AQUINAS ON THE RESURRECTION
OF THE BODY
MONTAGUE

BROWN

Saint Anselm College
Manchester, New Hampshire

T

HERE HAS BEEN much discussion in recent years
bout whether or not the Christian doctrine of the resurection of the body can be rationally defended. The question "What happens after we die?" seems to have been raised by
philosophers in every tradition. Materialists have answered that
the corruption of the body is the annihilation of the individual.
Idealists or spiritualists have answered that the soul lives on without the body. Christians have traditionally held that the body
is to be resurrected. Do Christians have any evidence, outside of
the faith, for holding that there will be a resurrection? If the answer is no, then the doctrine of the resurrection of the body might
rightly be ignored by anyone who is not a Christian. If the answer is yes, what is the evidence?
There seem to be three basic ways of applying reason to questions about life after death and hence to the doctrine of the resurrection of the body. One way is parapsychology. Through recording information from mediums and from those who have had
experiences of being dead and reviving, statistical evidence is
gathered to support the theory that there is life after death, and a
description of what that life might be like is drawn up. Here the
attempt is made to apply the scientific method of hypothesis and
verification to the issue. A second way of applying reason to the
issue is to assume through faith that the resurrection of the body
is true and then try to show that such a position is not incoherent.

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This position attempts to show that it is not impossible to conceive of God resurrecting the body, that is, the concept does not
involve a contradiction. A third way is to try to show, not only
that the resurrection of the body is a coherent concept, but that
it is true, that there is evidence upon which to base an argument
which leads to the conclusion that the resurrection of the body
is the best answer to what happens to us after death. This third
position is that of St. Thomas Aquinas and will be the position
defended in this paper. Let me just briefly sketch Thomas's position at this point.
Thomas arrives at his position on the resurrection of the body
by considering evidences which are discovered in reflecting on
what it is to be human. On the one hand, we exercise an immaterial activity, thinking, which means that we have a faculty
whose operation transcends the body and therefore is not corrupted when the body is. Thus, the rational soul is an incorruptible substance. On the other hand, this incorruptible substance is the form of the body, naturally requiring the body for
its perfection. It is I who thinks and senses, not my soul in one
case and my body in the other. Instead of reading this pair of
evidences as mutually exclusive options requiring a choice
(which choice would entail absurdly denying one or the other of
these fundamental aspects of human nature), Aquinas acknowledges both evidences and finds in them reason to affirm the resurrection of the body.
The structure of the paper will be as follows. In the first section of this essay I shall examine the current literature on the
reasonableness of the doctrine of the resurrection of the body.
In the second part I shall look at the philosophical arguments
which establish the apparently contrary evidences indicating that
the human being has an incorruptible soul and yet is a unity of
body and soul. Part three will involve an examination of
Aquinas's reasons for affirming the resurrection of the body. And
in the fourth and final section, some fundamental objections will
be entertained concerning difficulties in holding that the body is

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to be resurrected, particularly the problems of the continuity of
the individual and the possible encroachment of philosophy into
the realms of theology and grace.
I
As has been said, there appear to be three ways to apply reason
to what happens after we die: the statistical analysis of parapsychology, coherence theory, and what might be called rational
psychology or philosophical anthropology, that is, the study of
what it is to be human and what this implies. Let us consider the
options in turn and some of the arguments that are made for and
against them.
Parapsychology offers statistical data, gleaned from reports of
people who claim to have "been to the other side" and returned
to tell about it, as support to the position that there is life aftet
death. Such evidences have been documented in the Proceedings
of the Society for Psychical Research since its inception in 1882.
Over the years there have been quite a few well-known philosophers who have been presidents of this society, notably Henri
Bergson, William James, Henry Sidgwick, and F. C. S. Schiller.
The contemporary philosopher of religion John Hick thinks that
parapsychology should not be ruled out as a support to the case for
life after death. With the reservation that he finds these reports
inconclusive up to the present, Hick cautions against ignoring the
results of such study. " In the meantime one should be careful not
to confuse absence of knowledge with knowledge of absence." 1
Whether such data would support the resurrection of the body
is debatable. In his book Life after Life, Raymond Moody notes
that it is often the case that the one reporting his experience of
being dead has been aware of having a body of some kind. "He
notices that he still has a ' body,' but one of a very different nature and with very different powers from the physical body he
1 John H. Hick, Philosophy of Religion (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: PrenticeHall, 1963), p. 57.

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has left behind." 2 This sounds more like the "astral body" position discussed by Anthony Flew than a resurrected body. 3
Nevertheless, it could perhaps be counted as evidence that life
after death is not a disembodied existence.
However, does any of this really have any positive bearing on
whether or not one can reasonably hold that there is life after
death or that such a life would be somehow bodily? In answer
to this question, I agree with Anthony Flew's conclusion which
he claims to take from a paper by E. R. Dodds entitled " Why I
Do Not Believe in Survival," which appeared in the Proceedings
of the Society for Psychical Research in 1934. Flew writes:
"The so-called survival evidence can be adequately, and therefore
better, interpreted in terms of more or less elaborate and unconscious normal and paranormal transactions among the livingwithout postulating any surviving entities at all." 4 In short, if
survival evidences are taken from the reports of those who say
they have been dead and returned, it is hard to put much trust in
them. It would seem more likely that they are reports of neardeath experiences, not of being <;lead.
The problem with applying the scientific method (with its requirement of verification) to the problem of whether there is life
after death is that there is no direct sense experience to verify
one's hypothesis, only reports by those who are supposed to have
2 Raymond A. Moody, Life after Life (Harrisburg,
Pa.: Stackpole Books,
1976), p. 21.
3 This position holds that the soul is not immaterial but corporeal.
This
corporeal soul or "astral body " is made of very fine matter and constitutes a
shadow image of our more grossly corporeal body. When the earthly body
corrupts at death, this shadow image-the real person-survives. See Anthony
Flew, "Against Survival" in Philosophy of Religion, ed. by Louis Pojman
(Belmont, Calif.: Wadsworth, 1987), pp. 335££., reprinted from Flew's God,
Freedom and Immortality (Buffalo, N.Y.: Prometheus Books, 1976). Although
he rejects any notion of life after death on scientific (materialist) grounds,
Flew does allow that this astral body position is more likely than either the
disembodied soul position of Plato or a reconstitutionist (resurrected body)
position (Pojman, p. 342).
4 Ibid., p. 342.

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been dead and returned. In short, trying to apply the scientific
method to the question of life after death cannot succeed because
of the impossibility of direct sense verification (i.e., holding to the
scientific method). Thus, parapsychology would not appear to
off er any great support to the existence of life after death or describe what such life might be like.
Many philosophers who would agree with the verificationist
demands have taken another tack in their application of reason
to the issue, one more modest in its claims. These philosophers
would hold that it cannot, in fact, be proven whether or not there
is life after death : affirmation of such a life and assent to the
doctrine of the resurrection of the body are matters of faith. One
only knows that we are immortal and that our life beyond the
grave will one day involve a resurrected body because Christianity says so. Reason is powerless to prove the truth or falsity
of this. What reason can do is show that holding such a position
is not incoherent, that is, that such a position does not involve
one in a logical contradiction. This position tends to be the one
espoused by philosophers who are also Protestant Christians.
This would seem, in fact, to be the only option for thinkers in
the tradition of the Reformers, who held that matters of faith are
all beyond reason. If God's existence cannot be proven rationally,
then certainly neither can the resurrection of the body, which
would certainly seem to demand the activity of God. There are
many proponents of this view, but I shall focus here on the position of John Hick, who is an eminent spokesman for the position.
Hick offers his famous " replica theory " in defence of the coherence of holding that the body is to be resurrected. 5 In fundamental agreement with the Protestant tradition which holds that
doctrines of the faith cannot be established by reason, Hick holds
that there is no indication from our understanding of human na5 Hick, pp. Slff. Derek Parfit, with his "teletransporter,"
presents a position much like Hick's in trying to show the coherence of holding that there
could be a resurrection of the body: Reasons and Persons (Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 1984), pp. 199ff.

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tu re that there will be any life beyond the grave. " Only through
the sovereign creative love of God can there be a new existence
beyond the grave." 6 What Hick does believe is that reason can
answer any objections to believing in the resurrection of the body.
He develops his "replica theory" in order to dispel the objection that the resurrected " me " would not be the same " me "
who lived on earth. In answer to this objection, Hick says that
if John Smith were to disappear in one place and, at the same
moment, an exact replica of him were to appear at another place
possessing the same memories, physical characteristics, habits,
beliefs, and even thinking of himself as the original John Smith,
then we would correctly say that the replica is, in fact, John Smith.
The same idea can be applied to death and resurrection. Since it
is possible to conceive of a disappearance on earth and a reappearance in heaven, then it is possible that it does happen. 7 Thus, belief in the resurrection of the body is justified to the extent that
it is neither disproven nor incoherent.
Many have argued against such positions as Hick's replica
theory. A. Olding argues that there is no meaningful way to talk
of a replica appearing at the same time in heaven as the person
dies on earth since heaven and earth do not share a common
temporality. 8 Terence Penelhum thinks that it is not at all clear
that the identity of the replica and the original would be the same.
"Given such an account as this, it is clear that the belief in survival requires the unambiguous satisfaction, as part of the prediction, of presupposed criteria of identity." 9 John Perry says simply that the replica or duplicate would not be the originial. " He
[God] could create someone similar to me, but not someone who
would be me." 10 The replica theory does not seem to establish
s Ibid., p. 124.
s A. Olding, " Resurrection

1 Ibid., pp. 51-52.
Bodies and Resurrection Worlds,"

Mind 9
(1970) : 585.
9 Terence Penelhum, "The Importance of Self-Identity," Journal of Philosophy 68 (1971): 676.
10 John Perry, A Dialogue on Personal Identity and Immortality
(Indianapolis: Hackett Pub., 1978), p. 33.

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that the resurrected " me " has the same identity as the earthly
" me." And if it does not, it is hard to see how one could speak
of " my " resurrection. Even if one grants that the replica theory
preserves the essence of identity, all that has been shown is that
it is theoretically possible (involving no inherent contradiction)
that there could be a resurrection of the body.
This is really as far as these theories go ; but Thomas Aquinas
thought that a consideration of human nature shows that the doctrine of the resurrection of the body is true. He is not unique in
this: there is a Catholic tradition which holds this same position,
although not, perhaps, with such systematic reasoning. 11 In fact,
if the Protestant tradition tends to be restricted to showing the
coherence of the positions of the faith, the Catholic tradition tends
to be open to showing, insofar as this is possible, that doctrines
of the faith are in accord with what natural reason tells us about
the world. 12 Within the Catholic tradition there is plenty of debate on how one knows that there will be a resurrection of the
body and what this means. Some argue for a position of what
may be called " temporary disembodiment " 13 as the link between
this life and the resurrection of the body. This position depends
on the philosophical understanding of the indestructibility of the
soul and so uses natural reason to support the faith. Stephen
11 For a good account of this tradition, see Stephen Davis, " Christian Belief in the Resurrection of the Body," The New Scholasticism 62 (1988): 72-97.
12 There has been some disagreement within the tradition about what kinds
of things can be proved. There have always been, of course, some Catholics
who, like the Reformers, denied to natural reason any insight at all into the
faith-Tertullian and Peter Damian, for example. There have also been some
who held that reason can tell us many things about the faith-that God exists
and that we are immortal, for example-but not that God must be a Trinity
or that the Incarnation is necessary. In this tradition are thinkers such as
Justin Martyr, Augustine, and Thomas Aquinas. Then there is the position of
Anselm who thought that even these mysteries of the faith could be proven.
The Church has held traditionally to something like the middle position of
Augustine and Aquinas.
18 This is the term that Stephen Davis uses in his article " Christian Belief
in the Resurrection of the Body" (p. 74).

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Davis, Peter Geach, and Joseph Ratzinger all adhere to this general position. Others, who do not accept the philosophical docrine about the indestructibility of the soul and claim to find no
warrant for such a doctrine in Scripture, hold that there is no
interim period, but that we die directly into the resurrection.
Hans Kiing and Gisbert Greshake are eminent spokesmen for
this position. Before I consider the debate among those who claim
to be in this Catholic tradition, especially the conversation between Ratzinger and Kiing, let me trace the train of thought
which led Thomas Aquinas to proclaim that the resurrection of
the body is not only a matter of faith but also apparent to natural
reason.
II
In developing the argument for the resurrection of the body
St. Thomas shows, on the one hand, that there is reason to believe that the rational soul is immortal and, on the other, that
there is reason to deny that the rational soul is the human being.
To understand Aquinas's argument, let us begin with a consideraIf one pays attion of what we are presently doing-thinking.
tention to what thinking is, one becomes aware of an activity
transcending the temporal and spatial limitations of the material
world. When we are engaged in distinguishing one thing from
another, or one argument from another, we are considering common structures of meaning. But commonness or universality is
not a feature of matter. One never meets the same matter in different things, only the same structure of matter. Spot, Fido, and
Sparky are all dogs, not because they are the same matter but
because they share the same structure or form of matter. The
understanding of what a dog is is not confined to this wagging,
barking animal at this moment but extends to all such creatures
wherever they may be found-today, yesterday, or tomorrow.
Matter is always particular; meaning is always universal. Meaning transcends the mere particularity of time and place. Thus, the
object of the intellect (what is understood) is not material. Now

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an immaterial object does not register on a material organ. 14 For
this reason, Aquinas holds that the activity of knowing must be
immaterial and that the intellect itself must be an immaterial faculty. As Aquinas says: " The intellect according to its nature is
elevated altogether above matter, which its activity shows: we do
not understand anything unless we separate it from matter." 15
Since the intellect has its own specific act in which the body does
not share, it is not completely bound up with the body. In fact,
Aquinas says that the soul is a substance in its own right, transcending the body and capable of subsisting apart from the body.
"It is necessary to say that that which is the principle of intellectual operation, which we call the soul of man, is a certain incorporeal and subsisting principle." 16 When the body corrupts,
the intellect is not destroyed. Its immateriality assures its incorruptibility.
One might object that the body plays an essential role in thinking. After all, Aristotle said that there is no knowledge that does
not arise through sensation. 17 We cannot think without images,
and images are supplied by the body. In answer to this, Thomas
replies that the soul does not require the body for its activity but
to supply it with its object,18 which is, in the first place, the
essences of material things. 19 Although all thinking happens to
14 This is why science can never find God, nor absolute values, nor, for that
matter, mind. Insisting that all that is real be verifiable by sense experience,
it must count all immaterial objects as unreal. But then, of course, its own
verification principle must be rejected as unreal since it is a universal statement that has itself never been verified by the senses.
1 5 " Intellectus autem omnino secundum suum naturam super materiam elevatur : quad eius operatio ostendit, non enim intelligimus aliqua nisi per hoc
quad ipsa a materia separamus. "Compendium Theologiae (hereafter, CT),
84. Unless otherwise noted, all translations are my own.
1 s " N ecesse est dicere id quad est principium intellectualis operationis, quad
dicimus animam hominis, esse quoddam principium incorporeum et subsistens "
Summa Theologiae (hereafter ST) I, 75, 2, c. See also Summa Contra Gentiles
(hereafter CG) II, 51, 55, 65; De Potentia III, 9, 11; De Anima I, 14; De

Spiritualibus Creaturis I, 2.
11 Metaphysics I, 1, (981a 2).
1s ST I, 75, 2, ad 3.
10 ST I, 12, 4, c.

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be accompanied by bodily activities such as sense perception or
imagination, thinking itself is not a bodily activity. And since an
activity which transcends the body cannot be the activity of any
material organ with the attendant potentiality for corruption, the
seat of thinking-the rational soul-is incorruptible.
Not only does the immortality of the soul become evident
through a reflection on what it is to know, it is also revealed
through reflecting on what it is to value. Human beings are endowed with a natural desire for things which transcend the limitations of materiality-things
such as truth, friendship, and
beauty. Unless we are to say that what is natural is meaningless
and to no purpose, we have evidence here to affirm the incorruptibility of the rational soul which, besides knowing, also values.
The argument is in two stages : the first is concerned with showing that we have a natural desire to be forever, the second with
showing that such a natural desire indicates that we are, in fact,
immortal.
As to the first part of the argument, Thomas begins by making the general claim that all things can be said to desire, analogically, existence ( esse) according to their own natures. 20 Material things desire one another (law of gravity). Plants desire to
grow and propagate. Animals, in addition to growth and propagation, by nature possess sensation and locomotion and can be said
to desire things outside themselves. However, this desire is always particular and for this time only. Human beings, however,
desire things which transcend space and time. We desire truth,
and truth is forever; we desire friendship, and true friendship involves a commitment to another human being as other, that is, as
a center of meaning irreducible to the material universe or to oneself. The recognition of beauty, its order and perfection, transcends the mere flux of passing time and the corruption of material
things. These goods call us to permanent participation. Communing with and valuing the everlasting, we desire to be forever.
20

ST I, 75, 6, c.

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But, Aquinas says, no natural desire is in vain. 21 Plants naturally desire nutrients, water, and sunlight: there are such things.
Animals naturally desire food and a mate: such things are available. We naturally desire truth, friendship, and beauty: such
things exist and exist beyond the merely particular and momentary. Since our natural desire is not in vain, that is, meaningless
and to no purpose, we are immortal. How else could the desire
to participate in these timeless goods be satisfied, except that the
one who desires this participation in some way transcends the
limitations of time and space, that is, the limitations of materiality?
Unless we are willing to disregard the meaning that we find in
our human nature as creatures who know and value (and to disregard meaning is to cease to think, is to cease to care), we must
admit that the human being is, in some way, immortal. Hence,
we implicitly understand that the soul is immortal in every act of
understanding or valuing.
Since it is certain that we think, and that thinking is not the
activity of a material faculty, one might be led to say with Plato
that the human being is the soul alone, and that the soul's union
with the body is unnatural and, in fact, bad for it, since our bodily
appetites and passions often cloud our thought. But Aquinas says
this cannot be true. In the first place, we have immediate awareness of the unity of the soul and the body. It is I who thinks and
senses, not my soul in one case and my body in the other. One
speaks of my body but also of my soul. The speaker, the self, is
the real existing unity of which the soul and body are parts. 22
Beyond this most obvious point, there is a technical problem with
21 Ibid. Aquinas gets this argument from a passage in Aristotle : " Nature
makes nothing which is purposeless or doomed to frustration." On the
Heavens, II, ii (291b14), tr. by W. K. C. Guthrie (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1960).
22 " It can be said that the soul understands as the eye sees, but it is more
properly said that the man understands through the soul. Potest dici quod
anima intelligit sicut oculus videt, sed magis proprie dicitur quod homo intelligit per animam." ST I, 75, 2, ad 2.

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holding that the human being is the soul, one which emerges
from Plato's own principles. If the soul were not naturally the
form of the body, making a unified composite, then the unity
would be accidental. There would be no natural reason for the
soul to be united to the body. If one says that the soul does not
need the body and that the body actually restricts the activity of
the soul, then, apparently, the only explanation for the soul uniting itself to the body would be that it is for the good of the body.
But this makes no sense on Plato's principles themselves, for the
soul is good and real, and the body evil (at least for the soul) and
unreal. Aquinas, in qualified agreement with Plato's principles,
answers that since form (soul) is never for the sake of matter
(body), nor act for potency, the soul cannot possibly be for the
good of the body. On the contrary, the body is for the good of
the soul. 28
This does not mean, however, that the soul would be better off
without the body. On the contrary, it is emphatically Thomas's
position that the human soul is imperfect without the body. It
is the unity of soul and body which is natural and for the good
of the soul.24 The human soul is a subsisting thing which is, by
nature, the form of the body. There are not two separately existing things, body and soul, which are put together to make the
human being. The existence ( esse) of the soul and the composite
is one and the same.25 The ground for saying this is one's immediate observation and understanding of what it means to be
human. One knows that one senses, and one knows that one
knows. And just as one knows oneself not to be two different
agents, so, metaphysically speaking, one ought to speak of the
human being not as two formal unities (soul and body) but as
one unified whole with one act of existing.
It must be said that the soul is very distant from the body if the
conditions of each alone is considered; hence if either of them had
existence separately, it would be necessary that many mediating
2s CT,

167; ST I, 76, 5.
ST I, 89, 1.
25 ST I, 76, 1 ad 5.
24

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things come between. But inasmuch as the soul is the form of the
body, it does not have existence apart from the existence of the body;
but through its existence it is immediately united to the body.26
Aristotle, as against his master Plato, insists on this unity of
soul and body. The soul is the form of the body; the human being is the composite. If one agrees with Aristotle on this point,
is one committed to Aristotle's thinking on the meaning of death
and the nature of reason? Aristotle agrees with Plato that reason
is an immaterial activity and hence indicates the presence of an
incorruptible faculty. However, so committed is Aristotle (and
rightly so) to the unity of the soul/body composite that he rejects the possibility of individual immortality. 27 The corruption
of the body is the absolute end of the individual. Reason, with its
implication of incorruptibility, apparently comes to us from a
higher power and returns to that power when we die.28
But Aristotle's is not the only option for one who would hold
the essential unity of body and soul. Thomas Aquinas agrees
with Aristotle that the composite is the human being. In fact,
he is even more committed to the unity of the human being, so
much so that he will not allow that one's thinking is not one's
own, as is suggested by Aristotle's theory sketched above. If what
reasons is incorruptible, but I am not, then I do not reason; my
thoughts are not my own. But this is absurd. "If, however,
26 " Dicendum quod anima distat a corpore plurimum, si utriusque conditiones
seorsum considerentur; unde si utrumque ipsorum separatim esse haberet,
oporteret quod multa media interveniunt. Sed inquantum anima est forma
corporis, non habet esse seorsum ab esse corporis ; sed per suum esse corpori
unitur immediate." ST I, 76, 7 ad 3.
21 Aristotle, On the Soul III, 5 ( 430a20-25).
2 8 Ruth Reyna in her article " On the Soul : A Philosophical Exploration of
the Active Intellect in Averroes, Aristotle, and Aquinas," Thomist 36 (1972) :
131-149, agrees with this interpretation of Aristotle. "He clearly states in the
De Anima ( 413b26) that the intellect is in some way separable from the body
and as such cannot be its substantial form. Following this in the Metaphysica
(1072b, 26ff.) he postulates the presence of a divine element in the human
soul-the nous, which constitutes the really immortal part of man. It enters
from without" (p.142).

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someone wishes to say that the intellectual soul is not the form
of the body, he must find out how it is that this act of understanding is the act of this man; for each one experiences it to be
himself who understands." 29 And if one's thinking is one's own,
then there is individual immortality. But if one's thinking is one's
own, so is one's sensing; and hence the unity of the human being
includes soul and body. " It is the same man himself who perceives that he understands and senses." 30
The dual evidences of sensation and thought, with their respective requirements for body and an immaterial soul, lead Plato to
say one thing and Aristotle another. Each recognizes the immatrial nature of knowing and hence the immortal character of the
intellectual faculty; but they take radically different positions on
what the intellect's relation to the body might be. Plato says that
the human being is the soul, but then cannot account for why the
soul is tied up with the body. Aristotle, standing firm on the
unity of body and soul, ends up saying that reason is our temporary visitor; but then he cannot account for the immediate conviction that it is oneself who understands and wills.

III
St. Thomas finds the positions of both Plato and Aristotle
absurd. 31 What, then, does he present as more reasonable? The
doctrine of the resurrection of the body. The rational soul is immortal and the form of the human being.82 Since being follows
form, for us to be is to be immortal and embodied. It is the nature of the human soul to be at once rational (and hence immortal) and the form of this particular individual. Although the
;29 " Si quis autem velit dicere animam intellectivam non esse corporis
formam, oportet quod inveniat modum quo ista actio quae est intelligere, sit
huius hominis actio; experitur enim unusquisque seipsum esse qui intelligit."
ST I, 76, 1, c.
30 " Ipse idem homo est qui percipit se intelligere et sentire." Ibid.
111 What he actually says is usually in support of Aristotle, but it is evident
that the position he attributes to Aristotle is his own and not the Philosopher's.
a2 ST I, 76, 1, ad 5.

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doctrine of the resurrection of the body may seem surprising,
Aquinas would say that it is more reasonable than any other alternative. Let us review his arguments.
As we have outlined above, reason is an immaterial activity
which requires an immaterial (and hence incorruptible) faculty.
If it is incorruptible, then it is never destroyed (short of being
annihilated by God, which has nothing to do with the requirements or limitations of its nature). But the soul is created (not
generated) ss to be the soul of a particular human being, to be
part of the unity that is an individual person. The soul is created
with, and always retains, a relation to a particular body. Hence,
it is unnatural for the soul to be without the body. In fact
Aquinas goes so far as to say that " if the resurrection of the
body is denied, it is not easy but difficult to uphold the immortality of the soul." 34 This is because the soul is naturally the
form of the body. After the soul is, to all appearances, separated
from the body at death, the soul is in an unnatural state. Without the body, the soul is imperfect, for its nature requires that it
inform a particular body. But, Aquinas says, no unnatural state
can be permanent. Throw a stone up against the force of gravity,
it returns to earth. Submerge a burning branch in water, and
the fire is soon extinguished. It is not natural for a stone to be
upheld by air or for fire to burn under water; therefore, these
states of affairs are not permanent. This general statement that
no unnatural state can be lasting is particularly clear with regard
to permanent beings, for in such cases the contradiction involved
is obvious. The permanent separation of the soul (which is
naturally the form of the body) from the body would imply that
there is a permanent being (since the rational soul is indestructible) which is permanently not what it is. The human being is
rational and material: the denial of either of these aspects of our
nature is a denial of the truth, is a courting of absurdity.
as ST I, 90, 2, c.
84 " Si negetur resurrectio corporis, non de facili, imo difficile est sustinere
immortalitatem animae." I ad Corinthios, 15, L. 2.

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As to our being rational, to say that one does not possess reason is really to say nothing meaningful; for if I say that I do not
possess reason, then, according to my own principles, my statement bears no universality and hence cannot communicate meaning: it fades away like a sense impression, lost in time past. It is
to have said nothing at all, to have made a meaningless utterance.
I give up the right to consider what I say right or wrong and
thus, by default, leave the field wide open to any challenger. If
I have no reason, then I have no proof.
On the other hand, it is just as absurd to say that I have no
relationship with this body. Through the bodily senses we are in
direct contact with a world of existing things, from which,
through the intellectual power of abstraction, we learn. 35 In
other words, our very rationality requires materiality. All our
knowledge begins in sense experience. The senses are not (in the
healthy person) essentially defective and thus by nature an impediment to the intellect; if they were, we would never be able to
judge that they are sometimes mistaken (when we are sick, color
blind, deceived by mirages, etc.). Verification besides being an
act of mind and will, involves the senses.
Just as we argued for the immortality of the soul from the activities both of knowing and of valuing, so, besides arguing for
the resurrection of the body based on the nature of knowing, we
may also argue for the resurrection from what we naturally value.
Since we have a natural desire to know (i.e., we naturally value
knowledge), we have a natural desire to be embodied, for this is
required for us to gain knowledge. The rational soul needs the
body to help it learn. Besides valuing knowledge, we value other
things such as friendship and beauty. We value friendship, and
at least part of friendship is a rejoicing that someone is here in
the flesh, and, by implication, that one is here in the flesh to rejoice in that other. Beauty is not just an intellectual experience
but is found in sights and sounds as well as formal structures.
Without the body, we cannot properly participate in these goods
35 ST

I, 85, 1, c.

