposes and reflects the circular self-giving-away of the Father, Son, and Spirit. In this way, abandonment and death become genuinely suffered and underwent so as to be defeated and constitute no alteration in God, for nothing undergone in the economy can disrupt the inner Triune life even as the persons are fully present and utterly themselves. Should one wish to speak of loss, suffering, and death in God, which is not an obvious or clear matter, then the most appropriate form of this speech should remain in the register of the experiencing, overcoming, and healing of suffering in a kind of extension of the statement that “what is not assumed is not healed.” The distinction between the immanent and economic Trinity, or between the processions and the missions, helps to ensure that this way of speaking is not the pre-temporal placement of historical events and strife within God, but ensures God’s genuine participation and presence within the economy without being overwhelmed or altered by them. The Incarnation, life, death, and Resurrection of the Son are not a self-divestment or abandonment of his deity, but its gracious, temporal, and historical expression under the conditions of the economy. Salutary here is John Webster’s remark that “whatever else may be said about God’s becoming, that becoming must be understood as a mode of his sovereign self-possession, an aspect of his inexhaustible plenitude.”80 Another way of responding to the potentially problematic elements of loss, separation, and death would be a reminder that the work effected Cf. ST 1, q. 38, a. 2, and Augustine, De Trinitate 15.7. John Webster, Word and Church: Essays in Christian Dogmatics (London: Bloomsbury, 2006), 137. 79 80 Gathering Many Likenesses 889 in the Incarnation is the salvation of humanity from its sin, misery, and inhumanity and that reconciliation is wholly offered ad extra. What takes place in the economy is wholly for us and for our salvation. God does not need to be saved from anything: from remote transcendence; from an indeterminate identity or abstraction; from an inability to empathize with the sufferings or experiences of his creatures; or from his own omnipotence, eternality, or perfection. A variety of doctrinal resources can aid in this reassertion: the eternal essential unity and mutual indwelling of the Father and Son and Spirit such that they could never be divided or lost or opaque to one another; God’s wholly realized life and perfection; reconciliation as self-communication and revelation rather than self-constitution; and the shared divine goodness, will, and love. If one wished to speak of the Son’s vicarious solidarity with the dead, the abandoned, and the godforsaken (and it is unclear whether it is wise to speak of anyone as objectively abandoned by God or as godforsaken) to describe Jesus Christ’s reception of the whole range of human experience (which is welcome), then it is best done with this background of divine unity and aseity. Shorn of the divine unity and aseity, doctrines of reconciliation tend toward becoming an event between Father, Son, and Spirit, rather than an economy graciously initiated by God on behalf of and for the sake of his creatures. Robert Jenson, for example, offers this striking conjunction of the parable of the vineyard keeper,81 reconciliation, and the doctrine of the Trinity: The eternal inner-triune decision made at the Crucifixion and Resurrection was between the parable as told, with a dead Son and slaughter of the vineyard-keepers, and raising a Son who insists rather on forgiving them. The Father can have his Son and us with him in the bargain, or he can abolish us and have no Son, for there is no Son but the one who said, “Father, forgive them.”82 This gloss is moving and poignant and yet is accompanied by the implication of a general and troubling uncertainty regarding the mission of the Son and the unity of the Trinity until his Resurrection by the Father in the Spirit. Such uncertainty can be removed by viewing the whole life-act of the Son as the undivided, eternal, and invincible will and love of the Father, Matt 21:33–46; Mark 12:1–12; Luke 20:9–19. The parable itself is a rereading and reapplication of Isaiah 5. 82 Robert W. Jenson, Systematic Theology, vol. 1, Triune God (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 191. 81 890 Kenneth Oakes Son, and Spirit in the work of reconciliation. What also seems difficult to labor into acceptability is the related notion of the presence of obedience or grace among the persons of the Trinity.83 There are plausible reasons behind these statements: that the pattern of divine action ad extra, with the Father initiating, the Son executing, and Spirit sealing, follows and reveals the relations of the hypostases; that there must be some quality or property within God which corresponds to his action in the economy; and the sense that the unity of the Father, Son, and Spirit does not mean uniformity,84 or that the hypostatization of the divine nature is total and complete for each person of the Trinity.85 Nevertheless, how could one speak of obedience or grace between the Father, Son, and Spirit without risking the disruption of the divine unity, the strict equality of the persons, and the idea of essential and personal donation? The terms “grace” and “obedience” themselves would need to be subjected to purification and refinement inherent within theology’s analogical discourse and judgments when being applied to God, and in this way mark clearly the differences between obedience and grace within the Trinity and the grace given by God to his creatures and the obedience offered by creatures to God in return. One could certainty affirm that God is inherently and essentially gracious but remove any attendant difficulties by having “grace” in this context fundamentally mean love and goodness. Additionally, it seems that the presupposition of dyothelitism is that Jesus Christ’s divine will is simply the will of the eternal Son, which is none other than the will of the Father and the Spirit, and that the unalterably loving and perfect divine will allows for the assumption, healing, and perfecting of a human will. Given the common essential and personal will of Father, Son, and Spirit, it seems unclear what “obedience” could mean when applied within the Trinity. As for these related ideas of grace and obedience within the Trinity, then, it seems as though there are few if any likenesses to gather. As for grace within God, see Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics II/1, The Doctrine of God, trans. T. H. L. Parker et al. (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1957), 356–58, and the material, Christological specification in CD IV/1, 303–4, and its pneumatological specification in CD IV/2, 338–53. As for obedience within God, see CD IV/1, 192–210. 84 My thanks to Jess Keating for this way of putting the matter. 85 “The nature does not exist in Divinity as an independent principle, in which the difference of the hypostases is abolished and the two are as one. The ray of each hypostasis penetrates down to the very bottom of the nature and totally hypostatizes it. That is why it is impossible to posit two hypostases that would be one in nature, that would lose, as it were, their individual hypostatic personhood” (Bulgakov, The Comforter, 140). 83 Gathering Many Likenesses 891 Conclusion To address the question of whether there is an inner-Trinitarian kenosis requires prior deliberations upon what “kenosis” is taken to mean and involve as regards the Incarnation of the eternal Son and the life and obedience of Jesus Christ, and it demands attention to the potential differences between this Christological kenosis and how the idea is being extended into the doctrine of the Trinity. If “kenosis” is taken in its lightest sense, simply as self-giving, self-offering, and self-communication, there one can and should readily imagine a transcendental ground within the Trinitarian relations for the Incarnation and life of the eternal Son. In fact, this claim seems to be another way of stating that the missions are contained within and follow the processions, here glossed in the register of interpersonal love. While slightly more problematic, if “kenosis” is meant as self-renunciation, self-sacrifice, and self-oblation for another with the concomitant reception of oneself in the other, then it seems that one could use such terms to illustrate the reciprocally constituting relations among Father, Son, and Spirit and their essential and hypostatic circumincession. If “kenosis” is taken to mean self-diminution, self-extinction, self-curtailment, or loss, then the idea seems to have little to do with the Trinity, or with the Incarnation for that matter. The initial recognitions of the Trinity as a mystery and confession of the faith, and then developed with salutary austerity, rigor, and formality, can and should open up toward a gathering of many likenesses. In this way, the mingling of the doctrine of the Trinity and kenosis allows for generation, procession, and relation to be illustrated with likenesses from the realm of interpersonal love and with themes drawn from the Scriptural context and narrative of the sending and giving of the Son which surround the statement that “God is love” (1 John 4:16). This linguistic and conceptual expansion seems appropriate for expressing and imaging the infinite liveliness of God as pure and unique act and the splendor and variety of the divine perfections, and offers a reminder that the Trinity is not a geometrical puzzle or a mechanical system, but the infinite and perfect life of the Father, Son, and Spirit with all its harmony, difference, overflow, joy, openness, and loving communion. N&V Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 17, No. 3 (2019): 893–912 893 The Reality of the Soul in an Age of Neuroscience Michael J. Dodds, O.P. Dominican School of Philosophy and Theology Berkeley, CA Introduction Does it never give thee pause, . . . that men then had a soul—not by hearsay alone, and as a figure of speech; but as a truth that they knew, and practically went upon! Verily it was another world then. . . . But yet it is pity we had lost tidings of our souls—actually we shall have to go in quest of them again, or worse in all ways will befall!1 Such were the thoughts of Thomas Carlyle in 1843 as he pondered the ruins of the ancient monastery of St. Edmundsbury. He marvels that the monks had not just known about the soul, but acted on that knowledge. Theirs was indeed “another world,” he muses, one that, unlike his own, could still hear the “tidings of the soul.” What of our world? Is it still possible to affirm the reality of the soul in this age of neuroscience? To explore that question, we will first have to discover something about the soul. We can then consider the problems and questions that neuroscience poses for the soul and look at some possible approaches and answers, especially in the thought of Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas. Thomas Carlyle, Thomas Carlyle’s Collected Works, vol. 13, Past and Present (London: Chapman and Hall, 1870), 61–62. 1 894 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. Ancient Greek philosophers understood the soul as the source of movement in living things. Democritus believed it was composed of spherical fire atoms, while Anaximenes said it was air.2 Plato emphasized the difference between soul and body, while Aristotle and his disciples, including Aquinas, began with the unity of the human person and saw the soul as the source of that unity. When Descartes rebooted philosophy in the seventeenth century, he tended to speak of “mind” rather than “soul.” The mind was a thinking thing (res cogitans), while the body was an extended thing (res extensa). English-speaking philosophy has largely followed his example, using the word “mind” rather than “soul.”3 So current neuroscience ponders the mind–brain relation. The methodology of neuroscience leaves no place for the soul, as cognitive scientist William Uttal notes: “Two fundamental assumptions are likely to remain constant as the enterprise [of neuroscience] goes forward. The first is the basic idea of materialism. . . . The second is that all mental processes . . . are functions of that material reality. . . . Without at least an implicit acceptance of these assumptions, it would be meaningless to pursue work in the field of cognitive neuroscience; we would have to accept the existence of a set of supernatural and uncontrolled variables that would make any experimental results meaningless.”4 Established firmly on such methodological assumptions, neuroscience has flourished. Beyond its home base in biology, where it studies the brain and nervous system, it now partners with fields such as physics, chemistry, mathematics, medicine, computer science, and psychology. Its discoveries are described in mind-boggling numbers: “The brain consists of some 1010 neurons with their many branching dendrites and axons all interconnected by networks of unfathomable complexity, in which one neuron may be connected with tens or hundreds of thousands . . . of other “This is what led Democritus to say that the soul is a sort of fire or hot substance; his ‘forms’ or atoms are infinite in number; those which are spherical he calls fire and soul” (Aristotle, De anima 1.2.404a1–5, in The Basic Works of Aristotle, ed. Richard McKeon [New York: Random House, 1941]). “As our soul which is air . . . holds us together, so wind and air encompass the whole world” (Anaximenes, in Selections from Early Greek Philosophy, ed. Milton Nahm [New York: Appleton-Century-Crofts, 1964], 43). 3 On this vocabulary, see Nancey Murphy, “Human Nature: Historical, Scientific, and Religious Issues,” in Whatever Happened to the Soul? Scientific and Theological Portraits of Human Nature, ed. Warren S. Brown, Nancey Murphy, and H. Newton Malony (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 1998), 7. 4 William R. Uttal, Mind and Brain: A Critical Appraisal of Cognitive Neuroscience (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2011), 364. 2 The Reality of the Soul in an Age of Neuroscience 895 neurons. In each cubic mm of cortex there are one billion synapses!”5 The brain is both complex and plastic, developing new structures and connections in response to personal experience.6 Conscious activities have been mapped to specific brain areas, allowing for the discovery of previously unknown brain regions.7 The discoveries of neuroscience have been used to treat numerous neural pathologies, from the effects of stroke to obsessive compulsive disorder.8 The Dilemmas of Neuroscience Despite these achievements, some basic questions still baffle neuroscientists. One is to explain how the observable activities of the brain result in consciousness. As Michael O’Shea observes: “We have no idea how consciousness arises from a physical machine and in trying to understand how the brain does that, we may well be up against the most awkward of scientific challenges.”9 Uttal sees this as “an intractable problem that neither new measuring devices nor computational engines can ever begin to unravel.”10 One source of the dilemma may be neuroscience’s own materialistic, methodological assumptions. As David Chalmers explains: “Any account given in purely physical terms will suffer from the same problem. It will ultimately be given in terms of the structural and dynamical properties of physical processes, and no matter how sophisticated such an account is, it will yield only more structure and dynamics. . . . The existence of consciousness will always be a further fact, relative to structural and dynamic facts, and so will always be unexplained by a physical account.”11 A second basic question is to explain how consciousness can affect the physical brain and, in turn, the material world. As Walter Freeman says: John R. Smythies, The Walls of Plato’s Cave: The Science and Philosophy of Brain, Consciousness and Perception (Aldershot, UK: Avebury, 1994), 28. 6 Jeffrey M. Schwartz and Sharon Begley, The Mind and the Brain: Neuroplasticity and the Power of Mental Force (New York: Harper, 2003), 15, 111–23, 339; Holmes Rolston III, “Genes, Brains, Minds: the Human Complex,” in Soul, Psyche, Brain: New Directions in the Study of Religion and Brain–Mind Science, ed. Kelly Bulkeley (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), 26–27. 7 Matthew F. Glasser et al., “A Multi-modal Parcellation of Human Cerebral Cortex,” Nature, no. 536 (August 11, 2016): 171–78. On possible limits and flaws in such brain mapping, see Uttal, Mind and Brain, 10–11, 378–79. 8 Schwartz, Mind, 15–16, 54–65, 70–95. 9 Michael O’Shea, The Brain: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 2. 10 Uttal, Mind and Brain, 12. 11 David J. Chalmers, The Conscious Mind: In Search of a Fundamental Theory (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), 121–22. 5 896 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. “The problem boils down to the questions of how and in what sense brains, with their cells, the neurons, can create actions and thoughts, which we experience as our minds and ourselves, and whether or how our experiences can change or influence our brains and their neurons. What does it mean to say that one causes the other?”12 Our account of human freedom is closely connected with this question, as Anthony Dardis explains: “That thinking should make things happen—cause things—seems both necessary and impossible. If thinking didn’t make things happen, the foundations of how we think about ourselves would collapse. . . . But, on the other hand, it seems impossible for me—my consciousness, my feelings, my experience—to make anything happen. . . . The physical world operates according to the laws of nature. The laws of nature govern each change in us, as they govern each change at every point in space and time. . . . If the mind is something distinct from the body, then it is impossible to explain how you (your decisions) make anything happen. If the mind is the same thing as the body, then it’s not you that is making things happen, it’s your body.”13 Such questions also affect our fundamental understanding of ourselves, as John Searle shows: “We have a conception of ourselves as conscious, intentionalistic, rational, social, institutional, political, speech-act performing, ethical and free-will-possessing agents. Now, the question is, How can we square this self-conception of ourselves as mindful, meaning-creating, free, rational, etc., agents with a universe that consists entirely of mindless, meaningless, unfree, nonrational, brute physical particles?”14 It seems that, amid the wealth of discoveries of neuroscience, one important item has vanished: the human person (you and I). We, you and I, are no longer real—unless we are willing to redefine ourselves as just an assemblage of neurons or a mere collection of “brute physical particles.” To some scientists that seems a happy prospect. So, the neuroscientist Joseph LeDoux says: “You are your synapses. They are who you are.”15 And the psychologist Michael Gazzaniga explains: “The modern perspective is that brains enable minds, and that you is your vastly parallel and distributed Walter J. Freeman, How Brains Make Up their Minds (New York: Columbia University Press, 2001), 3. 13 Anthony Dardis, Mental Causation: The Mind–Body Problem (New York: Columbia University Press, 2008), ix–x, 5. 14 John R. Searle, Freedom and Neurobiology: Reflections on Free Will, Language, and Political Power (New York: Columbia University Press, 2007), 5. 15 Joseph LeDoux, Synaptic Self: How our Brains become Who We Are (New York: Viking, 2002), 324. 12 The Reality of the Soul in an Age of Neuroscience 897 brain without a central command center.”16 If we find this an unhappy prospect, we need to take a critical look at these issues. Finding a Starting Point Where should we begin? The Polish poet and essayist Czesław Miłosz offers some sound advice for addressing any fundamental question: I am here. Those three words contain all that can be said. . . . And so I must offer resistance, check every moment to be sure I am not departing from what I have actually experienced on my own, what I myself have touched. . . . I can distinguish, I hope, between what is mine and what is merely fashionable. I cannot expel from memory the books I have read, their contending theories and philosophies, but I am free to be suspicious and to ask naïve questions.17 We can also begin with our own experience and distinguish it from the currently fashionable Zeitgeist known as materialism. We are free to be suspicious and even to ask naïve questions. Fundamentally, we are free to affirm the experience of our own consciousness and actions as non-negotiables, even as we appreciate the discoveries of neuroscience. If we start with, and hold onto, our own experience, we will find ourselves in good company. Many scientists do the same. Stanley Jaki, for instance, tells this story of the physicist and Nobel laureate Arthur Holly Compton: “As he discussed in a lecture at Yale the claim that the laws of physics left no room for the freedom of will he raised his little finger, bent it and said: if the laws of physics ever should come to contradict my conviction that I can move my little finger at will then all the laws of physics should be revised and reformulated.”18 And the cognitive scientist Jerry Fodor avers: “If it isn’t literally true that my wanting is causally responsible for my reaching, and my itching is causally responsible for my scratching, and my believing is causally responsible for my saying, . . . if none of that is Michael S. Gazzaniga, Who’s in Charge? Free Will and the Science of the Brain (New York: HarperCollins, 2011), 108. 17 Czesław Miłosz, To Begin Where I Am (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2001), 1–2. 