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which we naturally value. Hence, if the relation between body
and soul is broken, as at death, the soul retains a natural desire
for reunion. Since a natural desire is not in vain (that is, meaningless and to no purpose), the reunion of soul and body which
is the resurrection will happen. 36
We have no better grounds for explaining what it means to be
human than the evidence available to us now. Human life is full
of goods apprehended by reason and desired by the will which involve the unity of body and soul. The project in which we are
presently engaged is a case in point. Writing and reading, speaking and listening-acts of communication-are activities of embodied reason: this is what we are; this is what we value; this is
what is natural.
Closely allied with this argument from the natural desire of the
rational soul for the body is Thomas's argument taken from the
natural human desire for happiness. For human beings to achieve
perfect happiness, they must be complete, i.e., not disembodied
souls but unities of body and soul.37 Happiness is what motivates
us to do anything we do; it is the natural object of our desires.
If happiness were not achievable, then our whole existence as intellectual animals would be ultimately meaningless. If there is no
achievable happiness, then what is the point? One might say (and
many have said) that there is no point, but then, as we detailed
above, all statements including that one dissolve into absurdity.
Reason and argument require meaning. If there were no such
thing as meaning, then we would not question or argue or pursue
the true and the good. Since we do all these things, there must
be ultimate meaning. This is not to say that all must achieve
happiness, only that it can be achieved; it is available under certain conditions. Although the resurrection of the body is not a
guarantee or sufficient condition for happiness, it is a necessary
a6 CT,

151; I ad Corinthios, 15, L. 2; CG IV, 79, [11] ; ST I, 76, 1 and

89, 1.
s1 CT, 151; ST I-II, 4, 5, c.; CG IV, 79, [11]; De Potentia, 5, 10.

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condition. There may, indeed, be more required for happiness, 38
but the soul's reunion with the body is a necessary condition for
the happiness of the individual who is the union of soul and body.
Aquinas even gives an argument from rewards and punishments which, like the argument from natural desire of the rational soul or from the requirements of happiness, is not as
strange as it might at first seem. Our actions in this life which
are good or evil (and therefore deserving of reward or punishment) involve the soul and the body. It is the individual person
(the composite) who acts, not the soul or the body. If good
deeds are done, they deserve the reward of happiness ; if evil deeds
are done, they deserve the punishmnt of unhappiness. The meaningfulness of ethical requirements demands this. In one way, to
be sure, reward or punishment comes immediately with the deed,
for to do good is to be more fully human and hence happier, and to
do evil is to be less human and so less happy. However, since the
human being is not just the soul but the unity of soul and body,
rewards and punishments should apply to the body as well as to
the soul. Ultimate happiness of mind and body, because of its requirement of absolute stability, cannot be achieved in this lifetime, for our lives are subject to changes beyond our control. And
it is quite obvious that many evil deeds go unpunished either
mentally, as when a person's conscience is so numbed that he is
not even aware of the atrocities he has committed, or physically,
as when a thief and murderer dies peacefully in his sleep after
years lived in the lap of luxury. In order that justice be fulfilleda requirement of meaningful activity, which in turn is a requirement of properly human activity-it is necessary that there be
an integral human being to be rewarded or punished, and hence
that there be a resurrection of the body. 39
We have spoken in this section of the requirements of human
intellectuality and how from this point of view, the separation of
38 St. Thomas and any believing Christian would agree that there is-the
grace of God.
sa CG IV, 79, [12] .

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the soul from the body is unnatural. The obvious response to all
this is to say that for a material being (which we also are) decay
and death is the most natural thing in the world. What is
Thomas's response to this? He answers that in a way death is
natural, and in a way it is unnatural. 40 Introducing his treatise
on the human being in the Summa Theologiae, Thomas writes:
" On man who is composed of a spiritual and a corporeal substance." 41 On the one hand, a human being is the product of
nature, evolving from more primitive material forms, and born of
these particular parents. On the other hand, since knowing
transcends the particularity of matter as to space and time, the
whole process of material nature cannot account for human intellectuality. The rational soul is not a product of evolution but
is created directly by God. Hence the birth of a human being is
simultaneously a natural and a supernatural act.
Now if we consider ourselves as corporeal substances, then it
is natural for us to be corrupted, for that is what it means to be
material, to be able to become something else. But insofar as we
are rational we are incorruptible and hence permanent features of
the universe. Aquinas explains that for the rational soul to be
united to matter, there is required a special disposition of the
matter. The human being is the only case of matter taken up into
intellectuality. This disposition is not natural to matter but is,
like the rational soul, the effect of a supernatural act. Originally,
Aquinas explains, this disposition allowed the body to be permanently joined to the rational soul. 42 From the point of view of the
soul (which itself has a direct supernatural origin) the unity of
body and soul was to be forever. From the point of view of the
body alone in its naturalness, death was inevitable. But, one may
ask, since matter is always for the sake of form, and being comes
according to form, why is it that the separation of soul from body
is possible?
4-0 CG IV, 81, [1-3].

41 " De

homine qui ex spirituali et corporali substantia componitur." ST I,

75.
42 CT, 152.

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The answer lies in the mystery of sin. I say mystery because
no reason can be given for sin. We only sin when reason tells
us one thing, and we do the other. Now insofar as it is natural
for human beings to be reasonable (that is, to have an intellectual
soul), sin is unnatural. The sinning soul is an imperfect soul.
Speaking theologically, Aquinas says that the perfect domination
of the rational soul over matter was forfeited by sin. Although
there is no obvious deduction from sin to the disruption of natural
unity of soul and body, there is a kind of explanation in this account. At least we can see a flaw that weakens the power of the
rational soul. God creates a rational soul to be joined, through
a created disposition, to matter. By sinning, human beings allow
the appetites of the body to rebel against reason. In this rebellion
is the seed of death.
In order that the corporeal matter might be adapted to it (the rational soul), it was necessary that some disposition be superadded to
the human body through which it might become suitable matter for
such a form. And just as this form is brought into existence by God
alone, so that disposition exceeding corporeal nature was given to
the human body by God alone.... When, however, the soul of man
through sin turned from God, it was suitable that the human body
lost that disposition by which it remained completely subservient to
the soul: and thus man incurred the necessity of death.43

It seems to me that some supernatural disposition is required
even now for that unity of the immaterial and the material that
we know ourselves to be. Matter is not naturally intellectual ; it
takes on an intellectual character only, as far as we can tell, in the
unity of the rational animal, the human being. But the permanent character of this disposition is forfeited since all of us give
43 "Ad hoc igitur quod materia corporalis convenientur ei aptata fuerit,
necesse fuit ut aliqua dispositio humano corpori superadderetur per quam fieret
conveniens materia talis forme. Et sicut hec forma a solo Deo exit in esse per
creationem, ita illa dispositio naturam corpoream excedens a solo Deo corpori
humano attributa fuit. . .. aversa autem anima hominis per peccatum a Deo,
convenientur et corpus humanum illam supernaturalem dispositionem perdidit
per quam immobiliter anime subdebatur ; et sic homo necessitatem moriendi
incurrit." CT, 152. See also CG IV, 81, [l-3].

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up (apparently genetically, hence the doctrine of original sin) the
permanent character of reason's rule, since we sin. Hence death
is called unnatural, for the nature of the rational soul is to be the
form of the body. The unnaturalness of sin is responsible for the
unnaturalness of death. " If, therefore, we consider the nature of
the body, then death is natural. But if we consider the nature of
the soul and the disposition which on account of the soul was
supernaturally given to the human body from the beginning, then
it is per accidens and against nature, since to be united with the
body is natural for the soul." 44 Since, therefore, the unnatural
cannot be forever, there will be a resurrection of the body.

IV
To such arguments for the resurrection of the body, there are
three serious objections that must be considered. First of all,
there is the question of how the resurrection can happen. The
original generation of the human being involves a natural change.
The union of the male and female elements begins a process of
growth which issues in the full development of the bodily form.
If the same body is to be restored after it has been corrupted, it
cannot be by the same kind of natural act, for nature, operating
always in time and particularity, cannot generate the same thing
twice. 45 Secondly, if the union of body and soul is broken at death
(as seems to be the claim of Christianity), then how can the same
individual be resurrected since one criterion for individuality
would appear to be the continuity of the body/ soul composite?
How can one say that the individual survives the interval of separation in its part, i.e., the soul? Finally, is it not the ultimate
presumption to try to prove philosophically what is a matter of
revelation? Is this not an attempt to unravel the mystery that is
our redemption, to take to ourselves the gift that has been prom44 " Si igitur ad naturam corporis respiciatur, mors naturalis est; si vero
ad naturam anime, et ad dispositionem que propter animam supernaturaliter
corpori humano a principio indita fuit, est per accidens at contra naturam,
cum naturale sit anime corpori esse unitam." CT, 152.
45 CG IV, 80, [l]; CT, 154.

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ised us beyond all natural hope? To these three serious questions
I now turn.
In answer to the first question, Aquinas freely admits that the
resurrection requires a supernatural cause. However, this does
not negate its naturalness. It is true that nothing in nature has
the ability to resurrect the same body: physical nature cannot
generate the same thing twice since material things are particular
to time and place; the only other kind of making is creation
which, since it requires infinite power (to bring something into
being from nothing), cannot be performed by any finite thing,
material or immaterial. But it is also true, as we said above, that
human nature requires the resurrection of the body. Although
the efficient principle will be supernatural, this does not discount
the naturalness of the resurrection, any more than the fact that
the efficient cause of the soul is supernatural (the rational soul is
created) requires us to deny the naturalness of human generation. 46 To put it in other terms, the final cause of the resurrection
is human nature, but the efficient cause is God. Although it is
true beyond a doubt that God's creative activity is required for a
human being to come to be, it is just as true that God cannot
create a human being whose natural unity does not require final
resurrection of the body. The natural evidence of what it is to
be human provides the basis for any philosophical arguments for
the resurrection of the body. St. Thomas puts it this way: " The
resurrection is natural as to its end inasmuch as it is natural for
the soul to be the form of the body; but its active principle is not
natural, but is caused solely by divine power." 47
There are, of course, two legitimate ways to go with this : one
may emphasize either the requirement for a supernatural cause
and dwell on the miraculous nature of the resurrection, or one
46 For that matter, the entire universe depends on the efficient creative causality of God, yet we speak of the natures of plants and animals, the nature of
water and quartz, and the natural laws of physics.
47 Resurrectio enim quantum ad finem naturalis est, inquantum naturale est
animae esse corpori unitam; sed principium eius activum non est naturale, sed
sola virtute divina causatur." CG IV, 81 [14].

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may focus on the requirements of human nature and speak of the
naturalness of the resurrection. One can emphasize the fact that
no physical operation can cause the same thing to come to be
twice, and that no immaterial created nature can act directly on
matter to alter it. If these two points are made clear, then it is
obvious that the resurrection can have no natural efficient cause.
Therefore, if the resurrection happens, it is the act of God. With
this point in mind, Thomas says that the resurrection of the body
is miraculous. 48
Now all this is no doubt true, but then one must also admit
that the procreation of a human being is miraculous, for it cannot happen except God, by an act of creation and hence a miracle,
create the rational soul and the disposition which allows matter to
be taken up into intellectuality. It is surely good to recognize the
miraculous in human life, but one normally does not regard the
issuing of a human being as the offspring of a man and a woman
as unnatural. It is natural that sexual intercourse between man
and woman should bring forth a human child with the potentiality of being fully rational, even though rationality cannot be generated. The final cause of the child's coming to be is human nature; nevertheless, the efficient cause of the child is in part (and
in main part, since being follows form and the form of the child
is its rational soul created by God) an act of divine power.
There is insight to be gained on both sides here. On the one
hand, what we take to be natural to a human being, that is, to be
a unity of mind and matter, by implication suggests the naturalness of the resurrection of the body. On the other, the obvious
presence of the divine hand in the miraculous act of resurrection
by implication recalls to mind the miraculous act of the " natural "
birth of a human being. Hence, our nature, and thus our natural
reason, is couched in miracle. That we are and what we are cannot be wholly explained by any natural data. But the idea that
the resurrection of the body is natural in a way that complete
annihilation (materialists), or the immortal existence of the soul
•s IV Sententia, dis. xliii, a. l, q. 3.

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alone (Plato), or the destruction of the person when the composite of soul and body corrupts (Aristotle) are not should be
welcomed for what it is : not some wish fulfillment in the face of
obvious evidence to the contrary (who knows what death is?),
but the sane and fruitful gift of reason.
Now although the active cause of the resurrection requires a
cause which is not in nature, we need not say that the resurrection is impossible, for we know that there does exist a cause beyond nature-the cause of nature, God the creator. In fact, the
requirements of human nature for the resurrection provide us
with one more insight into the existence of God. Since the intellectual soul has an activity in which the body does not share,
i.e., thinking, it enjoys an immaterial and hence incorruptible
existence. Thomas says that it can exist on its own. 49 However,
it is also the form of the body. It is not accidentally joined to
the body but requires the body to provide it with materials upon
which to act, for our knowledge originates in our experience of
the material things which share our world. Ours is the kind of
intellect that requires a body for its perfection. We know these
things are true because we know we are rational and embodied.
We think; it is not reason thinking through us. 50 Since the soul
cannot be destroyed, and since it must always be the form of the
body (or it would be destroyed), there must be the resurrection
of the body. Otherwise, the soul would not achieve its natural
perfection and therefore would not be what it is. But the efficient
cause of the resurrection cannot be found in any limited principle,
material or immaterial. Therefore, according to the demands of
reason as applied to human nature, there must be a being of infinite power which can accomplish the resurrection of the body.
Such a being we call God.
49

'ST I, 75, 2.

5o " It is not because Socrates

is moved by his intellect that he understands,
but rather the reverse: it is because he understands that Socrates is moved by
his intellect. Non quia movetur Socrates ab intellectu, ideo intelligit; sed
potius e converso, quia intelligit, ideo ab intellectu movetur Socrates." ST I,
76, 1, c.

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Let us turn now to a consideration of the second serious objection. It might be objected that once the soul and body are divided,
there is a break in the continuity of the person : any body which
the soul were consequently to receive would not be, in any meaningful sense, the same body, nor would the same person result
from the union. 51 It might appear that a doctrine which has the
soul created as the form of the body, then existing on its own,
and finally reunited with the body fails to respect the continuing
individuality of the person. For, after all, Aquinas says very explicitly that I am not my soul. 52 If this is true, then when the soul
is separated from the body, I no longer exist. But if ever I cease
to be, what sense does it make to say that I, the same identical
person, could be again? 53
In response to this, Thomas distinguishes two ways in which
we can speak of body. Body may refer to an eS'!3ential component
of our essence, or it may refer to the particular cells and atoms
that at present constitute my physical existence. 54 Taken in the
first sense, to be embodied is essential to the human being, and
hence it is contained in the rational soul. Aquinas says that "the
corporeity of any body is nothing other than its substantial
51 On this issue Sandra Edwards writes : " If the soul is not the man, then
at death there is a break in the continuity of the individual which even bodily
resurrection cannot remedy." " Saint Thomas Aquinas on ' The Same Man ',"
Southwest Journal of Philosophy Vol. 10 (1979): 95.
52 I ad Corinthios, 15, L. 2.
53 It seems to me that the introduction of the "replica theory"
(which I
have discussed above) does little to circumvent the problem; for if what continues to exist is a replica, it is not I. Rather than discussing an imaginary
and highly hypothetical situation, it would seem more to the point to focus on
the evidence we have for what it is to be human and what this implies. Besides,
the replica theory as presented by Professor Hick is concerned with what God
could do, not with what can be argued philosophically for what the nature of
the human being requires and what can constitute continuity between this life
and the resurrected life. It is a question of whether or not there is anything
natural about the resurrection. The position of Thomas Aquinas, and the one
for which I am arguing, is that there is.
54 CG IV, 81, [7]; see also De Veritate, 10, 4, ad 3, and De Spiritualibus
Creaturis, 3 ad 14.

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form." 55 There is only one form of the human composite, which
is the rational soul. If there were another form of body in addition to the rational soul, then one form or the other would have
to be accidental; and thus either to be embodied or to be reasonable would not be essential to being human. But to deny either
our rationality or our animality is to go against what one immediately and obviously knows oneself to be. Although Aquinas
does speak of the human being as two substances in one, as we
have mentioned, he insists that they are unified by the requirement essential to the rational soul that it be the form of the body.
So although the " animal " is worked up by nature and the " rational " created by God alone, we do end up not with two lives
but with one.56
When quantitative corporeity (these particular dimensions,
this weight etc.)· is lost at the separation of soul and body in
death, the essential principle of corporeity is not destroyed. The
restoration of the same body is not threatened by the release of
these cells and atoms. Aquinas points out that what was not a
problem during life should not be a problem at the resurrection.
No one would dispute that one has the same particular body
throughout life, although the cells are being constantly replaced.
Aquinas was well aware that our bodies are in flux and that we
are not the same matter today that we were several years ago; 57
still, we do say that we have the same bodies throughout our
lives. Our substantial bodily existence is the same. Since substance is the ultimate source of accident, it is possible for the
formally identical body (i.e., the body informed by this rational
soul) to be restored. Of course, the efficient cause of this restora55 ". • • corporeitas cuiuscumque corporis nihil est aliud quam forma substantialis eius.... " CG IV, 81, [7].
56 " It must be said that the soul communicates that existence in which it
subsists to the corporeal matter, from which and the intellectual soul there is
made one being; so that that existence which is of the total composite is also
the existence of the soul itself. Dicendum quod anima illud esse in quo subsistit
communicat materiae corporali, ex qua et anima intellectiva fit unum; ita quod
illud esse quod est totius compositi, est etiam ipsius animae." ST I, 76, 1 ad 5.
57 See CG IV, 81, [12); CT, 159, 160.

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tion, as we have said, will be God, but the point at issue here is
continuity, and that is guaranteed by the rational soul possessing
all the formal elements of the human being, including the form
of body. " Therefore, it must be that corporeity, as it is substantial form in the human being, is not other than the rational soul,
which requires that its matter have three dimensions: for the
soul is the act of some body." 58
Here the unity of the human being, which was so stressed by
Aristotle and even more by Thomas, comes to the fore. Whatever is real is real to the extent that it has form. Matter alone
does not make anything to be. As mere potentiality, it has no
power to actuate. But in any one thing there can be only one
form actuating it; for if there were many, it would not be one
thing. Contrary to reductionist tendencies of analysis in modern
science, Thomas holds that the higher up the chain of being one
goes, the more unified things are'. A cat is not a conglomeration
of atomic, chemical, organic, living, and sensing forms : it is a
feline sensitive soul (containing virtually all the lower forms we
may analyze out) informing prime matter. Likewise, the human
being is not a conglomeration of the kinds of forms listed above
with the addition of a rational soul. "Thus we say that in this
man there is no other substantial form than the rational soul, and
that through it the man is not only a man but an animal and a
living thing and a body and a substance and a being." 59
With the distinction between the rational soul which is itself
subsistent and the composite which the soul informs, one might
think that there is an additional problem of unity when considering the human being. But the truth is that the unity of a human
being is even more pronounced than the unity of other things, for
the human being is not merely one individual of a species through
58 " Oportet, igitur, quod corporeitas, prout est forma substantialis in homine,
non sit aliud quam anima rationalis, quae in sua materia hoc requirit, quod
habeat tres dimensiones: est enim actus corporis alicuius." CG IV 81, [7].
5 9 " Sic ergo dicimus quod in hoc homine non est alia forma substantialis
quam anima rationalis, et quod per earn homo non solum est homo sed animal
et vivum et corpus et substantia et ens." De Spiritualibus Creaturis, 1, 3 c.

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matter but is also individuated through its form-through the
rational soul which is an integral part of the universe and is
created directly by God. " Souls are multiplied in accordance
with the multiplicity of bodies; nevertheless, the multiplicity of
bodies will not be the cause of the multiplication of souls." 60
Thus, the human being is a rational soul informing prime matter,
with all the other formal characteristics contained virtually in the
rational soul.61 It is true that one can analyze the body of a
human being, breaking it down into lower forms; but every stage
of reduction is accomplished only by destroying the unity and
hence the being of the thing which is being analyzed. A corpse
is not a human being; carbon is not organic tissue; protons, neutrons, and electrons are not carbon. The order that makes a thing
one is supplied by the form; take away this order, and one no
longer has the same thing.
Thus, nothing is actually and independently supplied by the
material principle, in this case the body.62 The body is the receptive component which receives all its actuality from the form. If
the body had independent existence, there would be no human
unity, but two substances stuck together. All that is formal and
actual in the human being is contained in the rational soul. Since
the rational soul is incorruptible, one can conclude that all that is
formal in the human being is incorruptible. So it is that the
formal requirements for the resurrection are contained within the
immortal rational soul which, since it has an activity that transcends the body and all matter, cannot naturally cease to be. It
60" Multiplicantur quidem animae secundum quod multiplicantur corpora,
non tamen multiplicatio corporum erit causa multiplicationis animarum." CG
II, 81 ; see also ST I, 76, 2, ad 1.
6 1 Perhaps a note on that mysterious "thing " we call prime matter might be
in order here. Prime matter is not some primal stuff of which all things are
made, for even stuff must have form of some sort. It is rather the continuity
that exists between all material things by which one thing can change into
another.
62 " It is clear that there is one existence of the matter and the form, for
matter does not have actual existence except through form. Manifestum est
enim quod materiae et formae unum est esse, non enim materia habet esse in
actu nisi per formam." CG IV, 81, [11].

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is, then, possible (granted that the efficient principle of the resurrection must be divine) that the resurrection may take place, for
all the formal reality, all specificity, is contained in the immortal
rational soul.
Granted that there is to be a resurrection of the body with the
rational soul providing the transition from this life to the other,
would not the break in the continuity between the soul's information of the body in this life and its information of the resurrected
body rule out the possibility of the person being one and the same
in each case? This is a very important objection, for, although
all formal reality of embodiment is contained in the rational
soul, the rational soul itself is not the human being. If it were,
there would be no reason to argue for the resurrection of the
body. Since the argument has been for the necessity of the resurrection of the body for the human being to be complete, then
clearly the disembodied soul is not to be considered the complete
human being. And with all of Thomas's insistence on the unity
of the human being, a break in this unity would seem to imply
the dissolution of the individual.
What is it that materiality adds to the completeness of the
human being? Human beings are individuated according to matter because each has a rational soul, created by God, and irreducible to the material universe or the rest of humankind. But matter is not, as we have seen, the cause of individuation. Quite the
contrary, our materiality is our communion with the rest of the
human species and with the material universe. The fullness of the
individual human being is found in communion with other human
beings, both naturally, insofar as we are what Aristotle calls
"political animals," and supernaturally, as we are the Body of
Christ. Our full identity is bound up with our materiality, that is,
our continuity with the rest of humanity. Thus, the objection that
questions how one's identity can survive disembodiment is a very
serious objection indeed.
My response to this objection (a response which I believe to
be consonant with Thomas's thought) is that discontinuity de-

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pends on a break in time, and that time is not at issue here. In
many ways, my position on the resurrection of the body is quite
like what Stephen Davis calls" temporary disembodiment," which
is also the basic position of Peter Geach in his interpretation of
Aquinas's doctrine. 68 However, it is the issue of a temporary
in the unity of the individual composite that is the strongest argument against the continuity in being of the same person and hence
against the meaningfulness of this person's resurrection. One
need not be bound by this objection if one is careful to note what
must be true, namely, that the existence of the rational soul apart
from the body is not temporal.
The separation of the soul and the body is unlike substantial
change within this world of material things in that there is no
matter nor time to underlie the transition. M There are not two
substances as poles of a change which occurs within time. It is
not like grass becoming cow, where the form of cow replaces the
form of grass to the destruction of the grass. 65 It is true that the
corpse's form is no longer the rational soul, but the rational soul
is not destroyed in this change that occurs to the corpse. The
two poles of the transition are not both within the single context
of time. The rational soul, since it is a substance on its own, is
not corrupted when the body is, and its separated existence (being immaterial) is not one of passing time. From the point of
68 See Stephen Davis, " Christian Belief in the Resurrection of the Body,''
The New Scholasticism 62 (1988): 97; Peter T. Geach, God and the Soul
(London, 1969), p. 28.
64 It is not even really correct to talk of what happens as a "transition " or
a " change " since both require a substratum of matter and time. It would
perhaps be better to speak of this as an "event."
e5 Gerald Kreyche in his article "The Soul-Body Problem in St. Thomas,"
New S cholasticism 46 ( 1972) : 466-484, argues that death is a substantial
change in the full sense. " If a man dies, then a substantial change has taken
place, that is, a change which 'goes all the way' to primary matter. Such a
change is necessarily instantaneous and involves the loss of one form with the
subsequent presence of another form" (p. 472). While it is true that the
atoms which constituted the composite are organized under another form, the
rational soul is not destroyed.

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view of form (that is, from the point of view of meaning, since
form is the source of meaning), there is no discontinuity. It is
true that the rational soul does not exist in eternity like God.
Unlike God (and like the angels) it does not understand everything through one idea but rather knows through the consideration of multiple ideas. 66 However, this does not mean that the
rational soul exists in time. Rather, like the angels it exists in
what Thomas calls aeviternity, where there is no substantial
change, but where such accidental change as does not involve
time (such as knowing) is possible. 67
To know per se (even in this life) does not involve time; it is
not a temporal transition, like substantial change or motion, but a
perfection. Although we require a body to supply us (through
sensations) with the raw material from which we extract meaning, the grasping of meaning itself is not an act of time. And although our rationality in this life involves time as we marshall
premises and conclusions, the insight itself, the actual grasping
of the conclusion in the premises, is not a temporal act. If the
premises were only understood at separate moments of time, their
relationship would remain atomistic, each occupying its own impenetrable sphere of meaning. If this were so, premises would
never yield conclusions. In the act of understanding, two meanings are grasped simultaneously in a new and more comprehensive act of meaning.
Joseph Ratzinger, while appreciating the subtlety of Thomas's
theory of aeviternity, does not think it is very helpful in solving
the problem of the transition from this embodied existence to the
resurrection of the body. He writes: " The idea of the aevum
was developed in order to throw light on the mode of existence of
angels, of pure spirits, not that of man." 68 Although I am in
ST I, 55, 3.
On aeviternity, see ST I, 10, 5.
68 Joseph Ratzinger, Eschatology: Death and Eternal Life, tr. by Michael
Waldstein, Volume 9 of Dogmatic Theology (Washington, D.C.: Catholic
University of America Press, 1988), p. 182.
66
67

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fundamental agreement with Ratzinger in much of what he says
about the resurrection of the body, on this point I must disagree.
True enough, aevum is a term Thomas ascribes to the angels, but
it is to the angels as immaterial beings. Now, if Thomas is serious about saying that the rational soul is an immaterial substance
in itself, then what applies to other immaterial substances ought,
at least in some way, to apply to it as well. Also, if the soul can
provide transition between this bodily existence and the resurrected body, this is only because it is not destroyed, that is, it is
not subject to substantial change (which is measured by time).
Somehow, one must, it seems to me, answer this objection: if
the rational soul's role in the transition from this embodiment to
the resurrection of the body implies a time when the soul exists
without the body, then there is a break in the continuity which
guarantees that the resurrected " me " will be the same " me " as
the present composite individual. To insist that the soul's existence is not one of time or eternity but of the aevum is to deny
the temporal aspect of the soul's existence apart from the body.
Again, the main point is this. Substantial change requires time
and a material substratum (prime matter), neither of which is
appropriate to speaking of the soul's act of knowing or its transition from this composite life to what life it possesses upon its
separation from the body. Simply put, it does not seem that we
are required to speak of a break in time in which the soul is without the body. And so the continuity of the person is not
jeopardized.
The question might fairly be raised, at this point, as to whether
or not my position is the same as one currently espoused by Hans
Kiing, who holds that upon dying we enter immediately into the
resurrection. 89 Before I give my answer (and what I believe is
Thomas's), let me discuss the current status of the debate between
Kiing and Ratzinger.
89 Hans Kiing, Eternal Life, tr. by Edward Quinn (Garden City, N.Y.:
Doubleday, 1984), pp. 136-142. Kiing is not alone in his position. In these
pages he points to the Protestant theologian Karl Barth in support of this
theory as well as to the contemporary Catholic theologian Gisbert Greshake.

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Insisting on the unity of the human being (an expressly
Thomistic theme), Kiing rejects the idea that the soul could survive the death of the body. " The human person dies as a whole,
with body and soul, as a psychosomatic unity." 70 What happens,
then, to the human being? Kiing replies that death is not, in fact,
annihilation, but rather a matter of dying into God. It is not
that our nature indicates that we shall die into God : our nature
indicates that we shall be destroyed. It is solely by the grace of
God that we shall not be annihilated. " The essential thing is that
man dies not into nothingness but into God and so into that eternity of the divine Now which makes irrelevant for those who have
died the temporal distance of this world between personal death
and last judgment." 71
If we wonder whether this is a Thomistic position, we have not
far to look: Kiing himself says that it is not. " Dying into God
must be understood not in a Platonic or Aristotelian-Thomistic
sense, as a separation of body and soul, but as an act of merciful
judgment of purifying, enlightening, healing consummation, by
which man becomes through God wholly and entirely man, integrated and in fact 'saved'." 72 There is no natural continuity
between this life and the next. The human being dies, body and
soul, and is renewed by God's activity of "salvation." Whereas
Thomas held that the resurrection of the body was natural as to
its final cause (i.e., that human nature requires the resurrection
of the body), Kiing apparently sees no implication from the status
of this life to life after death. There is nothing in human nature
which indicates that the human being will survive death. It is
merely a matter of faith that we shall not be annihilated.
Against this position of Kiing, Ratzinger insists on the Thomistic doctrine that the soul, which is the only form of the body,
survives the decay and dissolution of the body and exists alone
in an interim period before the resurrection of the body occurs.73
As we said above, the soul is the kind of soul which demands a
10 Ibid., p. 138.

12 Ibid., p. 139.

11 Ibid., p. 138.

1s Ratzinger,

p. 119 ff., p. 259.

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body. It is because the soul is indestructible (the seat of thinking) and the permanent form of the body that the resurrection
can be said to be a matter of natural knowledge. 74 Abandon this
central idea of the soul, and one must abandon any philosophical
position on the likelihood of the resurrection of the body. Ratzinger, criticizing Kiing's position, writes: "The theory of resurrection in death . . . demolishes bridges that would lead to the
intellectual commonwealth of philosophical thought, as well as to
the history of Christian thought." 75 If Kiing's position is taken,
the tradition of the church, 76 as well as any philosophical position on the resurrection of the body, must be abandoned. This
is a truly Protestant position, reminiscent of Luther's total disparagement of philosophy. Far from being a question of disrupting the unity of the human being, Aquinas's doctrine on the soul
guarantees that there be a human unity, for the soul cannot be
corrupted, and it is forever the soul of the body. " As this debate
proceeds, it becomes clearer that the function of the idea of the
soul's immortality is to preserve a real hold on the resurrection
of the flesh." 77
In addition to the philosophical reasons for keeping the doctrine
of the soul surviving death and being a partial cause of the resurrection of the body (the final cause, not the efficient cause),
Ratzinger has another important reason to hold on to the doctrine-this one theological. If we are the Body of Christ, then the
resurrection of the body, the fulfillment of history, cannot occur
until history has run its course, until the Body is complete.78
Kiing's position implies that salvation is an individual thing and
not a corporate one. Each individual dies directly into God,
achieving individual salvation. For this reason prayers for the
dead are misguided, for they do not need our prayers since they
14 Ibid., pp. 178-181.
1 5 Ibid., p. 256.
76 On

this tradition, see the already cited article by Stephen Davis " Christian Belief in the Resurrection of the Body."
11 Ratzinger, p. 267.
7 s Ibid., p. 190.

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are already in the eschaton. 79 But, Ratzinger points out, even in
this life we are interdependent; Christology makes absolutely
clear what is already suggested by nature. "The Body of Christ'
means that all human beings are one organism, the destiny of the
whole the proper destiny of each. True enough, the decisive outcome of each person's life is settled in death, at the close of their
earthly activity .... But his final place in the whole can be determined only when the total organism is complete, when the
passio and actio of history have come to their end." 80 The doctrine of the immortality of the soul guarantees that the distinction between the judging of the individual and the salvation of
the "Body of Christ" be honored. Ultimately, for Ratzinger,
this theological requirement is more important. " Speaking as a
theologian, I consider this to be, in the last analysis, not a debate
about philosophy but about the capacity of the faith to become
proclamation, and about the resurrection. As already suggested,
it is paradoxically the case that resurrectional realism depends on
the 'soul': a realism about faith in God's power from whose
compass materiality is not excluded." 81
In contrast to Ratzinger and Kung, my position in this paper
has not been theological. Rather, I have tried to show what
natural reason reveals about the human being and last things. In
accordance with this program, I still would say (in partial agree79 Kiing, p. 139. In this position (as well as in its foundation in the assumption that we die into God), there is a strong presumption of grace. Although
we ought to be confident in God's love for us, we also ought to be confident
that God is just. That some may not go to heaven need not imply any lack
of mercy on God's part; for those only are excluded from heaven who refuse
heaven, and God, in his justice, will not destroy the integrity of human choice.
Also, Kiing's position on the fruitlessness of prayers for the dead seems to
miss the point. Prayer is never the cause of God's grace, as if we could
prompt God to do something good. Rather, God's grace is the prompting of
our prayer. Prayer, like all good gifts, comes from God whose gifts are good
for his creatures. Prayer for the dead is good for us. It is good that we be
concerned for the well-being of those who have died: this is part of the permanence of true friendship. Beyond this, in the mystery of God's wisdom and
love, our prayers may very well be participations-as secondary causes-in
divine providence.
81 Ibid., p. 269.
so Ratzinger, p. 190.

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ment with Kiing's point, though for different reasons) that there
is nothing philosophical which requires that there be an interim
period, that is, a period of time between when the psychosomatic
unity is dissolved and when the resurrection of the body takes
place. It is true that when the problem is examined from our
point of view, as existing in time and history, one can meaningfully speak of a passage of time between when one's mother died,
for example, and the final resurrection (which includes, hopefully,
oneself). However, since an immaterial being does not exist in
time, we need not say that for the soul there is a time when it is
disembodied.
As for the philosophical possibility of purgatory, it is conceptually possible (although unimaginable, since all imagination depends on time and space) for purgation to happen to the disembodied soul without introducing time. Thomas says that there is
learning among the angels, but it occurs not in time but in degrees of unity of apprehension. " There is in the intellect of a separated substance a certain succession of understandings. Nevertheless, there is no motion properly speaking since act does not
succeed potency, but act succeeds act." 82 The separated soul understands as an angel, although on a lower level of universality
and completeness. The fact that the disembodied soul could not
learn anything new naturally (through abstraction from material
things) is not a stumbling block here either, for the soul in purgation is not adding to its natural knowledge but having its relation to that knowledge reordered and purified by divine illumination. St. Thomas clearly did not think that purgatory was a matter of time, for he states that " immediately after death the souls
of men receive, according to their merits, either punishment or
reward." 83 The soul separated from the body can learn but not
in its natural way. It learns as any immaterial substance must,
by influx of intelligible species. " Separated souls acquire this
82 " Est in intellectu substantiae separatae quaedam intelligentiarum successio.
Non tamen motus, proprie loquendo: cum non succedat actus potentiae, sed
actus actui." SG II, 101, [3].
sa CG IV, 91, [1].

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knowledge immediately by way of influx, and not successively by
way of instruction." 84 Therefore, one need not introduce time
into the moment of transition from this composite existence to
the resurrection of the body: one can account for the purification
and the learning component of purgatory without ever introducing time. Not only can the separated soul understand apart from
the body, and thus without recourse to abstraction, but St.
Thomas denies that this understanding is altogether unnatural.
It must be said that the separated soul does not understand through
innate species; nor through species which it then abstracts; nor only
through species retained; but through participated species, from the
influence of the divine light, of which the soul is made a participant
just as other separated substances, although in an inferior way.
Hence, as soon as it ceases turning to the body, the soul is turned
toward things which are above it. Neither, however, is this understanding or power unnatural since God is the author not only of the
influx of the light of grace, but also of the light of nature." 85
To know that God's mode of knowledge is not any creature's
mode of knowledge (since the creator is not the creature) is to
know that a distinction must be made between the notion of eternity which belongs properly only to God and that of aeviterrtrity
which belongs to intellectual beings. The latter indicates, not a
passing through time, but the necessary distinction between the
absolute simplicity of God's knowledge and the growing complexity of knowledge in beings as they fall below the perfection of the
creator. 86 One has to admit that one does not know how this
kind of learning goes on in immaterial substances, since we only
know naturally the natures of material things. But if we know
84 " Hane cognititionem acquirunt animae separatae subito per modum influentiae, et non successive per modum instructionis." De Anima, q. 1, a. 18, c.
85 " Dicendum quod anima separata non intelligit per species innatas; nee per
species quas tune abstrahit; nee solum per species conservatas; sed per species
ex influentia divini luminis participatas, quarum anima fit particeps sicut et
aliae substantiae separatae, quamvis inferiori modo. Unde tam cito cessante
conversione ad corpus, ad superiora convertitur. Nee tamen propter hoc cognitio vel potentia non est naturalis, quia Deus est auctor non solum influentiae
gratuiti luminis, sed etiam naturalis." ST I, 89, 1, ad 3.
86ST I, 89, 1, c; see also CG II, 98 [9 & 10].

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that there are immaterial beings (not in time) which as created
are imperfect (not in eternity but subject to perfection), then we
must allow for the possibility of a perfecting that does not occur
in time.
However, having denied that one need say that the soul exists
apart from the composite for a period of time, I think it is necessary to distinguish between the subsistent soul as being capable of existing without the body and the soul as demanding the
body for its perfection. For one thing, such careful philosophical
analysis preserves the distinction between nature and grace, which
I fear Kiing has blurred or dissolved in his talk about " dying into
God " and being, " in fact, ' saved.' " Because Kiing recognizes
no natural requirement for immortality and resurrection (a defect rooted in his failure to think clearly about what it is to think
and to know and to value), he sees the resurrection of the body
as wholly an act of divine mercy. There is no reason for the
resurrection, only divine will. With no reasoned continuity between what we are and do here and what we shall become and
have done to us hereafter, Kiing has lost the distinction between
the resurrection of the body and the Resurrection to Life. For
St. Thomas, the resurrection of the body is not wholly an act of
grace; that is, to be resurrected is not necessarily to be in God.
It may very well be a matter of being resurrected into separation
from God. The universalism and exclusion of hell from Kiing's
picture of the hereafter 87 are natural consequences of failing to
distinguish these two meanings of resurrection-the one of nature for all, and the one of grace for the elect. Kiing holds this
position of affirming universalism and denying hell despite Biblical passages a plenty in which there is clear talk of separating
sheep and goats, of gnashing of teeth, etc.88
Thus, the importance of careful philosophical work on this issue
becomes evident. In Kiing's case, a philosophical failure has re87 Kiing, pp. 139-40. Although Kung warns against "a superficial universalism " and insists on the "individual's responsibility" for his actions, these
distinctions must be blurred by the notion of " dying into God."
88 Matthew 25 :31; 13 :50; 22 :13; 3 :12; 5 :29; Luke 13 :28; 3 :17; 6 :23.

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suited in a theological position at odds not only with reason but
also with tradition and Scripture. While philosophy does not displace theology, and while it cannot handle all aspects of theology,
it is an indispensable tool for theology. A clear and accurate
philosophical understanding can keep us from charging down
roads which are dead ends. One may think that philosophy is unimportant to the faith, but as indicated right here, we shall think
whether we have faith or not; and since we shall think (willynilly, whatever our attitudes may be toward thinking), we had
better be sure that our thinking is the best possible. Philosophy
may not be able to give us the truth about all reality (particularly the source of existence-God), but it can prevent us from
drawing false conclusions which can make nonsense of what is
revealed.
Kiing's premise, if accepted, does lead to his conclusions, as illfitting as they are to tradition and Scripture. " If we start out
precisely from the basic idea of dying into God, understood as
purifying consummation, the old idea of a place of eternal punishment becomes so much more questionable." 89 The question is,
of course, should we start out from such a premise. What warrant is there for accepting this starting point? There is perhaps
a Biblical one (or, as Kiing says, the lack of any direct Biblical
support for the immortality of the soul) ; but if a theological position goes against reason, should we follow it? Since grace does
not destroy nature-for Grace created nature-it would seem to
be foolish to take the path against reason. As Ratzinger puts it :
" The integrity of faith depends on rigor of philosophical thinking, such that careful philosophizing is an irreplaceable part of
genuine theological work." 90
This discussion of the need for the distinction between nature
and grace in Kiing's thought leads me to the final major objection which could be raised against Thomas's position on the resurrection of the body. This objection involves the charge that
philosophy is usurping material that properly belongs to theology,
whose principles lie beyond the reach of natural reason. Since
8 9 Kung,

p. 140.

90 Ratzinger,

p. 269.

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our fulfillment of beatitude involves the resurrection of the body,
and beatitude is solely a gift of divine grace, it might seem that
reasoning about the resurrection is entering realms proper only
to faith. But, as has been mentioned briefly, the resurrection of
the body as a philosophical conclusion establishes only that bodily
existence will be restored according to human nature. It says
and can say nothing about what is properly of grace, such as the
sharing in the eternity of God and in His divine life, which is
beyond what is appropriate to the intrinsic nature of the human
being through the rational soul. But the resurrection of the body
is not only for those receiving grace. All will rise, the damned as
well as the saved.
It must be said that those things the reason for which is taken from
the nature of the species must be found in a similar way in all the
members of the same species. Such a thing, however, is the resurrection, for its reason or cause is that the soul, separated from the
body, is not able to be in the ultimate perfection of the human species.
Hence, no soul will remain forever separated from body. And so it
is necessary that all, just as any one, will rise again.91

To say that, because the soul is immortal and the form of the
body, there will be a resurrection of the body is merely to say
what is naturally due the human being by creation. All it means
is that we never die metaphysically, that is, we never cease to be;
it is quite as compatible with spiritual Death as with spiritual
Life. It is of the first importance to the Christian faith that
Christ by his suffering, death, and resurrection has atoned for
our sins, which cause our death, and has given us Life. As St.
Paul says, " So you also must consider yourselves dead to sin
and alive to God in Christ Jes us " (Romans 6 :11) .92 The Life
of grace we are given is given to us now, if not in its fullness,
still in its radical distinction from our natural life: " The life I
91 " Dicendum quad ea quorum ratio sumitur ex natura speciei oportet similiter inveniri in omnibus quae sunt eiusdem speciei. Talis autem est resurrectio:
haec enim est ratio, quad anima in perfectione ultima speciei humanae esse non
potest a corpore separata. Et idea necesse est, sicut unum, ita et omnes resurgere." IV Sententia, dist. xliii, a. 1, q. 2.
92 All Biblical texts are taken from the Revised Standard Version.

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now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved
me and gave himself for me " ( Galations 2 :20) . And again,
" He himself bore our sins upon the tree, that we might die to
sin and live to righteousness " (I Peter 2 :24). In the Gospel of
John we read: "Truly, truly, I say to you, he who hears rny word
and believes him who sent me, has eternal life; he does not come
to judgment, but has passed from death to life " (John 5 :24).
The Life we are given by grace through Christ is a Life other
than the life that is ours by nature. It is not the guarantee of everlasting bodily life of the kind, we now possess with all of its imperfections and limitations : such a guarantee would, I should
think, be rather cause for alarm. Rather it is a Life lived in God
through our being loved out of ourselves and into his Life.
Of course, if this new Life were offered us merely while we
are living on earth, only to be taken from us when we die, then
surely our hope and the gift would be imperfect. For this reason
St. Paul insists also on believing in the resurrection of the body
and the eternal life it makes possible. For although the perfect
Eternal Life such as our Lord by grace gives us is not guaranteed
by a resurrected bodily existence, it would be prevented were the
resurrection of the body denied. And so St. Paul writes: " For
if the dead are not raised, then Christ has not been raised. If
Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile and you are still
in your sins. Then those who have fallen asleep in Christ have
perished. If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are
of all men the most to be pitied" (I Corinthians 15 :16-19).
The Life we are promised, salvation which is imperfect now
and reaches full perfection only in heaven, is wholly grace and is
a distinct gift from created existence, whether resurrected or not.
Thus, the everlasting life suggested by philosophical analysis is
no guarantee of, nor substitute for, the Life which Jesus gives to
us through his death and Resurrection. We are Dead (in this
sense of grace) insofar as we sin. We are Alive insofar as Christ
lives in us. Now is the time to trade the old nature of sin for the
new nature which is Life in Christ. " Put off your old nature

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which belongs to your former manner of life and is corrupt
through deceitful lusts, and be renewed in the spirit of your
minds, and put on the new nature, created after the likeness of
God in true righteousness and holiness" (Ephesians 4 :22-24).
I am not saying that the resurrection of the body is not a great
gift, only that it is also natural in a way that this gift of the New
Nature is not. Distinguishing the naturalness of the resurrection
of the body from what is purely of grace serves to guard against
a mistake in emphasis, that is, placing our hope in a future restoration of our physical existence rather than accepting the grace
offered now, which, if refused, turns the restoration of our physical existence into the hell of endless pain. It is true that our final
happiness would be incomplete without the resurrection of the
body, but the resurrection of the body is no assurance of that happiness. The perfection of our resurrected life depends on our acceptance of the Life of grace offered us now. Thus, to say that
the resurrection of the body is natural is not in any way an attempt to explain away the gift of our salvation.

v
In conclusion, let me reiterate that Thomas Aquinas's philosophical arguments for the resurrection of the body are based on
the immediate experience and understanding of what it is to be
human. We think, and hence are immortal as to the rational soul.
But it is not our souls that think: we think-these composite
unities of soul and body. The soul is naturally the form of the
body. Separated from the body by death, the soul is in an unnatural state; and since an unnatural state is unstable and requires a restoration of the natural, there must be a resurrection
of the body. 93 To recognize this doctrine as the most reasonable
93 This statement is unsatisfactory as it seems to imply time, which, I have
stressed, is not at issue. Unfortunately, we cannot speak without using temporal terms. Therefore, it is necessary to make appropriate qualifications. The
stages of the soul's separation from the body and restoration in the body are
philosophical moments in understanding why the resurrection of the body is
natural; they do not mean that the soul has a temporal existence apart from
the body.

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account of what happens after death is simply to be true to the
evidence which we face in this life: the human being is a profound unity of rational soul and body. There is no reason to reduce one to the other. It is true we do not comprehend the act
by which the resurrection will occur, and so we say that the efficient cause of the resurrection must be divine. Nevertheless, the
resurrection of the body is a requirement of human nature.
St. Thomas teaches us that what we must never do in explanation is reject clear evidence in the name of simplicity. We must
not deny what we have learned from our experience unless it
contradicts something else from our experience. What Aquinas
does in his thinking is to bring to light whatever is true and to
show that truth does not contradict truth. There may indeed be
tensions, and I would suggest that at the heart of all of the great
philosophical insights there are tensions, but they are dynamic
tensions, not flat contradictions. That the human soul is subsistent, that it is the form of the body, that it can exist without
the body, but that it would be incomplete in such a state and
would require reunification with the body: these are conclusions
which we have reached through an examination of the reality we
find ourselves to be. Unless and until we discover sufficient
evidence to refute one or more of these truths, we have no right
to cast away any. To do so is to renounce our intellectuality, is
to invite the absurd. Certainly, we do not understand all aspects
of the resurrection of the body, especially the act by which it could
happen; but it is a meaningful doctrine based in self-knowledge,
avoiding the twin absurdities of materialism (we are merely
bodies) and spiritualism (we are merely souls). If the options
are to be in mystery or in absurdity, there can be no doubt where
we belong.

FATALISM AND TRUTH ABOUT THE FUTURE
}AMES

W

w. FELT, S.J.

Santa Clara University
Santa Clara, California

HEN WE SPEAK of future events, does today's
ruth mean tomorrow's necessity? The question is as
old as Aristotle's sea battle tomorrow. The last ships
should have been sunk long ago, but after two thousand years
the textual analysis of this passage is still controverted. Yet I
think something new can be said about it if we consider afresh
the philosophic issues themselves.
What philosophic consequences must we accept if we suppose
that predictions, that is, propositions referring to future events,
are either true or false antecedently to the events themselves? In
particular, if a prediction be true now, does its present truth imply
a fixity inherent in the future such that fatalism is unavoidable? 1
It has been argued that it does. Aristotle sketched such an
argument in the sea battle passage already alluded to:
... [If anything] is white now it was true to say earlier that it

would be white; so that it was always true to say of anything that
has happened that it would be so. But if it was always true to say
that it was so, or would be so, it could not not be so, or not be going
to be so. But if something cannot not happen it is impossible for it
not to happen; and if it is impossible for something not to happen
it is necessary for it to happen. Everything that will be, therefore,
happens necessarily. So nothing will come about as chance has it or
by chance; for if by chance, not of necessity.2
1 Whether it makes any sense to speak of a proposition as true " now " or at
any other time will be considered below.
2 De I nterpretatione (trans. J. L. Ackrill; Oxford University Press: 1963),
ch. 9, 18b9 ff.

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JAMES W. FELT, S.J.

If, then, a prediction is true in the present or false in the present, its very truth value today seems to create an ineluctable fixity
upon tomorrow's event such that fatalism would be unavoidable.
And as is implied in Aristotle's example, it seems natural to suppose that a prediction must, after all, be either true or, if not true,
then false. Does not the law of excluded middle demand this?
Thus the logic of truth relations seems to impose a fatalistic
view of events. Indeed, fatalism is sometimes defined precisely
in terms of logic, so that a contemporary author writes : " Fatalism is the thesis that the laws of logic alone suffice to prove that
no man has free will, suffice to prove that the only actions which
a man can perform are the actions which he does, in fact, perform, and suffice to prove that a man can bring about only those
events which do, in fact, occur and can prevent only those events
which do not, in fact, occur." 3
I shall, however, argue that ( 1) neither the law of excluded
middle nor any other logical consideration requires that predictions be true or else false when they are asserted; (2) the antecedent truth (or falsity) of predictions would not necessitate
fatalism by reason of any logical considerations, ( 3) though it
could necessitate fatalism for causal reasons; and ( 4) predictions
are never, absolutely speaking, true or false before the occurrence
of the events to which they refer, though they may be true or
false in an attenuated, relative sense.

Thesis 1: Neither the law of excluded middle nor any other logical consideration requires that a prediction be, prior to the
event, true or, if not true, then false.
I understand the law of excluded middle (LEM) to mean that,
for any meaningful proposition p, it is (logically) necessary that
p be true or, if not true, then false.
By ordinary usage a proposition referring to a state of affairs
in the world, as distinguished from one referring to logical re3 Steven M. Cahn. Fate, Logic, and Time (New Haven: Yale University
Press, 1967), p. 8.

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lationships, is called ' true' if and only if that state of affairs obtains. The proposition " I am sitting" is true just in that case
when I am sitting.
This usage normally presupposes that the object or event described in the statement is available as a referent. Thus if Mary
should say " I am taller than my sister," when she has no sister
at all, the.re is a clear sense in which her statement could not be
regarded either as true or as false.4 The existence of the referent
for comparison can thus be a necessary condition for applying
LEM.
Now it may reasonably be doubted, and I do doubt it, that a
future event, as future, is available as a referent in the present.
A prediction is dubiously true now (or false now) when the event
it refers to has not yet taken place. As Mary's phrase "my
sister" provided only a nominal definition of an object of predication (since there was no actual object), so a prediction provides
only a nominal definition of a state of affairs until that state of
affairs exists. But can a non-existent " state of affairs " function
to fix the present truth or falsity of the prediction that refers to
it? Only if that state of affairs is somehow available in the present can LEM be applied to the statement.
What I mean is that LEM itself cannot meaningfully be applied to a prediction prior to the occurrence of the event to which
the prediction refers, inasmuch as a necessary condition for the
4 This sense focuses on the comparative " taller than " as requiring both
relata if it is to be affirmable or deniable at all. There is another sense,
utilized by Aristotle in Categories, ch. 10, in which Mary's assertion would be
regarded as false. In that sense Aristotle appears to understand Mary's statement as asserting that her own state of being has the character of being taller
than her sister, but, since she has no sister, it obviously doesn't. In that same
sense Aristotle would grant that if Mary made the conrtadictory statement,
" I am not taller than my sister," her new statement would be true. This
again focuses not on the other relatum but on Mary's state of being which is
-not characterized by her being taller than a non-existent sister. In the first
sense, however, the sense I am using, it makes no sense to say that it is true
or that it is false that Mary exceeds in height a person who does not exist at
all.