18 Stanley Jaki, “Brain, Mind and Computers,” Journal of the American Scientific Affiliation 24 (1972): 12–17, asa3.org/ASA/PSCF/1972/JASA3-72Jaki.html. 16 898 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. literally true, then practically everything I believe about anything is false and it’s the end of the world.”19 Well, happily we are not at the end of the world (yet). Still, we should ask how it is that mind, which seems so self-evident, could be reduced so readily to the function of something else—to the physical firings of neurons in the brain. There must be some strong presuppositions at work here that lead to this reduction. Perhaps if we can sort them out, we will be a step closer to finding not just a place but also a need for the soul in this age of neuroscience. The Method and Assumptions of Neuroscience The achievements of neuroscience, like all empirical science, stem from strict adherence to a method that limits itself to quantified, empirically verifiable data. Since a spiritual soul is not empirically verifiable, there is simply no place for it in the discipline of neuroscience. That need not mean, however, that there is no place for it in an age of neuroscience. To exclude the soul from the age of neuroscience, we would have to extend the method of neuroscience beyond the boundaries of that discipline to include all that is—all that exists. But the method of neuroscience would then be no longer just a method, a way of proceeding within a certain discipline. It would become a metaphysics, an assertion about everything that is. This is what is happening in neuroscience today, and it is exactly what happened in the physical sciences at the time of the Scientific Revolution. Reality was limited to what is quantifiable, and causality was reduced to the force that moves the atoms. The result was not science, but scientism.20 Jeffery Schwartz explains how scientism is evident in the assumptions of neuroscience: “Classical physics held that the reality of the physical world is constituted of infinitesimal particles in a sea of space. Jerry Fodor, “Making Mind Matter More,” in A Theory of Content and Other Essays (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1990), 156. 20 “Scientism is fundamentally the transformation of the methodology of empirical science into a metaphysics, a move from the quantitative investigation of nature to the assumption that being is always quantitative. While the former is a legitimate methodology, the latter is mere ideology” (Michael J. Dodds, Unlocking Divine Action: Contemporary Science and Thomas Aquinas [Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2012], 51n27; see also 48–53). “The absence of a true philosophy of nature transformed . . . this methodological reductionism into a metaphysical one, with the consequence that modern science was built on ‘faith’ in a certain (mechanical) conception of matter and the universe” (Gennaro Auletta, “Science, Philosophy and Religion Today: Some Reflections,” Theology and Science 5 [2007]: 273). 19 The Reality of the Soul in an Age of Neuroscience 899 Causation, in this scheme, reflects, at bottom, one particle’s acting on its immediate neighbor, which in turn acts on its neighbor, until—well, until something happens. Wholly deterministic natural laws govern the behavior of matter. . . . This mechanistic view—stimulus in, behavior out—evolved into today’s neurobiological model of how the mind works: neurotransmitter in, behavior, thought, or emotion out. . . . The cascade of discoveries in neuroscience and genetics has created an image of individuals as automata, slaves to their genes or their neurotransmitters, with no more free will than a child’s windup toy.”21 Approaches to the Dilemmas Various ways have been proposed to address these issues. We will look at four of them: materialism, emergence, dualism, and hylomorphism.22 The fourth will open us to the thought of Aristotle and Aquinas. Materialism In some ways, materialism offers the easiest solution. Since matter is the only reality, the mind, like the brain, must be simply matter.23 Since matter can certainly act on matter, the mind can act on the brain. Paul Churchland extols “the rich resources and explanatory successes of current materialism.”24 David Papineau praises the simplicity of the materialist approach: “We don’t need any fancy new concepts to understand consciousness. For there isn’t anything really mysterious about it in the first place. . . . Why not Schwartz, Mind, 260–61, 300. Some have also sought a solution by using features of quantum physics. Henry Stapp, John Eccles, Jeffrey Schwartz, Richard Swinburne, and John Searle have all entertained a role for quantum physics, with varying degrees of elaboration and thoroughness. See: Henry P. Stapp, Mind, Matter, and Quantum Mechanics (New York: Springer, 1993); Richard Swinburne, The Evolution of the Soul (Oxford: Clarendon, 1986), 231–61; Searle, Freedom and Neurobiology, 74–76; John C. Eccles, How the Self Controls Its Brain (New York: Springer, 1994), 145–66; Schwartz, Mind, 255–89. While significant, this approach seems tenuous, since it depends on the indeterminacy of nature as affirmed by the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum physics. Other interpretations, such as that of David Bohm, do not imply such indeterminacy; see Bohm, Causality and Chance in Modern Physics (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1954). 23 “Materialism, of course, is the belief that only the physical is ontologically valid and that, going even further, nothing that is not physical—of which mind and consciousness are the paramount examples—can even exist in the sense of being a measurable, real entity” (Schwartz, Mind, 28). 24 Paul M. Churchland, Matter and Consciousness: A Contemporary Introduction to the Philosophy of Mind (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1988), 19. 21 22 900 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. just accept that having a subjective feeling is being in a material state?”25 Why not just accept materialism? Perhaps because it remains fundamentally unable to explain human consciousness and action. Socrates recognized this long ago.26 Searle, while embracing materialism, admits that neuroscience has not yet solved the dilemma of consciousness.27 Materialism also jeopardizes human integrity and freedom by reducing humans to collections of atoms. If all is matter, and matter is deterministic, then freedom is impossible.28 Ultimately, materialism is self-defeating, as J. B. S. Haldane has pointed out: “If my mental processes are determined wholly by the motions of atoms in my brain, I have no reason to suppose that my beliefs are true. They may be sound chemically, but that does not make them sound logically. And hence I have no reason for supposing my brain to be composed of atoms. In order to escape from this necessity of sawing away the branch on which I am sitting, so to speak, I am compelled to believe that mind is not wholly conditioned by matter.”29 David Papineau, Thinking About Consciousness (Oxford: Clarendon, 2002), 1–2. “But to call things like that causes is too absurd. If it were said that without such bones and sinews and all the rest of them I should not be able to do what I think is right, it would be true. But to say that it is because of them that I do what I am doing, and not through choice of what is best—although my actions are controlled by mind—would be a very lax and inaccurate form of expression. Fancy being unable to distinguish between the cause of a thing and the condition without which it could not be a cause! It is this latter, as it seem to me, that most people, groping in the dark, call a cause—attaching to it a name to which it has no right” (Plato, Phaedo 99a–b, in The Collected Dialogues of Plato, ed. Edith Hamilton and Huntington Cairns [Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1973]). 27 “All of our mental states are caused by neurobiological processes in the brain, and they are themselves realized in the brain as its higher-level or system features. . . . The solution to the philosophical mind-body problem seems to me not very difficult. However, the philosophical solution kicks the problem upstairs to neurobiology, where it leaves us with a very difficult neurobiological problem. How exactly does the brain do it, and how exactly are conscious states realized in the brain? What exactly are the neuronal processes that cause our conscious experiences, and how exactly are these conscious experiences realized in brain structures?” (Searle, Freedom and Neurobiology, 40). 28 “As long as we accept this conception of how nature works, then it doesn’t seem that there is any scope for the freedom of the will because on this conception the mind can only affect nature in so far as it is a part of nature. But if so, then like the rest of nature, its features are determined at the basic micro-levels of physics” ( John Searle, Minds, Brains and Science [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1984], 93). 29 J. B. S. Haldane, “When I Am Dead,” in Possible Worlds and Other Essays (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1928), 209. 25 26 The Reality of the Soul in an Age of Neuroscience 901 Emergence Recognizing the inadequacy of reductionistic materialism, some thinkers have invoked the notion of emergence to explain the mind–brain relation. As the property of wetness “emerges” from a collection of water molecules, so the mind “emerges” from brain activity, yet manifests properties that cannot be reduced simply to brain function. There are two basic versions of emergence, “weak” and “strong.” In “weak emergence” or epiphenomenalism, the mind is considered a real product of brain activity, but one that does not exercise any causal influence on the brain. In effect, “the mind” is simply an alternative description of brain activity.30 In “strong emergence,” the mind is said to exercise a kind of “downward causality” on the brain.31 The nature of that influence, however, and the type of causality it entails remain obscure.32 While claiming that a whole, such as a human being, emerges from its parts, emergence provides no ontological principle to explain or ground the being of the whole, and so remains in constant danger of falling back into reductionism. The mind is said to emerge from cerebral processes, but ontologically appears to be nothing but a collection of such processes.33 “The problem of mental causation . . . is to explain how mental events can cause physical events. . . . When you have a thought, brain activity is actually going on. Brain activity causes bodily movements by physiological processes. Now, because mental states are features of the brain, they have two levels of description, a higher level in mental terms, and a lower level in physiological terms. The very same causal powers of the system can be described at either level. . . . At the higher level of description, the intention to raise my arm causes the movement of the arm. But at the lower level of description, a series of neuron firings starts a chain of events that results in the contraction of the muscles” ( John Searle, Minds, Brains and Science, 26). 31 Nancey Murphy argues, for instance, that “non-reductive physicalism” allows consciousness to have a “top-down causal influence on the body” (Nancey Murphy, “Non-reductive Physicalism: Philosophical Issues,” in Brown, Murphy, and Malony, Whatever Happened? 129–31). 32 See: Mariusz Tabaczek, “Emergence and Downward Causation Reconsidered in Terms of the Aristotelian-Thomistic View of Causation and Divine Action,” Scientia et Fides 4, no. 1 (2016): 115–49; Derek Jeffreys, “The Soul is Alive and Well: Non-reductive Physicalism and Emergent Mental Properties,” Theology and Science 2 (2004): 205–25. 33 Jaegwon Kim points out the tendency of emergence to fall back into reductionism: “So all roads branching out of physicalism may in the end seem to converge at the same point, the irreality of the mental. This should come as no surprise: we should remember that physicalism, as an overarching metaphysical doctrine about all of reality, exacts a steep price. . . . At any rate, what is becoming increasingly clear from the continuing debate over the mind-body problem is that currently 30 902 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. Dualism Dualism sees the human being as a combination of two radically different things—a material thing (the body) and a spiritual thing (the mind). Some neuroscientists have embraced dualism as the solution to the mind–brain problem. So John Eccles remarks: “This dualist conclusion is the culmination of my life-long dedication to the self-brain problem.”34 And Wilder Penfield avers: “For myself, after a professional lifetime spent in trying to discover how the brain accounts for the mind, it comes as a surprise now to discover, during this final examination of the evidence, that the dualist hypothesis seems the more reasonable of the two possible explanations.”35 Dualism is able to affirm the reality of mind unequivocally, but has difficulty in showing how mind and body together constitute one being, one human person. The consequent temptation (to which Descartes fell victim) is to identify the human being simply with the mind: “I concluded that I was a thing or substance whose whole essence or nature was only to think, and which, to exist, has no need of space nor any material thing or body.”36 If mind and brain are distinct substances, it is difficult to explain their unity and to show how one influences the other. As Jaegwon Kim notes: “The problem of mental causation is coeval with the mind-body problem—Descartes invented them both, or at least was responsible for them. For Descartes, mental causation became a problem—ultimately an insuperable one—because of his ontology of two radically diverse sorts of substances—material bodies whose essence is having a bulk in space and minds with consciousness as their essence. . . . I believe that the problem goes deep, deep into our fundamental metaphysical views about ourselves and the world we live in, and that we need to make fairly drastic adjustpopular middle-of-the-road positions, like property dualism, anomalous monism, and nonreductive physicalism, are not easily tolerated by robust physicalism. To think that one can be a serious physicalist and at the same time enjoy the company of things and phenomena that are nonphysical, I believe, is an idle dream” (Mind in a Physical World: An Essay on the Mind-Body Problem and Mental Causation [Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1998], 119–20). 34 Eccles, How the Self, 182. See also Karl R. Popper and John C. Eccles, The Self and Its Brain (New York: Springer, 1977). 35 Wilder Penfield, The Mystery of the Mind: A Critical Study of Consciousness and the Human Brain (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1975), 85. 36 René Descartes, Discourse on Method, pt. 4, in Discourse on Method and Meditations, trans. Laurence J. Lafleur (New York: Bobbs Merrill, 1977), 25. For a contemporary defense of Descartes, see John Foster, The Immaterial Self: A Defense of the Cartesian Dualist Conception of the Mind (New York: Routledge, 1991), and W. D. Hart, The Engines of the Soul (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1988). The Reality of the Soul in an Age of Neuroscience 903 ments if we are serious about coming to terms with the problem.”37 Perhaps the best place to look in making such metaphysical adjustments is the hylomorphic theory of Aristotle and Aquinas. Hylomorphism Hylomorphism allows us to maintain both the reality of the mind and the integrity of the human person as a single being. It sees the human being as composed of two principles, but not two substances. Following Aristotle, the principles are called matter (hylē) and form (morphē). “Matter” as used here is not a kind of “stuff ”—an actual something. It is rather the mere possibility of being something-or-other. And form is not just a shape or structure. It is the principle by which a thing is what it is. In living things, this principle is called “soul.” Together, these two principles comprise not two beings (as in dualism), and not just a quasi-whole, which is really a collection of other stuff (as in reductionism and emergence), but one being. Put the terms together (hylē + morphē) and you have the word “hylomorphism.” Put the actual ontological principles together and you have a single substance, such as a single human being. To get a quick fix on hylomorphism, I invite you to picture Bobby, a ten-year-old boy, who gets a puppy for his birthday and happily names it “Rover.” Three days later, however, his puppy runs out into the street and gets smashed by a cement roller. So, it is over for Rover, who is now just a blob on the pavement. (Metaphysics isn’t always pretty.) Poor Bobby is desolate, but his Dad tries to help. Unfortunately, Dad is a reductionist, so he tells little Bobby: “Don’t worry, son. Rover’s still here—right here on the pavement. There’s nothing missing. He’s just— had his parts rearranged.” Well, little Bobby knows better: Rover is over. This is not just a reshaping of parts. Something more radical has happened, something substantial—what Aristotle would call “substantial change.” In any change, there is always something that stays the same and something new. If I crumple a piece of paper, for instance, the paper (a substance) stays the same, and gets a new shape. Aristotle would call this accidental change. The substance stays the same, while the accidents (the shape) change. But what happens when the substance itself changes? If substance itself is changing, it cannot be substance that stays the same. It has got to be something more basic, more fundamental. Rover was a substance—a dog, a being. So when that being, that substance, changed Kim, Mind in a Physical World, 57, 59. See also Thomas Nagel, Mind and Cosmos: Why the Materialist Neo-Darwinian Conception of Nature is Almost Certainly False (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), 35–36. 37 904 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. (when Rover died), substance could not have been what stayed the same— unless, of course, Rover never really was a substance, a single being, but only a collection of other substances, of other stuff. But in that case, Rover was never really Rover, and Dad is right: even after the accident, Rover is still right there on the pavement. He has just had his parts rearranged. But if a substance is really a substance—if Rover is really Rover—and if the substance changes, it cannot be substance that remains the same. But, if it is not substance (or a collection of substances, a bunch of stuff) that stays the same, what is it? Aristotle’s answer is that what stays the same is not substance, but the mere possibility of being a substance—what he calls “primary matter” (prōtē hylē).38 According to hylomorphism, every material substance is composed of two principles. One is the mere possibility of being (primary matter). It explains why the substance can cease to be what it is and become something else. Every material substance always has the “possibility of being” something else, as wood has the possibility of being ashes. The other principle is substantial form, the principle by which the substance is the kind of thing that it is—the principle by which Rover is a dog. Neither primary matter nor substantial form is itself a “thing”—a substance. Each is rather a principle of substance. Only together do they constitute a complete substance. In living things, substantial form is called “soul.” So, in living things (whether dogs or cats or humans), soul and primary matter (or “bare matter,” as Aquinas calls it) are not two things, but are together a single living thing, a substance.39 Even in this age of neuroscience, if dogs Aristotle, Physics 2.1.193a29, in Basic Works of Aristotle (ed. McKeon). See William Wallace, The Modeling of Nature: Philosophy of Science and Philosophy of Nature in Synthesis (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1996), 8. 39 “By ‘soul’ we understand that by which a living thing is alive; it is understood, therefore, as existing in a subject, taking ‘subject’ in a broad sense to include not only those actual beings which are subjects of their accidental modifications, but also bare matter or potential being” (Thomas Aquinas, In II de anima, lec. 1, no. 220, in Aristotle’s De Anima in the Version of William of Moerbeke and the Commentary of St. Thomas Aquinas, trans. Kenelm Foster and Silvester Humphries [London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1951]). “Body and soul are not two actually existing substances; rather, the two of them together constitute one actually existing substance. For man’s body is not actually the same while the soul is present and when it is absent; but the soul makes it to be actually” (Thomas Aquinas, Summa contra gentiles [SCG] II, ch. 69, no. 2, trans. James F. Anderson [New York: Doubleday, 1955]). Note that this distinction between “form and possibility-of-being” is not to be equated with the distinction between “mind and body” or “soul and body.” The living human body is not mere possibility-of-being. It is possibility-of-being already actualized by the human substantial form. 38 The Reality of the Soul in an Age of Neuroscience 905 are still dogs, cats are still cats, and humans are still humans (and not just collections of other stuff), then each must have a substantial form or soul. Some things we come across in the world—like log cabins or skyscrapers—are just collections of other stuff (such as building materials that have been structured in a new way). Before, during, and after the skyscraper is built, its steel girders are still steel. But other things, like Rover—like dogs and cats and people—exhibit a kind of unity in their being and action that allows us to recognize each of them as a whole and not just a collection of parts, a bunch of other stuff. If that is our intuition, then we need an ontological principle to explain that unity, that oneness. We need a principle to explain why all of the parts of Rover are really Rover and why all the parts of me and you (carbon, nitrogen, and so forth) do not exist as other stuff, but as me and you. This principle is what Aristotle calls substantial form or, in living things, soul.40 The soul is not an add-on, a little homunculus that we can do without. It is not a ghost. It is an ontological principle, present in every living thing, that makes it to be the kind of thing it is—that actualizes or determines possibility-of-being to be a particular kind of thing. So, in hylomorphic philosophy, the whole does not “emerge” from a collection of parts. Rather the substantial form or soul, as the principle of the whole, itself accounts for the existence and structure of the whole with all its parts. In effect, the whole does not depend on the parts (as in emergence), but the parts depend on the whole. As Aquinas explains: “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. But the soul is a substantial form; and therefore it must be the form and the act, not only of the whole, but also of each part.”41 The soul accounts for the existence of the whole with all its parts. So Rover has bones and heart and nose and tail because of his soul. By causing a thing to be what it is, the soul also accounts for Aristotle, De anima 2.1.412b5. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae [ST] I, q. 76, a. 8, resp., trans. Dominican Fathers of the English Province (New York: Benziger Brothers, 1946). Aquinas is telescoping his metaphysics here, in saying that substantial form “gives existence.” Elsewhere, he shows that, while substantial form (that by which a thing is what it is) explains what the thing is, the “act of existing” (esse, that by which a thing exists) gives existence and so explains that the thing is. See SCG II, ch. 54, and Thomas Aquinas, De potentia, q. 7, a. 2, ad 9 (Westminster, MD: Newman Press, 1952). 40 41 906 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. the characteristic activities of the thing.42 So dogs bark, ducks quack, and humans think—all in virtue of their particular soul. Once things exist and have characteristic ways of acting, then empirical science can study those activities, quantify them, and see their interrelationships. It can also codify its findings as scientific laws. But such laws are always descriptive, not prescriptive. They describe the behavior of things quantitatively. They never prescribe or cause such behavior. As an empirical science, neuroscience studies the activity of the human brain. But it can do so only because, at a more fundamental level, a human being is a human being, existing as one being that has certain characteristic activities, including brain activities, in virtue of the substantial form or soul, by which it is a human being. Neuroscience does not study the soul, since the soul lies beyond its methodological limits. Like all empirical sciences, neuroscience limits itself to what is quantifiable. The soul, however, as a substantial form, is not quantifiable. A substantial form is not a “what” that can be weighed and measured. It is rather the ontological principle “by which” a thing is what it is. The soul cannot therefore be studied within the limits of neuroscience. Beyond those limits, however, the soul can be investigated in the philosophy of nature and philosophical anthropology. These disciplines do not contradict the work of neuroscience and the other empirical sciences, but rather complement it.43 Hylomorphism and Mind–Brain Interaction Hylomorphism offers a coherent framework for understanding the mind– brain relation.44 It begins with the whole human being, since it is the whole “For since everything acts insofar as it is actual . . . and since every being is actual through form, it is necessary for the operation of a thing to follow its form. Therefore, if there are different forms, they must have different operations” (SCG III, ch. 97, no. 4; trans. Vernon J. Bourke). See also William Wallace, “Nature as Animating: The Soul in the Human Sciences,” The Thomist 49 (1985): 612–48. 43 See: Wallace, Modeling; Michael J. Dodds, The Philosophy of Nature (Oakland, CA: Western Dominican Province/lulu.com, 2010); Dodds, Philosophical Anthropology (Oakland, CA: Western Dominican Province/lulu.com, 2013). 44 See: James D. Madden, Mind, Matter, and Nature: A Thomistic Proposal for the Philosophy of Mind (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2013); William Jaworski, Structure and the Metaphysics of Mind: How Hylomorphism Solves the Mind-Body Problem (New York: Oxford University Press, 2016); Edward Feser, Philosophy of Mind: A Short Introduction (Oxford: Oneworld, 2005), 173–80; Michael J. Dodds, “Hylomorphism and Human Wholeness: Perspectives on the Mind-Brain Problem,” Theology and Science 7 (2009): 141–62; and Richard Cross, “Aquinas and the Mind-Body Problem,” in Mind, Metaphysics, 42 The Reality of the Soul in an Age of Neuroscience 907 that explains the part, not the part that explains the whole.45 Action is accordingly attributed to the whole human person, and the action of the part (such as the brain) is always understood in the context of the whole.46 This is a healthy corrective to the tendency of neuroscience to attribute action to the part rather than the whole.47 Once the whole is established as the subject of action, we can discuss how one part may act on another—as I might use my hand to scratch my head. Hylomorphism brings a broad understanding of causality to this discussion. Formal and final causality as well as principal and instrumental causality (as aspects of efficient causality) can be employed here to give a more complete and integral account of action.48 Efficient causality itself is not reduced to the force that moves the atoms, and we are not reduced to pondering how the mind can exert a physical force on the brain.49 and Value in the Thomistic and Analytical Traditions, ed. John Haldane (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2002), 36–53. 45 ST I, q. 76, a. 8, resp. See also Michael J. Dodds, “Response to John R. Searle’s ‘The Future of Philosophy,’” Nova et Vetera (English) 14, no. 2 (2016): 559–64. 46 “Yet to say that it is the soul which is angry is as inexact as it would be to say that it is the soul that weaves webs or builds houses. It is doubtless better to avoid saying that the soul pities or learns or thinks and rather to say that it is the man who does this with his soul” (Aristotle, De anima 1.4.408b 12–13). See also ST I, q. 75, a. 2, ad 2. 47 “Neuroscientists are prone to ascribe consciousness to the brain. . . . This conception is a particular instance of what we have called ‘the mereological fallacy in neuroscience,’ inasmuch as it involves ascribing to the brain—that is, to a part of an animal—an attribute which it makes sense to ascribe only to the animal as a whole” (M. R. Bennett and P. M. S. Hacker, Philosophical Foundations of Neuroscience [Oxford: Blackwell, 2003], 15, 239–40). “Such category mistakes as, for example, attributing psychological features that belong to the whole person to parts of his brain, are rampant among our contemporaries and are even defended as philosophically insightful avenues for understanding the neural correlates of consciousness” (Daniel D. De Haan and Geoffrey A. Meadows, “Aristotle and the Philosophical Foundations of Neuroscience,” Proceedings of the American Catholic Philosophical Association 87 [2013]: 215). “To have a mind . . . requires more than a brain. Brains don’t have minds; people (and other animals) do” (Alva Noe, Out of Our Heads: Why You Are Not Your Brain, and Other Lessons from the Biology Of Consciousness [New York: Hill and Wong, 2009], 10). 48 “The soul is the cause or source of the living body. The terms cause and source have many senses. But the soul is the cause of its body alike in all three senses which we explicitly recognize. It is (a) the source or origin of movement, it is (b) the end, it is (c) the essence of the whole living body” (Aristotle, De anima 2.4.415b 9–11]). See Dodds, Unlocking Divine Action, 160–204. 49 “The mind-body problem, and its interactionist solution, were common possessions of the school of Aristotle. The members of this school, who accepted the doctrine that the mind was incorporeal, also accepted, tacitly but none the less 908 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. The Soul and Human Immortality The principles of hylomorphism allow us to account for human immortality without sacrificing the unity of the human person. We start with the philosophical principle that “action follows being.” What a thing does tells us about what it is.50 (So, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s probably a duck.) Some characteristic human actions suggest immateriality. Our acts of self-reflection and intellectual abstraction, for instance, transcend the capacity of matter.51 But if we transcend the limits of matter in our actions, we must also transcend matter in our very being, since action follows being.52 Since the soul is the principle of human action, if the action transcends matter in some way, the soul must also transcend matter.53 If so, the human substantial form is unlike that of any other material thing, both in its instantiation and in its destiny. In its instantiation, the human soul is not simply “educed from the clearly, that the mind-body relation was based on an interaction which was as a matter of course non-mechanical. The mind-body problem was solved in this way, as I have already suggested, by all thinkers of the time, except by the atomists who believed in a mechanical interaction” (Popper and Eccles, The Self, 176). 50 “The operation of anything follows the mode of its being” (ST I, q. 75, a. 3, resp.). 51 Aristotle, De anima 3.4–8; SCG II, ch. 49; ST I, q. 75, a. 2. 52 “Wherever there is individuation within kinds there is matter, wherever there is universality matter is absent. . . . Abstract thought is structured by universals and universals only exist as such apart from (empirical) matter. Now recall the principle that acting follows upon being (agere sequitur esse). This captures the fact that activities are exercises of powers and that powers belong to substances as parts of their natures. If thought is a non-physical activity, as I have argued (admittedly schematically) that it is, then the intellectual powers are not physical; nor, therefore can be the substance to whose nature those powers belong” ( John Haldane, “A Return to Form in the Philosophy of Mind,” in Form and Matter: Themes in Contemporary Metaphysics, ed. David S. Oderberg [Oxford: Blackwell, 1999], 58). 53 “The intellectual principle which we call the mind or the intellect has an operation per se apart from the body. Now only that which subsists can have an operation per se. For nothing can operate but what is actual; wherefore a thing operates according as it is; for which reason we do not say that heat imparts heat, but that what is hot gives heat. We must conclude therefore that the human soul which is called the intellect or the mind is something incorporeal and subsistent” (ST I, q. 75, a. 2, resp.). “The intellective soul acts through itself, inasmuch as its proper activity occurs without the body sharing in it. And since a thing acts insofar as it is in act, it follows that the intellective soul has existence through itself, independently. Its existence does not depend on the body” (Thomas Aquinas, Quaestio disputata de anima [Q. disp. de anima], q. 1, resp., in Questions on the Soul, trans. James H. Robb [Milwaukee, WI: Marquette University Press, 1984]). See also SCG II, ch. 68, nos. 4–5. The Reality of the Soul in an Age of Neuroscience 909 potency of matter,” as are the forms of all other material substances, but is rather created.54 As to its destiny, the human soul does not cease to be when the human being dies. Since the human soul transcends matter, it may continue to exist even without its material co-principle of primary matter. In this continued existence, however, the soul is not a complete human being. Since humans are rational animals, they essentially require matter as well as form for their completeness. Aquinas therefore teaches that, after death, the separated soul is not itself a human person, but only part of a person: “Not every particular substance is a hypostasis or a person, but that which has the complete nature of its species. Hence a hand, or a foot, is not called a hypostasis, or a person; nor, likewise, is the soul alone so called, since it is a part of the human species.”55 Since action follows being, the action of the separated soul, as part of the human being, will be different from the action of the whole human being, composed of both soul and matter. In this life, any human act is radicated in the soul as “the source of motion and rest,”56 but belongs to the whole human person. Even the immaterial act of the intellect, however much it is in itself independent of matter, does not occur without a particular phantasm of the imagination: “In the present state of life in which the soul is united to a passible body, it is impossible for our intellect to understand anything actually, except by turning to the phantasms.”57 (To illustrate this, I invite you to think of the word “butterfly.” As you think of it, you will immediately have the idea of butterfly [that applies to all butterflies] in your intellect, but not without the image of some particular butterfly in your imagination.) The intellect is an entirely immaterial power, while the imagination, one of the “internal senses,” is a physically based power that Aquinas understood to be located in the brain.58 So, for Aquinas, the “The rational soul can be made only be creation” (ST I, q. 90, a. 2, resp.). “Since the rational soul does not depend in its existence on corporeal matter, and is subsistent, and exceeds the capacity of corporeal matter, as we have seen, it is not educed from the potentiality of matter” (ST I, q. 90, a. 2, ad 2). See also De potentia, q. 3, a. 8, ad 7. 55 ST I, q. 75, a. 4, ad 2. “A human being naturally desires his own salvation; but the soul, since it is part of the body of a human being, is not a whole human being, and my soul is not I; so even if a soul gains salvation in another life, that is not I or any human being” (Thomas Aquinas, Super 1 Cor 15, lec. 2, as quoted in Anthony Kenny, The Self [Milwaukee, WI: Marquette University Press, 1988], 27). 56 Aristotle, Physics 2.1.192b 21–23. 57 ST I, q. 84, a. 7, resp. 58 “Often Aquinas, with usual reference to the Arabian philosophers, indicates that the internal sense organs are in the brain, rendering the brain itself the physiological basis for the organs of the internal senses. Yet the brain itself, as a material 54 910 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. intellect in this present life does not act apart from the brain. This philosophical conclusion accords well with current brain research showing that every act of knowing or willing is accompanied by some brain activity.59 After death, the soul will exist without its material co-principle, and will be able to act without it, since a thing’s mode of action follows its mode of being. It will not require the imagination or the brain in its act of knowing: “It must be borne in mind that the soul understands in a different manner when separated from the body and when united to it, even as it exists diversely in those cases; for a thing acts according as it is. . . . It follows that, so long as the soul is in the body, it cannot perform that act without a phantasm. . . . The separated soul, however, exists by itself, apart from the body. Consequently its operation, which is understanding, will not be fulfilled in relation to those objects existing in bodily organs which the phantasms are; on the contrary, it will understand through itself, in the manner of substances which in their being are totally separate from bodies.”60 This has theological implications for the Christian notions of immortality and resurrection. If the separated human soul, by itself, before the resurrection of the body, were unable to know or to love, it could not enjoy the beatific vision of God. On the other hand, if the human soul itself were equated with the human person, there would be little philosophical reason for a resurrection involving (in some way) a reuniting of the soul and matter.61 organ, is an instance of esse naturale. All knowing is in the psychological status of esse intentionale. It is the root of intentionality in Aquinas to have an ‘immaterial’ reception of forms serve as the groundwork for all cognitive states. The faculties, however, must be found in a physiological ‘home,’ as it were, which is the organ itself ” (Anthony J. Lisska, Aquinas’s Theory of Perception: An Analytic Reconstruction [Oxford: University of Oxford Press, 2016], 228). 59 “All the psychological categories and concepts we shall examine signify attributes of human beings (and, in many cases, of other animals too). The logical grounds for their ascription to a subject, as we have seen, are the behavior of the subject, of the human being, not of his brain. For nothing a brain can do could possibly constitute a ground for ascribing thought, perception, imagination or volition to the brain. Rather, we can correlate neural events and processes with the human being’s thinking or perceiving, imagining or intending, and discover (if we can) what neural states, events and processes are causally necessary conditions for the human being to think or perceive, imagine or intend” (Bennett and Hacker, Philosophical Foundations, 117). 60 SCG II, chs. 80–81, no.12. See also ST I, q. 89, a. 1, resp. 61 Lest we think that the soul is better off without the body, Aquinas points out that the soul, as united to the body, is more God-like than the separated soul: “The The Reality of the Soul in an Age of Neuroscience 911 Conclusion “To begin where I am.” As humans, we begin with sensation and intellectual knowledge, along with the passions and affections that attend them, and through these faculties each of us experiences herself or himself as an integral human being.62 We experience ourselves as whole persons, and we marvel at our wholeness—that our whole being acts for the good of each part and each part acts for the good of the whole. We are indeed “fearfully and wonderfully made” (Ps 138:14). Hylomorphism recognizes the substantial form or soul as the ontological ground of our wholeness.63 If our experience in the world, our interaction with other people, our introspection, and our faith lead us to the conviction that we are spiritual as well as physical, then hylomorphism also allows us to account for these dimensions of ourselves without sacrificing our wholeness. Finally, if human wholeness is our starting point, if the soul is the ground of our wholeness, and if the full achievement of wholeness, both bodily and spiritually, is our ultimate end in God, then we can be sure that there is not just a place for the soul in this age of neuroscience, but a need: Does it never give thee pause, . . . that men then had a soul—not by hearsay alone, and as a figure of speech; but as a truth that they knew, and practically went upon! Verily it was another world then. . . . But yet it is pity we had lost tidings of our souls—actually we shall have to go in quest of them again, or worse in all ways will befall! Another world, truly: and this present poor distressed world might get some profit by looking wisely into it, instead of foolishly. . . . These old St. Edmundsbury walls, I say, were not peopled with phantasms; but with men of flesh and blood, made altogether as we soul united with the body is more like God than the soul separated from the body, because it possesses its nature more perfectly” (De potentia q. 5, a. 10, ad 5). 62 “Now this science of the soul . . . has certainty; for everyone knows by experience that he has a soul which is his life-principle” (Aquinas, In II de anima, lec. 1, no. 6). “Since the soul is the living thing’s life principle, Aquinas says that we know ‘by experience’ that we have a soul, simply because we know that we are alive” (Adrian J. Reimers, The Soul of the Person: A Contemporary Philosophical Psychology [Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2006], 23). On the importance of the passions, see Nicholas E. Lombardo, The Logic of Desire: Aquinas on Emotion (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2011). 63 It should be noted that, for Aquinas, wholeness is due not only to unity of form, but also to unity of act of existence (esse): “That same existence that belongs to the soul is communicated to the body, so that there might be one existence of the whole composite”(Q. disp. de anima, q. 1, a. 1, ad 1). 912 Michael J. Dodds, O.P. are. Had thou and I then been, who knows but we ourselves had taken refuge from an evil Time, and fled to dwell here, and meditate on an Eternity, in such fashion as we could? . . . For twenty generations, here was the earthly arena where painful living men worked out their life-wrestle—looked at by Earth, by Heaven and Hell. Bells tolled to prayers; and men, of many humors, various thoughts, chanted vespers, matins—and round the little islet of their life rolled forever (as round ours still rolls, though we are blind and deaf) the illimitable Ocean, tinting all things with its eternal hues and reflexes; making strange prophetic music! . . . He that speaks what is really in him, will find men to listen, though under never N&V such impediments.64 Carlyle, Past and Present, 61–63. 64 Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 17, No. 3 (2019): 913–942 913 Objections and Responses to the Existence of Free Choice Ezra Sullivan, O.P. Pontifical University of St. Thomas Aquinas Rome, Italy Samuel Johnson once observed : “All theory is against the freedom of the will; all experience for it.”1 He was only half right. As we will see, St. Thomas Aquinas offers a strong theory in favor of the freedom of choice. In this essay, I will weigh three objections to fully voluntary acts: those derived from neuroscience, physicalist determinism, and the problem of habituation. Although many other objections to free choice exist, these represent some of the most serious assaults on the idea of human freedom, and therefore human responsibility. In a final section, I will address Aquinas’s claim that freedom is rooted in reason. With these considerations in place, we will be well on our way to establishing a solid theory of morality in all its subtlety and richness. First Objection: The Experiments of Benjamin Libet Scientists and thinkers who argue against the existence of free choice very frequently cite the work of neurobiologist Benjamin Libet.2 For many, Libet’s experiments demonstrate that human action is not caused by an individual’s will or intention to act, and therefore that voluntary action is an illusion. Let us see why they think so. Libet’s goal in his experiments was to determine how or whether a James Boswell, The Life of Samuel Johnson, vol. 3 (Boston: W. Andrews and L. Blake, 1807), 13. 2 Alfred R. Mele, Why Science Hasn’t Disproved Free Will (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 8. 1 914 Ezra Sullivan, O.P. voluntary act arises in relation to brain functioning.3 In order to do this, he and his colleagues devised a way to ask test subjects about what he defined as a “voluntary action.” For Libet, a voluntary action has three aspects: (1) it arises from within a person and is not determined by an external stimulus; (2) it is free from “externally imposed restrictions or compulsions that directly or immediately control subjects’ initiation and performance of the act”; and (3) “most important, subjects feel introspectively that they are performing the act on their own initiative and that they are free to start or not to start the act as they wish.”4 Accordingly, Libet asked the subjects “to perform a simple quick flexion of the wrist or fingers at any time they felt the ‘urge’ or desire to do so,” ensuring that the movement was spontaneous and wholly unforced.5 They were then to look at a spot of light that revolved around a clock face in a little over two and a half seconds. They were to report for each wrist or finger movement precisely where the spot was on the clock when they were first aware of wanting to flex. The results of the experiment were striking. Measuring brain electrical activity, Libet found that a “readiness potential” (RP) to act arose almost 300 milliseconds before the subject was aware of wanting to act. That is, the brain was already active before the individual became conscious of a movement in his desire to flex. This is represented in the figure below.6 It should be emphasized that, although the brain was active prior to their conscious awareness of a desire to act, the subjects all reported that their movements were self-initiated, that they believed they were in control of whether or not to act, and that they were aware of no external or psycho Benjamin W. Libet, “Unconscious Cerebral Initiative and the Role of Conscious Will in Voluntary Action,” Behavioral and Brain Sciences 8, no. 04 (December 1985): 529–39, at 529. 