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JAMES W. FELT, S.J.

truth relation embodied in LEM is that the referent of the prediction be available for comparison.
One may object that the present obviously does cast its shadow
on the past, as in the argument indicated by Aristotle. For common sense supposes that if Xis the case today, an assertion made
yesterday that X would be the case today must yesterday have
been true.
Yet this supposition of common sense is purely gratuitous. For
though I existed yesterday, today's-sneezing-me did not. While
the proposition that I am sneezing is true now if I am sneezing,
it does not thereby fo11ow that it was true yesterday that I would
be sneezing today. To claim in general that the true description
of any present fact must always have been true (not, of course,
that the fact always obtained) is to utter what William James
would ca11 a M achtspruch, a decree that closes the case before it
is heard. It implicitly appeals to what one may ca11 the Logic of
the Future, and it supposes that truth is omnitemporal: that
what is true at any time is true at a11 times.
It might instead be proposed that the truth of propositions is
not omnitemporal but atemporal, literally timeless. Thus, though
my sneeze is a temporal event, the truth of the proposition that I
sneeze at such and such a time is not itself temporal. The truth
of the proposition, on this view, does not come into existence with
my sneeze nor with the proposition's entertainment by anyone.
If, then, propositions are atemporally rather than omnitemporally
true, it does not seem sensible to speak of a proposition as true
" now " or " then" or at any other time. Furthermore, the atemporal truth of propositions referring to the future would be sufficient for the fatalistic argument indicated by Aristotle. For
there is obviously nothing one can do to change an atemporal
truth nor, consequently, to avoid the matter of fact that it atemporally describes.
This latter form of the objection, however, involves the same
presupposition as the former : that the future is as much a fact
as the past. For whether one regards the truth of propositions as

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omnitemporal or as atemporal, as reaching across all time or as
having nothing whatever to do with time, one implies that future
events as well as past belong to a unitary whole that is itself not
temporal. A common conception of this whole is that of a four
dimensional space-time manifold in which all temporal events are
naturally situated according to the time and place of their occurrence. This is the sense in which time can be said to " flow " only
in the way that a fence " runs " across the property.
I submit that to adopt this unitary view of temporal events,
hence to adopt an omnitemporal or an atemporal view of the
truth of propositions referring to those events, is to make an arbitrary and dubious presupposition that locks one into an untenable
metaphysical position. It gives to space and time, or to spacetime, an ontological priority over actual events instead of making
space-time derivative from events. It tacitly presupposes the
metaphysical priority of a space-time manifold which embraces
within itself all space-time events and thus unites the future with
the present. Such a unity would be requisite if logic would require
one to hold that predictions must be true or be false antecedently
to the events.
I do not grant, however, that space-time is ontologically prior
to actual events in their interrelations; consequently I accept
neither the omnitemporality nor the atemporality of the truth of
propositions referring to temporal events. I must on the other
hand provide a sense in which propositions can be said to be true
at some times while not at others, and indeed a sense in which
predictions become true or else false within the passage of events.
This sense will, I believe, become apparent in (and stand or fall
with) the argumentation for Thesis 4.
At present I tentatively suppose that it makes sense to speak
of propositions as true at some time, and I return to the question whether any logical considerations require that predictions
be true or else false when they are asserted, prior to the occurrence of the events to which they refer.
So far there have been found no compelling reasons, either

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S.J.

from LEM or from other logical considerations, to hold that they
are. In Thesis 4 I shall provide strong positive reasons for thinking that, in an absolute sense, predictions can in fact never be
true nor false prior to their events. If that be the case, then no
logical consideration could possibly require that predictions be
true before the fact, and thus Thesis 1 will be proved indirectly.
At this point, however, I have only shown that LEM cannot even
be applied to predictions unless the future events referred to are
available for comparison, and also that there are no evident reasons requiring one to think that future events are thus available.
Thesis 2: The truth or the falsity of predictions prior to the occurence of the events to which they ref er would not logically
entail fatalism.

By fatalism I mean the view that whatever happens, happens
inevitably and could not have happened otherwise. It is reductively the view that the actual and the possible coincide, for if
nothing could happen otherwise than as it does, then the actual
exhausts the possible.5
The most common argument for fatalism, as in that already
quoted from Aristotle, goes roughly like this : " Let q stand for
any proposition referring to a future 'contingent' event-say the
proposition 'I shall tell a lie tomorrow.' Since logic assures me
that either I shall tell a lie tomorrow or I shall not, it seems that
q must either be true today or be false. But if it is true today,
then, as in a Greek tragedy, I cannot avoid telling a lie tomorrow.
And if q is false today, I shall be quite incapable of telling a lie
tomorrow. And since this trivial example can be generalized, it
follows that no events are in fact contingent, but everything happens of necessity.''
But this argument is unsound. In the first place it assumes that
LEM requires that q be true today or else false today, and that,
5 This definition of fatalism leaves unspecified the reasons one might have
for asserting fatalism. Taken with Thesis 2, the definition amounts to rejecting any definition of fatalism that implies that the laws of logic alone suffice
to prove that the future is fixed, given any present.

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as we have seen, is at best dubious. Secondly, the argument
illegitimately transfers the hypothetical necessity of the proposition (that q is true) to the human act.
For if q be true now, what can be said to follow logically?
That I shall tell a lie tomorrow ; that I shall not fail to tell a lie
tomorrow; that I shall not not tell a lie tomorrow. But it does
not follow that I cannot fail to tell a lie tomorrow; that I shall
not be able not to lie tomorrow. In the fatalistic argument
sketched above, however, this logical misstep has been taken. The
element of necessity has been wrongly transferred from the logical situation to the act of telling the lie. That is, as long as we
assume that q is true, it necessarily follows, on that assumption,
that I shall in fact tell a lie tomorrow, but it does not follow that
in telling the lie I shall do it necessarily.
This becomes clearer when we turn the time around. If today
it is true that I whistled " Dixie " yesterday, then, on that supposition, it is necessarily the case that I did whistle it. But the
necessity is only the necessity of the supposition that it is true
that I whistled it yesterday; it does not follow that yesterday I
couldn't help whistling.
To return to the argument for fatalism described by Aristotle
(not necessarily his own), we find two distinct steps, which I
shall call ( i) and (ii), both of which have now been called into
question:
(i) "[If anything] is white now it was true to say earlier that
it would be white; so that it was always true to say of anything
that has happened that it would be so." This assertion is rejected
by Thesis 1 above.
(ii) " But if it was always true to say that it was so, or would
be so, it could not not be so, or not be going to be so. But if
something cannot not happen it is impossible for it not to happen;
and if it is impossible for something not to happen it is necessary
for it to happen. Everything that will be, therefore, happens necessarily. So nothing will come about as chance has it or by
chance; for if by chance, not of necessity."

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Thesis 2, however, claims that there are no grounds in logic
for the assertion (ii) that today's truth entails tomorrow's
necessity. The first "could" in (ii) is logically unjustified;
" would " is all that one is logically entitled to. Similarly unjustified are the words " cannot " and " impossible " that follow
the " could." If it was always (or at any past time) true to say
that something (say, X) would be so, then indeed X would not
not be so, but it does not logically follow that X could not not be
so. The necessity of the hypothesis that it was true to say that X
would be so cannot legitimately be transferred to the event itself.
On the other hand I think it must be granted that the present
truth or falsity of predictions could indeed entail fatalism, though
not by reason of logic.
Thesis 3: If predictions be absolutely true or else false prior to
the events referred to, fatalism would be inescapable, but for
causal, not logical, reasons.
Thesis 2 has already argued that the truth of predictions does
not entail fatalism by reason of logic. It should also be noticed
that the point at issue is independent of anyone's knowledge of
the events. It is irrelevant to the argument whether anyone, including God, somehow knows that a prediction is true. The question is, rather, whether a proposition referring to future events
can itself be said to be true, independently of anyone's knowledge
of its truth.
To explain and support Thesis 3, I must (a) explain the meaning of the term, " absolutely," then (b) identify the necessary
condition for the truth of such predictions before their events.
(a) "Absolutely" refers to the following case. (Though extreme, it is not really all that rare and will serve as a useful reference point for more ordinary cases.) Let us suppose a kind of
Laplacian Intelligence, or perhaps a supercomputer, and further
suppose it able to formulate a definite, though perhaps infinitely
complex, proposition that describes with absolute precision the
entire detailed state of the cosmos for all future time. This mega-

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proposition would constitute the complete World Book of the
Future. It would be a detailed expression of the sort of future
that is conceived as part of the unitary whole discussed under
Thesis 1. It would, in other words, be a complete script of that
definite future that is envisaged as occupying the space-time manifold of actual events in the direction of the future. Such an assumed future would correspond to the future that is assumed
when one supposes that logic alone entails fatalism : " Que sera,
sera."
I call "absolute" the hypothetical future thus conceived as a
complete and definite (exact) totality, and accordingly I call
" absolute " the truth or the falsity of propositions referring to
this concept of a future.
(b) What would be the necessary condition for the present
truth or falsity of a proposition referring to such an absolute
future?
Any proposition about temporal events is called ' true ' only
when the events it describes occur as stated. In considering
Thesis 1, I suggested that future events, as future, do not seem
available as referents for such a comparison. I now wish to give
more precision to this notion of availability and to do it in terms
of definiteness.
The predicate of the typical proposition, including a prediction, assigns a certain definiteness to its grammatical subject. For
instance, the prediction may assign a sneeze to "tomorrow's me."
But "tomorrow's me" is only a linguistic dummy, a kind of
nominal definition, until "tomorrow's me" becomes definite in
every particular. Will "tomorrow's me" actually include an act
of sneezing? Tune in again tomorrow to find out, for only then
will "tomorrow's me" become a real, hence a definite and determinate me.
Today's real me is an openness to a whole spectrum of" me's"
for tomorrow. Or more exactly: today's actual me opens onto a
possibility-spectrum for "tomorrow's me." The future as future
is always characterized by a certain vaguenes, a lack of definiteness. So too, tomorrow's me, like a slide projected unfocused

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onto a screen, awaits the definiteness, the focusing, that only the
actual events between today and tomorrow can give it.
But we are presently in search of the necessary condition under which a proposition referring to tomorrow's event could be
called true, hence be said to match that event exactly, even today. Indeed, in the present extreme example we seek the necessary condition for the truth of the megaproposition describing the
total future.
Now only to the extent that all indefiniteness is even today excluded from tomorrow's events can today's prediction about them
be called true. Otherwise there is no precision to tomorrow itself
that can serve as a basis for the truth relation today. Only if
today's set of events already fixes the definiteness of tomorrow's
events can today's prediction be now true of tomorrow.
But to suppose that the definiteness of tomorrow is already
settled today is to embrace the doctrine of determinism. By ' determinism ' I mean the hypothesis that for every event, Q, there
is an antecedent event (or set of events), P, such that P constitutes a sufficient condition for Q. Thus every actual event or
state of affairs (this is a universal hypothesis) would be the inevitable outcome of the previous state of affairs, since, by hypothesis, the previous state of affairs is a sufficient condition for the
present state. And since the sequence of matters of fact is not the
result of purely logical relationships, I do not hesitate to call such
determinism ' causal '.
If universal causal determinism accurately describes the world,
then every state of affairs today was already in the cards yesterday, so that yesterday's predktion referring to today's event must
yesterday have been true or else false, inasmuch as even yesterday there would have been no indefiniteness about the exact character of today's events. The correctness of the hypothesis of determinism would, then, be a sufficient condition for the truth or
the falsity of predictions prior to their events.
Conversely, only if determinism be correct could there yesterday have been complete definiteness about today's events. For

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what was to remove the vagueness, the indefiniteness of today's
events, so as to guarantee their exact fit to yesterday's predictions, if not an impossibility, intrinsic in yesterday's events, that
today's events could turn out otherwise than precisely as they do?
Only such an impossibility could furnish yesterday the definiteness
for today that is requisite for yesterday's truth or falsity of predictions about today.
But to say that yesterday's events render today's events absolutely definite is just to say that yesterday's events constitute a
sufficient condition for the definiteness of today's, and that is
precisely the claim of causal determinism.
Determinism, therefore, is both a necessary and a sufficient
condition for the present absolute truth of the hypothetical megaproposition ref erring to a total future. If that proposition can
even now be true, then the hypothesis of determinism must be
correct.
But if determinism is correct, then every state of affairs, every
present, is the inevitable outcome of its own past, and this is exactly the doctrine of fatalism. Therefore if predictions are absolutely true or absolutely false prior to their events, fatalism is
entailed because causal determinism is entailed. And this is the
central assertion of Thesis 3.
Is this "absolute" sense of truth, however, a straw man?
Have I defined absolute truth in such extreme terms that the
thesis has no real practical application?
No, I don't think I have. I had two reasons for saying earlier
that the hypothetical megaproposition describing the total future
is not really all that rare. The first is that it is natural, almost instinctive, to regard the future as a totality of definite events that
lie ahead of us, much as the highway lies ahead of us around the
bend, even though we may be unable to see it. Insofar, then, as we
suppose that our expectations about any particular detail of the
future are basically correct, we tend to suppose that they shine a
spotlight, as it were, onto parts of that tacitly assumed, given
totality. The Logic of the Future seems to bind all events to-

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gether so that particular predictions imply that supposed totality
I have called " absolute."
The second reason is that it is again natural, from a purely
logical point of view, to suppose that even the outcome of a free
decision also lies unambiguously ahead. But to suppose this, is
once again to suppose that there exists that totality of the future
just considered, since the hypothetically free decision, as free,
could enjoy definiteness in the present only insofar as it forms
part of that very totailty.
The extent to which an analogue of Thesis 3 would apply to
more ordinary propositions, propositions not referring to such an
absolute future, will become apparent from the considerations
supporting Thesis 4, to which I now turn.

Thesis 4: Absolutely speaking, predictions are niever true nor false
antecedently to the occurrence of the events to which they
refer. In a relative sense, however, some predictionlS can be
so regarded.
Before giving reasons directly in support of this thesis, I must
offer some preliminary suggestions concerning (a) some relations between logic and metaphysics, and (b) the relation of
determinism to the thesis.
(a) At the heart of this issue lies the fundamental question,
mentioned earlier, of the relation of space and time, and perhaps
even of logic generally, to metaphysics. On the one hand it seems
natural to construct out of the abstract ideas of space and of time
a kind of logical, four-dimensional space-time manifold onto
which all temporal events can be mapped. The truth or the falsity
of propositions referring to events in this manifold would then
lie outside the manifold itself, hence be atemporal.
But such a construction implicitly presupposes that the spacetime structure enjoys logical, and even perhaps antic, priority
over actual events. For the "before" and "after," the "here"
and " there " of temporal events is then thought of as at least
logically prior to the events themselves rather than derivative
from them.

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Paradigmatic of such a view is Newton's conception of an absolute space and time that serve as infinite, unaffected repositories
for all spatiotemporal events. Analogous to this is the contemporary fascination with interpreting the actual world (actual
cosmic history) in terms of an infinity of hypothetical ' possible
worlds '. possible cosmic histories. More than that, the metaphysics of the actual world is thought of, implicitly at least, as
exemplifying one particular set of principles out of an infinity of
possible ones. In such a conception, metaphysical principles are
mapped onto a broader logical structure tacitly accorded a priority, in principle if not in time, to actual events and to the metaphysical structure they exemplify.
I, on the other hand, proceed on the assumption-though this
is not the place to argue it-that, whether the logical order is
viewed as an abstract character of the extramental world or as a
reflection of the structure of thought, logical structure and the
structure of space-time inhere in and depend upon the structure of
actual events, not the other way around. 6
(b) By Thesis 3, if predictions be absolutely true or absolutely false prior to the occurrence of the events to which they
refer, fatalism is entailed because causal determinism is entailed.
Conversely, if determinism in fact holds, all predictions could be
considered true or else false prior to their events because all indefiniteness of the predicted events would already have been excluded at the time the prediction is entertained.
If therefore the hypothesis of determinism be correct, Thesis 4
cannot stand. But is determinism correct? It would clearly be
unfeasible here to re-examine that complex and hoary question.
It is, however, appropriate to note that the hypothesis of determinism is just that-a hypothesis and, indeed, a hypothesis that,
s This is only another way of saying that esse enjoys an ontological priority
to its forms. That metaphysics enjoys precedence over logic is also an essential
presupposition in making metaphysical sense of the popular notion of "possible
worlds." One may note here my essay, " Impossible Worlds," The International Philosophical Quarterly 23/3 (September 1983): 251-265, in which I
argue that most of these "possible worlds" aren't in fact possible since they
are metaphysically incoherent.

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in the nature of things, cannot be proved. You can never observe
that a particular event-let alone all events-could not have
turned out otherwise. Neither can you demonstrate this on purely logical grounds. You cannot in fact argue to determinism at
all. You take a stand on it and you take the consequerices. Since
I hold that we are, at least sometimes, free agents responsible for
our decisions, and since I also hold that determinism is incompatible with freedom, I make no apology for assuming in what
follows that determinism, as a universal thesis, is false. Furthermore, the principles that I am about to propose in support of
Thesis 4 themselves serve as plausible reasons why determinism
cannot be a correct doctrine.
I now return to the consideration of Thesis 4 itself. The thesis
was adumbrated in a preliminary way in the considerations supporting Thesis 1, by which the availability of future events for a
truth relation in the present was called into question. Furthermore, the antecedent truth of predictions was seen not to be required by what I have called the Logic of the Future. One cannot claim, without simply begging the question, that the truth
value of propositions is omnitemporal, as if once true, always true,
in the past as well as in the future. It is just not evident that a
description of today's fact must have been true yesterday-at least
not unless one is prepared to accept the claim of causal determinism. For if the description was already true yesterday, of
what use is today? Unless indeed, as determinism would assert,
today adds no determinations to yesterday but only an ineluctable production of what is already causally necessitated. Similarly, it is gratuitous to claim that tomorrow's fact must be describable by true propositions today, for that presupposes that
tomorrow's fact is settled even today. If so, of what use is tomorrow?
These questions are of course tendentious, and deliberately so.
They appeal to a metaphysical insight into the processive nature
of reality as we experience it. Let me describe this insight more
exactly in the form of the following proposed metaphysical prin-

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ciples. I say " proposed " since, like all metaphysical principles,
they cannot be demonstrated but only pointed out as more
plausible, closer to experience, than their opposites. The reader
must judge whether they ring true. The principles, however, in
concert with a rejection of determinism, constitute the metaphysical reason why predictions can never be absolutely true prior to
their described events.

Principle A: Past actuality, whether immediate or remote, is
definli,te, exact, unambiguous.
For instance, an essay or a novel, when the author is finished
with it, is just that particular assemblage of words. So too with
the definiteness of events. The Battle of Gettysburg was, in the
event, just those definite soldiers firing just those definite shots.
Closer to home: each of us has lived a very definite personal history. Our present memories about where we were or what we
did at any particular time may be uncertain, but we suppose
nevertheless that at every moment, past and present, we were just
" there" doing just "that."

Principle B: Present actuality involves a process of determination, whereby from the indefiniteness of potentiality there is
created the definiteness of settled actuality.
The writing of a novel or an essay, for instance, is a process
by which the indefiniteness of the author's initial vague ideas
takes on the definiteness of the finished product. Principle B
claims that something like this is happening all the time-that
this is exactly what "happening " amounts to.
The present therefore is always creating itself out of what is
given from the past for the present; it is not simply instantiating
the necessities inherited from the past (as determinism would
have it). If that be correct and determinism mistaken, then the
present has to be taken seriously as a kind of creation, a creation
in which genuinely new, and consequently unforeseeable, events
and details may take place. The exact history of our individual

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JAMES W. FELT, S.J.

lives is the indelible trace of what we have chosen to make out of
the situations we found ourselves in.
Principle C: Only actual events create this definiteness of settled
actuality within the given.J width of possibility.

Principle C is roughly the converse of Principle B, and if any
aspect of my position is the most controversial, this is probably it.
Principle B asserts that actual events always exemplify, because
they produce, definiteness, an exact pattern of actuality. Principle
C, conversely, asserts that such definiteness, such exactness of
pattern, requires actual events as the origin of that definiteness.
Possibility as such is always vague, poorly defined, whereas actuality is definite and precise by reason of its own activity. Actual events, therefore, imply definiteness (Principle B), and definiteness implies actual events (Principle C).
The possible ways, for instance, in which you can next walk
out the door of your room are limited by the door frame, but
within that limitation there is no end to the different ways you
can walk out. But the actual way you do walk out-say, left leg
first, etc.-gets its definition precisely and only from your act of
walking out.
Similarly, the actual writing by a real author is required not
only for the resulting novel as a whole but for the creation of the
pattern of words that constitutes its form. Dickens literally
created the literary pattern that is David Copperfield; he did not
select it from an array of pre-defined (or even of atemporal) patterns within some limbo-library of possible novels available for
actualization.
An immediate consequence of C is that the definiteness of the
actual (its formal pattern) never precedes the actual in time.
Prior to the Battle of Gettysburg the generals involved doubtless
speculated on the possibility of a battle at Gettysburg. But one
can only refer to the Battle of Gettysburg after a battle has been
fought and has, by the fighting, transformed " a battle " into
"the battle." The phrase, "the Battle of Gettysburg," supposes

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AND TRUTH ABOUT THE FUTURE

225

that exactness of detail that was supplied only by the fighting.
The same would be the case for a musical creation. Only after
Mozart had conceived it, at least, did there exist the definite and
marvelous pattern of notes that we call his Fortieth Symphony.
Mozart created that pattern in his thinking and his writing, and
prior to his act of creating the pattern simply did not exist, not
even to be talked about as a possibility.
This Bergsonian point is illuminated by noting that it would
be odd if someone were to entitle a book On Preventing the Next
Air Disaster but not odd to call it On Preventing Another Air
Disaster. For unlike "another air disaster," which is vague and
indefinite, " the next air disaster " sounds as definite and precise
as "the last air disaster." Yet "the next air disaster" cannot be
definite if it is in fact prevented and so never happens at all.
Now if the precise pattern of an actual event never precedes
the event in time, neither does the possibility of an absolute truth
relationship between that event and a prediction making an assertion about it, for there is as yet no complete definiteness to the
event that the prediction can be compared with. The event is not
available for comparison precisely because it is indefinite. Since
this is the case, however, predictions can never be absolutely true
nor false prior to the occurrence of the events to which they refer.
And this is the primary assertion of Thesis 4.
Predictions, therefore, that directly or indirectly refer to a
total future, as do predictions about free decisions (as we have
seen), are never true nor false antecedently to their described
events.
Yet aside from these absolute cases there does seem to be a
large class of predictions that can be considered as antecedently
true or false in a relative sense. These are predictions about
events that, quite apart from the thesis of determinism, seem
physically necessitated, given our present understanding of nature and given the factual situation at the time the prediction is
made.
Consider, for instance, the proposition. " Tomorrow the moon

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JAMES W. FELT,

S.J.

will be at a distance of one light-year from the earth." It seems
obvious from our understanding of nature that this proposition
cannot possibly be true; that it is even now false. One need not
hold determinism to recognize the absurdity of this proposition;
one need only know a little physics.
In considering Thesis 3, I granted that present predictions
could even now be true in a deterministic universe precisely because in such a universe the present would already fix the definiteness of the future. In an analogous way, to the extent that physical laws at work in the present fix the margins of the future, just
to that extent can predictions about the future be said to be even
now true or false. This, however, is truth or falsity in a relative
sense-relative, namely, to that width of possibility fixed for the
future by physical laws operative in the present. And this is the
meaning of the latter part of Thesis 4.
Consider a more ordinary example of predictions. What about
tide tables? Are the predictions about the height of future tides
true now? I think we should say yes, but in the relative sense.
After all, it is neither logically nor even physically impossible that
some cataclysm should occur (such as the sun exploding) prior to
some predicted tide, so that the prediction might prove false after
all. Hence the tide tables cannot be true in an absolute sense, as
if they were giving us a sneak preview of the future. Granted
that, however, and granted our solid knowledge of the gravitational and kinetic forces at work, we seem justified in regarding
these predictions as true relative to those factors. Ask any
mariner.
Tide tables, however, may be less a description of the future
than a formalization of our own expectations about it. In any
case, most predictions fall in a gray area between predictions of
an absolute future, none of which can be true before their events,
and blind guesses. But the truth or falsity of most predictions is
exactly relative to the constraints of nature and is, therefore, a
relative kind of truth or falsity. But this relative truth of propositions ref erring to the future affords no argument for a doctrine
of fatalism.

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ABOUT THE FUTURE

227

I conclude, then, that arguments for fatalism based on considerations of logic are mistaken; that predictions about an absolute future are never true nor false; and that predictions abouf
particular events can be true or false at most in an attenuated,
relative sense.
The philosophic scent of many philosophers has therefore been
accurate in sniffing fatalism whenever predictions were taken to
be unqualifiedly true or false in the present, yet almost all of the
barking has been directed up the wrong trees : the Tree of the
Law of Excluded Middle, wrongly thought to entail the truth or
the falsity of predictions antecedently to the occurrence of their
described events; and the Tree of the Logic of the Future, wrongly thought to entail that what will be, cannot not be. The barking would have been better directed up the Tree of Causal Determinism where the serpent of fatalism actually lurks, tempting
us to take the fatal bite of supposing that what we say about an
absolute future can even now be true.

DUNS SCOTUS AND THE EXPERIENCE
OF HUMAN FREEDOM
JOSEPH

D

M. lNCANDELA

Saint Mary's College
Notre Dame, Indiana

UNS SCOTUS writes in his commentary on Aristotle's
Metaphysics, " the proof [of the indeterminacy of the
will] is a posteriori, for the person who wills experiences [ experitur] that he could have nilled or not willed what he
did .... " 1 Again, in the Ordinatio, Scotus says,
In regard to any object, then, the will is able not to will or nill it,
and can suspend itself from eliciting any act in particular with regard
to this or that. And this is something anyone can experience in himself [hoc potest quilibet experiri in seipso] when someone proffers
some good. Even if it is presented as something to be considered
and willed, one can turn away from it and not elicit any act in its
regard .... 2
The significance of these statements for this paper lies in two directions: ( 1) They may hold the key to Scotus's fundamental
1 Duns Scotus, Quaestiones in M etaphysicam IX, q. 15, a. 2: "Ad secundum,
a posteriori probatur. Experitur enim qui vult se posse non velle sive none,
iuxta quod de libertate voluntatis alibi diffusius habetur." Though Scotus's
commentary on Aristotle's Metaphysics is an early work, it remains a significant source for the Subtle Doctor's thought on the will and human freedom.
I draw the English translation and the Latin text from Anan B. Wolter,
trans. & ed., Duns Scotus on the Will and Morality (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1986), pp. 152-153.
2 Ordinatio IV, suppl. dist. 49, qq. 9-10; Wolter, Duns Scotus, pp. 194-195:
"Unde quodlibet obiectum potest voluntas non velle nee none, et a quolibet
actu in particulari potest se suspendere circa hoc vel illud. Et hoc potest
quilibet experiri in seipso, cum quis offert sibi aliquod bonum, etiam se ostenderet sibi bonum ut bonum considerandum et volendum, potest se ab hoc
avertere, et nullum actum voluntatis circa illum elicere .... " That this appeal
to experience also appears in the Ordinatio shows an important continuity in
Scotus's thought about the will from his early to his later work.