4 Libet, “Unconscious Cerebral Initiative,” 529 (emphasis original). 5 Libet, “Unconscious Cerebral Initiative,” 530. 6 From Daniel M. Wegner, The Illusion of Conscious Will (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002), 53. 3 Objections and Responses to the Existence of Free Choice 915 logical pressures that affected the time when they decided to act.7 The importance of these results is indicated by the fact that they have generated a cottage industry of responses and analyses. Many interpreters were astonished by Libet’s findings.8 Supposing that the subject’s will is the cause of his movement, it seems to follow that the will would be the cause of the brain’s activity that initiates the movement. Thus, one’s brain activity should come after or at least be simultaneous with one’s decision to move, but certainly not before it. Because the brain activity preceded the subject’s desire to act, there seems to be no reason to hold that the subject’s will initiated the series of movements that led to his flexion. Instead, as Harvard psychologist Daniel Wegner put it, Libet’s experiments suggest that, “voluntary action is a mental event caused by prior events.”9 Therefore, in his estimation, voluntary action and “conscious will” is an illusion.10 Some interpretations have attempted to show that Libet’s experiments are wrongly interpreted by free-will deniers and even by Libet himself.11 According to Libet, one’s bodily inclination, initiated prior to conscious intention, does not fully exclude the possibility of freedom, and in fact argues against physical determinism, for the subject can veto his inclinations: “The role of conscious free will would be then, not to initiate a voluntary act, but rather to control whether the act takes place.”12 He argues that “unconscious initiatives for voluntary actions” bubble up in the brain, and the “conscious-will” selects which to enact and which to veto.13 For some, Libet’s concession is a meager consolation prize. With about a tenth of a second in which to avoid a movement initiated outside of one’s will, one’s veto-power has rather limited capabilities. In V. S. Ramachan- Libet, “Unconscious Cerebral Initiative,” 530. For a balanced presentation of different positions, see Conscious Will and Responsibility: A Tribute to Benjamin Libet, ed. Walter Sinnott-Armstrong and Lynn Nadel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). 9 Wegner, Illusion of Conscious Will, 55. 10 See also Patrick Haggard, Christ Newman, and Elena Magno, “On the Perceived Time of Voluntary Actions,” British Journal of Psychology 90 (1999): 291–303. 11 See Josef Siefert, “In Defense of Free Will: A Critique of Benjamin Libet,” The Review of Metaphysics 65, no. 2 (2011): 377–407. Siefert proceeds along Augustinian and phenomenological lines, adopting certain Cartesian presuppositions to refute Libet’s interpretation of his own data, and to demonstrate that acts of the will are unforced and are wholly spiritual. 12 Benjamin W. Libet, “Do We Have Free Will?” Journal of Consciousness Studies 6, no. 8–9 (1999): 47–57, at 54. 13 Libet, “Do We Have Free Will?” 54. 7 8 916 Ezra Sullivan, O.P. dran’s words, Libet argues that we have a “free won’t,” but not a free will.14 Libet, however, provides a more optimistic reading. He points out that ethics often focuses on self-control, and most of the Ten Commandments are couched in “do not” language.15 Furthermore, the universal presence of disordered physiological inclinations may be indirect evidence for “original sin.”16 Many responses can be made from a Thomistic perspective. To begin with, Libet is correct that in some occasions, if not in most, unconscious initiatives incline a person toward choosing to perform one action and not another. Sometimes one’s instinct for self-preservation inclines a person to hoard food at an all-you-can eat restaurant. Sometimes a person’s deeprooted childhood trauma inclines her to lash out in anger toward authority figures. Inclinations can arise outside of the will from involuntary, non-voluntary, or partly voluntary habits that are present from one’s nature as a human being, from one’s individual genetic and epigenetic makeup, from one’s experiences, and so on. Libet is also correct in arguing that these inclinations do not determine human action. But these positions are philosophic. Libet’s experiments on their own do not conclusively demonstrate them. Furthermore, the experiments are far less than demonstrative, as he seems to recognize, and the issue of voluntariness is more nuanced than he allows, as the following observations make clear. First, Libet seems to misunderstand the kind of action that his experiments detected. His aim was to find a physical sign of a voluntary act. But his premises and experimental design mitigate against such a finding. Libet’s experiment tested actions in which people were instructed not to think about what to do. He asked subjects to “report when they first felt a desire, urge” to move a finger, in a discreet, highly formalized setting. Libet supposed that an action is free because it arises from a “spontaneous” urge. Such an act is free only insofar as it is unforced. But such an unpremeditated act, which concurs only with one’s interior, physiological inclination, is merely a following of one’s non-deliberative urges and unconscious desires.17 This is quite different from an unforced act that proceeds from a process of choosing, planning, and executing—one that Albert Bandura characterizes as “proactive cognitive regulation,”18 and Quoted in Daniel Dennett, “The Self as a, Responding—and Responsible—Artifact,” Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences 1001 (2003): 39–50 at 41. 15 Libet, “Do We Have Free Will?” 54. 16 Libet, “Do We Have Free Will?” 55. 17 See Mele, Why Science Hasn’t Disproved Free Will, 15–16. 18 Albert Bandura, “Reconstrual of ‘Free Will’ from the Agentic Perspective of Social 14 Objections and Responses to the Existence of Free Choice 917 that Alfred Mele describes as “conscious decision making.”19 In a similar vein, Aquinas includes “deliberation” and “decision” in what he would call the “rational” process of human action.20 Libet thus correctly holds that a free decision must be tied to knowledge, but he does not adequately differentiate among kinds of knowledge or information as they relate to various actions: sensory information can be related to the sort of “freedom” that animals exercise when moving themselves from place to place, while they nevertheless act ultimately according to instinct; whereas deliberate knowledge, with insights derived from the act of abstraction, leads to moral freedom, as we will see below. Libet supposes that a voluntary act is always accompanied by a feeling of freedom—which appears to be for him a sort sensation that the agent recognizes—and he makes this feeling the cornerstone of voluntariness. However, the feeling of an urge to act is neither necessary nor sufficient for full voluntariness: although one may reflect upon his freedom when acting, it may be that while freely acting, an agent’s attention is fixed on the object of his choice rather than the freedom with which he chooses.21 The electronic monitor registered a physical preparation for an action. But the action that followed was one without deliberation or planning. However, the absence of reason denotes, for Aquinas, the presence of a non-voluntary act. Such a non-deliberate act, springing from a non-rational whim, would clearly not be rooted in one’s immediate rational desire. When a person acts without deliberately choosing to do so, his acts would be, in Thomas’s language, “acts of a human” and not “fully human acts.” Second, Libet does not account for volitional acts that occur prior to other acts. The design of the experiment entails that the subject freely chose to cooperate with the experiment and freely planned to flex his finger or wrist at some point in the experiment (even if he did not choose specifically when). Thus, the subject freely decided to flex before the physical Cognitive Theory,” in Are We Free? Psychology and Free Will, ed. John Baer, James C. Kaufman, and Roy F. Baumeister (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 86–127, at 115. See also Bandura’s magnum opus, Self-Efficacy: The Exercise of Control (New York: W. H. Freeman, 1997). 19 Mele, Why Science Hasn’t Disproved Free Will, 24. 20 This will be discussed more below. See Daniel Westberg, Right Practical Reason: Aristotle, Action, and Prudence in Aquinas (Oxford: Clarendon, 1994), 131. See also Lambert Hendriks, Choosing from Love: The Concept of “Electio” in the Structure of the Human Act According to Thomas Aquinas (Siena: Edizioni Cantagalli, 2010), 282–84. 21 See M. R. Bennett and P. M. S. Hacker, Philosophical Foundations of Neuroscience (Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2003), 229–30. 918 Ezra Sullivan, O.P. act itself. Bandura argues that the decision to flex is a “second-order” act that affects a “first-order” event. “In acting as agents,” he says, “individuals obviously are neither aware of nor directly control their neuronal mechanisms.”22 However, they do intentionally engage in activities “at the macrobehavioral level” and thus “shape their neural circuitry and enlist subpersonal neurophysiological events” for their chosen purposes.23 It may be that the brain firing was the result of an earlier act of volition, and even that it was a sign that the imagination was presenting the possibility of action to the will for acceptance or rejection. In this light, one could argue that the knowledge necessary for a free choice does not have to be concurrent with the chosen physical act in order for that physical act to be free.24 The first point above is clearly in tension with the second point just made. The first argues that the act was not voluntary, while the second argues that it could have been fully-voluntary. Either position is reasonable, and both demonstrate that Libet’s experiment provides underdetermined data. Alone, such data prove neither the existence nor the non-existence of human freedom. Hence, further philosophic analysis from a Thomistic perspective can help illuminate some of the challenges that arise from the data. Seen from outside of the experimental context, the flexion of the subject seems to be imperfectly voluntary. But seen from the perspective the acting person, embedded in the context of previous choices that led up to the point where he was spontaneously to flex his finger, one could reasonably hold that the flexion movement arose from preceding free choices.25 A settled judgment about the voluntariness of the flexion would have to take into account the classic way of differentiating between actual, virtual, and habitual intention. A third point may underline how difficult it is to discover empirically a movement of the will. Aquinas argues that a man can demonstrate that he wills something through external signs “by not impeding an operation.”26 This sort of volition may be called a “permission,” for by it one wills to allow a movement to continue.27 This matches up with Libet’s argument that the will of a person can be detected when he freely moves his finger, even though the inclination to move started in the brain. For this to be fully-voluntary, one must know that he is giving permission; otherwise, Bandura, “Reconstrual of ‘Free Will,’” 108. Bandura, “Reconstrual of ‘Free Will,’” 108. 24 See Mele, Why Science Hasn’t Disproved Free Will, 24. 25 See Bandura, “Reconstrual of ‘Free Will,’” 114. 26 Aquinas, Summa theologiae [ST] I, q. 19, a. 12. 27 ST I, q. 19, a. 12. 22 23 Objections and Responses to the Existence of Free Choice 919 the action would be only partly voluntary, or non-voluntary. But it is often difficult for an individual to know when he has given permission, that is, when his will has concurred with a movement that has already begun within himself. This is because one’s awareness of the precise timing of one’s own volitional acts is largely shaped by the context in which they are made. Granted that some knowledge or intellectual awareness (more than a mere feeling) of one’s willing is concomitant with the very act of willing, Bandura points out that, nevertheless, awareness of a conscious event is rather difficult to pin down, especially in an experimental context such as the one devised by Libet: “The ambiguity of the conscious events being monitored and their timing, multiple conflicting attentional demands, and fuzziness of the precise onset of awareness detract from the interpretability of the temporal ordering of events.”28 It is not easy for a person to say with scientific precision when an urge arises while he is connected to two different electrograph machines, looking straight ahead at a quickly revolving dot of light without distraction, and is performing a purposeless, isolated movement over and over again in multiple sessions—all while he knows he is being carefully watched.29 Furthermore, a number of studies indicate that a person’s perception of time adapts to various conditions in which he is operating: when we are bored, events may seem very distant even though they are separated by a short span of time; but when we are anticipating immediate results, separate events might seem to be simultaneous.30 Therefore, the self-reporting of Libet’s test subjects rests on shaky grounds, which calls into serious question the experiment design and its proposed data. A careful consideration of Libet’s experiments on free will shows that they do not successfully prove the existence of free will as he supposes; nor do they demonstrate that free will does not exist, as many others believe. Nevertheless, they raise worthwhile questions about the nature of volition, self-knowledge, and experimental design, and therefore are a valuable contribution to the discussion about the existence and nature of that mysterious part of humans. Bandura, “Reconstrual of ‘Free Will,’” 115. Bandura, “Reconstrual of ‘Free Will,’” 115. 30 See Filippo Tempia, “Free Will, Perceived Time, and Neural Correlates of Conscious Human Decisions,” in Moral Behavior and Free Will: A Neurobiological and Philosophical Approach, ed. Juan José Sanguineti, Ariberto Acerbi, and José Angel Lombo (Rome: IF Press, 2011), 168–81. 28 29 920 Ezra Sullivan, O.P. Second Objection: Determinism More powerfully than any scientific experiments, philosophical arguments are able to cast doubt on the existence of fully voluntary human acts. Among the many philosophical contestants vying against free choice, determinism ranks among the strongest, particularly forms of determinism adopted by empirical scientists. Fully aware that here I cannot explore all the passages and sub-passages within the “labyrinth of free will,” in this section, I respond to determinism’s claim that free choice does not exist.31 To begin with, one can distinguish between two types of determinism that many thinkers often conflated with one another: causal determinism and predictive determinism. This distinction leads to correspondingly different kinds of indeterminism, as will be seen. Causal determinism claims that a particular cause will always have a determinate effect, given the same conditions in both instances.32 This is determinism contingent on the thing itself. It is a claim about what happens when a thing acts or when an event takes place: when x happens, y is always a result. The relationship between cause and effect occurs on its own; it happens whether or not an observer is aware of the event, its causes, or its effects. In contrast, predictive determinism claims that, if all relevant factors were known, an ideal human knower could always predict that a given effect will arise from a given cause: “when x happens, y will result.” The ideal knower in this case is an observer with a sufficient knowledge of the material and efficient causes that pertain to the particular event about which a prediction is made. Predictive determinism is primarily a claim that human predictions can be so accurate that effectively they can be the same as determining what the future will be. Insofar as this sort of determinism concerns the accuracy of knowledge that leads to predictions, it should more properly be called a determinate knowledge of effects. This distinction between different kinds of determinism lead to two key questions: (1) Do any causes have invariable effects (i.e., is causal determinism real)? (2) Could humans in principle know the relevant factors Robert Kane, The Significance of Free Will (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 5. 32 See, for instance, this definition: “Determinism is a theory or belief that events, including acts of the will . . . are causally determined by preceding events and natural laws. Determinism assumes that all events in the universe, including all the things that happen in human minds, follow laws of causality” ( John Baer, “Free Will Requires Determinism,” in Baer, Kaufman, and Baumeister, Are We Free? 305). 31 Objections and Responses to the Existence of Free Choice 921 to enable them accurately to predict all future events (i.e., is predictive determinism possible)? Although philosophers and scientists provide many answers to these questions, here I will discuss the most robust version, namely, a causal and predictive determinism based on a thesis that can be called the “causal closure of physicalism” or the “causal completeness of physicalism.”33 It asserts that all causes are physical causes, and all physical causes have intelligible, determinate, physical effects. In other words, “all physical effects are fully determined by fundamental physical laws.”34 Hence, causal determinism is real. Furthermore, it argues that because physical causes and effects are intelligible, they are in principle and discoverable to us. Therefore, predictive determinism is possible. When combined, these claims form physical determinism. It is physical, because it proposes that the physical conditions and circumstances that surround a human act are in principle sufficient to explain its execution. Childhood experiences, parentage, and even personal choices are ultimately reducible to physical explanations (whether explained by sociology, genetics, epigenetics, physics, etc.). Hence, according to physical determinism, the real cause of an individual’s act is not the individual’s free choice (which is an illusion), but the physical circumstances that surround the act. Below I offer three Thomistic responses to physical determinism. First, to the extent that “physical” and “material” mean the same thing, physical determinism is essentially eliminative materialism applied to future events. This being the case, arguments against eliminative materialism apply equally to physical determinism. Although I cannot detail the argument here, it must be said that eliminative materialism cannot explain adequately the nature of certain kinds of human phenomena, such as complex memories and emotions, because it considers only material and efficient causes while ignoring final and formal causes. For example, eliminative materialism and a purely empirical account of “fear” might demonstrate that it resides primarily in the amygdala, and that it is caused by various circumstances and objects, whether real or merely supposed, that affect one’s cognitive and emotive powers. However, such an account does See Robert C. Bishop and Harald Atmanspacher, “The Causal Closure of Physics and Free Will,” in The Oxford Handbook of Free Will, ed. Robert Kane, 2nd ed. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 101–13. 34 David Papineau points out that physicalism in its contemporary form is more ontological than methodological: “It claims that everything is physically constituted, not that everything should be studied by methods used in physical science” (“The Rise of Physicalism,” in Physicalism and Its Discontents, ed. Carl Gillet and Barry Loewer [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001], 3). 33 922 Ezra Sullivan, O.P. not provide a definition of “fear” whereby one can distinguish it from other similar emotions, such as anxiety and dread; nor does eliminative materialism explain what purpose fear fulfills in human life. We can take a step further. Because eliminative materialism cannot adequately explain the nature and causes of psychological phenomena, neither can it adequately explain how those phenomena are themselves causes of other phenomena. If we do not understand the nature of fear, we cannot explain how it can cause such disparate behaviors such as self-isolation, obsessive-compulsive rituals, and interpersonal aggression and even violence. There is nothing inaccurate per se in an empirical account of human phenomena; certainly all human acts on earth require the body to some degree, and some interaction with the physical world. But it is entirely erroneous to confuse a part with a whole, to suppose that the physical aspects of human action constitute the entire human act, and that there is nothing else present. Without undermining their importance, a deeper understanding of the meaning and purpose of human acts helps us to see that physical laws, descriptions, and explanations isolated from other descriptions and explanations are inadequate to account for things such as free will, its causes, and its effects. Second, modern science did not invent or necessitate the philosophy of physical determinism and its exclusion of free choice. It is present in the first documented philosophers, including Democritus (~460 BC).35 Significantly, Aquinas is willing to recognize that there are some determinate or necessary causes in nature. But not all causes are necessary; neither are their effects. Rather, for the good order of the universe, “God wills some things to be done necessarily and some contingently.”36 Thus, “to some effects He has attached necessary causes, that cannot fail, from which necessary effects arise; but to other [effects He has attached] defectible, contingent causes, from which contingent effects occur.”37 For example, like other non-rational things, heat is properly directed toward Democritus argued that “the mind, like the soul as a whole, operates through mechanical motions and collisions of atoms, and its impressions must be subject to the same sort of distortions as those of sensation” (quoted in G. S. Kirk and J. E. Raven, The Presocratic Philosophers: A Critical History with a Selection of Texts [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1957], 424). See also the thorough and penetrating work of Mortimer Adler, The Idea of Freedom, vol. 1, A Dialectical Examination of the Conceptions of Freedom, and vol. 2, A Dialectical Examination of the Controversies about Freedom (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1958 and 1961); and Jonathan Barnes, The Presocratic Philosophers (New York: Routledge, 1982), 417–20. 36 ST I, q. 19, a. 8. 37 ST I, q. 19, a. 8. 35 Objections and Responses to the Existence of Free Choice 923 one effect: something that is hot necessarily heats things colder than itself: the sun cools the earth.38 All things being equal, the effect of a hot thing is that it will heat something else; it will not cool something else or have any other effect except insofar as that effect comes from heating.39 Hence, Aquinas speaks of “natural necessity,” for by their natures hot things are determined to the effect of heat. “It is necessary for fire to heat,” he says.40 Jan Aertsen points out that, in this perspective, “‘necessary,’ ‘intrinsic cause,’ and ‘nature’ go together.”41 Thus, it seems that Aquinas would admit a weak form of causal determinism. At the same time, Aquinas would reject an all-encompassing version of predictive determinism. This is for two reasons. (1) One cannot have certitude that the effect of heating will always come about. This is because the future as future does not exist. If it existed right now, it would no longer be the future; it would be the present. What is actual is determinate: its current state of being is knowable and fixed, at least in the moment. Insofar as a thing is potential, it is indeterminate, for it has not yet become what it may be.42 Thus, from a temporal perspective, the future exists only as a potentiality, not as a necessity.43 Therefore, as a potentiality, the future cannot be known as an actuality by those whose existence is constrained by time. In that sense, absolute effective determinism is not possible. Instead, one can predict the future more or less accurately.44 To many thinkers, the future seems determined, especially because modern science is continually increasing the accuracy of certain kinds of predictions. But the accuracy of prediction depends directly on one’s knowledge of the proper causes of things. The less one knows of proper causes, or eliminates causes from one’s explanation (e.g., formal and final), the less predictive power one will have regarding complex phenomena. (2) The deeper reason why an all-encompassing predictive determinism is impossible is that natural causes, even though they may have necessity within the created realm, are not absolutely necessary. They are, as it were, See In IX metaph. lec. 2, no. 4. Aquinas, In IX metaph. lec. 2, no. 4. 40 ST III, q. 14, a. 2. 41 Jan Aertsen, Nature and Creature: Thomas Aquinas’s Way of Thought (Leiden and New York: Brill, 1988), 239. 42 ST I, q. 14, a. 3. 43 See ST I-II, q, 13, a. 6. 44 ST I, q. 14, a. 3. God, however, knows all contingent things, not only in their causes, but as they actually are, for he exists outside of time. Hence, he knows the future with complete certitude, but not as future, for all is present to him in his eternal knowledge that simultaneously embraces all times. 38 39 924 Ezra Sullivan, O.P. only conditionally (or suppositionally) necessary.45 God alone is absolutely necessary, for only he is substistent Being itself.46 He is the cause of all things; all things exist only under the condition of participating in his being.47 Because God need not have created anything, all creatures are fundamentally non-necessary: they need not have existed, and they need God to remain in existence.48 However, granting certain conditions, creatures can have a relative necessity.49 For example, the structure of the universe necessitates the existence of the planets and other astrophysical bodies, along with the forces that move them.50 For creatures that are composed, “contingency is from matter, for the contingent is what can be and not be, and potency pertains to matter. But necessity results from form.”51 This applies also to action, for “natural things operate through forms inherent to them.”52 According to Aquinas, all things move according to their natural forms. Purely material things, such as water, move and are moved according to the form their molecules take, whereas plants have a principle of self-movement that can be called their “vegetative soul”. Non-human animals have a “sensory soul” that helps them navigate complex situations. Aquinas posits that, insofar as animals choose among alternatives in behavior, they have an imperfect sort of voluntariness, for they act upon sensory knowledge alone. However, animal choice is limited to the good that is present to their senses, imagination, or memory, for their sensory knowledge enables them to consider only a particular good.53 Thus, animals act according to their natural instincts and acquired habits, and in this way they are not free, for they have been determined by their nature or by exterior forces.54 In contrast, the human intellect is able to achieve “science,” a higher and more comprehensive form of knowledge. Following Aristotle, Aquinas points out that science enables a person to know “contraries” about what he considers.55 For example, the science of medicine encompasses both See ST I, q. 19, a. 3. See also, Aertsen, Nature and Creature, 231–47. ST I, q. 4, a. 2. 47 See ST I, q. 44, a. 1. 48 ST I, q. 19, a. 3. 49 ST I, q. 19, a. 3. 50 Aquinas, Summa contra gentiles [SCG] III, ch. 94, no. 10. 51 ST I, q. 86, a. 3. 52 In IX metaph., lec. 2, no. 7. 53 ST I, q. 85, a. 1. 54 ST I, q. 83, a. 1. 55 In IX metaph., lec. 2, no. 5. 45 46 Objections and Responses to the Existence of Free Choice 925 what conduces to health and, in a secondary way, what leads to sickness.56 Similarly, when a human is confronted with an option, he can consider contraries with respect to the thing itself, or at the very least with respect to his own choice. When confronted with a wolf, a sheep necessarily flees, but a man can consider whether to run or not. Even if the man is bodily incapacitated, he endures being eaten willingly or unwillingly.57 Thus, because reason can consider particular goods under various aspects, a human has the freedom to act contrary to his instincts for self-preservation, contrary to the preservation of the species, and even contrary to his natural inclination toward God.58 In sum, even if one grants that some physical causes are necessary and determinate, this does not entail that all human actions are necessary and determinate. Rather, human action possesses a certain amount of unpredictability and non-necessity. A person’s body may ordinarily follow the laws of nature, but humans can choose to violate natural law in various ways, at least for a time. More positively, human creativity can reveal rich aspects of nature that are not discoverable through the observation of non-human animals and lower life forms. For both reasons, Thomas would deny complete causal determinism and an all-encompassing predictive determinism. A third response, focusing on the soul as a self-moving mover, can help show why absolute causal determinism, one that excludes free choice, is unconvincing. It might seem as if Thomistic Aristotelianism would argue against the soul being a self-mover, and instead would be in favor of a causal determinism (perhaps even of the physical sort). One of the fundamental principles of Aristotelian causality states, “it is necessary that everything that is moved, is moved by another.”59 This applies not only to things that are wholly moved extrinsically, by compulsion, whose principle of motion is outside of themselves, such as water and stones. It also applies to anything that “has in itself the principle of self-motion,” that is, in every living thing.60 A philosopher of science takes this to mean: “Nothing can move by itself, nothing can change on its own account, but every change evidences the presence of an efficient cause, of an agent acting extrinsically upon the patient.”61 Such an interpretation seems to be supported by a In IX metaph., lec. 2, no. 5. See ST I, q. 83, a. 1: 58 In IX metaph., lec. 2, no. 8. 59 Aquinas, In VII phys., lec. 1, no. 2. See Aristotle, Physics 7.1. 241b34. 60 In VII phys., lec. 1, no. 2. 61 Mario Bunge, Causality and Modern Science, 3rd ed. (New York: Dover, 2011), 175. 56 57 926 Ezra Sullivan, O.P. further scholastic adage: “Nothing is its own cause, because it would be prior to itself, which is impossible.”62 A Thomist explains: “The subject of change is never changing, it is being changed. The thing which is undergoing change is a patient, a ‘possible,’ and it needs an agent distinct from itself to effect the change.”63 It seems to follow, therefore, that there is a closed causal loop such that what seems to be free choice is in fact an effect whose cause can be traced to something other than the person who chose. A response to this could begin by acknowledging that there indeed is a First Mover of all things; this is God, the unmoved mover, the first cause of all that exists, the unchanging source of all changes.64 We have already seen that humans have a natural inclination to pay reverence to God by religion.65 They also have a natural motion toward God, understood in a general and indistinct way as the supreme good. This motion comes from God himself. As Creator and “Universal Mover,” God moves the human will “to the universal object of the will, which is the good.”66 This motion is not contrary to human nature, however. Instead, it is consonant with the deepest resonances of humans, who, through their will, are naturally open to the greatest good, “for just as something is called natural because it is in accordance with the inclination of nature, so something is called voluntary because it is in accordance with the inclination of the will.”67 In fact, this natural motion is so necessary for human choice that without it “a human cannot will anything.”68 To explain the somewhat astounding claim that humans are unable to will anything without a motion given to them by God, Aquinas distinguishes among three kinds of necessity. (1) “Natural and absolute” necessity: whatever must exist on account of the nature of a thing. For example, it is necessary that the interior angles of a right triangle equal 180 degrees.69 (2) “Necessity of the end”: something without which an end cannot be attained, or not very well attained. For example, food is neces- SCG I, ch. 18, no. 4. James A. McWilliams, Physics and Philosophy: A Study of Saint Thomas’ Commentary on the Eight Books of Aristotle’s Physics, quoted in Bunge, Causality and Modern Science, 175. 64 See ST I, q. 2, a. 3. See also In XII metaphys., lec. 12, no. 37. See also ST I, q. 9, aa. 1 and 2. 65 See SCG III, ch.119, no. 7. 66 ST I-II, q. 9, a. 6, ad 3. 67 ST I, q. 82, a. 1. 68 ST I-II, q. 9, a. 6, ad 3. 69 ST I, q. 82, a. 1. 62 63 Objections and Responses to the Existence of Free Choice 927 sary for life, and a vehicle is necessary for a long journey.70 (3) “Necessity of coercion”: whatever happens on account of some agent, such that a person cannot do the contrary. For example, when a mugger forces a person to give up his money.71 In analyzing each kind of necessity with respect to voluntariness, Aquinas considers its relation to nature. For him, whatever is fundamentally natural is also voluntary. What is absolutely violent to the will is contrary to its nature and therefore, by definition, involuntary; thus, “simple necessity of coercion” is involuntary as such. But this is not the case for “natural” necessity and the “necessity of the end,” for these can be both necessary and voluntary for a person. He reasons in the following way. Some things are secondarily and changeably good for a thing, but other things are primarily and unchangeably good for it. In the first case, it is good for a patient in a hospital to be cared for by the best physician; but this situation ought to be temporary, and its goodness is contingent on many different conditions. Similarly, food is generally good for a person, and has the “necessity of the end,” but food in a particular place and time may damage health (as when a person has recently eaten, or when a person is dying and food would only cause pain and discomfort); in this sense, it is changeably good for this person. It has a qualified necessity, but granted those qualifications are in place, the necessary thing is in accordance with one’s will: a hungry person who can assimilate nourishment voluntarily (and even happily) wills to eat food. Other things are always and unchangeably good and “befitting” for a person. Such goods are abstract rather than concrete: health is always good for a creature, even though what conduces to health may differ among individuals. Thus, health is a “natural and absolute” necessity. Above all, the universal good is clearly always and unchangeably good for a person. This is because the will is the faculty that is open to the universal good: the will is not restricted to particular sensible goods, but stretches out to non-sensory goods that are presented to it by the reason: “the intellectual appetite,” which is the will,72 “though it is drawn to individual things outside of the soul, nevertheless it is drawn to them according to some universal ratio.” 73 Likewise, “through the intellectual appetite, we are able to desire immaterial goods that the senses cannot apprehend, such as science, virtue, and other similar things.” 74 Furthermore, the will only desires something insofar as it is See ST I, q. 82, a. 1. See ST I, q. 82, a. 1. 72 ST I-II, q. 8, a. 1. 73 ST I, q. 80, a. 2, ad 2. 74 ST I, q. 80, a. 2, ad 2. 70 71 928 Ezra Sullivan, O.P. apprehended as good.75 Therefore, it is not contrary to the will to be moved toward the universal good—its very nature is to be moved by goodness, while it remains free with respect to particulars that lead to that universal, ultimate good.76 But is the will’s movement toward the universal good a necessary prerequisite for its other choices? In response, it should be noticed that the will’s natural motion toward the universal good is only somewhat like an exterior “push” that the will voluntarily never rejects (otherwise it would no longer be directed toward that which is always good and desirable for it). The will is also moved toward the universal end as a final cause, for the universal good draws the will by attraction.77 As Thomas beautifully explains, “the act of loving takes place through a sort of impulse engendered in the lover by the beloved: the beloved thing draws the lover to itself.” 78 Being naturally open to the highest and greatest good in a general, the will is naturally moved toward it whenever it is in act. Hence, the kind of motion that the will naturally receives is inseparable from its natural openness to the good, and the will cannot will the opposite of what is good as such.79 It follows that: “The last end moves the will by necessity, because it is the perfect good. Likewise, [the will is moved] to whatever is ordered to that [final] end, and without which that end cannot be attained, such as being and living and similar things.”80 For this reason, Aquinas argues that everyone naturally desires happiness in a general way, for desiring happiness is “nothing else than to desire that one’s will be satisfied.”81 He provides the following analogy. God creates a plant and moves it naturally precisely by giving a plant a nature that moves itself according to certain principles. By the principles of its nature, that is, by its natural tendency to seek light and nourishment and its inherent power to reproduce itself, the plant grows, bears fruit, and so on. Similarly, by giving humans the appetite of the will, God moves them by “voluntary causes” that do not take away voluntariness but rather makes them to be voluntary.82 Thus, Thomas ST I-II, q. 8, a. 1. See De malo, q. 6. 77 See, for example, SCG III chs. 67 and 88, where Thomas explicitly unites God’s action as first mover (efficient cause) with his action as the ultimate end of all things (final cause). 78 Aquinas, Compendium theologiae I, ch. 46. 79 ST I-II, q. 10, a. 2. 80 ST I-II, q. 10, a. 2, ad 3. See also De veritate, q. 22, a. 5, ad 12. All translations from Aquinas’s texts are my own. 81 ST I-II, q. 5, a. 8. 82 ST I, q. 83, a. 1, ad 3. See also SCG III, ch. 73. 75 76 Objections and Responses to the Existence of Free Choice 929 holds that the movement of the human will is caused by something other than the individual, and yet the person retains the freedom of voluntary causality. Aquinas explains that God causes the will to exist; the will is an appetite for the universal good; as such, the universal good draws the will; God moves the will into existence and he moves it as a final cause. However, because the good in general only draws the will in general, the will is free in the exercise of its act of willing or not willing, and free to will or not to will something in particular.83 Therefore, both God and the individual are movers of the will, but in different respects: the will moves itself as proximate agent, but God moves it as first cause and ultimate final cause.84 Some thinkers propose that free choice only consists in one or both of the following elements: (A) having alternatives to a particular choice, (2) causing an action to happen.85 Such a conception is only partly accurate. Insofar as one can have a reason that leads to willing or actively not willing something, one has an alternative: a person can always assent to or dissent from what takes place, even if he cannot change any outcome other than his own volition. For similar reasons, insofar as assenting or dissenting for a reason is an interior action, one could say that volition involves some kind of action, although the action might not manifest itself in any exterior effects.86 The essence of free choice is more properly the ability to will or not will an apparent good for a reason.87 Therefore, alongside the principle that “nothing is a cause of itself,” Aquinas also affirms that “free will is the cause of its own movement.”88 With his understanding of final causality firmly in place, Thomas even goes so far as to make frequent use of Aristotle’s dictum that “a man is properly said to be ‘free’ who is not caused by another but is the cause of himself.”89 He takes this to mean, not ST I-II, q.13, a. 6. See also De veritate, q. 22, a. 6, ad 5. ST I-II, q. 9, a. 4, ad 3. 85 See, for example, the discussion by Robert Kane in “Introduction: The Contours of Contemporary Free Will Debates,” in the first edition of The Oxford Handbook of Free Will (New York: Oxford University Press), 10–19. See also, Baer, “Free Will Requires Determinism,” 304–10, esp. 308. 86 ST I-II, q. 13, a. 6. 87 See ST I, q. 59, a. 3. See also ST I, q. 83, a. Thomas insists that the will is a “rational appetite”: the will is rational because it desires things not blindly but for reasons; it is an appetite because it is inclined toward what is good. The will’s power to will or not will contingent things can be described as to assent/dissent or to accept/ reject. See In III eth., lec. 13, no. 4. 88 ST I, q. 83, a. 1, ad 3. 89 In I metaph., lec. 3, no. 7: “Homo proprie dicitur liber, qui non est alterius causa, sed est causa suiipsius.” See also: SCG I, ch. 72, no. 8; II, ch. 48, no. 3; IV, ch. 22, no. 5; ST I, q. 104, a. 1; I-II, q. 108, a. 1, ad 2. This principle also shows up in ST 83 84 930 Ezra Sullivan, O.P. that a person causes his own being, which is impossible, but that a person is the cause of the formation of his own character; he is responsible for acquiring fully voluntary habits. Thus, human choice takes place within a context of some determined and determinate causes, while the choice of the will for a particular good remains free.90 Third Objection: Habit It is not uncommon for thinkers to posit that habits make fully voluntary actions very difficult, if not impossible, for humans. A version of this claim exists in the thought of Servais Pinckaers. He rejects the theory that habitus, understood in a Thomistic sense, is a “habit” understood in modern parlance: “According to this theory,” he writes, “repeated acts develop in the soul a deep-rooted, permanent inclination, called a habitus, the nature of which is a sort of habit.”91 Habits, he argues, imply “the diminution, if not the total exclusion, of reflective consciousness and voluntary decision right at the very beginning.”92 He continues: An action performed on the basis of habit does not entail that attentive presence of reason and that personal engagement of free will [volonté libre] which give our actions their whole worth and their entire human value. The automatism of habit deprives an action of precisely the thing that gives it its moral dimension.93 In a similar vein, a number of researchers equate “procedural memory” with habit in general. Two prominent neuroscientists define habit as “that aspect of motor skill learning that refers to acquired, stereotyped, and unconscious behavioral repertoires,” such as typing on a keyboard, driving a car, walking, and so on.94 For them, habituation is learning and rememII-II, q. 19, a. 4; q. 162, a. 4; and many other places. It is worth emphasizing that the preceding exposition regards what I call “absolute causal determinism.” For weaker forms, Thomas Williams argues, “Aquinas’s denial that the will can be subject to necessity of coercion is not equivalent to, and does not entail, the claim that freedom is incompatible with determinism” (“Human Freedom and Agency,” in The Oxford Handbook of Aquinas, ed. Brian Davies and Eleonore Stump [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014], 199–207, at 206). 91 Servais Pinckaers, “Virtue Is Not a Habit,” CrossCurrents 12, no. 1 (1962): 65–81, at 66. 92 Pinckaers, “Virtue Is Not a Habit,” 67. 93 Pinckaers, “Virtue Is Not a Habit,” 67. 