229

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M. INCANDELA

divergence from Aquinas, who could never have used such language about the will.3 It has become something of a philosophical
commonplace to assert that what separated Aquinas's and Scotus's
accounts of human freedom was the relative superiority Aquinas
assigned to the intellect and Scotus assigned to the will. 4 All this
is quite true, but it does not get to the basic disagreement, the
two fundamentally different ways of thinking about human freedom that they present. Perhaps the above passages can provide
insight sufficient to overcome this shortcoming. (2) Scotus's
statements about the experience of the will's indeterminate freedom also take us, as they rightly should, to Scotus's own writings. In recent years, at least three quite different interpretations
of what the Subtle Doctor really thought about human freedom
have appeared. While no medieval figure enjoys a universal consensus (especially Aquinas), when it comes to Scotus on human
freedom, rarely have scholars dragged one man's corpus in so
many contrary directions. Perhaps employing the experience of
freedom as a heuristic can bring some kind of order to these
disparate interpretations-or perhaps, at the very least, show that
such order could only be an external imposition and, therefore,
that fundamental tensions lie at the heart of Scotus' s thinking
about the liberty proper to viatores.
This paper has three sections. In the first, I present what has
for some time been the most popular reading of Scotus on human
freedom-the libertarian interpretation. In light of this reading,
I next briefly attempt to show what it would mean to experience
3 Aquinas does occasionally appeal to experience to make his arguments,
though not the experience of the will's activity. See Summa Theologiae I.81.3;
I.84.7; I-II.112.5.
4 See, for example, Lawrence D. Roberts, " A Comparison of Duns Scotus
and Thomas Aquinas on Human Freedom of Choice,'' in Homo et Mundus:
Acta Quinta Congressus Scotistici Internationalis, 1981 (Rome: Societas Internationalis Scotistica, 1984), pp. 265-272; Etienne Gilson, History of Christian Philosophy in the Middle Ages (New York: Random House, 1955), p.
463; and Robert P. Prentice, "The Voluntarism of Duns Scotus, as Seen in
His Comparison of the Intellect and Will" Franciscan Studies 28 (1968) : 63103.

THE EXPERIENCE

OF HUMAN

FREEDOM

231

the will's freedom; and I expend these preliminary results in the
second section of the paper as fuel for a comparison with some of
Thomas Aquinas's views. Then in the third section, I return to
Scotus and examine the two interpretations of human freedom in
his work that challenge the libertarian reading. The first of these,
offered by Professor Douglas Langston in a recent monograph, 5
claims that Scotus thought that the will could be determined yet
free. The second finds its principal expression in works by Professor William Frank 6 and others and emphasizes those passages
where Scotus speaks of the will's firmitas or steadfastness in pursuing a particular goal to the willed exclusion of other options. It
is not at all clear, however, that such an emphasis jibes with the
earlier language of experiencing one's freedom. My conclusion
to this study will be that, with this language, Scotus gives to the
will an independence and an unsituated self-determination wholly
at odds with Aquinas and-very likely-with important strands
of his own later work.

I
The libertarian reading of Scotus emphasizes passages like his
claim that the will " is an active power indifferently regarding
opposed things, which power can determine itself to either of
these." 7 Lawrence Roberts, one of the foremost contemporary
representatives of this interpretation, highlights such statements
s Douglas C. Langston, God's Willing Knowledge: The Influence of Scotus'
Analysis of Omniscience (University Park, Pa.: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1986).
6 William A. Frank, " Duns Scotus' Concept of Willing Freely:
What Divine Freedom Beyond Choice Teaches Us," Franciscan Studies 42 (1982):
68-89; and Frank, John Duns Scotus' Quodlibetal Teaching on the Will, Ph.D.
diss., Catholic University of America, 1982.
1 Scotus, Secundae Additiones.
This report of Scotus's lectures has been
edited by Charles Balic in "Une question inedite de J. Duns Scot sur la
volonte," Recherches de theologie ancienne et medievale 3 (1931) : 191-208.
I shall refer to this work as SA, followed by the page number in the Balic
edition. The passage quoted above is found on p. 207. I use the translation of
Lawrence D. Roberts, found in his John Duns Scotus and the Concept of
Human Freedom, Ph.D. diss., Indiana University, 1969.

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on the way to concluding that Scotus proposes " a variety of
libertarianism." 8 Indeed, rich textual evidence suggests that freedom for Scotus is simply the ability and opportunity to do other
than what one does in every choice one confronts. Thus in his
quodlibets (one of his latest works), Scotus writes that " although this [free] power involves both intellect and will, it is
only the will, I say, that can completely account for the indifference or indeterminacy as regards the alternative-the indifference, namely, that consists in the fact that the action which occurred might not have occurred, or vice versa .... " 9
Affirmations of the will's active power of self-determination
appear repeatedly throughout Scotus's writings. In Quodlibet 16,
for example, Scotus explains that the will is " a freely active
principle, . . . in such a way that it determines itself to action .... " i:o The will has the power of self determination ["pos Lawrence D. Roberts, " The Contemporary Relevance of Duns Scotus'
Doctrine of Human Freedom," Regnum Hominis et Regnum Dei: Acta Quarti
Congressus Scotistici Internationalis (Rome: Societas Internationalis Scotistica, 1978), p. 536. On this same page, Roberts defines libertarianism as "the
view that freedom includes indeterminism in the production of actions, and control over actions by the agent." Roberts provides a similar account of Scotus
on freedom in "John Duns Scotus and the Concept of Human Freedom," in
Deus et Homo ad mentem I. Duns Scoti (Rome: Societas Internationalis
Scotistica, 1972), pp. 317-325; "A Comparison of Duns Scotus and Thomas
Aquinas on Human Freedom of Choice,'' in Homo et Mundus (Rome: Societas
Internationalis Scotistica, 1984), 265-272; " Indeterminism in Duns Scotus'
Doctrine of Human Freedom," The Modern Schoolman 51 (1973): 1-16; and
his Ph.D. dissertation, John Duns Scotus and the Concept of Human Freedom.
9 John Duns Scotus, God and Creatures: The Quodlibetal Questions, Felix
Alluntis and Allan B. Wolter, trans. (Princeton: Princeton University Press,
1975), 18.24, p. 406. For other passages where Scotus takes a very similar line,
see ibid., pp. 480-481; Quaestiones in Metaphysicam, in Allan B. Wolter, trans.
and ed., Duns Scotus, pp. 151-161; SA, p. 207; and Ordinatio, I, d. 1, part 2,
q. 2, n. 49; Vatican vol. II, p. 100: " in the power of the will is not only to
will this or that, but also to will or not to will, because its liberty is for acting or not acting" [" ... in potestate voluntatis est nion tantum sic et sic velle,
sed etiam velle et non velle, quia libertas eius est ad agendum vel non
agendum"].
1 0 The Quodlibetal Questions, 16.42 & 16.43, p. 384: "Ipsamet [voluntas] est
tale activum, quod seipsam determinat in agendo. . .. "

THE EXPERIENCE

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test se determinare "]. 11 "Every will," he writes in Book III of
the Ordinatio, "is the master of its own act." 12 It is "a free
power in its very essence" [" potentia libera per essentiam "] .13
This makes the will unique among human powers : " It seems
stupid then to apply general propositions about active principles
to the will, since there are no instances of the way it behaves in
anything other than will.... other things are not like it .... " 14
Moreover, the will is as singularly prized as it is singular: "For
who would deny an agent is more perfect the less it is determined,
dependent, and limited in its action or effect? " 15 Applied to the
will's activity, this becomes a classic statement of human freedom
as unfettered choice. For Scotus, the will must be free to escape
all potential restrictions on its activity by manifesting an independence from prior formation or the influence of anything that
it did not itself explicitly choose. Only then can the will be free.
Significantly, emphasizing the ability to experience the freedom
of this kind of will has a natural fit here. The ability to experience
anything presupposes some kind of unencumbered access to whatever it is that one seeks to experience. Only a will, therefore, that
is truly isolated from and independent of prior attachments or
commitments could be experienced in the way Scotus wishes.
Quaestiones in M etaphysicam, pp. 156-157.
Ordinatio, III, d. 17, q. unica, n. 4; Vives vol. XIV, p. 654b: "omnis
voluntas est domina sui actus." See also, for example, Quaestiones in Metaphysicam, pp. 157-159, 169; and p. 272 of Magnae Additiones, reports of
Scotus's lectures made by his pupil, William of Alnwick. They were edited
by Charles Balic in Les commentaires de Jean Duns Scot sur les quatre livres
des Sentences (Louvain: '.Bureau de la Revue, 1927), pp. 264-301. I shall use
the page numbers corresponding to the Batie edition, the translation found in
Roberts's dissertation, and abbreviate Magnae Additiones as MA.
u Ordinatio, I, d. 17, part 1, qq. 1-2, n. 66; Vatican vol. V, p. 169 and also
Ordinatio, I, d. 1, part 2, q. 2, n. 133; Vatican vol. II, p. 89. Also, in Quodlibet 16.32, he writes, "Now liberty is an intrinsic condition of the will ... "
(p. 378).
14 Quaestiones in Metaphysicam, p. 159, In addition, see Ordinatio, II, d. 37,
q. 2, n. 4; Vives vol. XIII, p. 370a, where Scotus says that the will " is
supreme among all active causes" (" ipsa [volun.tas] est suprema inter omnes
causes activas ").
15 Quaestiones in M etaph;ysicam,p. 159.
11

12

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JOSEPH

M. INCANDELA

Moreover, the very experience of indeterminate freedom-to the
extent it demands an introspective abstraction from the flow of
life-presumes this picture of the will and its capacity to step
back and away from all substantive attachments. 16 Such is the
autonomous volitional activity of the will on a libertarian account.
In his quodlibetal questions, Scotus details the will's ability to
step back and control all the attachments and attractions presented
by the intellect. While not explicitly present, the language of experiencing the will's freedom could be easily inserted here.
the initial state of indifference is [in our power], for one can determine himself to will or not to will-something which does not depend on the intellect but on the will. The object moves the intellect
naturally. Now if the will were moved naturally by the intellect, then
the will itself would be moved naturally and man would not be
human but a brute. The will, then, is not moved naturally, but given
the initial intellection, it has it in its power to tum the intellect's consideration to this or that and hence it can will this or that or reject
these. Thus the first volition depends entirely on us .... 17
Scotus marks an important moment in a tradition stressing volitional autonomy that persists to this day (witness Iris Murdock's
perceptive references to the ' giddy empty will ' that characterizes
so much of modern moral philosophy) .18
Why Scotus had to experience this type of freedom to establish its existence reveals much about the context out of which he
wrote. In the history of philosophy, the need to experience something as proof of its existence or activity almost always indicates
16 For a related controversy about such inner experience in the realm of
religious belief, see my "The Appropriation of Wittgenstein's Writings by
Philosophers of Religion: Towards a Reevaluation and an End," Religious
Studies 21 (1985) : 457-474.
.u The Quodlibetal Questions, 21.32, pp. 480-481. It should be pointed out,
though, that Scotus died before finishing his twenty-first quodlibet. What I
am quoting from here is a reportatio version of this question.
1s Iris Murdock, The Sovereignty of Good (London: Routledge & Kegan
Paul, 1970), p. 36. See also Alasdair Macintyre, Whose Justice? Which Rationality? (Notre Dame, Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press, 1988),
esp. chap. 17.

THE EXPERIENCE

OF HUMAN

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235

some kind of epistemological or philosophical crisis. The need to
experience ..i- commonly arises in the context of rebutting critics
of one stripe or another who doubt that ..i- is really there or that x
is really operating in a particular way. Listen to what Rene
Descartes-no stranger, he, to epistemological crises-says about
the will in his Fourth Meditation: " I likewise cannot complain
that God has not given me a free choice or a will which is sufficient, ample and perfect, since as a matter of fact I am conscious
of a will so extended as to be subject to no limits" (italics
mine) .19 Here we find echoes of both Scotus's points: will is
more perfect the less dependent and limited it is, and experience
confirms this.
Now, Descartes was not Scotus, nor were Scotus's problems
Descartes's. For present purposes, saying that they took common
refuge from different enemies is meant to illumine what they
fled to rather than what they were each fleeing from. Not that
the latter is unimportant; rather, it is a story best told elsewhere.20
Suffice it to say that Scotus (and Ockham as well, whose program
also begins with the experience of free volition) 21 wrote in the
wake the Condemnation of 1277; these ecclesiastical censures expressed the concern that human freedom was being threatened by
the determination of the will-principally through the activity of
19 Descartes, The Fourth Meditation, in Margaret D. Wilson, ed., The Essential Descartes (New York: The New American Library, 1969), p. 197.
20 I have tried to do this in my Ph.D. dissertation with the figures and issues
immediately after Aquinas and before Scotus. See Joseph M. Incandela,
Aquinas's Lost Legacy: God's Practical Knowledge and Situated Human Freedom, Princeton University, 1986. For an excellent presentation of Descartes's
work in its historical context, see Jeffrey Stout, The Flight from Authority
(Notre Dame, Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press, 1981), esp. chaps.
1-3.
21 See Ockham's Quodlibet I, q. 16; in Quodlibeta Septem, ed. J. C. Wey,
in Ockham, Opera Theologica (St. Bonaventure, N.Y.: Franciscan Institute,
St. Bonaventure University, 1980) vol. IX, p. 88: "Potest tamen evidenter
cognosci per experientiam per hoc, quod homo experitur quod quantumcunque
ratio dictet aliquid potest tamen voluntas hoc velle vel nolle .... " For more
on Ockham's views, see David Clark, " Ockham on Human and Divine Freedom," Franciscan Studies 38 (1978) : 122-160.

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M. INCANDELA

the intellect.22 That explains the standard depiction, alluded to
earlier, about the differences between Aquinas (who died in
1274) and Scotus on freedom. It does not yet explain how these
differences reflect two fundamentally opposing views of human
freedom and the human condition.
At the same time, even while we have not yet uncovered how
and why these differences are important, we have said enough to
understand why such differences may be expected. Scotus gave
an account of human liberty grounded in the experience of the
will's freedom, and he did this in the context of responding to the
particular problems and concerns of his day which were perceived
to challenge it. Thus the need to emphasize the will's unfettered
freedom and, in fact, to experience it. We may expect, however,
that the account given by someone who was not facing those
doubts or those critics or that context of problems will be very
different. And we ought further to expect that it will be very
difficult-if not impossible-to insert the language of experiencing freedom back into the earlier account without considerable
violence to its integrity, because experience is intrusive. Any account not similarly indebted to uncovering, isolating, and giving
prominence to the thing to be experienced-in this case, the freedom of the will-can afford to acknowledge that the will's 'experience ' is mediated, situated, encumbered by a variety of other
factors which must needs produce a very different account of
human liberty and the human condition. How this gets played
out in Aquinas will be the burden of the next section.
:2 2 For a text of the Condemnation, see E. L. Fortin and P. D. O'Neill,
trans., " Condemnation of 219 Propositions," in R. Lerner and M. Mahdi, eds.,
Medieval Political Philosophy (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1963),
pp. 335-354 (I borrow their numbering system below) . The most comprehensive source of information about the Condemnation is Roland Hissette, Enquete
sur les 219 articles condamnes Paris le 7 Mars 1277 (Louvain: Publications
Universitaires, 1977). See also John F. Wippel, "The Condemnations of 1270
and 1277 at Paris," The Journal of Medieval and Renaissance Studies 7 (1977) :'
169-201. Among the condemned propositions relating to the activity of intellect
and will in human freedom are # 164 ("That man's will is necessitated by
his knowledge, like the appetite of a brute") and # 151 ("That the soul wills
nothing unless it is moved by another. Hence the following proposition is
false : the soul wills by itself ") •

a

THE EXPERIENCE

OF HUMAN

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237

For now, consider this example: those of us who teach do,
from time to time, experience a certain joy in the activity. But
this is most often a retrospective joy of a class that went well or
of young minds loosed upon the world. I suspect that if I made
the experience of joy a priority of my teaching while I was doing
it, it would affect it greatly-and for the worse, I imagine.
Something would be elevated to preeminence that is not (nor
should be) preeminent in the undertaking. It is, rather, something so submerged in the activity that looking for it changes the
very nature of the activity. Perhaps, where framing theories of
liberty is concerned, the need to experience the freedom of the will
is similarly corrupting.
II
In his De anima (III.IO), Aristotle explained that the object
of the appetitive faculty causes the movement of the appetite towards the object. More precisely, the thought of the object
causes motion, inasmuch as the object is only present to the appetitive power through thought. The importance of the point for
present purposes is that this text 23 sparked a lively medieval debate over the respective roles of intellect and will in the act of
choice. Others have documented these controversies in detail. 24
23 Aquinas appeals to this passage from Aristotle to ground his claim that the
will is moved by the intellect (Summa Theologiae I-Il.9.1)-hereafter
cited
as ST. I use the translation of the Fathers of the English Dominican Province (New York: Benziger Brothers, Inc., 1947). See also Rosemary Z.
Lauer, " St. Thomas's Theory of Intellectual Causality in Election," The New
Scholasticism 28 (1954): 299-319; Gerard Smith, "Intelligence and Liberty,"
The New Scholasticism 15 (1941): 1-17; Alan Donagan, "Thomas Aquinas
on Human Action," The Cambridge History of Later Medieval Philosophy,
Norman Kretzmann, et al., eds. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1982), pp. 642-654; and George P. Klubertanz, "The Root of Freedom in St.
Thomas's Later Works," Gregorianum 42 (1967): 701-724.
24 For an excellent collection of sources and analysis of this period, see Antonio San Cristobal-Sebastian, Controversias acerca de la Voluntad desde
1270 a 1300 (Madrid: Editorial y Libreria, 1958) ; Dom Lottin, Psychologie
et morale au% Xlle et XII le siecles, Vol. 1: Probli1mes de psychologie, 2nd
ed. (Gembloux, 1957), esp. pp. 243-389; J. B. Korolec, "L' Ethique a Nicomaque et le probleme du libre arbitre a la lumiere des commentaires parisiens
du XIIIe siecle et la philosophie de la liberte de Jean Buridan," Miscellanea

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M. INCANDELA

Present purposes demand only that we try to understand what
these disputes amounted to in light of Scotus's statement about
experiencing the will's freedom. My treatment here will be highly abbreviated though, I hope, substantial enough to show what
I feel really separates Aquinas and Scotus.
At bottom, what was at issue in these disputes about the intellect's role in volition was whether there was anything "out
there" in the person's situation for the intellect to perceive in a
way that would draw or elicit the consent of the will. For
Aquinas, consent was something less than necessary agreement
with the intellect but something more than an autonomous moment of volitional activity. Free willing for Scotus, however,
was thought to be just such a moment of autonomous volitional
activity and therefore could be immediately experienced as such.
The will's purported independence and capacity for self-determination allowed the experiential access Scotus described.
That is why Scotus was so anxious to affirm the will's control
of what was presented to it by the intellect (as seen in the quotation above from his twenty-first quodlibet). The will is the superior cause [ " causa superior " ] , while the intellect is an inferior or subservient cause to the will [ " causa subserviens
voluntati " ] .25 This superiority makes the will free to use or
not to use the activity of the intellect. It is like a cut-off switch
that either admits or does not admit into the act of volition something perceived by the intellect. Thus, Duns explains, "Although
Medievalia 10 (1976): 331-348; "Free Will and Free Choice," Cambridge
History of Later Medieval Philosophy, pp. 629-641; and Raymond Macken,
"La voluntee humaine, faculte plus elevee que !'intelligence selon Henri de
Gand," Recherches de theologie ancienne et medievale 42 (1975) : 5-51.
25 Ordinatio, IV, d. 49, n. 16; Vives vol. XXI, p. 151b: "hoc modo voluntas
imperans intellectui est causa superior respectu actus eius. Intellectus autem
si est causa volitionis, est causa subserviens voluntati. ... " In addition, see
SA, p. 203: "the will is the more principal cause and the knowing nature is
less principal ... " ; Ordinatio, IV, d. 49, n. 18; Vives vol. XXI, p. 155a:
" Similiter posset dici, quod intellectus dependet a volitione, ut a causa partiali,
sed superiori; e converso autem voluntas ab intellectione, ut a causa partiali,
sed subserviente "; Ordinatio, II, d. 42, q. 4, n. 10; Wolter, Duns S cotus, p.
174: "voluntas est agens superius respectu intellectus "; and MA, p. 284. Compare Aquinas in ST I.82.3 and I.82.4 ad 1.

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they [the will and known object] are not able to proceed to the
effect unless the other partial cause [the apprehended good]
naturally concurs, nevertheless the will uses [ utitur] that partial
cause so that the effect follows. And nevertheless that cause is
in the power of the will to use or not to use; thus it freely acts,
as I freely see, because I use the power of seeing when I wish." 26
Consequently, the intellect does not cause anything " except
through the will's causing, so that the causation of the intellect is
in the power of the will." 27
Making the intellect subservient to the will as Scotus does,
however, has the effect of widening the arena of the latter's activity by rendering even what is perceived by the intellect a product of the will's autonomous choice. Therefore, Scotus writes in
the Ordinatio, "But it is in the power of the will that something
be actually suitable or not; for nothing is actually suitable to it
unless it pleases it." 28 The picture of the will, then, is one in which
it is fully able to step back from any and all its loves and autonomously choose which ones to pursue. In this way, freedom goes
all the way down to the will's choice of its ends. Scotus writes,
26 Scotus, MA, p 283. On the will's determination of the intellect, see also
SA, p. 203; The Quodlibetal Questions, 21.32, pp. 480-481; and Quaestiones in
Metaphysicam, p. 157.
27 Ordinatio, II, d. 37, q. 2, n. 1; Vives vol. XIII, p. 369a: "non tamen
[intellectus] causat nisi voluntate causante, ita quod eius causatio est in potestate voluntatis." It is important to understand just where Scotus departs
from Aquinas here. Thomas too had written that " the will as agent moves all
the powers of the soul to their respective acts." Yet this was because the will's
object is the good in general "and each power is directed to some suitable good
proper to it" (ST I.82.4). As he elaborates in the Summa Contra Gentiles
III.26---hereafter cited as SCG-this is merely an "accidental" movement, in
which priority of action and perfection continues to devolve onto the intellect;
for " the will would never seek the act of intelligence. did not the intellect
first apprehend its act of intelligence as a good." Scotus, however, wants to
say that the will itself controls this apprehended good.
28 Ordinatio, I, d. 1, part 2, q. 2, n. 156; Vatican vol. II, p. 106: "Sed in
potestate voluntatis est ut ei aliquid actualiter conveniat vel non conveniat;
nihil enim actualiter convenit sibi nisi quod actu placet." J. R. Cresswell, in
his essay, "Duns Scotus on the Will," Franciscan Studies 13 (1953) : 147158 (especially, pp. 154-156), calls attention to passages such as this one that
imply the will's choice of its ends.

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"nor is every object of the will an end [finis], but only that
which has what the will wills, and for the sake of which it wills.
When the will and object concur at the same time, the object
moves efficiently in so far as it is that which the will wills .... " 29
That said, how does Aquinas portray the will's activity? To
answer this question, it is necessary to hear his description of the
two main areas of the will's activity: its relation to its ends (or
what it loves), and its relation to its means (how to get the
things it loves). In neither of these does Aquinas present the will
as a self-constituting, self-determining psychological faculty. It
lacks any moment of autonomy. For this reason, there is not, nor
canJ there be, the same kind of direct experiential access to the will
on Aquinas's account of freedom as there was on Scotus's.
First, the human will is not free to choose its ends. St. Thomas
repeatedly employs an interesting analogy to explicate this point.
Just as we do not judge the first principles of speculative reasoning but presuppose them when deriving conclusions, so " when
there is question of the objects of appetite, we do not judge about
the last end by any judgment involving discussion and examination, but we naturally approve of it [sed naturaliter ei assentimus] ." 30 Here the Latin gives a truer flavor of Aquinas's account: approval may still connote a level of activity that the passive resting of assent does not. We do not choose the loves we
2 9 My translation of MA, p. 285 : "nee etiam omne obiectum voluntatis est
finis, sed illud quod habet illud quad voluntas vult et cui vult et tune quando
concurrunt simul, movet effective inquantum est illud, quod vult. . . ." In his
essay, " Circa positiones fundamentales I. Duns Scoti," Charles Balic expresses
some doubt whether parts of the section of the MA where these words appear were faithfully reported by Alnwick (Antonianum 28 (1953) : 287n2).
This is a question I am not competent to answer. Yet the following can be
definitely concluded: these words are certainly in the spirit of some of Scotus's
other remarks. See the preceding quotation as well as SA, p. 208.
3o De Veritate (hereafter
cited as DV), q. 24, a. 1, ad 20. See also ST
I.19.5, I.62.8.ad 3, I.82.1, I.83.4, I-II.2.2 and ad 3, I-II.10.2.ad 3, I-II.13.3,
I-II.14.2, I-II.14.5 and 6, I-II.57.4, II-II.23.7.ad 2, II-II.47.6; SCG I.76 and
80; and On the Virtues in General (De Virtutibus in Communi), a. 8, in
Robert P. Goodwin, trans. and ed., Selected Writings of St. Thomas Aquinas
(Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1965)-hereafter cited as OVG.