94 Howard Eichenbaum and Neal J. Cohen, From Conditioning to Conscious Recollection: Memory Systems of the Brain (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 435. 90 Objections and Responses to the Existence of Free Choice 931 bering “motor programs” that result from repeated “motor performances.”95 Such habits seemingly exclude by definition the higher, rational and reflective powers of humans, and therefore the full voluntariness of human action. Similarly, Christopher Coutlee and Scott Huettel describe habits as “highly automated behaviors” that are “overlearned.”96 They point out that rats can learn that they can receive cheese upon pressing a lever. Typically, this sort of habituation is flexible. Rats avoid reward-based actions if the reward has been devalued (e.g., if they have eaten their fill of cheese), but, “if the rats are overtrained on the lever-pushing task, . . . they cease to demonstrate this flexibility and will continue to press the lever after reward devaluation even though they are unwilling to eat the cheese.”97 This sort of automatic behavior is biologically based, Coutlee and Huettel hold, for when a lesion is made in the brain, preventing the function of the infralimbic medial prefrontal cortex, the dominance of habitual behavior is reduced and more voluntary behavior appears.98 Consistent with this finding is that people often feel they have strong “will power” when they definitively reject undesired habits such as overeating or smoking.99 Therefore, it seems that there are both philosophic and scientific reasons to hold that habits reduce or even remove voluntariness from human action. Because humans perform habitual actions throughout their waking hours, it could therefore seem that many if not all of our actions are not fully voluntary. In response to this objection, one can begin by noting that it discusses a single meaning of habit to the neglect of others that allow for fully voluntary action. A number of recent scientific approaches to habit have shown that the term “habit” is used in a number of interlocking ways. Surveying the concept of habit in seventy-seven thinkers across millennia, researchers noticed that there are two main trends in understanding habit.100 The The discussion on 439–70 explores the neurological implications of their view. Eichenbaum and Cohen, From Conditioning to Conscious Recollection, 435. 96 Christopher G. Coutlee and Scott A. Huettel, “Rules, Rewards, and Responsibility: A Reinforcement Learning Approach to Action Control,” in Moral Psychology, vol. 4, Free Will and Moral Responsibility (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2014), 327–34, at 329 and 332. 97 Coutlee and Huettel, “Rules, Rewards, and Responsibility,” 331. 98 Coutlee and Huettel, “Rules, Rewards, and Responsibility,” 332. See also Etienne Coutureau and Simon Killcross, “Inactivation of the Infralimbic Prefrontal Cortex Reinstates Goal-Directed Responding in Overtrained Rats,” Behavioural Brain Research 146, no. 1–2 (2003): 167–74. 99 Wegner, Illusion of Conscious Will, 92. Similar to the authors cited above, Wegner holds that habits are “unconscious action tendencies,” “compulsive,” and unwilled (Illusion of Conscious Will, 90–93). 100 Xabier E. Barandiaran and Ezequiel A. Di Paolo, “A Genealogical Map of the 95 932 Ezra Sullivan, O.P. “associationist” trend focuses on the notion that, given event A, event B will arise or be favored when event B has previously and repeatedly followed A. Typically A and B are behaviors that arise from sensations (stimulus-responses) and are explained by neuroscience.101 Here habits are interpreted mechanistically, and therefore are conceived of as deterministic automatisms. This is how the objection describes habits. Contrastingly, the “organicist” trend focuses on how humans, like all living things, organize their own behavior on different levels. In this case, habits are “ecological, self-organizing structures that relate to a web of predispositions and plastic dependencies both in the agent and in the environment. In addition, they are not conceptualized in opposition to rational, volitional processes, but as transversing a continuum from reflective to embodied intentionality.”102 Although these trends may seem at odds with each other, which is implied by objection three, both find their roots in Aristotle. “Associationism” emphasizes passages in the Greek thinker’s treatise De memoria et reminiscentia that describe the physical and psychological mechanisms of memory and recollection.103 Abandoning Aristotle’s debunked physiology, British empiricists from Hobbes to Newton drew on his psychological insights, leaving David Hartley in 1746 to attempt the first “associationist” synthesis of both physical and psychological explanations for human habits.104 Such explanations, focusing on empirical studies, were favored by behaviorists and current explanations that correlate human habits with machine learning. Meanwhile, “organicism” took hints from Aristotle’s broader biological philosophy, holding that “what originates movement is both pre-eminently and primarily soul.”105 Although distant from Aristotle in many respects, Hegel for instance agreed that habit was a second nature, and therefore a “mediating term” between the soul’s self-direction and the world-determination in which a person exists.106 Following Aristotle more Concept of Habit,” Frontiers in Human Neuroscience 8, no. 522 (2014): 7. Barandiaran and Di Paolo, “Genealogical Map,” 5. 102 Barandiaran and Di Paolo, “Genealogical Map,” 1. 103 E.g., Aristotle, De memoria et reminiscentia 451b11–453b10. 104 See H. W. Buckingham and S. Finger, “David Hartley’s Psychobiological Associationism and the Legacy of Aristotle,” Journal of the History of the Neurosciences 6, no. 1 (1997): 21–37. 105 Aristotle, De anima 1.2.403b29. 106 Barandiaran and Di Paolo, “Genealogical Map,” 6. See also David Forman, “Second Nature and Spirit: Hegel on the Role of Habit in the Appearance of Perceptual Consciousness,” The Southern Journal of Philosophy 48, no. 4 (2010): 325–52, and Simon Lumsden, “Between Nature and Spirit: Hegel’s Account of Habit,” in Essays on Hegel’s Philosophy of Subjective Spirit: Imaginative Transformation and Ethical Action in Literature, ed. David S. Stern (Albany: State University 101 Objections and Responses to the Existence of Free Choice 933 closely, Félix Ravaisson in 1838 helped establish phenomenological and holistic grounds for understanding habits, a trend that continued through Husserl and Merleau-Ponty and has culminated in a “current sensitivity to the organicist trend” found in areas of neuroscience, embodied-enactive cognitive science, robotics, sensorimotor approaches to cognition, and other empirical approaches for understanding human habits.107 More and more, habit studies are both following trends of Aristotelian insight and are implicitly attempting to unite associationism and organicism. Ann Graybiel, for instance, describes the neurological foundations of different kinds of habits.108 According to her, reflexes can be conceived of as a lower form of habits. Animal behaviors, such as the bowerbird’s complex nest building and swan mating rituals, approach fully human habits insofar as both are learned, involve choice and self-motivated goal seeking, and often activate analogous parts of the brain.109 Meanwhile, addictions and obsessive-compulsive behaviors are “extreme habits” and “disorders” of habits.110 Denis Larrivee and Adriana Gini complete the picture and argue that Aquinas’s definition of virtue as a habitus operativus bonus is compatible with empirical explanations of human flourishing through neuroplasticity.111 The present study’s work has been to show that Aquinas himself attempts a synthesis of the best scientific explanations of the material and efficient causes (“associationism”), as well as the formal and final causes (“organicisim”), of habit. Thus, as we have seen, Thomas understands habit as a reality that exists on many different levels of the human person. According to him, the lower, physical habits are not of themselves incompatible with partly voluntary habits. For example, a person’s phlegmatic temperament is compatible with a cogitative habit of judging one’s surrounding as safe. These lower habits are dispositions that may incline the will but do not by themselves move the will. In fact, they are at times compatible with fully-voluntary habits, such as intellectual habits due to study, which one freely chooses in conformity with of New York Press, 2013), 121–38. See references in Barandiaran and Di Paolo, “Genealogical Map,” 6. 108 Ann M. Graybiel, “Habits, Rituals, and the Evaluative Brain,” Annual Review of Neuroscience 31 (2008): 359–87. 109 Graybiel, “Habits, Rituals, and the Evaluative Brain,” 372. 110 Graybiel, “Habits, Rituals, and the Evaluative Brain,” 369–70, 372–75. 111 Denis Larrivee and Adriana Gini, “Is the Philosophical Construct of ‘habitus Operativus Bonus’ Compatible with the Modern Neuroscience Concept of Human Flourishing through Neuroplasticity? A Consideration of Prudence as a Multidimensional Regulator of Virtue,” Frontiers in Human Neuroscience 8 (2014): art. 731 (4 pp.). 107 934 Ezra Sullivan, O.P. his temperament and cogitative judgment. Furthermore, fully voluntary habits can co-exist with necessary movements of the body and the soul (e.g., digestion and the will’s movement toward the universal good), and in this way they incorporate elements of automaticity without violating their fundamental voluntariness. This is borne out by Aquinas’s analysis of how habits influence behavior. Aquinas was familiar with the objection that habits preclude the full voluntariness of human action. In his discussion on whether or not humans have free choice (liberum arbitrium), he considers the following objection.112 Human behavior follows deliberation and judgment. But, as Aristotle says, “as each person is, so does the end seem to him.”113 And it is not within our power to be one person or another, “for a person has this [individuality] from birth, and, as some hold, depends on the disposition of the stars for this.”114 We should note that the dispositions discussed here include what I have called non-voluntary habits, that is dispositions that a person has from general nature or individual nature or that he has acquired after birth but without full deliberation. Hence, the objection may be summarized by saying that “automatic” behaviors that proceed from habits preclude full voluntariness. In his response, Aquinas agrees that people have many different inclinations that are non-voluntary. For instance, “from their very nature there is in them a necessary appetite for the ultimate end, that is, happiness.”115 This is the necessary movement of the will discussed above. It is not contrary to free choice. Rather, in some cases, “something can be necessary and nevertheless voluntary.”116 For example, as noted above, the will naturally and necessarily desires the universal good. Also, “the will necessarily abhors misery, and this is because of a natural inclination, which is similar to the inclination of a habit.”117 In addition, there are bodily dispositions that are acquired from various sources, such as environment (“the power of the heavenly bodies”), parents (“semen”), and one’s particular bodily structure De veritate, q. 24, a. 1, obj. 19. Following Daniel Westberg’s account, and contrary to Lottin, Lonergan, et al., I hold that Aquinas did not change his position on the will from the De veritate (ca. 1256–1259) to the De malo (ca. 1270). The account below shows that one can find a consistency in Thomas’s thought on the will throughout his various works. See Daniel Westberg, “Did Aquinas Change His Mind about the Will?” The Thomist 58 (1994): 41–60. 113 Aristotle, Nicomachean ethics 3.5.1114a31. 114 De veritate, q. 24, a. 1, obj. 19. 115 De veritate, q. 24, a. 1, ad 19. 116 De veritate, q. 24, a. 12, ad sc 10. 117 De veritate, q. 24, a. 12, ad sc 10. 112 Objections and Responses to the Existence of Free Choice 935 (“matter of the one conceived”).118 Previous sections in this chapter have shown how these dispositions can be considered as non-voluntary habits that arise from general nature, individual nature, and extrinsic causes. By such habits, “the soul in some way is made prone to choose something, insofar as the rational soul’s choice is inclined by the passions, which are in the sensitive appetite, which is a bodily power that follows the dispositions of the body.”119 But these habits are not determinative of fully-voluntary action. They may result in actions of a human, but they do not cause human action, for the rational soul does not receive from them any inclination that necessarily causes a person to choose one particular thing over another.120 Indeed, the variability of human choice is an indication that it has a freedom beyond that of animal actions that proceed from instinct alone.121 Thus, non-voluntary habits do not impede free choice as such, for diverse ways to attain happiness remain choosable.122 Furthermore, the rational soul is always free to act or not to act, and therefore it has the power to reject the inclinations and movements of passions at least some of the time.123 Hence, when considering “automatic” behavior, one must consider its source. If it arises from involuntary causes, that is, those which are directly opposed to one’s will, then it results from habits incompatible with free choice. But if automatic behavior is caused by non-voluntary or partly voluntary habits, such as instincts and cogitative powers developed in accordance with nature, then it is compatible with full voluntariness. Here we come to the crux of the issue: can automatic behavior ever be fully-voluntary in itself? No, if it is initiated wholly without the attention of reason. But action can be initiated by reason even if one’s deliberate attention is not simultaneously present with one’s actual behavior. This could be the case for a person who “spontaneously” moves his hand after having decided to participate in a study that required him to move his hand at some point. Driving home on a commute is a more familiar example of this phenomenon. One can affirmatively posit that this sort of “automatic” behavior is fully voluntary. Aquinas explains the human person as moldable and somewhat non-individualized without fully volun De veritate, q. 24, a. 1, ad 19. De veritate, q. 24, a. 1, ad 19. 120 De veritate, q. 24, a. 1, ad 19. 121 See SCG III, ch. 85, no. 7. 122 De veritate, q. 24, a. 1, ad 19. 123 See ST I-II, q.13, a. 6. See also, De veritate, q. 24, a. 2. Thomas argues that the passions at times can move the will by presenting it an object that seems good and suitable in the moment: ST I-II, q. 9, a. 2. Nevertheless, the will remains free in its act; see De malo, q. 6. 118 119 936 Ezra Sullivan, O.P. tary habits: “Subsequently [to non-voluntary habits] man is made ‘this person’ through a particular acquired habit, of which we are the cause, or by an infused [habit], which is not given without our consent though we are not its cause.”124 A person can knowingly shape himself and as a matter of course, his self-shaping becomes regular and predictable behavior. Once a person has acquired or obtained fully voluntary habits, “it results that man efficaciously desires the end consonant with those habits.”125 Hence, explaining Aristotle’s observation that a man’s character shapes his judgment, Aquinas says that, when a person has been changed by “a particular disposition,” something seems good to him that did not seem good prior to having that disposition.126 The reason for this is that, “just as natural appetite or inclination follows the naturally inherent form,” as when water congeals because of the structure of its molecules, “so the appetite of the animal follows the apprehended form,” that it has estimated as helpful or harmful.127 This is also the case for humans. Our imagination is not always directly under our deliberate control, nor are the passions or cogitative power. However, these are shaped by many choices, which habituates them to apprehend something as good and suitable (or not).128 For example, by constantly acting in preference for honor over suffering, a person can habituate his passions and cogitative power to judge that death is not an absolute evil, but only relatively so. Hence, one who delightedly encounters dangers for the right end is brave.129 Now, a character-forming habit tends to generate the same actions that produced it.130 Nevertheless, because such a habit stems from one’s free choice, it does not introduce necessity, nor remove freedom of choice.131 Thus, Thomas can accurately say that deeply rooted habits “always deliver a similar act.”132 This “always” is predictive, not determinative: “While the habit remains, the person cannot long remain without acting according to the habit.”133 A habit will predict action, but as a habit is a state of ready potential, its very nature prevents it from actualizing itself. Accordingly, Thomas insists that “free choice is able De veritate, q. 24, a. 1, ad 19. De veritate, q. 24, a. 1, ad 19. 126 See ST I-II, q. 9, a. 2 (see Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics 3.5.1114a31). 127 In III eth., lec. 13, no. 1. 128 In III eth., lec. 13, no. 6. 129 In II eth., lec. 3, no. 2. On the judgments of the brave, see Aristotle, Nicomachean ethics 3.7.1115b7–24. 130 In II eth., lec. 3, no. 12. 131 De veritate, q. 24, a. 1, ad 19. 132 De veritate, q. 24, a. 12, ad 19. 133 De veritate, q. 24, a. 12, ad 13. 124 125 Objections and Responses to the Existence of Free Choice 937 to make use of a habit or not.”134 Therefore, “one who has a habit is able to issue an act contrary to the habit, for it is not necessary for him always to make use of the habit.”135 In sum, a person can sometimes act contrary to a habit, at least by rejecting its inclination, “although with difficulty.”136 Intellect and Will: the Foundation of Fully Voluntary Acts Thomas argues that fully voluntary habits have the full ratio of habitus. Because fully voluntary habits proceed from fully voluntary acts, this section considers the nature of the human act as sourced in the interaction of an individual’s intellect and will. To understand this dynamic interior activity, we must explore Thomas’s understanding of freedom on the one hand, and “reason” on the other hand. We will consider both in turn, and see how they relate to one another. From a Thomist perspective, “the will is free insofar as it is not necessitated.”137 In this light, one can identify three kinds of freedom.138 First, there is freedom from necessity or restraint. As we have seen, Thomas forcefully argues that the will, although necessarily moved toward the universal good, it is not bound by any necessity in the performance of its own act.139 Natural or acquired dispositions, whether helpful or harmful, only serve to enhance or to weaken voluntariness. They cannot eradicate it.140 Second, there is freedom of choice, that is, the freedom to choose this object or that object and pick among alternatives, or at least to will or not will an apprehended good. Third, there is freedom for good or evil, a freedom to order this or that object toward a good or evil end. Because freedom from restraint was largely the focus above, here I will discuss the remaining kinds of freedom and how they relate to fully voluntary actions and habits. Free judgment (liberum arbitrium) proceeds from the deliberate will.141 Aquinas sees the will (voluntas) as a passive and an active power. It is passive insofar as a person can move himself by his will only after he apprehends a particular thing as good with his reason. In other words, the “rational appetite” must be formed by reason in order to move itself toward what his reason apprehends as good and suitable for him.142 De veritate, q. 24, a. 12, ad 13. De veritate, q. 24, a. 12, ad 19. See also De malo, q. 6. 136 De veritate, q. 24, a. 12, ad 13. See also ST I-II, q. 49, a. 2, ad 3. 137 De veritate, q. 22, a. 6. 138 De veritate, q. 22, a. 6. 139 See ST I-II, q.13, a. 6; De malo, q. 6. 140 See ST I-II, q. 49, a. 2, ad 3. 141 See ST I-II, q. 1, a. 1. 142 ST I-II, q. 9, a. 1, ad 3. 134 135 938 Ezra Sullivan, O.P. Particular objects at times can move the will through the passions, for a particular good’s attractiveness can sway the reason to see only its good side and thus move the will toward it.143 However, in principle the will is active and free, for as we have seen, it moves itself toward the good; it also moves the reason. Animals cannot help but desire things they estimate as good for themselves.144 But humans can direct their reason to consider what is lacking in a particular good, why it may be inappropriate in one’s concrete circumstances, and how it may be undesirable from different perspectives.145 Therefore, the will is free to choose particular goods or not. This is why Aquinas says, “humans necessarily have free choice from the very fact that they are rational.”146 Reason frees the will from necessarily and always pursuing particular goods, and it thereby keeps the will open to the universal and complete good. Therefore, “the root of all freedom is established in reason.”147 Reason is the root of all freedom because it is the power by which a person can come to know and understand universal truths, and thereby obtain reasons for acting. The power of the rational appetite does not consist in choosing among present options—even dogs have a sort of facility to do this.148 In common with all animals, humans receive impressions of the world through their exterior senses, which in turn affects their interior sensory powers. Unlike animals, though, humans are able to extract or abstract the “essences” of impressions received through their senses, imagination, memory, or cogitative judgment.149 The intellect is able “to consider the nature of the [intelligible] species apart from its individual qualities represented by the phantasms [in the imagination or memory].”150 The process of abstraction is performed by the “agent” or active intellect.151 The “possible” or passive intellect, in turn, receives the essences or intelligible species of things.152 This is the highest cognitive power in humans, an ST I-II, q. 9, a. 2. De veritate, q. 22, a. 4. 145 ST I-II, q. 10, a. 2. 146 ST I, q. 83, a. 1. 147 De veritate, q. 24, a. 2. 148 See ST I-II, q. 13, a. 3, ad 3. 149 For a general overview, see Norman Kretzmann, “Philosophy of Mind,” in The Cambridge Companion to Aquinas, ed. Norman Kretzmann and Eleonore Stump (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 128–59. See also Chad Ripperger, Introduction to the Science of Mental Health (Denton, NE: Sensus Traditionis Press, 2007), 51–71. 150 ST I, q, 85, a. 1. 151 ST I, q, 85, aa. 3-4. 