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pursue, but we do choose in light of ends we already love. Aquinas
is not, therefore, giving a libertarian account of human ends,
as there is clearly an important part of our moral life we do not
choose per se.
People do not (and, according to Aquinas, cannot) stand apart
from all the contingent considerations of their existence and select
de nova the ends they love. Rather, ends are grown into in the
context of a particular community and, within that community, of
a particular kind of moral training. In book II of the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle writes ,"For the things which we have to
learn before we can do them we learn by doing : men become
builders by building houses, and harpists by playing the harp.
Similarly, we become just by the practice of just actions, self-controlled by exercising self-control, and courageous by performing
acts of courage." 31 In this way, a certain feed-back process develops. 32 People who build well become good builders, people who
perform just acts become just people, and people who perform
cowardly deeds turn into cowards. Aristotle's conclusion: "Hence
it is no small matter whether one habit or another is inculcated
in us from early childhood; on the contrary, it makes a considerable difference, or, rather, all the difference." 33
Nor is it a small matter precisely who is doing the teaching and
-what is the same thing-of what community people are a part.
Agreeing with Aristotle that men and women are social animals,
Aquinas states that community is necessary for human flourishing
since we cannot provide everything we need by ourselves : " For
men are of mutual assistance to each other in the knowing of
truth, and one man may stimulate another toward the good, and
31 Aristotle,
Nicomachean Ethics, Martin Ostwald, trans. (Indianapolis:
Bobbs-Merrill, 1962), bk. II, 1, 1103a32-1103bl.
3 2 I am indebted to David Burrell for this way of putting the matter.
See
his Aquinas: God and Action (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press,
1979), pp. 128ff.
3 3 Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, II, 1, 1103b23-25. For a lucid exposition
of similar passages in Aristotle, see M. F. Burnyeat, "Aristotle: On Learning
to Be Good," in Ted Honderich, ed., Philosophy Through Its Past (Pelican
Books, 1984), pp. 54-77.

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also restrain him from evil." 3 4' Not surprisingly, therefore,
Aquinas stresses the role of teaching in acquiring the good habits
known as virtues. 35
Growth in specific habits means growing into the ends appropriate to that particular community. St. Thomas states, " because to anyone that has a habit, whatever is befitting to him in
respect of that habit, has the aspect of something lovable, since
it thereby becomes, in a way, connatural to him, according as
custom and habit are a second nature." 36 What does this second
nature imply about the human will? Aquinas insists that powers
perfected by habits must be partly passive to receive the influence
habits exert. 37 To the objection that the human will can bear no
such habits since it is the greatest active power[" maxime potentia activa "], St. Thomas responds that the will, like every appetitive power, is both mover and moved. So it can be the subject of habits since "to be susceptible of habit belongs to that
which is somehow in potentiality." 38 In this way, the will is
partially passive to make room for the habituation of the virtues.
So St. Thomas can write, " a man is made to be of a certain sort
by a habit" ["homo efficitur aliqualis per aliquem habitum "]. 39
3 4 SCG III.128. For a similar thought, see SCG III.85.
This translation is
by Vernon J. Bourke in On the Tritth of the Catholic Faith (Garden City,
N.Y.: Doubleday & Co., Inc., 1956), bk. III, pt. 2. Moreover, a nice statement of the importance of community in Aquinas can be found in Richard P.
Geraghty, The Object of Moral Philosophy According to St. Thomas Aquinas
(Washington, D.C.: Univ. Press of America, 1982), pp. 125-126.
3 5 ST I-II.95.l ("the perfection of virtue must be acquired by man by means
of some kind of teaching"), I-II.100.1, II-II.47.15; DV q. 11, a. 1.
36 ST I-II.78.2.
See also SCG III.65; ST I-II.53.1.obj 1.
37 OVG a. 1 and ST I-II.49.4. I am indebted to Vernon Bourke's Will in
Western Thought (New York: Sheed and Ward, 1964), pp. 63, 74n26 for
pointing out the importance of this element of passivity.
38 ST I-II.50.5.ad 2. See obj 2 here and I-II.51.2 as well. For the role of
the will in the virtues, see also I-II.56.2.ad 2, I-II.56.3, and I-II.58.3.
39 DV q. 24, a. 1, ad 19. Cf. ST I.83.2.ad 5. The connection between what
we do and who we are received further testimony in Aristotle's and Aquinas's
definition of a virtue as that which makes its possessor good and his work
good likewise (Nicomachean Ethics II, 6; ST I-II.55.3, I-II.56.1.ad 2, III.56.3; OVG a. 1). On the connection between the character one has and the
ends one pursues, Aquinas quotes Aristotle in ST I-II.9.2, "According as a
man is, such does the end seem to him."

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That he is made to be [ efficitur] of a certain sort rather than
choosing to be such shows the distance between Aquinas and
Scotus's view of the will's ability to choose its own ends. The
passivity at the heart of St. Thomas's view renders otiose and
thus effectively subverts any appeal to experiential verification of
the will's activity. Too many things situate the will's freedom to
have any direct access to its operation.
In light of the acceptance of our ends (as opposed to an explicit
choice of them), we find a very particular relation of intellect to
will in St. Thomas's writings. In many places he relates intellect
to will as active (or motive) to passive (or movable) .40 Yet it
is important to see why it was most fitting for Thomas to give
the intellect the role he did, for we here encounter the very basis
of human freedom in Aquinas's work.
Because we do not choose our ends, the first movement in an
act of choice must be one of apprehension: we apprehend what we
already love, which is a function of who we are, the virtues we
possess, the community to which we belong, and so on. Aquinas
maintains that the intellect precedes the will in a " via receptionis," since anything moving the will must first be received into
the understanding. 41 Therefore, "The intellect apprehends [apprehendit] the end before the will does .... " 42 At first, the will
responds with what Thomas terms "complacency" [complacentia], a love or delight in what the intellect presents: "Although love does not denote the movement of the appetite in tending towards the appetible object, yet it denotes that movement
whereby the appetite is changed by the appetible object, so as to
40 ST I.82.3.ad 2, I-II.51.2; DV 22, 12, obj 3 and ad 3; 22, 13, ad 4 and
10; OVG a. 7. See ST I.19.1, I.19.5, and I-II.6.4.obj 2, where Thomas writes,
"the will is a passive force: for it is a mover moved," and cf. De Malo, q. 6,
obj 7 and ad 7.
41 DV q. 14, a. 5, ad 5. Cf. DV q. 24, a. 2; ST I.82.3.ad 2, I.82.4.obj 3,
I-II.8.1, I-II.9.1 and ad 3, I.II.IO.I and 2, I-II.13.5.ad 1; SCG II.48, III.26,
III.85, III.149.
42 ST I-II.3.4.ad 3. On the apprehension of the end by the intellect, see also
I-II.15.3 and I-II.58.5.ad 1.

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have complacency therein." 43 Accordingly, the first movement of
the will lacks any notion of striving towards something. It is
rather one of acquiescence in the end presented by the intellect.44
A more active movement of desire towards the end loved follows this "complacency ". 45 The will may now be said to intend
this end, and it begins the process of deliberation into means to
achieve it.46 In the process of taking counsel about various means
to the end, the intellect suggests and compares several different
courses of action.47 This counsel concludes with the judgment of
reason and the acceptance [acceptationem] of that judgment by
the will.48 The actual choice follows, which is an act of the will.49
But even here, the will does not somehow escape into a realm of
autonomy standing outside the influence of the intellect and pass43 ST I-II.26.2.ad 3. See also I-II.25.2, I-II.26.1 and 2, I-II.27.1 and 4, III.28.5; DV q. 26, a. 4; SCG IV.19. My thinking has been shaped in this matter by Frederick E. Crowe, " Complacency and Concern in the Thought of
St. Thomas," Theological Studies 20 (1959) : 1-39, 198-230, 343-395, and
David Burrell, op. cit., pp. 125-126. Crowe writes (p. 18) that this passive
willing of the end " is the Cinderella of studies in psychology and spirituality,
chronically pushed off the stage by the more palpably evident activity of a
will in active pursuit of a good."
·44 ST I-II.26.2. Aquinas was not, however, proposing a psychological determinism: he makes clear that the will does not necessarily follow whatever the
intellect proposes (I-II.9.1.ad 1). And since habits orient the will towards ends
proposed by the intellect, Aquinas also maintains that habits do not necessitate
the will. His position seeks to make sense both of the phenomenon of moral
failure (the will in the grip of a passion may not follow the virtuous end
proposed by the intellect (I-II.9.1.obj 1 and ad 1; I-II.9.2)) and the phenomenon of moral conversion (bad habits or vices can be overcome "though with
difficulty" (I-II.53.1.ad 1; see also I.83.1.ad 1; I-II.78.2 and 3; I-II.109.8)).
45 ST I-II.15. 3.
4 6 On intending the end, see ST I-II.12.1.ad 3; I-II.12.4.ad 3; I-II.12.5. On
deliberation about means, ST I-II.9.3 and I-II.13.
47 DV q. 22, a. 15; ST I.82.2.ad 3, I.83.3.ad 3, I-II.13.1.ad 1, I-II.13.6, I-II.14
(on counsel) .
4SST I.83.3.ad 2. Cf. DV q. 22, a. 15 and ST I-II.15.1 and 3 (on the consent of the will to the means proposed by the intellect). For those worried
that Aquinas presents a faculty psychology in which the individual is split
into distinct centers of activity, see ST I-II.17.5.ad 2, where he says that it is
not the will or intellect that acts but the whole person.
49 ST I-II.13.1.

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ing sentence on the means it has proposed. The counsel that precedes choice is informed by the virtue of prudence directing the
choice of means. 50 Prudence is developed through time and long
experience-experience
not in Scotus's sense but rather in the
sense of learning from life and the accumulated memory of which
means have been most conducive to the desired ends. And since
no one can personally experience everything for himself or herself, the teaching of others is a necessary part of acquiring prudence. 51 Though choice is primarily an activity of the will, because
of the role of prudence in choice, St. Thomas says that " choice
can also be ascribed to prudence indirectly, in so far, to wit, as
prudence directs the choice by means of counsel.' 52 Therefore,
whether regarding ends or means, the will never stands outside of
a community or a particular historical formation.
St. Thomas's account highlights a freedom in medias resthat is, already situated in a community, already attracted by certain loves and by certain means to attain these loves. Freedom is
not the freedom to start over at will (literally) and choose our
own ends but rather the movement to solve outstanding problems given a particular background and formation in the virtues
which were fostered to attain the ends appropriate to a particular
community. For St. Thomas, the will does not lift itself up by
its own bootstraps : its passivity before already-existing ends, to
which it consents, at once rules out autonomous choice of these
loves and grounds a situated description of human freedom.
Even regarding the means to secure these ends, the will for
Aquinas does not have the independence it does on Scotus's view
to yea or nay the intellect's contribution spontaneously. The operation of prudence restricts such autonomy in favor of a parST I-II.58.4; I-II.58.5.ad 3; II-II.47.1.ad 2.
II-II.49.3, Aquinas writes, "Thus it is written (Prov. 3 :5) : Lean not
on thy own prudence, and ( Ecclus. 6 :35) : Stand i·n the multitude of the ancients (i.e., the old men), that are wise, and join thyself from thy heart to
their wisdom. Now it is a mark of docility to be ready to be taught: and consequently docility is fittingly reckoned a part of prudence." See also ST III.95.2.ad 4; II-II.47.3.ad 3; II-II.47.14.ad3; II-II.47.15 and ad 2; II-II.49.1.
52 ST II-II.47.1.ad 2.
50

5 1 In

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ticular historical, communal formation the will did not explicitly
summon but can only act out of. Accordingly, experiencing the
will's freedom becomes talk wholly out of place here, because it
implies being able to step away from the will's situatedness into
an independent realm, and it is the burden of Aquinas's account
to deny that this is possible.
Freedom is situated if it takes place in the light of a particular
historical situation mediated by the intellect. For the will to be
able to control the intellect's contribution, the will must be able
to step outside of its history, its situation, and the community of
which it is a part. The differences between Aquinas and Scotus
on this point are basic and irreducible; here their views of human
freedom and the human condition diverge. For Aquinas, the good
apprehended by the intellect moves the will to exercise its causality in producing volitions. In exact opposition to Aquinas, the
will for Scotus moves the apprehended good to exercise its causality in producing volitions. 53 Scotus goes beneath a situated account of ends to locate the origin of their attraction solely in the
will's free choice. This becomes the crucial move towards a
genetic view of ends, as the will's authority to choose from among
the very things perceived by the intellect as attractive amounts
to a choice of the loves one has. Attributing this kind of selfconstituting control and autonomous mastery to the will means
that anything less than this necessarily constitutes a worrisome
encroachment on the will's freedom. As Scotus says, "if the will
acts freely of itself, then anything that would determine it, in such
a way as to incline it to act, would be repugnant to it. ... " 54
5 3 Lawrence D. Roberts states his opposition in "A Comparison of Duns
Scotus and Thomas Aquinas on Human Freedom of Choice," p. 271.
54 Ordinatio III, suppl. dist. 33; in Wolter, Duns Scotus, pp. 320-321; "si
libere agit ex se, repugnat sibi omne determinante ipsam, inclinans ad
agendum .... " Though this statement appears in an objection to Scotus's
view that moral virtures are in the will, nothing he says when presenting his
own opinion denies its fundamental truth (see pp. 329-331, 345-347, and
Walter's introduction on p. 78). As Scotus makes clear, the will can accommodate the influence and inclination of the virtues as long as the will itself
autonomously chooses to be so influenced. Therefore, it remains true for Scotus
(and not for Aquinas) that anything that influences the will without its explicit choice is repugnant to freedom.

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Consider this example. In discussing grace, Aquinas writes,
" according to the Philosopher (Ethics III.3) : ' What we can
do through our friends, we can do, in some sense, by ourselves.'
Hence Jerome concedes that ' our will is in such a way free that
we must confess we still require God's help.' " 55 St. Thomas's
account of human freedom can thus accommodate the influence of
others, especially God, whom Aquinas at several points refers
to as friend. 56 Thus, the repeated mention in Aquinas of God's
practical knowledge, a knowledge from the inside out, resulting
from the creating and sustaining activity of God and aptly conveyed in artistic metaphors because-like other practical activities, from parenting to painting-it seeks to bring about what it
knows. 57 For Scotus, on the other hand, the will must be selfsufficient in that its activity leaves no room to receive anything
it did not explicitly choose or could not explicitly experience. As
a result, given this way of speaking about the human will, it now
became particularly difficult for Scotus to harmonize its freedom
with the freedom of God's will. Intrinsic importance aside, this
issue draws us back to recent scholarly efforts to reinterpret what
Scotus really thought about the freedom of the human will.

III
In the final part of this paper, I wish to show how Scotus's appeal to the experience of freedom may help to arbitrate competing views of freedom in his work. For even though the textual
evidence pointing to a libertarian reading of Scotus is abundant,
not everyone agrees that it is conclusive. Douglas Langston, for
instance, concedes that Scotus made many " quite libertariansounding claims" but ultimately judges that he held a very dif55 ST I-II.109.4.ad 2.

sec, IV.22 and III.150; and ST, II-II.23.1.
Fr. David Burrell's work remains the single most important source calling attention to the significance of God's practical knowledge and the ramifications it has in Aquinas's thought. See his Knowing the Unknowable God
(Notre Dame, Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press, 1986), esp. chaps.
5 and 6. For references to divine practical or causal knowledge, see sec,
I.61 and 65, II.24, III.64; DV, 2, 3, ad 8; 2.5; 3, 3; 27, 1; ST, I.14.8; 1.14.16,
obj 1 ; I.16.5; I.22.l ; I.57.2.
56
57

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ferent view of freedom, one much closer to compatibilism. 58
Langston bases this interpretation in part on those passages where
Scotus speaks of the will' s being " contingently determined " by
God. This determination is contingent, according to Scotus, because it is still" in its [the will's] own power to determine or not
to determine." 59 Nevertheless, Langston reasons that such passages are detrimental to a libertarian conception of freedom, for
they show " that Scotus thinks that the will can somehow be determined yet free. And determinism is incompatible with libertarianism." 60
Though Langston makes a good case for his position, I am not
entirely convinced by it. In particular, I do not view Scotus's use
of the concept of contingent determination as a flirtation with
compatibilism. Scotus writes that if something is contingent, it
is caused contingently; and this means that its " opposite could
have occurred at the time that this actually did." 61 Recall that
Scotus located God's omniscience in the determination of the divine will.62 If the human will were not determined contingently
by God (in this sense of contingently), then human freedom
would vanish; for the will would no longer have the capacity
to do the opposite of what God had determined it would do
at the very time that God had determined it. Scotus responded
to this challenge by creating a whole new realm of logical possi5 s Langston, God's Willing Knowledge, p. 26. I have benefited enormously
from Langston's work and from personal correspondence with him. If, however, what he is claiming (as he seems to be) is that Scotus self-consciously
embraced something like a compatibilist position, then I cannot agree: such a
position would have been an exceedingly dangerous one to take so soon after
the Condemnation of 1277. But if what Langston is claiming is that compatibilism-or worse-is an implication of Scotus's thought, then I fully concur.
5 9 Scotus, MA, p. 299. Duns also speaks about God contingently determining
the creature in The Quodlibetal Questions, 16.29, p. 377.
60 Langston, pp. 37-38.
6 1 Scotus, A Treatise on God as First Principle, Allan Wolter, trans.
(Chicago: Franciscan Herald Press, 1966), 4.18, p. 84.
6 2 Ordinatio, I, d. 39, n. 22; Vatican vol. VI, p. 428: "Undo modo per hoc
quod intellectus divinus videndo determinationem voluntatis divinae, videt illud
fore pro a, quia illa voluntas determinat fore pro eo; scit enim ilium voluntatem
esse immutabilem et non impedibilem."

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bility (and the accompanying metaphysical construct of an instant of nature), so that even though I will what God willed me
to will at time t, it was still logically possible for me to will something else.63 Consequently, I think we should see Scotus' s use of
the concept of contingent determination not as indicating a selfconscious adoption of compatibilism but rather as an effort to
preserve the freedom of the human will given the action of divine
volition. In fact, to the extent that Scotus vehemently criticized
Aristotle's claim that 'everything that is, when it is, is necessary,' 64 he shows his interests to lie not in whether something
could be both determined and free at a particular moment but
rather whether the opposite of the will's action could (logically)
have occurred when it did.
Scotus's appeal to logical possibility to save human freedom
was, all things considered, an ingenious solution and a genuine
moment of philosophical creativity designed to deal with the problems, concepts, and vocabularies he had inherited. But someone
who largely shared Scotus's views on freedom while rejecting his
metaphysical presuppositions about instants of nature could easily
conjure up the spectre of divine determinism from these shadows
of logical possibility. 65
63 See Langston, pp. 46ff. A logical possibility is anything that is not logically contradictory-anything that does not, in Scotus's words, include "a repugnance of terms " : " Et est haec possibilitas logica respectu extremorum non
repugnantium" (Lectura, I, d. 39, n. 50; Vatican vol. XVII, p. 495). On the
originality of the concept of logical possibility, see Simo Knuuttila, " Modal
Logic," in The Cambridge History of Later Medieval Philosophy, p. 354n60;
and "Time and Modality in Scholasticism," in Knuuttila, ed., Reforging the
Great Chain of Being: Studies of the History of Modal Theories (Reidel,
1981), p. 249n170. Both of Knuuttila's essays are very important for understanding Scotus's significant innovations in modal theory.
6 4 According to Scotus, Aristotle's principle is false because a contingent is
certainly not necessary when it is [" et hoc falsum est, quia contingens non est
necessarium quando est"] (Lectura, I, d. 39, n. 58; Vatican vol. XVII, p.
499). See also Quaestiones in M etaphysicam, p. 169.
65 William Ockham was such a person. See his Predestination, God's Foreknowledge and Future Contingents, Marilyn McCord Adams and Norman
Kretzmann, trans., 2nd ed. (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Co., 1983), pp.
49, 72-73. Langston, however, does not think that Scotus's appeal to logical

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We move now to the third principal interpretation of Scotus on
freedom. Like Langston's, it challenges the libertarian reading of
Scotus, but unlike Langston's, it maintains that true freedom for
Scotus is freedom from sin. This view has attracted a growing
number of scholars, and texts to substantiate it are not lacking. 66
Those who press this line appeal to the influence on Scotus of St.
Anselm, a favorite among scholars of the Franciscan school.67
According to Anselm, to call the ability to sin a necessary element
of freedom is to remove liberty from God, who is unable to sin.
The search for a concept of freedom common to God and human
beings led Anselm to conclude that " free choice is the ability to
keep the rectitude of the will for its own sake." Consequently,
" nothing is more free than a right will, from which no alien
possibilities is the end of the matter. He draws on The Q11odlibetal Q11estions,
16.43 (pp. 384-385) and suggests that when God determines the will to act,
God "accomplishes the determination through the will's own nature" (p. 48).
This is a plausible interpretation of a rather cryptic remark, but I think it
ultimately adds little to what has already been said. For what is this nature
except a collection of possibles which themselves have been determined one
way or another by the divine? That is, such a nature is simply a reification of those things that result from divine determination. (Langston even
seems to admit this on pp. 48-49.) If so, then appealing to it by saying that
God just causes people to act according to their natures doesn't really advance
the discussion. It is also clear that Langston himself is worried about the
moral implications of a view in which God's "choice determines what creatures there are as well as what activities they perform" (p. 127).
6 6 Besides Frank's
works cited earlier, see, for example, Bernardine M.
Bonansea, "Duns Scotus's Voluntarism," in John K. Ryan and Bernardine M.
Bonansea, eds., John D11ns Scot11s, 1265-1965 (Washington, D.C.: Catholic
University of America Press, 1965), pp. 83-121; Ignatius Gavran, "The Idea
of Freedom as a Basic Concept of Human Existence According to John Duns
Scotus," De doctrina Ioannis D11ns Scoti: Acta CongressltS Scotistici Internationalis Oxonii et Edimb11rgi (Rome: Cura Commissionis Scotisticae, 1968),
645-669; Alan B. Wolter," Native Freedom of the Will as a Key to the Ethics
of Scotus," in De1Js et Homo ad mentem I. D11ns Scoti, pp. 359-370; and
Wolter's introduction in D11ns Scot11s on the Will and Morality, pp. 11-16.
67 San-Cristobal, p. 256; and Patrick Lee, "Aquinas and Scotus on Liberty
and Natural Law," Proceedings of the American Catholic Philosophical Association 56 (1982) : 74. Langston comes to the conclusion that Scotus did
not follow Anselm in defining freedom from sin as the truest freedom (p.
134n3). (Langston dismisses the relevance of a certain passage that another
writer uses to support this claim.) Langston does not, however, discuss
Scotus's appeals to Anselm in Quodlibet 16.

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power is able to take away its rectitude." 68 Scotus's debt to
Anselm appears clearly in at least two places: First, in Quodlibet
16, he endorses Anselm's view that "'The will then which cannot cease to be upright is freer.'" 69 Second, Scotus adopts (with
minor differences) Anselm's concept of an affection or inclination
for justice within the will [" affectio justitiae "] that acts as a
means for keeping this rectitude. In fact, Duns writes that "the
will is free inasmuch as it has the affection for justice" and that
" the affection for justice is that liberty which is native or innate
in the will." 70 But as the will becomes more actuated by the affection for justice, it has fewer choices available to it in any given
situation. This by no means restricts freedom but rather empowers it. This ability reaches its limit in God, who has no
choice but to love God's self yet does so freely nonetheless. 71 Accordingly, Scotus writes that " necessity of acting coexists with
the freedom of the will." 72 Hence, "it is possible that some free
agent act necessarily without detriment to its freedom." 73 Scotus
appears at best, then, a heretical libertarian.
Thus does Scotus occasionally speak of the steadfastness
[" firmitas "] of the will in love. Article 2 of his sixteenth quod68 These remarks from Anselm's Dialogus de libero arbitrio are quoted on
pp. 13 and 14 respectively of Lottin's Psychologie et morale aux Xlle et XIIIe
siecles: " libertas arbitrii est potestas servandi rectitudinem voluntatis propter
ipsam rectitudinem," and "nihil liberius recta voluntate, cui nulla vis aliena
potest suam auferre rectitudinem." Cf. Aquinas, ST II-II.183.4. For more on
Anselm, see Lottin, " Les definitions du libre arbitre au douzieme siecle,'' Revue
Thomiste 10 (1927): 104-120, 214-230; G. Stanley Kane, Anselm's Doctrine of
Freedom and the Will (Lewistown, N.Y.: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1981);
and Kane, "Anselm's Definition of Freedom," Religious Studies 9 (1973) :
297-306.
69 The Quodlibetal Questions, 16.30, p. 378.
70 The first quotation comes from Ordinatio, II, d. 6, q. 2, n. 8; Vives vol.
XII, p. 353b: "affectio justitiae est libertas innata voluntati." The second
comes from Ordinatio, II, d. 37, n. 22; Vives vol. XIII, p. 390a: "Sed voluntas
inquantum habet affectionem justitiae, id est, inquantum libera est (loquendo de
justitia innata) .... "
71 Frank nicely sets out these arguments in " Duns Scotus' Concept of Willing Freely."
72 Reportatio parisiensis, I, d. 10, q. 3, n. 3; Vives vol. XXII, p. 183b: "necessitas agendi stat cum libertate voluntatis."
73 The Quodlibetal Questions, 16.34, p. 379.

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libet discusses whether freedom and necessity can coexist in the
will. After appealing to Anselm's authority, Duns adduces what
he calls "a proof of simple fact." It is this: "we know the divine
will necessarily wills its own goodness, and yet is free in willing
this; therefore [necessity and freedom coexist there]." 74 Yet he
refuses to address how this can be :
If you ask, how does freedom coexist with necessity, I answer with
the Philosopher: " Do not seek a reason for things for which no reason can be given.... " And so I say here: As this proposition, " The
divine will wills the divine goodness," is immediate and necessary,
for which no reason can be given other than that this will and this
goodness are the sort of things they are, so also " The divine will
contingently wills the goodness or existence of another." 75

Discussing such necessary willing, Scotus writes that " the will
itself is understood to fall under its own necessity in such a way
that the will, according to the steadfastness [firmitatem] of its
own liberty, imposes necessity on itself in eliciting the act, and in
persevering in or fixing itself on the act." 76 Thus he says about
God's freedom in necessarily loving God's self, "I answer that it
consists in the fact that he elicits this act and perseveres in it as
something delightful which he has elected, as it were, to do." 11
That God has no choice in the matter does not remove freedom
1 ' The Quodlibetal Questfons, 16.31, p. 378. In article 1 of this question,
Scotus had shown that God's will is both necessary and free. Thus in 16.6, he
wrote, "The infinite will is related to the most perfect object in the most perfect way possible. The divine will is infinite. Therefore, it is related to the
supremely lovable object in the most perfect way that a will can relate to it.
But this would not be the case unless the divine will loved this object necessarily . • ." (pp. 370-371) .
75 The Quodlibetal Questions, 16.33, p. 379. The quotation is from Aristotle's
Metaphysics, IV, c. 6 (lOllalZ-13).
76 My translation of the Addition to Quodlibet 16.34: "Alio modo potest
intelligi necessitas concomitans, ita quod ipsa intelligatur cadere sub necessitate,
sic quod voluntas propter firmitatem libertatis suae sibi ipsi necessitatem imponit in eliciendo actum, et perseverando, sive figendo se in actu. . . ." The
Latin is taken from p. 85n25 of Frank's "Duns Scotus' Concept of Willing
Freely."
11 The Quodlibetal Questions, Addition to 16.34, p. 380n23. The account in
this paragraph is indebted to Frank's dissertation, especially pp. 83-86.