152 See SCG II, ch. 73. 143 144 Objections and Responses to the Existence of Free Choice 939 immaterial power by which a person understands, judges, and reasons.153 Although the active intellect is determined in its activity, the passive intellect can be directed by the will and is therefore susceptible to habituation.154 Understanding therefore is the proper operation of a human as human; it distinguishes him from all other animals.155 On account of his intellectual power, a person is able to act not only by feelings or imagination, but also by reason. Insofar as the intellect considers actions to be performed, it can be called the “practical reason.”156 Deliberately willed action, then, is the necessary way for a person to achieve ultimate happiness.157 An action is fully voluntary (or perfectly voluntary) when it proceeds from a person’s knowledge of his end, whether ultimate or proximate, “under the ratio of ‘end,’ and its proportion to those things which are ordered to the end itself.”158 The end is the good sought by the agent as suitable for himself; it is the “principle” of a human act because it provides a reason for acting.159 Here we encounter the third type of freedom listed above. Humans have the freedom not only to will or not will something, and freedom not only to choose one thing or another. They also have the freedom to transform themselves through their choices for what they apprehend as good. This is freedom for good or evil, the freedom to order this or that chosen object toward a good or evil end.160 This can also be called “moral freedom,” or in the language of Pinckaers, “freedom for excellence.”161 As a foundation for explaining moral freedom, Aquinas makes a crucial distinction between “making” ( facere) and “acting” (agere): “‘Making’ is an action passing into outward matter, such as building, sawing, and the like; whereas ‘acting’ is an action abiding in the agent, such as seeing, willing and the like.”162 Making, then, is primarily a transitive action: it involves acting upon a thing exterior to oneself. Acting, in contrast, is primarily a self-reflexive action: though exterior actions and objects may be involved, See SCG II, ch. 62, no. 7. Thomas lists the acts of understanding (basic apprehension), judgment, and reasoning in ST I, q. 79, a. 8, and q. 85 a. 5. 154 See ST I, q. 79, a. 6. 155 ST I, q. 79, a. 6. 156 See ST I, q. 79, a. 11. See also Thomas Osborne, “Practical Reasoning,” in Davies and Stump, Oxford Handbook of Aquinas, 276–83. 157 See ST I-II, q. 6, prol. 158 ST I-II, q. 6, a. 2. 159 ST I-II, q. 14, a. 2. 160 De veritate q. 22, a. 6. 161 See Servais Pinckaers, The Sources of Christian Ethics, trans. Mary Thomas Noble, 3rd ed. (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1995), esp. 354–78. 162 ST I-II, q. 57, a. 4. 153 940 Ezra Sullivan, O.P. acting above all shapes the interior person. Eliminative materialists see the human being as an object of concern and something to be acted upon exteriorly. Whether on the macroscopic or microscopic level, for them, the human is purely material, a lump of clay that is shaped by material and efficient forces. In contrast, Aquinas argues that the human is an agent, an acting person who shapes himself through his fully voluntary acts. Human action is almost endlessly complex, as can be seen by Thomas’s explanation of the “structure of the human act” in questions 11–17 of the prima secundae of the Summa theologiae, and the subsequent centuries of commentary on it. Developing an insight into human action that Pinckaers articulated, Lambert Hendriks argues that Thomas presents twelve “elements” of a complete human act.163 One can schematize the elements in the following way.164 Affirmation Intention [Deliberation] Decision Execution Fruition Cognition Apprehension Ordination Counsel + + + + Volition Simple wishing Intention Consent Judgment Command + + Enjoyment Choice Use (frui) These are not discrete and linear stages that careen back and forth between intellect and will, as Charles-René Billuart thought. The bold arrow indicates a single movement of the united intellect and will (cognition and volition) coursing through every point of a human act. The “partial acts” of affirmation, intention, and so on together comprise an intrinsically unified and fully voluntary act. Just as the soul as the formal cause enlivens and actualizes the body, so the intellectual motivation for an act, that is, the goodness of the object recognized by the reason, serves as the formal cause of an act that is efficiently caused by the will: “the intellect proposes to the will its object, and the will causes the external action.”165 This is because the will tends only toward something that is intellectually apprehended as good for the agent here and now.166 Thomas insightfully says, “the will Hendriks, Choosing from Love, 279. See the seminal article by Servais Pinckaers, “La structure de l’acte humain suivant S. Thomas,” Revue thomiste 55 (1955): 393–412. 164 See Hendriks, Choosing from Love, 283. See also, Michael S. Sherwin, By Knowledge and By Love: Charity and Knowledge in the Moral Theology of St. Thomas Aquinas (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2005), 84, fig. 1 (“Stages of Action”). 165 ST I-II, q. 13, a. 5, ad 1. 166 See ST I-II, q. 8, a. 1. 163 Objections and Responses to the Existence of Free Choice 941 and the intellect mutually include one another: for the intellect understands the will, and the will wills the intellect to understand.”167 Pinckaers argues that, for Thomas: “Free will is not a faculty distinct from reason and the will. It is a prolongation of each. . . . Freedom is the outcome of the mind’s inclination to truth and the will’s inclination to goodness.”168 When the human act is interrupted, the elements of the act can resemble chronological stages, but they are never complete in themselves. Furthermore, as Hendricks perceptively notes: “Partial acts that are attributed to either reason or will, are never exclusively isolated on that level. Therefore Thomas states that e.g. choice is of the will, but also rational; and likewise counsel is of reason, but it belongs to the will as well.”169 Considering partial acts entirely on their own, separate from the organic unity of human action, which includes a unified reason and will, is an act of dissection that destroys as it organizes. Had Libet considered the unifying role of reason through voluntary choice, he may not have fallen into the trap he set for himself. The intellect–will unity present in human choice highlights the fundamental unity of the human agent and his actions. A human’s appetites belong to the entire person, and through deliberate choice, he links them together by understanding their relation to a particular end. Hence, in a chosen act, there is a continuity between the sensory and rational appetite: reason can share rightness with the whole of a person’s affectivity by directing it toward the good. It follows that the only way correctly to understand what an agent does is to take into consideration his intellectual, volitional, and affective dispositions toward the good.170 These shape the fully voluntary act, and are shaped by the fully voluntary act. This can be seen, for example, in the element or partial act of “consent.” Consent (consentire), Aquinas says, applies one’s appetitive movement to something that is to be done.171 It is the human subject’s way of moving himself by directing his desires toward an action, as when a person consents both to telling the truth and to the delight he finds in telling the truth.172 Thomas explains: “In non-rational animals, the determination of the appetite toward something is found to be only passive. But consent indicates a determination of ST I, q. 16, a. 4, ad 1. Pinckaers, Sources of Christian Ethics, 381 (Altered to make the verbs present tense). 169 Hendriks, Choosing from Love, 287. He refers to ST I-II, q. 14, a. 1, ad 1. 170 See Hendriks, Choosing from Love, 184. 171 ST I-II, q. 15, a. 2. 172 See ST I-II, q. 15, a. 4, ad 1. 167 168 942 Ezra Sullivan, O.P. the appetite that is not passive alone, but is more active.”173 Thus, through acts freely performed with deliberate will, a person “determines” himself by consenting to direct his appetites to a particular end. Speaking generally, Aquinas describes intending an end as “determining” oneself toward that end.174 Fully voluntary actions have a circular character, for self-determination “constructs the agent’s identity according to the choices he or she makes. And this remains so, until the human agent decides to make contrary choices.”175 As we have seen above, this does not mean that one’s voluntary actions somehow eradicate voluntariness. Rather, the end specifies one’s actions toward a particular good, and because a human comes to resemble what he desires, the intended end also shapes the agent.176 As Daniel De Haan writes: “Through the efficacy of the will, the person transcends the natural determinations of the physical order and becomes the sort of person who chooses and performs certain axiologically specified activities.”177 It follows that fully voluntary acts do not simply come and go, leaving no trace behind like a foot stepping through a flowing stream. Rather, they change the agent who performs them by producing fully voluntary habits, which are supremely important in human life: “Habit both shows and makes the man, for it is at once historic and prophetic, the mirror of the man as he is and the mold of the N&V man as he is to be.”178 ST I-II, q. 15, a. 2, ad 1. ST I-II, q. 1, a. 2. 175 Hendriks, Choosing from Love, 270. 176 See ST I-II, q. 26, a. 2. See also, ST I-II, q. 62, a. 3. Recognizing love as the foundation of all action, Hendriks puts it this way: “The agent becomes what he loves” (Choosing from Love, 270). 177 Daniel D. De Haan, “Thomistic Hylomorphism, Self-Determination, Neuroplasticiy, and Grace: The Case of Addiction,” Proceedings of the American Catholic Philosophical Association 85 (2012): 99–120, at 100. 178 Arthur T. Pierson, George Muller of Bristol (Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 1999; repr. 1899), 137. 173 174 Nova et Vetera, English Edition, Vol. 17, No. 3 (2019): 943–955 943 Book Reviews A Gift of Presence: The Theology and Poetry of the Eucharist in Thomas Aquinas by Jan-Heiner Tück, translated by Scott G. Hefelfinger (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2018), xxiv + 379 pp. The first English appearance of Gabe der Gegen- wart: Theologie und Dichtung der Eucharistie bei Thomas von Aquin by Jan-Heiner Tück, a dogmatic theologian at the University of Vienna, gives Anglophone theologians a singular resource on Thomas Aquinas’s Eucharistic theology. Originally published in German in 2009 and now in its third printing, this impressive work will appeal to a wide variety of scholars, including Thomists, sacramental theologians, liturgists, and even historians. Not only does it offer an excellent overview of Thomas’s Eucharistic theology, but it may also be the most definitive English commentary on his Eucharistic hymns. Dr. Scott G. Hefelfinger, assistant professor of theology at the Augustine Institute, has done a considerable service to Thomistic research and scholarship by providing a readable yet eminently faithful translation of this work. The work is divided into three main sections. Part A is entitled, “Systematic Reconstruction: The Eucharistic Theology of the Summa Theologiae.” Part B considers “The Poetic Distillation of Eucharistic Theology in the Hymns.” Third and finally, part C is called “Eucharistic Passages” and situates Thomas’s writings in contemporary perspective. This review will briefly outline each of these three parts, concluding with some thoughts about the timely relevance of this work. Tück uniquely challenges the critical charge against medieval and Scholastic Eucharistic theology, which holds that Thomas emphasized the somatic real presence of Christ and the words of consecration to the exclusion of other essential aspects, such as the soteriological and ecclesiological dimensions of the Eucharist. While Tück recognizes the validity to this claim, his book is an attempt to show that Thomas’s Eucharistic theology needs to be understood within the whole of his doctrine of salvation history, sacraments, and soteriology—in a word, Thomas’s doctrine of the Eucharist finds its deepest meaning within the Church. Thus, even though Thomas did not write a treatise De ecclesia, one can find elements of ecclesi- 944 Book Reviews ology throughout the corpus of Thomas, and specifically in his theology on the Eucharist. I will highlight elements of Tück’s challenge to this critique that appear in each of the sections of the book. Part A demonstrates that Tück’s work is both systematic and historical. It takes the reader through Thomas’s Eucharistic theology and poetry in an orderly fashion, but orients his thought within the appropriate historical context. The introduction included in part A recognizes that Thomistic studies have recently been in decline, despite the prominence given to Thomas’s works in theology by the magisterium. Tück sees his work as providing a faithful “re-reading” of Thomas (6). This “re-reading” particularly follows Thomas’s “movement of thinking,” and only after this “close textual reconstruction” can the “conversation with contemporary questions” be undertaken (9). Tück further places Thomas in dialogue with recent thinkers such as Johannes Betz, Karl Rahner, Edward Schillebeeckx, and Joseph Ratzinger, among others, throughout his work, in the service of rediscovering the heart of Thomas’s Eucharistic theology. Tück’s work focuses on a study of both Thomas’s Eucharistic theology and his poetry. Such a study provides necessary distinctions between the science of theology and the art of praying to and with God. As such, the book shows “that the hymns can be read as a poetic distillation of the Eucharistic theology of Thomas Aquinas” (9). From the theological perspective, part A places Thomas’s Eucharistic theology of tertia pars of the Summa theologiae in the context of the whole Summa. Tück does not narrow his focus to the tertia pars; rather, he gives the reader a thorough understanding of how Thomas’s Eucharistic theology fits into the economy of salvation history, revealed in Thomas’s works themselves. This background is necessary for understanding Thomas’s emphasis on the somatic real presence of Jesus Christ through transubstantiation, the main principle behind chapters 2–3 of part A. Chapter 2 specifically looks at Thomas’s arguments for transubstantiation, while chapter 3 places these arguments in relation to the Last Supper, which Tück describes as the “historical origin” of the Eucharist. Even though the historical concerns of the medieval age required Thomas to focus on the somatic real presence, he does consider other dimensions of the Eucharist, as Tück consistently shows in this first part of the book. He offers an extensive overview of the soteriological interpretive categories of the Eucharist in Thomas’s writings (112–26). Additionally, Tück considers the fact that the “juncture between Christology and general theology of the sacraments” is dependent on the reality that “the sacraments of the Church receive their efficacy through the verbum incarnatum,” a sign that there is an implicit ecclesiology in Thomas’s Book Reviews 945 writings (31). Moreover, if one reflects on the fact that Thomas describes the ecclesial dimension of the sacraments in the Sentences commentary (39) and that the minister acts in persona totius ecclesiae (47), then one might reconsider the common narrative about Thomas’s myopic focus on somatic real presence through the helpful guidance of Tück’s thoughts. Tück further draws out the theme of Christ’s self-gift, as reflected in the title of the book. Thomas wants to show that Christ’s gift of self, an act of self-sacrifice to the Father, begins at the Last Supper, is central to the Passion, and then extends to the gifts of bread and wine in the sacrament of the Eucharist handed on to the Church. The fact that Tück draws out this emphasis further challenges the idea that Thomas was strictly interested in the words of consecration and the real presence. Part B systematically reflects on each of the hymns of the Divine Office of Corpus Christi. Pope Urban IV commissioned this Office shortly after the promulgation of his bull Transiturus de Hoc Mundo (August 11, 1264), which established the feast of Corpus Christi. This section begins by setting the historical perspective surrounding the feast and the hymns. Each chapter outlines one or two of the hymns, including Pange lingua gloriosi, Sacris solemniis, Verbum supernum, Lauda Sion, and Adoro te devote (an essential Thomistic hymn, although not part of the Office). Tück uses the following pattern throughout these chapters: he first offers a brief introduction, followed by the text of the hymn (both Latin and English) with observations about the poetic meter and structure, and finally an extensive theological interpretation of the hymn. Such thorough commentary on Thomas’s hymns will open avenues of further thought about the connection between his Eucharistic theology and poetry, and further dialogue about the hymns themselves. No longer can someone accuse Thomas of simply being “only” a theologian—he is both a master of prayer and a master of theology, as Tück’s expertly shows. Within Tück’s interpretation of the hymns is an implicit critique of the widespread opinion about Thomas’s medieval Eucharistic theology (54). The following serves up a taste of his unique criticism: After a reading of the hymn of Pange lingua gloriosi, one will be able to say that in the poetic theology of Thomas, the actual presence [Aktualpräsenz] of the exalted Lord (see the opening stanza) is expressed in words in the same way as the commemorative, actual presence of Jesus Christ (see the stanzas depicting his life, the last supper, and his bloody death). At the same time, the structure of the hymn follows a dynamic that tends toward the event of Eucharistic 946 Book Reviews conversion—and thus the aspect of somatic real presence. The life of Jesus consolidates itself in the Eucharistic self-gift of Jesus Christ, as the center of the hymn introduces it: se dat suis minibus. (193) As revealed in this perceptive analysis, Thomas’s Eucharistic theology does not exclude other essential dimensions to understanding the Paschal Mystery. Tück’s careful work necessitates that one consider the Summa theologiae and the Eucharistic hymns together as a complete whole. Once again, Tück rightly emphasizes the aspect of gift within Thomas’s writings and the Eucharist itself, showing that Jesus’s whole life is oriented toward self-gift, emphasized in this hymn’s central stanzas. Although the Summa carefully considers the fine distinctions of the doctrine of transubstantiation, Tück insightfully shows how this doctrine is ultimately not isolated, but rather fits within the whole doctrine of salvation through the poetry of Thomas. In part C, the author provides a lengthy description of the Last Supper from different historical periods, recognizing the recent emphasis on the historical-critical method in theology. His consideration includes an analysis of the Last Supper, the signs of bread and wine, and transubstantiation. He begins with the Hellenistic period of the Greek Fathers, which was formed by Platonism; he then makes a study of the Germanic culture, in which there was a “crisis of the sacramental idea” (261); high Scholasticism, he describes, assumed Aristotelian concepts to explain the Last Supper; and finally the Reformation challenged the sacrificial character of the Mass because of the new theory of justification. This interlude sets the stage for understanding the current interpretation and reception of transubstantiation, particularly with regard to recent reconsiderations of the teaching in terms of “transfinalisation” and “transsignification” (270). While ultimately doubting the doctrinal value of these terms, he does not completely deny that new terms other than those rooted in Aristotelian philosophy could eventually be used to describe the Eucharistic change (268–73), although it is clear that he holds to the primacy of the term “transubstantiation.” The last chapter of part C and of the whole book considers the relevance of Thomas’s Eucharistic theology to our current culture, after the systematic outline of Thomas’s own thought apart from contemporary concerns. This remarkable chapter introduces a wide variety of modern situations that make it advantageous for reflecting on and entering into the Eucharistic sacrifice. Given the nature of our distracted and noisy culture, Tück writes, “Gift, presence, and conversion are motifs that can shape the Book Reviews 947 contours of a Eucharistic lifestyle even today” (301). Although he admits that he goes beyond “the characteristic style of the purely academic” (301) when he makes these observations, Tück shows how Thomas can assist us in responding to the longings of the people in the Church and the world. Thomas’s principles underlying his Eucharistic theology and poetry can help the Church and world because they remind us of the fundamental reality of Christ’s suffering through his self-gift, and the fact that he is truly present in the Eucharistic sacrifice. This real presence can relate to difficulties faced in everyday modern life, as Tück describes, including within the crisis of being present to one another, solidarity with the deceased, joy and suffering, and infidelity and betrayal, among others. Tück’s manifold reflections in part C can and will serve as springboards for further discussion about how Thomas’s Eucharistic theology is valuable for responding to culture and Christian life in today’s world. Thus, the fact that Tück describes Thomas’s Eucharistic theology in light of gift, presence, and conversion correctly places the concerns of real presence within the whole of Thomas’s theology on the Eucharist. For those interested in Thomas’s Eucharistic theology and poetry, Gift of Presence stands as an essential work for their personal libraries, not least because the work offers an unprecedented theological and literary commentary on Thomas’s Eucharistic poetry. Our present age is experiencing an exciting revival in Thomistic thought, and this work furthers that effort through an authentic outline of Thomas’s Eucharistic theology and poetry, in both his historical perspective and our own contemporary context. The book additionally opens a new discussion on Scholastic and medieval Eucharistic theology: namely, how do we best understand what Thomas wrote regarding somatic real presence and the