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but rather indicates that we are dealing with a different manifestation of the will's active self-determination: a willed (or
elicited) perseverance in a single direction. But not any direction,
for Scotus is clear that necessity can only accompany perfect freedom in an action concerning the ultimate end. 78 " In such an action,'' he continues, "steadfastness [firmitas] in acting is a perfection." 79 In this regard, the role of the aff ectio justitiae and
Scotus's remarks about freedom from sin can be understood as the
will's orienting itself toward the good and actively persevering in
that end. Steadfastness is an appropriate expression to describe
this movement because it implies both that it was freely undertaken and that it coexists with a certain necessity deriving from
singleheartedly pursuing something, to the willed exclusion of
other options. 80
Consequently, Scotus clearly seems to provide something other
than a libertarian account of freedom. That necessity can coexist
in the will with freedom might make anyone wary of identifying
freedom and indifference in his writings. Only God's steadfastness can, however, be perfect: "if a power or potency acts necessarily as regards its object, it necessarily continues that act as
long as it can." 81 As Duns explains, the will of the wayfarer always lacks such perfect firmitas: " But the will, at least that of the
pilgrim [via tor], does not necessarily continue its act, as regards
the end apprehended only in general, as long as it could. Therefore, it does not act necessarily in regard to that end." 82
The Quodlibetal Questions, 16.32-16.33, pp. 378-379.
This is my translation from Frank's edition, p. 215: "in tali actione firmitas in agendo est perfectionis. . . ."
so Frank's dissertation, p. 7ln25 has helped me to see this point. All of this
relates in a rather interesting way to the type of liberty Scotus attributes to
the blessed in heaven, who are both impeccable and free. According to Robert
Prentice, " The blessed ' make ' themselves into those who, by their free fruitional love, adhere to God to the fullest possible extent of their capacity "
("The Degree and Mode of Liberty in the Beatitude of the Blessed," Deus et
Homo ad Mentem I. Duns Scoti, p. 331).
81 The Quodlibetal Questions, 16.14, p. 372.
s2 Ibid. Frank's dissertation and article have helped me see how differences
in the constancy of love distinguish finite wills from the divine will.
78

79

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M. INCANDELA

Though the mundane finite will can approach this necessity as
an upper limit, it lacks the constancy of love to have anything but
contingent volitions. Scotus writes, "Even though in some object
ther·e be the fullness of perfection, still, for the act to be necessary,
the potency must tend necessarily to that object. Now whatever
be the case with the created will of the blessed and the supernatural perfection by which it tends to that perfect object, we
must admit the will of the pilgrim tends to it only contingently.... " 83 Therefore, the human will's active power guarantees
its ability to turn from even steadfast volitions or inclinations and
freely embrace the opposite course of action. 84
What we must now ask is whether such talk of freedom as the
will' s firmitas in one direction coheres with the language seen
earlier of freedom as unfettered choice among alternatives. And
based upon the first section of this paper, we can pose this question in terms of whether what Scotus says about experiencing
one's freedom is in tension with what he says about firmitas. It
would seem that it is. Can one experience firmitas? It seems that
to the extent one can experience one's firmitas, it must cease to
be true firmitas, because one now has the ability (in experiencing
it) to stand outside it, as it were. And standing outside of
firmitas is to release its grip. 85
Scotus takes over two traditions : one derived from Anselm
and various theological motivations in which freedom is the will's
ability to be confirmed in a particular direction; the other, folss The Quodlibetal Questions, 16.19, p. 374.
84 Ordinatio, III, d. 17, q. unica; Vives vol. XIV, p. 654b: "The natural
will is said to be free inasmuch as it is in its power to elicit an act opposed
to its inclination just as it is free to elicit one conforming to it; and it is free
not to elicit the act just as it is free to elicit the act " [" voluntas naturalis ...
dicitur autem libera, inquantum in potestate eius est, ita elicere actum oppositum inclinationi, sicut conformem, et non elicere, sicut elicere "]. In the
same way, the will can freely depart from its aff ectio justitiae. See Ordinatio,
II, d. 39; Wolter, op. cit., pp. 202-203: " volitional power as a whole •.. at
present can freely will not only what is advantageous but also what is just;
for it can freely will or not will this or that."
85 One may indeed marvel at the workings of firmitas retrospectively (and
in that sense experience it), though not in actu, as Scotus presumes we may
experience our freedom. Augustine's Confessions furnish one of the clearest
examples of the former.

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lowing upon the Condemnation of 1277, in which freedom is the
will' s ability to step back and choose (quite self-consciously) from
among all such directions. 86 The latter tradition talks about experiencing one's freedom, which is the same as the ability to experience stepping outside one's commitments and choosing one's
ends or loves from among different possibilities. (Accordingly,
with the decline of the concept of freedom as in medias res of an
actually lived life comes the ascendancy of abstract and abstracting possibilities as the plasma of freedom.) 87 The former tradition, it seems, cannot speak about experiencing freedom in the
same way, for firmitas cannot long survive if it must be autonomously chosen. It would then reduce without remainder to libertarianism.
So we must conclude that these two traditions sit very uneasily together, for Scotus's remarks on freedom seem to lead to
the following dilemma : Either firmitas reduces to liberty of indifference (libertarian freedom) because of the will's self-determination-and hence there is no need to talk of firmitas-or it
does not. But if not, then the will is gripped by something not
entirely of its own choosing, and it seems pointless to talk of the
86 Scotus says that the will always has " the power to elicit an act opposed
to its inclination" ["in potestate eius [voluntatis] est, ita elicere actum oppositum inclinationi, sicut conformem, et non elicere, sicut elicere"] ( Ordinatio,
III, d. 17, q. unica; Vives vol. XIV, p. 654b).
87 We should not be surprised
when those emphasizing the experience of
freedom manifest in their work a robust concern with the realm of the possible, for possibilities are what supposedly get experienced. We may read the
partial motivation of Scotus's modal breakthroughs in the light of his resort
to the experience of freedom. This linkage between experience and concern
about possibilities we can also see almost four centuries later in the writings of
Luis de Molina; he wove a concern for alternative possibilities into the very
fabric of his attempt to harmonize human freedom and divine omniscience in
his theory of middle knowledge. Molina had also begun with experience to
prove freedom: " non esset aliud argumentum ad probandum libertatem arbitrii
quam experientia, qua quivis experitur in se ipso in potestate sua esse stare
aut sedere, ambulare potius in hanc partem quam in illam, consentire aut non
consentire in peccatum ... " (De Scientia Dei, in Geschichte der M olinismus,
Friedrich Stegmiiller, ed., (M iinster: Aschendorff, 1935), Beitrage zur Geschichte der Philosophic und Theologic cles M;ttclalters, Bd. 32 p. 208). Molina
says similar things about experience in Concordia libcri arbitrii ... (Paris,
1876), p. 125; and Summa Haeresium 1\!linor, in Stegmiiller, p. 446.

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will's self-determination. Necessary willing means not being able
not to will. To the extent that even the viator' s will approaches
this capacity for necessary willing, it must correspondingly and
to an equal extent surrender the power of self-determination to
the opposite course of action.
After Scotus, this dilemma reappears in other guises. The history of theology from the fourteenth century through the Reformation and beyond can in no small way be seen as a series of
repeated attempts to figure out how the freedom of the human
person could possibly accommodate the freedom of another-God.
The ability to accommodate both remains a strength of St.
Thomas's account of situated freedom and thereby commends it
to our attention. But when agents withdraw to isolated centers
of self-determined and self-experienced willing activity, any external influence beyond the bounds of the will's explicit control or
experience can only be regarded as interfering with freedom. The
divine/human exchange then fundamentally becomes an opposition of wills, and then crises over semi-Pelagianism (William
Ockham, Robert Holcot, Gabriel Biel) on the one hand and divine determinism (Thomas Bradwardine, Martin Luther) on the
other-as well as modern debates over divine omniscience and
human freedom 88-become well-nigh inevitable and intractable.
Historical inquiry does not obviate the need for present philosophical rigor on foreknowledge and freedom. But it may often
show (more clearly than philosophical rigor by itself can) how
our problems came to grip us in the first place and suggest alternative and perhaps richer understandings of freedom that could
shed old light on new impasses. 89
88 In his essay "Foreknowledge
and Necessity" (Faith and Philosophy 2
(1985) : 121), William Hasker wrote, "The modern controversy over divine
foreknowledge and human freedom, begun two decades ago by Nelson Pike
and A. N. Prior, has yet to reach a satisfactory conclusion .... Furthermore,
the principal arguments of the opposing sides in the controversy seem to pass
by each other almost without contact, so that there is much discussion, but
little progress."
89 In developing this paper, I am indebted to the helpful suggestions of
Professor Victor Preller of Princeton University. And for reading and commenting upon a draft of the present work, I owe great thanks to Professor
David Burrell of the University of Notre Dame.

RAHNER'S TRANSCENDENTAL DEDUCTION
OF THE VORGRIFF
WINFRED

A

GEORGE PHILLIPS

Trinity University
San Antonio, Texas

ORDING TO THE theologian Karl Rahner a necessary condition of the possibility of empirical knowledge
is the knowing subject's possession of an a priori V orgrijf, or " pre-apprehension," of God. This V orgriff is taken by
Rahner to be more than a mere affirmation of the reality of God,
for it is thought of as an actual apprehending or knowing of God
by the subject. If Rahner establishes that there is a Vorgriff of
God and that it is this kind of apprehension, then he has also
established that God exists, and so the argument Rahner provides
for the V orgriff can also be interpreted as an argument purporting to establish the reality of God.
The essentials of Rahner's argument can be found by examining both his doctoral dissertation on the metaphysics of knowledge
of Aquinas, published in German as Geist im Welt and in English
as Spirit in the World, and his later work H orer des W ortes
(Hearers of the Word). The approach Rahner uses in these
works to establish the existence of the V orgriff, and hence of the
reality of God, can be characterized as transcendental. If Rahner' s argument is successful, his transcendental approach will thus
demonstrate what Kant thought a transcendental approach could
not theoretically demonstrate: the reality of God. In this paper I
offer a reconstruction of Rahner's argument and compare certain
features of it with the approach of Kant. I then suggest a reason
for thinking that Rahner's argument cannot succeed in establishing the reality of God in the sense Rahner intends.
Rahner's argument focuses on the nature of judgment. Rah-

257

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ner assumes that we have empirical knowledge of the world, and
so, expressing the argument in the first person, one might take as
the first premise: (1) I make judgments (I have knowledge)
about empirical objects.
Rahner's complicated discussion of judgment is presented in
terms of Aquinas's doctrines of sensibility and abstraction.
Knowledge is characterized as the self-presence of being, and so
the knower is also the being of the other that is known: this selfpresence as being-with-another is called "sensibility." 1 Rahner
notes that Aquinas sometimes speaks of sensibility in terms of
the imagination. He thinks that what Aquinas refers to as the
common sense, the imagination, and the memory are so intimately bound together that they could all be contrasted with the external senses as a single sense-totality, and Rahner would prefer
to call this totality the "imagination." This totality forms the
origin and permanent ground of the external senses, and Aquinas
calls the act of the imagination as the source of sensibility the
"phantasm." 2
The liberation of the subject from the other is referred to as
" thought " or " abstraction." When human existence asks about
being in its totality, and thereby places itself as the inquirer in
sharp relief against the world, it "objectifies" the other, and this
capacity to objectify and make the knower a subject for the first
time is called " thought." Thus Rahner claims that it is through
thought that human experience of an objective world first becomes possible. Now in the Thomistic metaphysics of knowledge,
abstraction is the formation of a universal concept, and the universal concept is the predicate of a possible judgment. 3 Judgment
s Ibid., 119-123.

is the relating of the universal in the predicate to the universal in
the subject, and I see this as Rahner's second premise: (2) Judgment involves the awareness of universals in the subject and
predicate.
1

Karl Rahner, Spirit in the World, trans. William Dych (London: Sheed

& Ward, 1968), 74, 78-80.
2

Ibid., 107.

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But the universals in the subject and predicate of a judgment
are already "concretized," that is, thought of as related to a possible subject. In fact, before the universal concept of the predicate
can even be ascribed to the subject it must be concretized. And
even the subject is understood as a concretized universal rather
than, for example, as a bare particular; the subject of a proposition is rarely a bare "this" which stands completely undetermined in itself, for usually the subject is already the synthesis of
an empty " this " with a universal, known intelligibility. The
Thomistic term for such a prior synthesis is "concretio," which
Rahner translates as "concretizing synthesis." 4 For Rahner
there is no awareness of a universal apart from such a concretizing synthesis, and thus the third step of the argument could be
seen as this claim: ( 3) I am aware of a universal only in a particular object.
The move to the fourth step will take some time to explain.
Judgment requires not only these concretizing syntheses but also
an affirmative synthesis. In the judgment the "this" of the subject is identified with the "this" of the predicate, though both
subject and predicate are each already concrete. The predicate
in its concretizing synthesis is a possible synthesis of the universal
with any supposit at all, but in the judgment the subject determines unambiguously which "this" is meant. Thus the subject
functions only to determine that definite supposit to which the
universal of the predicate is to be related. 5 Rahner's translation
of the Thomistic term for this synthesis in the judgment itself is
" affirmative synthesis," and Rahner claims that there is no objective knowledge prior to the level of the affirmative synthesis.
Objective knowledge occurs only when a knower relates a universal, known intelligibility to a supposit existing in itself. 6 So
we see that Rahner thinks that a universal concept does not stand
alone in thought, even as a concretizing synthesis. Judgment is
not a connecting of bare concepts, as though these were the
4

Ibid., 124.

5 Ibid.

s Ibid., 125.

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fundamental units of thought and the role of judgment were to
connect them only subsequently. Rather, as Rahner puts it, judgment is the referring of knowing to an in-itself, and in such a
reference concepts are present as moments possible only in the
judgment. 7 Even the attempt to conceive a universal concept by
itself succeeds only in forming a judgment. For if this concept
is thought of " alone," then this thinking still thinks something
about it. Here the concept is conceived as something already objectified, as something existing in itself, which thought holds before itself as something standing opposite, and to which the
knower relates a known intelligibility. 8 Thus Rahner holds that
even a concr·etizing synthesis occurs in actual thought only in an
affirmative synthesis.
Rahner's acceptance of the doctrine that the universal is
grasped only as already concretized means that the universal is
grasped only in the particular, and for him this precludes the possibility of a purely intellectual intuition for human knowers.
Rahner takes this position to be the substance of the claim of
Aquinas that all knowledge, even metaphysical knowledge, occurs
only through the "conversion of the intellect to the phantasm."
The phantasm should not be viewed as a " thing " but rather as
sense knowledge as such. To say that human knowledge takes
place in a turning to the phantasm is to claim that intellectual
knowledge is possible only with a simultaneous realization of
sense knowledge. This does not mean that the intellect first
knows a universal quiddity and then afterwards turns to sensibility to complete such knowledge, for no intellectual knowledge
at all comes about without its already being a conversion to the
phantasm from the outset. 9 The conversion is not a process following sensibility and abstraction but rather an essential moment within the one act of knowing. As Rahner explains, the
doctrine does not mean that intellectual knowledge is " accompanied by phantasms " but that sense intuition and intellectual
thought are united in one act of human knowing. 10
1 Ibid.,

9 Ibid.,

8

10 Ibid., 237-238.

126.
Ibid., 125.

47-48.

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We have seen that the knower cannot grasp a universal by itself. But how exactly can the human knower perceive the universal in the particular? Here we need to be more specific about
the problem of abstraction. To abstract is to detach, and in abstraction one finds out that the " whatness " (in scholastic terms,
the quidditas) given in sense knowledge may be detached from
the individual thing or particular in which it presents itself. The
essence of this universal quiddity is that it can be realized in particulars other than this one: this " whatness " is grasped as a determination which in principle applies to more than just this individual object in which it happens to appear and affect the senses.
Thus to abstract is to discover that the quiddity given in an individual object is illimited in the sense that we grasp it as a possible determination of other objects. 11 And so I characterize
Rahner's next step in the argument as this claim: ( 4) The awareness of a universal in a particular is possible only if one is aware
of the quiddity of the universal as illimited.
Rahner wishes to know the " transcendental " condition that
enables the knowing subject to discover that the quiddity is,
though experienced as the quiddity of a single individual, essentially illimited. Here a transcendental condition is that which
must exist in the knowing subject logically prior to any knowledge or abstraction as the previous condition of its possibility.
In the Thomistic metaphysics of knowledge the power of abstraction is called the " agent intellect," so in Thomistic terms this is
a question about the nature of the agent intellect.12 Now we have
seen that the power of abstraction is the power of knowing that
the quiddity of the universal is illimited. To know that it is illimited, when we grasp the universal in the particular we must grasp
11 Karl Rahner, Hearers of the Word, selections translated by Joseph Donceel from the first edition of Harer des Wortes (1942) and appearing in Gerald
A. McCool, ed., A Rahner Reader (New York: Crossroad, 1981), 15. All
citations are from this translation. (English translations which one commonly sees are from the second edition, which has been revised extensively by
Johannes B. Metz.)
1 2 Ibid.

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that its limitation comes from the particular object. I take this
assertion to be Rabner' s next premise : ( 5) The awareness of the
quiddity of the universal as illimited is possible only if one is
aware that its limitation comes from the particular. ·
Rabner thinks that one experiences a limit as such when it is
experienced as an obstacle to some activity which wants to get
beyond it. So when we grasp the universal, we can experience
this limitation only because the activity which grasps the particular sense object reaches out, prior to this grasping, beyond
the individual object. 13 Rabner calls this reaching beyond the individual object in abstraction the " Vorgriff," which might be
translated as "anticipation" or, as already mentioned, "pre-apprehension." On Rahner's reading of Aquinas, this notion of a
Vorgriff is to be found in Aquinas's remarks about the "excessus." 14 The Vorgriff is an a priori power given with human
nature; it is the dynamism of the human spirit. Rabner claims
also that abstraction is possible only if the V orgriff is conscious
of the range of the knowable revealed by it, though such consciousness emerges only with the knowledge of the particular.
The V orgriff makes the knower conscious by opening up the horizon within which the object is known. 15
It must be kept in mind that this pre-apprehension should not
be considered an instance of objective knowing, because it is not
really a judgment; it is not by itself alone an act of knowledge.
But although the Vorgriff is only the condition of the possibility
of knowledge, Rahner thinks we cannot help conceiving of it as
some kind of knowledge. 16 Even Rahner falls into the habit of
speaking of it as if it were; this is especially noticeable in some
of Rahner's later works, such as Foundations of Christian Faith.
In that work he even considers the Vorgriff to be in the realm of
what he comes to call "transcendental experience." 17
is Ibid.
14 Rahner, Spirit iii the World, 142.
15 Rahner, Hearers of the T¥ord, 16.
16 Ibid.
1 ' Karl Rahner, Foundations of Christian Faith, trans. William V. Dych
(New York: Crossroad, 1984), 17-18.

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As just mentioned, although the Vorgriff is only the condition
of the possibility of knowledge, we cannot help conceiving of it as
a kind of knowledge. Now according to Rahner if this is how we
must think of this " pre-apprehension," we must be ready to state
what the "object" of this "knowledge" is. We have already
spoken of the Vorgriff as reaching beyond the particular object
in which the universal is grasped. Rahner thinks that this " beyond" cannot be merely another single particular object of the
same type, for then this new object would itself require a similar
pre-apprehension to be known. 18
What he claims is that abstraction would not even be possible
unless the V orgriff aimed at absolute and unlimited being. Rahner claims that the Vorgriff discloses objects beyond the one for
whose apprehension it occurs. Any possible object which ca!l
come to exist in the breadth of the V orgriff is simultaneously
affirmed, and an absolute being, unlimited in every dimension,
would completely fill up this breadth. Since it cannot be grasped
as objectively merely possible, and since the Vorgriff intends
primarily not merely possible but real being, absolute being is
simultaneously affirmed as real.19 Thus this step of Rahner's is
the following claim: ( 6) The awareness that the limitation of the
universal comes from the particular is possible only if one has a
logically prior "apprehension " ( Vorgriff) of infinite being.
Furthermore, since absolute esse is God, one must say that the
V orgriff aims at God; it intends God's absolute being in this
sense that the absolute being is always co-affirmed by the illimited
range of the Vorgriff. 20 And so I interpret Rahner's argument
as finally claiming: ( 7) Infinite being is God. And because of
this one can rightfully conclude : ( 8) I have a pre-apprehension,
or a priori unthematic awareness, of God.
Rahner claims this argument for the V orgriff is not an a priori
demonstration of God's existence; transcendental knowledge or
experience of God is a posteriori knowledge because transcendHearers of the Word, 16.
Rahner, Spirit in the World, 181.
20 Rahner, Hearers of the ¥Vord, 19.
18 Raimer,

i 9

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ental experience occurs only in one's encounter with the world and
with other people.21 The V orgri ff and its range can be known
and affirmed only in knowing a real individual thing or person
(as the necessary condition of this knowledge). Rahner thinks that
this way of understanding human knowledge of God is merely a
translation into the metaphysics of knowledge of the arguments
for God's existence that Aquinas presents in his metaphysics of
being. Aquinas would say that a finite being that is affirmed demands as its condition the existence of an infinite being. Rahner,
claiming to mean the same thing, says that the affirmation of the
real finiteness of a being demands as the condition of its possibility the Vorgriff of esse, and a Vorgriff that implicitly affirms an
absolute esse.22
Drawing upon the above comments, then, I reconstruct Rahner's argument for an a priori awareness of God as:
(1) I make judgments (I have knowledge) about empirical objects.
(2) Judgment involves the awareness of universals in the subject
and predicate.
( 3) I am aware of a universal only in a particular object.
( 4) The awareness of a universal in a particular is possible only
if one is aware of the quiddity of the universal as illimited.
( S) The awareness of the
of the universal as illimited is
possible only if one is aware that its limitation comes from the
particular.
( 6) The awareness that the limitation of the universal comes
from the particular is possible only if one has a logically prior
" apprehension " ( V orgriff) of infinite being.
(7) Infinite being is God.
(8) I have a pre-apprehension, or a priori unthematic awareness,
of God. And of course it is this conclusion that implies the reality
of God, thus making it possible to interpret Rahner' s argument
as a purported proof of God's reality.
21 Rahner,
22 Rahner,

Foundations of Christian Faith, 51-52.
Hearers of the Word, 19; Spirit in the World, 182.

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The V orgriff is seen as a logically prior element in every instance of sense knowledge and thus is clearly intended as a priori.
Rahner's argument starts with the fact of empirical knowledge of
a world of objects on the part of the subject and argues that its
necessary condition is a certain kind of a priori element in the
subject. Recall however that Rahner claims his argument for
God is a posteriori and resembles the Five Ways of Aquinas.
This point needs clarification. In categorizing arguments for
God's existence, it is common to distinguish between two types
of argument. A posteriori arguments, which include versions of
the cosmological argument (including here the first three ways
of Aquinas) and also versions of teleological arguments (and
arguments from design), start with the fact of the world or certain features about it. On the other hand a priori arguments,
such as the ontological argument, attempt to derive the existence
of God from a consideration of the meaning of concepts or terms
alone. In the case of Rahner's argument, we need to note an additional distinction between the status of the knowledge mentioned
in the conclusion and the status of the conclusion itself. Rahner's
argument winds up in the position of being an a posteriori argument for the reality of God despite the fact that he is arguing for
an a priori " knowledge " of God. That is, the conclusion of his
argument is that we have what might be seen as synthetic a
priori knowledge of God, but since it is a contingent fact that is
stated in the opening premise, a claim that we have empirical
knowledge, the conclusion (the claim that we have a priori knowledge of God) is itself a synthetic statement known a posteriori
(assuming it is in fact known). Rahner's argument, if successful,
shows that the conclusion of an a posteriori argument for God can
itself be an instance of synthetic a posteriori knowledge, even if
it refers to synthetic a priori knowledge.
I also point out that Rahner's argument starts from premises
not presupposing any synthetic a posteriori knowledge of God
(and not merely not presupposing any synthetic a priori knowledge of God). Other aspects of Rahner' s transcendental investigation published after Geist im Welt might be taken as assuming

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the reality of the revelation of God in history and thus might be
characterized as assuming the existence of synthetic a posteriori
knowledge of God. But there is nothing in the premises of the
above argument about such knowledge.
I now turn to consider more specifically how Rahner's transcendental approach differs from that undertaken by Kant in the
Critique of Pure Reason and Prolegomena. Of course an obvious
difference is that the argument above is concerned with the reality
of only one a priori element, that of the V orgrifj, whereas Kant
claims to undertake a critique of all a priori reason. But, acknowledging this basic difference, I will focus on describing three
aspects of Kant's philosophical project which will be especially
relevant to analyzing Rahner's approach: ( 1) Kant's distinction
between sensibility and the understanding, (2) Kant's distinction between two basic functions of argument : the distinction between a metaphysical deduction and a transcendental deduction,
and ( 3) Kant's distinction between the transcendentally ideal and
the transcendentally real.
( 1) In his critique of knowledge Kant distinguishes between
sensibility and the understanding. Sensibility is the capacity
(receptivity) for receiving presentations (or " representations" ;
Vorstellungen is perhaps better translated as " presentations ")
through "the mode in which we are affected by objects." By
means of sensibility, Kant says, objects are given to us, and the
product is intuition, thus sensuous intuition is the mode of our
immediate relation to objects, and this is possible only insofar as
we are affected by these objects. 23 Our human mode of intuition
depends on the existence of the object and our subsequently being
affected by it, and so we are not capable of intellectual intuition. 24
(Kant does allow that other thinking beings may not be bound by
the same conditions that limit our sensuous intuition. } 2° Kant relates sensibility to sensation by distinguishing between the matter
and the form of intuition. Sensation is the effect of an object af2s Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason, trans. Norman Kemp Smith
(New York: St. Martin's, 1929), A 19/B 33.
24 Ibid., B 72.
25 Ibid., A 27/B 43.