words of consecration, in view of his complete theological corpus? This book will also stimulate discussion on the Office of Corpus Christi, following those scholars who attribute the Office to Thomas’s authorship, including its relation to Thomas’s sacramental theology, and even beyond to his entire theological system. This first English translation offers a fruitful overview of Thomas’s Eucharistic theology, and will be a new standard for anyone interested in N&V this area of Thomas’s thought. Veronica A. Arntz Marquette University Milwaukee, WI 948 Book Reviews The Prophetic Church: History and Doctrinal Development in John Henry Newman and Yves Congar by Andrew Meszaros (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), xiv + 268 pp. Andrew Meszaros’s The Prophetic Church is the most import- ant genuinely theological work of the last ten years in the English-speaking world on the development of doctrine. It is indispensable study on a theological topic in urgent need of deeper theological clarification. This urgency arises because the current theological situation may fairly be characterized, at least in part, by a vehement return among Catholic theologians to modernist tenets, to the point that some, not completely unjustified, are talking about a neo-modernist crisis. For these neo-modernist theologians, committed to an ever more radicalized interpretation of the progressive post-conciliar agenda—to receive all the advances of the Enlightenment without remainder into the Catholic Church—“history” has advanced to the status of an all-encompassing, absolute reality such that “historicity” qualifies all reality. All ideas and institutions must be understood as all the way down temporally situated, and hence historically constituted. The scope of historicity is claimed to be universal—from the historicity of the unfolding of the triune identity of God and the God–world relationship to the laws that determine the unfolding of the universe from the big bang on, to the evolution of the human mind, culture and language, to the concepts of human thinking and, last but not least, to the very concept of truth itself. The one exception, of course, must be the universal principle of historicity itself that has to remain absolutely trans-historical in order to account for the historicity of all reality. This is historicism’s insurmountable πρῶτον ψεῦδος, fundamental error. Apply the acid of historicism to the idea of historicity itself and the mirage suddenly disappears. As soon as historicism historicizes itself, it turns into a temporally situated and historically conditioned ideology. Historicism can be universalized (and what would be the point of a non-universal historicism?) only at the price of its own self-destruction. For this very reason (and others), philosophers have long ago abandoned historicism as a philosophically viable position. Yet Catholic theologians committed to the neo-modernist positions of the 1970s are still beholden by the purportedly radical challenges historicity seems to pose to Catholic theology and inebriated by the promises the radical application of historicist principles to the Church’s doctrine seems to hold. Applied to the problem of the development of doctrine, Meszaros rightly formulates the historicist attitude among some Catholic theologians thus: “The Church and her teaching could develop in any direction. ‘Development’ and ‘reform’ are euphemisms for ‘transformation’ and even ‘revolu- Book Reviews 949 tion’” (5). The characteristic trait of this all too confident neo-modernism is, according to Meszaros, “a conspicuous hesitation, if not outright refusal to name and identify the enduring truths of Christian revelation, or for that matter, the constitutive elements of the Church” (7). At the bottom of the all too uncritical neo-modernist embrace of historicism lies the denial that revelation conveys an enduring cognitive content that can be expressed propositionally. The radical historicization of revelation and the Church is, of course, nothing but their complete naturalization—exactly the way the secular Enlightenment had already intended it. In light of these problematic theological currents in contemporary Catholic theology, Meszaros’s book is very timely. He makes the persuasive case that two theologians who had a decisive influence on the Second Vatican Council—John Henry Newman (1801–1890), indirectly and Yves Congar, O.P. (1904–1995), directly—are of undiminished theological relevance, because both show in compelling ways how one can be historically conscious as a theologian without committing the historicist fallacy. Meszaros’s overall goal is, by way of Newman and Congar, to give “an account of doctrinal development as something both thoroughly historical and thoroughly divine” (12). Yet instead of offering some flatfooted comparison of Newman and Congar on their respective accounts of the development of doctrine, Meszaros pursues a different and much more interesting strategy: he focuses primarily on Congar’s theology of doctrinal development and discusses Newman in light of his remarkable reception into Congar’s theology. Yet this is not all. Moreover and more importantly, Meszaros presents Congar’s theology as a compelling modern instantiation of a sophisticated Thomism that admirably displays the capacity of accounting for the phenomenon of history and therefore of integrating into a principled theological account what is true about the phenomenon of historicity. Meszaros is, however, absolutely right not to try to decide whether the chicken or the egg came first. On the one hand, Congar develops his historically sophisticated and reflective form of Thomism by fully integrating Newman’s insights into it and by constantly relying on them. Yet, on the other hand, it is Congar’s historically sophisticated and reflective form of Thomism that enables him in the first place to fully integrate Newman’s insights and constantly rely on them. Meszaros displays an impressive command of the sprawling oeuvres of Newman and Congar, as well as of the vast scope of scholarly literature on both figures. He presents Newman’s and Congar’s thought with commendable precision and nuance. In short, this work is a genuine and important contribution to the scholarship on Newman and Congar, but it is much more than that. Meszaros’s book has a helpfully transparent struc- 950 Book Reviews ture: In chapters 1 and 2, the author narrates lucidly Congar’s reception of Newman and offers a fascinating account of Newman’s appeal to and influence upon Congar and, by way of Congar, on Vatican II. In chapters 3 through 5, the very heart of the book, Meszaros advances a nuanced analysis of Congar’s complex account of the development of doctrine, with special attention to the various subjective and historical “motors” or “causes” of development. In chapter 6, the book’s crowning keystone, Meszaros adumbrates an excellent constructive outline of a theology of doctrine and doctrinal development, inspired by Newman and Congar, that is as sound as it is persuasive. The work culminates in a concluding keystone chapter in which Meszaros shows how Congar and Newman together contribute to a sound and forward-pointing theology of development. Here Meszaros adumbrates the contours of a theological theory of the development of doctrine that is theologically as legitimate as it is historically credible. Such an account, Meszaros rightly emphasizes, must respect the following key principles: first, the unity and finality of revelation is based on and culminates in the coming of Jesus Christ; second, the homogeneity of revelation is based on the Truth that is God, who neither deceives nor is deceived; third, revelation is one, coherent, communicable, and knowable. Meszaros does not argue for or defeat, but rather presupposes these three principles. He rightly regards fundamental theology to be the field that would demonstrate the truth of these theological principles, a project that conceivably transcends the scope of his work. Yet even without the demonstrative aids of fundamental theology, it is quite obvious that these three principles are entailed in and presupposed by the witness of Scripture and Tradition, and furthermore affirmed frequently and in manifold ways and by the magisterium. Moreover, their rejection would ultimately be concomitant with the denial of the Christian faith itself. In addition to presupposing these three principles, Meszaros rightly emphasizes that any theory of development that is credible from a historical-scientific point of view as well as from an individual-existential point of view must acknowledge the profoundly historical nature of revelation’s transmission in Tradition. Consequently, another principle must also be presupposed: history plays an indispensable role in the unfolding of God’s providence. Meszaros’s crowning chapter 6 falls into two parts. First, in the section “Revelation and Doctrine,” Meszaros situates doctrine as the intelligible and reliable means given by God to adhere to the truth of revelation. By the historical fact of Jesus Christ, revelation takes the form of a definite doctrine. The concrete actions God takes in history commence the process by which the Church proposes true propositions. Assent to these prop- Book Reviews 951 ositions serves the salvific purpose of mediating our adherence to, and clinging to God, the First Truth. The Gospel’s content is determined, that is, given its specific doctrinal form, by the Church’s preaching and instruction (doctrina evangelii). This instruction in the faith constitutes the Church’s prophetic office by which she proclaims the Gospel. According to Congar, “teaching is the principal way by which God acts on us as spiritual creatures” (201) and Tradition “is the communication by God not only of what we will enjoy (God), but also of the means provided for that enjoyment (the sending of Christ and his Spirit, establishing the Church etc.)” (201). Meszaros rightly concludes that therefore, according to Congar, “doctrine as a whole constitutes a saving message to which an adhesion by humans, with the help of grace, becomes instrumental in their salvation” (201–202). Meszaros rightly defends the intelligibility of doctrine on the basis of doctrinal realism. Doctrines are true (1) because they are proportionately adequate to the reality they express. They use analogical concepts to represent the mysteries of faith. Doctrines neither exhaust nor grasp completely these supernatural mysteries, but doctrines express them adequately and reliably. Doctrines are true (2) in virtue of their ultimate source, God, the First Truth, the formal and material object of faith. Following Aquinas, Congar emphasizes (and Meszaros with him) that not the words that make up the message but rather the realities “that are signified or meant by what is heard” pertain to faith (205). While faith terminates in the reality or truth that is being conveyed, the propositions through which the truth is communicated are capable of delivering proper, albeit incomplete, knowledge about God. At this apposite point, Meszaros turns to the infallible character of the Church’s judgment on doctrine as compellingly articulated in Congar’s The Mystery of the Temple. According to Congar, the new and eternal covenant is a completely new, definitive, and elevated order of life that is the kingdom of God in inchoate form. God’s presence effects the Church’s ability to successfully exercise her offices. The Church’s indefectibility (and hence her infallibility on certain select occasions) is the product of God’s new proximity to his people. The reliability and intelligibility of doctrine does not preclude a consideration of the external causes of the Church’s utterances and their development. The meaning of what the Church says is true on the grounds that it adequately represents reality. The fact that the Church says this and says it in this way and says it at all can be sufficiently explained only if one considers external causes which play out in the life of the Church that is historical. In the second part of chapter 6, “A Theology of Doctrinal Develop- 952 Book Reviews ment,” Meszaros reflects theologically on the development of doctrine. He makes a convincing case that distinct “motors” of doctrinal development are rooted in human nature and in human historical existence. Because human nature as well as history are the effects of God’s creation, both fall under divine providence. Meszaros turns first to the phenomenon of human receptive, interpretive, inquisitive, and communal agency and adumbrates a theology of the “active subject.” God has created active and inquisitive subjects. The development that follows from the subject’s inquiry is rooted in the human nature that God created. Because Congar conceives of the Church as the supra-personal subject and communion of the consciousness of the multiple individual subjects constituting her, he is able to situate in the life of the Church the two motors of doctrinal development related to the active subject. There is, first, the work of theological reflection and theological conclusion (Newman: formal and informal inference). For Congar, theological reflection is divino-human or theandric because the light of theology is the conjoining of the light of faith and the light of reason. It is God’s agency in creation—and more precisely, his creation of a rational human nature made in his image—that is the connecting link between the mystery of God and the rational penetration of the donné révélé resulting in doctrinal development. There is, secondly, the reality of judgment from connatural experience of divine realities (Newman: natural inference). This affective way of connatural judgment results from the supernatural contemplation, is a cause of doctrinal development, and is caused by God who indwells the soul. In a second step, Meszaros turns from the active subject to a theological interpretation of history. Newman’s patristically inspired sacramental view of the universe allows Congar to maximize on the insight that “the Church is in the world, and the world is in the plan of God.” Congar works from the premise that the Church is the mystical continuation of Christ’s Incarnation and accepts Newman’s thesis that the symphony between the visible and the invisible is providentially willed by God according to God’s gracious design, or economy. Hence, according to Congar, the Church does not simply use the world, but learns from the world. Because both the Church and the world are willed by God and because both contribute to the kingdom that is in the making, the exchange between them is also in God’s plan. Meszaros concludes his study with a comparison of the economies of doctrine and prayer. In both, contingent, secondary causes are instrumental in bringing about an effect according to God’s providential economy. Furthermore, in both prayer and the motors of doctrinal development, the Book Reviews 953 effects are not reducible to these causes (prayer and motors). The effect of doctrinal development is the outcome that God has, positively as well as permissively, disposed to be fulfilled by the motors of development. Hence, the process and the results of doctrinal development can be thoroughly historical without being reduced to the merely historical. In The Prophetic Church, Meszaros has set a properly high bar for a fully fleshed out theological theory of the development of doctrine. Failing to meet this bar would mean to fail to maintain the genuinely theological nature of doctrine and its proper development (and thus to compromise the supernatural nature of revelation, the Church, and doctrine) or to fail to genuinely appreciate and integrate theologically the fact that doctrinal development is a historical process propelled forward by certain motors that call for a properly historical investigation and analysis. Meszaros’s The Prophetic Church points the way forward beyond the impasse between a post-conceptual historicism and an ahistorical conceptualism. Meszaros shows persuasively that, as a matter of fact, Yves Congar’s theology of development is still ahead of us, because he displays—despite the current conventional wisdom to the contrary—the fruitful complementarity of Newman and Thomist theology. Meszaros has set the programmatic agenda and cleared the right path for its implementation. What remains is the challenging task to carry it out in the form of an integrated and fully developed theology of doctrinal development. N&V Reinhard Hütter The Catholic University of America Washington, DC Before Virtue: Assessing Contemporary Virtue Ethics by Jonathan J. Sanford (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2015), x + 280 pp. For Thomists and other Aristotelians work- ing within the analytic tradition, the rise of contemporary virtue ethics (CVE) in current philosophical discussion seems like occasion for rejoicing. A rejection of deontology and consequentialism in the name of virtue by top members of the field leaves one thinking: “What is not to like?” But then, when we read the literature, something seems amiss, even to the point where we wonder if CVE is a coherent approach and if it has anything in common with what Aristotle and Aquinas mean by “ethics.” Jonathan Sanford has clearly pondered these same questions and given Before Virtue to us as a result. 954 Book Reviews Sanford has performed a great service in offering a painstaking analysis of CVE and a sober assessment of its status as a viable normative ethical theory. This is no small task. To what CVE even refers is the source of much discussion. Seeking to include the wide array of thinkers and cover their viewpoints that make up the movement, Sanford offers the following characterization: “A contemporary virtue ethicist is an academic philosopher who subscribes to some of the principles shared by some virtue ethicists and who self-identifies with this movement” (89). Due to the wide extension of this description, he treats the multitude of thinkers self-identifying according to this characterization. In terms of Sanford’s analysis of CVE, at no point does he reject the movement out of hand or fail to see the positive contributions many of its authors have made to contemporary discussion. Nonetheless, he makes a compelling case that it is a movement in disarray, in large part due to its rejection of key Aristotelian principles. Aristotle performs the central role in Sanford’s case for three reasons: (1) the function G. E. M. Anscombe assigns to him in her analyses; (2) Aristotle serving as a common denominator in subsequent CVE literature; and (3) Sanford’s contending that the framework of Aristotle’s ethics is superior to the alternatives. Sanford’s assessment of the CVE movement begins with Anscombe’s “Modern Moral Philosophy.” In this article, Anscombe diagnoses the shortcomings of modern moral philosophy and suggests that it ought to be scrapped in favor of an ethics revolving around the Aristotelian virtue of phronesis and its place in the good life. Since subsequent virtue ethicists credit this article as the origin of CVE, Sanford thinks it legitimate to use Anscombe’s principles as the standard of evaluation of the CVE movement. Against this measure, he thinks CVE ultimately fails to distinguish itself from the common framework of contemporary moral philosophy. The movement “has in many respects betrayed the recommendations of its mother” (183). Key to the fabric of what Anscombe thinks a suitable moral theory are both an affirmation of ethical absolutes and an adequate philosophical psychology. She points to Aristotle for addressing both considerations. Sanford posits three questions, the answers to which would constitute an adequate psychology: (1) What is human nature? (2) What is the purpose of human life? (3) And by what means can we judge progress made toward achieving the goal of human life? The raising of and providing answers to these questions constitutes the heart of the book. Attempting to employ the notion of virtue as the basis of an ethical theory without addressing these questions is likely either to fail or to be rife with confusion. As I read Sanford, CVE is plagued by attempt after attempt to treat virtue as Book Reviews 955 removed from the broader context in which it is intelligible. Before virtue, we must address foundational questions of moral philosophy and understand virtue as nested within this context. The book could stand on its own as a worthwhile critique of an important contemporary ethical movement; however, Sanford goes further by offering a second part, which I found to be the most compelling aspect of the work. He offers an overview of Aristotle and Aquinas that, while providing further notes of evaluation of CVE, aims to show that we can meet Anscombe’s clarion call to reclaim key Aristotelian insights for developing a substantive alternative to the accounts that make up modern moral philosophy. Sanford addresses each of the above questions that pertain to an adequate philosophical psychology by arguing that the Aristotelian framework provides persuasive answers to them. Moreover, he gives Alasdair MacIntyre due credit for making significant contributions to this cause, both in terms of the latter’s seminal After Virtue and even more so with his later works, particularly Dependent Rational Animals. Finally, Sanford addresses the place of Aquinas and Thomistic natural law theorists both in relation to CVE and in relation to an acceptable philosophical psychology. One might expect at least a prima facie affinity among CVE and natural law theorists. However, according to Sanford, this is not the case precisely insofar as the former has failed to distinguish itself from contemporary moral philosophy. He compares the divide between the two approaches to a watershed: “superficially, both sides look similar, but the water flows in opposite directions” (230). Sanford argues that Aquinas performs a central role in addressing an adequate psychology, particularly in terms of the third question concerning by what means we can judge progress toward the goal of human life. Aquinas’s natural law theory as a theory about practical reasoning provides a much more persuasive answer to the question than does Aristotle’s account of phronesis. To conclude, Sanford has provided a much-needed critique of CVE, not from the perspectives of deontology or consequentialism, but from the viewpoint of the foundational principles of the movement itself. In addition, he has offered a way forward for a viable alternative to modern moral philosophy in keeping with both the spirit and the philosophical N&V commitments of Anscombe’s call to action. Anthony T. Flood North Dakota State University Fargo, ND