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fecting the faculty of sensibility, and therefore such an intuition
is empirical. Sensations are modifications of the subject: "A perception which relates solely to the subject as the modification of
its state is sensation,'' while that which "produces" them is not. 26
Kant calls the undetermined object of such an empirical intuition
an "appearance." Furthermore, Kant says, "that in the appearance which corresponds to sensation I term its matter; but that
which so determines the manifold of appearance that it allows of
being ordered in certain relations, I term the form of appearance." 21 Using this distinction between matter and form, Kant
claims that while the matter of all appearance (sensations) is
given to us a posteriori, the form of such appearance (actually
the forms of space and time) cannot be, and so the form is given
a priori by the mind.
The world of appearance and empirical knowledge of this
world depend not just on the faculty of sensibility but also on the
understanding, which supplies a priori concepts or categories to
experience. As Paul Guyer (along with many others) has pointed
out, behind this view is Kant's presuppositions that, first, any
form of knowledge involves a connection of diverse representations and, second, such a connection requires a mental act of combination. For example, the first assumption is evident in Kant's
claim that " knowledge is a whole in which representations stand
compared and connected," such that "if each representation were
completely foreign to every other, standing apart in isolation, no
such thing as knowledge would ever arise" ; he further adds the
claim that since it is by time that diverse representations are
separated, " for each representation, in so far as it is contained
in a single moment, can never be anything but absolute unity,''
it is therefore in time that all representations must be " ordered,
connected, and brought into relation." 28 An expression of the
second assumption is clearly found in his claim that " the combination ( c011'junctio) of a manifold in general can never come to
Ibid., A 320/B 37.
34-A 20.
2s Ibid., A 97, A 99.
26

21 Ibid., A 19/B

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us through the senses, and cannot, therefore, be already contained
in the pure form of a sensible intuition," because " it is an act of
spontaneity," and therefore "all combination-be we conscious
of it or not, be it a combination of the manifold of intuition, empirical or non-empirical, or of various concepts-is an act of the
understanding." 29 This leads to Kant claiming that the universality and objectivity of empirical knowledge come not just from
the a priori contribution of the forms of sensibility mentioned
above but also from the a priori contribution of concepts from the
understanding (the categories) in unifying our sensible intuitions.
Kant argues that the operations of both of these faculties are
necessary conditions of objective experience. They are necessary
first of all if objects are to be perceivable, and Kant's demonstration of the indispensability of these conditions is accomplished in
the metaphysical and transcendental expositions of the concepts
of space and time. But they are also necessary if objects are to
be thinkable, and the argument that purports to prove the categories are such conditions is accomplished in the Transcendental
Deduction proper. 30 That Kant thinks both conditions are required for objective experience is evident from his claim that:
Without sensibility no object would be given to us, without understanding no object would be thought. Thoughts without content are
empty, intuitions without concepts are blind. It is, therefore, just as
necessary to make our concepts sensible, that is, to add the object to
them in intuition, as to make our intuitions intelligible, that is, to
bring them under concepts.81
(2) Thus Kant thinks that our pure a priori concepts, the
categories, are not abstracted from perception. In order to discover them we must examine judgment, and Kant undertakes
this in the Metaphysical Deduction. 32 Very briefly put, Kant's
29 Paul Guyer, " Kant's Tactics in the Transcendental Deduction," Philosophical Topics 12, no. 2 (1981): 163-164.
30 S. Korner, Kant, (Harmondsworth, England: Penguin Books, 1955), 59.
s1 Kant, A 71-B 75.
32 Korner, 47.

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line of reasoning seems to be as follows. Two aspects can be distinguished in every judgment: the application of specific concepts,
and the manner of their connection, the logical form, in the judgment. Kant argues that if what confers objectivity and generality
on an objective empirical judgment is not to be identified with its
specific concepts, then it must be an a priori concept embodied in
the form of an objective empirical judgment. So there will be one
elementary a priori concept or category for each of the different
ways in which objective empirical judgments confer objectivity
and generality on corresponding perceptual judgments. 33 Kant
refers to the Metaphysical Deduction as " the transcendental clue
to the discovery of all pure concepts of the understanding," and
it is a clue because Kant thinks that if he can list all the possible
forms of objective empirical judgment (he bases his list on Aristotle's) he can produce a complete list of the categories. 34 To each
of the different logical forms there will correspond one category. 35
What is important for my purpose is to note the function this
argument serves for Kant, the demonstration that certain concepts are a priori : " In the metaphysical deduction the a priori
origin of the categories has been proved through their complete
agreement with the general logical functions of thought. ... " 36
But for Kant it is one thing to demonstrate a concept to be a
priori and quite another to show that its a priori employment in
experience is legitimate, and so it is in the Transcendental Deduction that Kant attempts to demonstrate that we are justified in applying these a priori concepts. In the introductory sections of
the argument he explains his use of the term " deduction " and
his strategy for carrying out the task. 37 Kant notes that in a legal
action jurists distinguish between the question of right (quid
juris) and the question of fact (quid facti) ; proof of legal right
or claim is called a "deduction." With regard to the nature of
concepts in human knowledge, he claims that some concepts are
Kant, A 67!B 92.
A 70/B 95.
a5 Korner, 49-50.
36 Kant, B 160.
a1 This starts at A 84/B 116.
34 Itid.,

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derived from experience, while others relate a priori to objects.
The former are empirical concepts, for which experience is always available to demonstrate their objective reality; an empirical deduction would show the manner in which a concept is
acquired through experience. But a merely empirical proof would
not justify the a priori use of those concepts that are not derived
from experience, for the fact that we use a priori concepts does
not itself show that we have a right to use them. 38
Kant here claims that the pure concepts of the understanding
speak of objects through predicates of pure a priori thought and
therefore relate to objects universally, apart from all conditions
of sensibility. 39 Since the categories do not represent the conditions under which objects are given in intuition, objects may appear to us without the necessity of being related to the functions
of understanding. The understanding need not therefore contain
their a priori conditions. The crux of the problem is that :
Thus a difficultysuch as we did not meet with in the field of sensibility is here presented, namely, how subjective conditions of thought
can have objective validity, that is, can furnish conditions of the possibility of all knowledge of objects. For appearances can certainly be
given in intuition independently of functions of the understanding.40
But Kant considers whether a priori concepts serve as antecedent conditions under which alone anything can be thought as an
object in general. Noting that in addition to the intuition of the
senses experience contains a concept of the object as being given,
Kant claims that therefore concepts of objects in general are the
a priori conditions of empirical knowledge. The a priori concepts
(categories) relate of necessity and a priori to objects of experience, and so their objective validity depends on the fact that
through them alone experience is possible. And so Kant finds
that he has a principle to direct the Transcendental Deduction, in
that the categories must be recognized as a priori and necessary
conditions of the possibility of experience, and " The a priori conIbid., A 84/B 116-A 85/B 117.
Ibid., B 120/ A 88.
40 lb:d., A 89/B 122-A 90.
3s

39

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ditions of a possible experience in general are at the same time
conditions of the possibility of objects of experience." 41
For my purposes it will not be necessary to offer an interpretation of the complicated argument of the Transcendental Deduction. I simply note that remarks such as those above leave it
clear that the Transcendental Deduction is intended as a demonstration of the legitimacy of the employment of a priori concepts
in objective experience. Whether or not Kant thinks that objective experience is a condition of the possibility of any and every
experience, he at least seems to be arguing that the application
of the categories is a necessary condition of the possibility of that
objective experience we call empirical knowledge, and that this
fact serves to justify our employment of the categories in experience.
With regard to the a priori origin of presentations and the
validity of their employment in experience, I take this distinction
between the function of a metaphysical deduction and that of a
transcendental deduction to be one Kant considers fundamental.
Actually, Kant employs a variety of terms for his arguments concerning a priori elements, among which, in addition to "metaphysical deduction " and " transcendental deduction," are " metaphysical exposition," "transcendental exposition," and "transcendental proof." The distinctions among such terms are not always clear. In the Transcendental Aesthetic Kant claims that an
exposition is the clear though not necessarily exhaustive representation of that which belongs to a concept, and the exposition is
metaphysical when it contains that which exhibits the concept as
given a priori. 42 Apparently he means by this just that a metaphysical exposition is an analysis of the concept which makes
clear the concept's a priori origin. 48 On the other hand, Kant
characterizes a transcendental exposition as the explanation of a
concept as a principle from which the possibility of other synthetic
a priori knowledge can be understood. 44 The transcendental ex41 Ibid., A 93/B

125-A 94/B 126, A 111.

42 Ibid., B 38.

C. S. Walker, Kant (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1978), 72.
Kant, B 40.

4 8 Ralph
44

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position of space establishes the reality, or in other words the objective validity, of space in whatever can be presented to us outwardly as object, but at the same time it also establishes the ideality of space in respect of things when not regarded in relation to
our sensibility. 45 What Kant might mean, given his actual examples of transcendental expositions, is that transcendental expositions of the concepts of space and time require premises that
claim that we have synthetic a priori knowledge of space and
time and then go on to argue that only if space and time are pure
intuitions is this possible.46 In other words a transcendental exposition argues that a necessary condition of the possibility of
some given synthetic a priori knowledge is that a representation
be of a certain a priori nature. Drawing upon these descriptions,
I can characterize a metaphysical exposition as showing that a
concept or representation is a priori. A transcendental exposition shows that a concept or representation must be a priori if a
particular instance of synthetic a priori knowledge is to exist, that
is, it demonstrates that the representation's being a priori is a
necessary condition of the possibility of the particular body of
synthetic a priori knowledge. " Transcendental proof," on the
other hand, seems to be the term Kant uses to refer to the proofs
of the individual categories or the synthetic a priori principles
which relate the categories to the possibility of objective experience (though given Kant's description of transcendental expositions, one wonders whether these proofs can also be considered
transcendental expositions). The discussion of these transcendental proofs follows the Transcendental Deduction and takes up
much of the rest of the Transcendental Analytic.
The basic distinction I wish to point out is that between two
purposes or functions of argument, between those arguments intending to demonstrate merely the a priori character of presentations (I will call these "metaphysical deductions") and those intending to go further and prove the legitimacy of employing such
45 Ibid., B 44/ A 28.

4 6 Walker,

72.

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presentations in experience (I will call these "transcendental deductions " ) :
(a) The first sort of argument shows that certain presentations (concepts or intuitions) are a priori and, therefore, not derived from experience. Such arguments are metaphysical expositions or metaphysical deductions. An individual presentation can
be exhibited as a priori (as in the metaphysical exposition of
space) or a group of presentations can be shown to be a priori
(the Metaphysical Deduction of the categories).
(b) The second type of argument employed by Kant is intended to come after the use of a metaphysical exposition or metaphysical deduction and demonstrate that we are justified in employing such an a priori presentation or presentations in objective experience. While the " metaphysical " type of argument,
above, shows that a presentation is a priori, this transcendental
type of argument shows that the actual existence and employment
of such an a priori presentation is a necessary condition of the
possibility of objective experience. A transcendental exposition
takes for granted the truth of synthetic a priori propositions about
the realm of appearance or a body of knowledge involving such
propositions and then argues to the necessary conditions of its
possibility in the a priori (and for Kant transcendentally ideal)
nature of certain representations. Kant even refers to this argument as a transcendental deduction. There seems to be another
version of this transcendental type of argument employed by
Kant (also intended to come after the use of a metaphysical deduction), but one that does not presuppose the truth of a body of
synthetic a priori propositions about objects of experience. (Some
interpretations ·of the Transcendental Deduction see it in this
sense.) Still another example of this type of argument aims to
relate the concept to experience as a rule of synthesis, a principle. These transcendental proofs thus also establish the legitimacy of employing the associated categories in objective experience.
( 3) By claiming that the knowledge of the senses is a priori
insofar as its form is concerned and that these a priori forms

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are mind-contributed, Kant is able to claim both that space and
time are necessary conditions of the possibility of human experience and that this world we experience is transcendentally ideal.
For the existence of appearances is bound up with our cognitive
faculties : "appearances, as such, cannot exist outside us-they
exist only in our sensibility." 47 Kant combines this allegiance to
transcendental idealism with a profession of empirical realism :
space is empirically real in that it is objectively valid for whatever
can be presented to us outwardly as object, yet it is transcendentally ideal in that it is nothing at all " immediately we withdraw
its limitation to possible experience." 48 Time likewise has empirical reality in respect of all objects which ever allow of being
given to our senses, but it has subjective reality as the condition
of all our experiences, which means that it too is transcendentally ideal: if we abstract from the subjective conditions of sensible
intuition, time is nothing. 49 Thus Kant claims that all of intuition is nothing but the presentation of appearance, or as he also
calls it, phenomena. 60
Following Kant I will refer to the counterpart to transcendental idealism as " transcendental realism " rather than as
"transcendent realism." Kant characterizes the difference between transcendental idealism and transcendental realism as the
following:
By transcendental idealism I mean the doctrine that appearances are
to be regarded as being, one and all, representations only, not things
in themselves, and that time and space are therefore only sensible
forms of our intuition, not determinations given as existing by themselves, nor conditions of objects viewed as things in themselves. To
this idealism there is opposed a transce<nrlentalrealism which regards
time and space as something given in themselves, independently of
our sensibility. The transcendental realist thus interprets outer appearances ... as things in themselves, which exist independently of
us and of our sensibility... ,51
47

Kant, A 127.

•a Ibid., B 44/ A 28.

Ibid., A 35/B 52-A 37/B 54.
Ibid., B 59/ A 42.
51 Ibid., A 369.
49

50

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As I will use the phrase "transcendental realism," any claim that
an a priori element is constitutive of things in themselves (or
noumena) is an adoption of transcendental realism with respect
to that element. This use applies both to space and time as forms
of intuition and to the categories, which also serve a formal function. For example, it may be that the categories are constitutive
of things in themselves or noumena, and Kant at times seems to
allow that we can at least think this, but to assert that such a
priori and necessary formal conditions are so constitutive and/ or
that we can know that they are is a claim of transcendental
realism.
Using these three features of Kant's transcendental approach I
can now compare Rahner's approach with that of Kant. We saw
that Kant recognized a fundamental distinction between intuitions
from the faculty of sensibility and concepts from the understanding. The V orgriff does not fit readily into any class of presentations such as Kantian intuitions or concepts. Translators translate " Vorgriff" by such terms as "pre-apprehension," "pregrasp," and "pre-concept," and Rahner himself seems to think
of it as a power. It is clear that the Vorgriff is not portrayed by
Rahner as an empirical intuition, an empirical concept, or a judgment. It is not portrayed as an empirical intuition, for it is portrayed as the grasp of infinite being, and infinite being is not considered by Rahner to be a sensible object (but rather something
which makes empirical intuitions of sensible objects possible). It
is not portrayed as an empirical concept, for then we could appeal to experience for its derivation and justification, and Rahner
shows no signs of doing that. And it is not portrayed as a judgment but rather, according to Rahner, as what makes judgment
possible.
This might lead one to assume that it is proper to consider the
V orgriff to be either an a priori concept or an a priori intuition.
There is perhaps some evidence that Rahner portrays it as an a
priori concept of God, and some translate "Vorgriff" in Rahner's
writings as "pre-concept." Some of Rahner's remarks indicate
it is to be thought of as analogous to an a priori concept in being

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a kind of spontaneity. For one thing, it is called a power, a reaching out, a going beyond, a drive, and an instance of the dynamism
of the spirit. Also, the Vorgriff is portrayed as that which occurs in judgments to objectify them, to "refer" them to objective
reality (a function of the Kantian categories). But Rahner does
not draw any explicit parallels between the Vorgriff and Kant's
a priori concepts, and it is doubtful that he wants to portray it as
such.
Instead, one might try to see the Vorgriff as an intuition, and
some of the characteristics of the V orgriff do lend support to this
interpretation. It does not seem that there can be a "process"
of intuiting without an intuited content, and in this manner perception or intuition could be considered some sort of apprehension
or grasping. Sometimes Rahner talks of the Vorgriff in this way,
as a pre-apprehension, not as a "pre-objectification" or a "preunification " (as one would expect were it an a priori concept).
Thus there is support for labelling it as a pre-apprehension or pregrasp in that the Vorgriff does seem to be portrayed by Rahner
as a kind of receptivity such that it is impossible that it should
exist and yet what it apprehend or grasp not exist. Since it exists,
what it "pre-apprehends " exists.
If the Vorgriff is an intuition, it must be a priori with respect
to empirical knowledge, for Rahner portrays it as an a priori condition that makes empirical knowledge possible. If the Vorgriff
were an a priori intuition, then Rahner might, like Kant for his
"transcendental deductions" of the forms of space and time, need
only a very short transcendental deduction to supplement a metaphysical exposition of it. However the same reasons that would
make such a transcendental deduction short seem to preclude the
Vorgriff from being this kind of a priori intuition. Kant's transcendental deduction of the a priori intuition of space, for example,
is according to Kant quickly accomplished because space is supplied by the subject as a form of sensible intuition. For Kant we
can have an a priori intuition of space only because we can intuit
it as the very form of our sensible intuition (at least with respect
to outer sense), and there is no real danger of applying the a

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pnon intuition of space beyond the range of sensibility. Yet
Rahner does not want to say that God is the form of our sensible
intuition and therefore a priori intuitable, or that God as the form
of our intuition is transcendentally ideal.
This suggests that the most adequate characterization of
Rahner's understanding of the Vorgriff is to see it as some unique
kind of intuition, one that is, first, unconscious or not accessible
through introspection, second, not totally removed from the involvement of sensibility in apprehending the " intelligible," third,
not an intuition of a particular but of the absolute, infinite being,
but also fourth, not a mere form of sensibility. Given these requirements, one might conclude that the V orgriff should be seen
as some sort of "a priori intellectual intuition," in the sense of
an a priori and nonpropositional knowledge of an nonsensible object.52 Kant, of course, came to reject the possibility of human
intellectual intuition. In his Inaugural, Dissertation Kant made
the distinction between the "sensible" or "phenomena," which
was the object of the sensible faculty, and the "intelligible" or
"noumena," which was the object of the intellectual faculty;
there the intelligible was considered to be available for a purely
intellectual apprehension (which presumably is God's mode of
intuition). 53 But Kant came to reject the possibility of such intellectual intuition, and by the time of the second edition of the
Critique he wrote that we cannot even comprehend its possibility. 54 Of course it might be objected that to refer to the Vorgriff
as an a priori intellectual or nonsensuous ( nonsensible) intuition
is improper because Rahner denies the possibility of human intellectual intuition; after all, as we have seen, Rahner's transcendental argument for the Vorgriff occurs in the context of an
interpretive commentary on the claim of Aquinas that all knowing, even metaphysical knowing, occurs through the conversion
52 Richard Rorty, " Intuition," in Paul Edwards, ed., The Encyclopedia of
Philosophy, (New York: Macmillan, 1967), 4: 211.
68 Henri E. Allison, "Things in Themselves, Noumena, and the Transcendental Object," Dialectica 32 (1978) : 45.
54 Kant, B 307.

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to the phantasm. But there seems good reason to think of it as
a unique kind of intellectual intuition. A distinction might be
made between (a) an intellectual intuition which creates its object (which Kant thought would be the kind of intuition belonging to God) and (b) an intuition which is intellectual merely in
the sense of being a nonspatial and atemporal apprehending of
a nonsensible object (which it does not necessarily create). Kant
might claim that here I am confused in calling an intuition of
type (b) "intellectual" because a nonspatial and atemporal intuition of an object (where such an object is not created by such
an intuition) is still sensible, not intellectual, in that we can allow
that there might be beings whose sensibility was under forms different than those we have (space and time). On this view the
V orgriff would be seen as some type of sensible intuition but one
not under the forms of space and time. In other words, the distinction between an intellectual and a sensible intuition is just
that the former creates its object while the latter must be "affected" by the object. But it seems this would be merely to define "intellectual intuition" in such a way as to preclude it from
being the apprehension of an object it does not create. The problem with such a classification, it seems to me, is not just that
Rahner believes there to be a kind of knowledge that Kant does
not; Rahner is trying to provide for a kind of intuition that does
not even fit into the Kantian classification. Like a sensuous intuition, it does not create its object. Unlike a human sensuous intuition, it is not spatial or temporal. But unlike a nonspatial and
atemporal sensuous intuition, it is an a priori act of spontaneity
on the part of the subject. Here the notion of Rahner's Vorgriff
strains intelligibility: it is an act of spontaneity in being an a
priori " reaching out," but insofar as it does not create its own
object it is an act of receptivity as well. Because it is a mode of
apprehending what it does not create I hesitate to call it other
than an intuition (and Kant might claim one should hesitate to
call it other than a sensuous intuition), yet because it is nonspatial, atemporal, a priori, and an act of dynamism I hesitate to
call it other than an intellectual intuition. If a classification is

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needed, I suggest it might be thought of as an a priori intellectual
or nonsensuous intuition.
This bring us to the question of what kind of argument is
needed to demonstrate that there is such an intuition. Here we
see a fundamental difference between the transcendental approaches of Kant and Rahner. Concerning a priori presentations
or elements Kant thinks there are two distinct arguments needed.
A metaphysical deduction is needed to delineate just those presentations which are a priori-for example, as in the case of the
metaphysical exposition of space and the metaphysical deduction
of the categories. Following this demonstration of the a priori
origin of such presentations, Kant then undertakes a justification
of their employment in experience, whether quickly as in the case
of the "transcendental deduction" of space as an a priori intuition or with much more attention as in the case of the transcendental deduction of the categories.
Rahner does not seem to separate these two functions of argument in his approach. Instead of presenting a metaphysical deduction showing a presentation of infinite being to be a priori
and then presenting a justification of the employment of that presentation in experience, Rahner provides an argument that claims
a "pre-apprehension" of infinite being to be a necessary condition of the possibility of objective empirical judgment. With respect to function, such an argument seems to have the closest
affinity to Kant's Transcendental Deduction, which argues that
the fact that the employment of a priori concepts in objective experience is a necessary condition of the possibility of such experience provides legitimacy to such employment. This suggests that
Rahner's argument is a transcendental deduction, and it has been
referred to as such. On this interpretation it appears no metaphysical deduction is needed, because in showing that such a preapprehension is necessary and therefore universal, Rahner presumably accomplishes the task of showing it must be a priori.
However, further reflection reveals that because the a priori
element under consideration is distinct in kind from those Kant
considers, this issue is more complicated than the above reason-

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ing suggests. For what can it mean to establish the legitimacy of
employing in objective experience a pre-apprehension of infinite
being? If in fact we have such a pre-apprehension, then there
can be no real question of our having a " right" to employ it in
experience. The question of legitimacy in employment can arise
only if we have a presentation of infinite being without it having
been established that such a presentation is a real pre-apprehension, and not instead, for instance, an a priori concept of infinite
being or an innate belief in the reality of infinite being. But then
this fact suggests that if a successful metaphysical deduction
shows the V orgriff as a genuine pre-apprehension to be a priori,
then no transcendental deduction is needed, because the question
of legitimacy does not arise.
This confusing situation suggests that, depending on one's
characterization of the Vorgriff, Rahner's argument can be seen
as functioning as a metaphysical deduction and/or a transcendental deduction. If one characterizes the Vorgriff as a genuine
pre-apprehension of infinite being, then the argument might be
seen as a purported demonstration that because the possession of
the V orgriff is necessary it must be a priori-which fulfills the
function of a metaphysical deduction. Here no question of legitimacy arises and so no transcendental deduction is needed. If one
characterizes the V orgriff more broadly as a presentation of infinite being, then the argument might be seen as a purported
demonstration of the legitimacy of "employing " such a presentation in objective experience insofar as such employment is a necessary condition of the possibility of such experience-the function of a transcendental deduction. Here of course " employing "
would not refer to applying the presentation to unify a manifold
of intuitions (the function of the Kantian categories). It appears
it would have to refer rather to taking the presentation to be a
genuine apprehending of infinite being; establishing the " legitimacy of employment" of such a presentation would then be an
establishment of the legitimacy of that assumption. In proving
the presentation to be a necessary condition the argument pre-

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sumably would have also fulfilled the function of a metaphysical
deduction.
Rahner's approach differs from Kant's with respect to transcendental ideality and transcendental reality as well. For Kant
the legitimacy of employing a priori presentations or elements in
objective experience is shown by the fact that they co-constitute
the realm of their legitimate employment. The categories are
legitimately employed in objective experience because they are
necessary conditions of the possibility of experience being of an
objective realm. But because the categories (along with the a
priori forms of sensibility and the matter of sensation) co-constitute objective experience and the phenomenal realm, their
legitimate function in theoretical knowledge extends no further.
Those a priori elements whose legitimacy Kant seeks to prove
have legitimate employment (with respect to theoretical knowledge) in a transcendentally ideal realm.
Rahner, on the other hand, seeks to show that we possess an
a priori presentation of infinite being that is a genuine a priori
apprehension of infinite being. But Rahner would be disappointed
if all his argument showed were that, as far as we know, the infinite being of which we have the pre-apprehension is transcendentally ideal only. That is, while Kant is content to show that
causes or substances, for example, exist in the realm of appearance and as far as we know exist no further than the realm of
experience, Rahner wants to show that we have an apprehension
of a reality that exists beyond experience. Since I am interpreting Rahner's argument as a purported demonstration of the reality of God, I might put this point by saying that Rahner wants
to do more with his argument than prove that God is transcendentally ideal or phenomenal with respect to an a priori element
in the manner that " cause " or " substance " is for Kant. That
this is the case is clear from a consideration of claims made by
Marechal, whose approach is similar to that of Rahner. Marechal's remarks make clear that the object of the Vorgriff is supposed to be what in Kantian terms is transcendentally real or
noumenal:

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Hence, if we wish to proceed beyond Kant, we shall also have to
establish the absolute objective value of the affirmed object, by deducing the ontological (" noumenal ") affirmation as a theoretical or
speculative necessity. We shall have to show that the practical and
extrinsic necessity of a "transcendent order," admitted by Kant, is
based itself upon an absolute necessity, which takes hold of every
immanent object from within and as soon as it is constituted in consciousness. . . . Hence, should this condition logically imply the
affirmation of a transcendent object, such an affirmation would be
endowed not only with the practical necessity of a " postulate," but
with the theoretical necessity of a speculative evidence, at least of an
indirect ("analogical") speculative evidence.
In this way our final demonstration would become what Kant, if he
'had deemed it possible, at all, would have called the " transcendental
deduction " of the ontological affirmation.55
There are many objections to Rahner's argument that might be
raised by someone outside the Thomist perspective; for example,
a Platonic realist might argue against Rahner that we have an
intellectual grasp of universals apart from or independent of their
instantiation in particulars, while a nominalistically minded
philosopher might argue that all that is needed for the possibility
of empirical judgment is an awareness of certain resemblances
among particulars. I do not wish to consider these objections
here. Instead I suggest a major problem for Rahner's approach
is that, even if one grants the truth of the first five premises of
his argument, all Rahner can hope to show is that the possession
of some kind of presentation of infinite being is a necessary condition of the possibility of objective experience; he cannot show
that such a presentation must be a pre-apprehension (in the sense
of a grasping) of a transcendentally real infinite being. This is
because Rahner cannot show that a Vorgriff of infinite being is
more than an a priori concept of infinite being. But then if Rahner cannot preclude the Vorgriff from being merely an a priori
concept of infinite being, it seems he has not demonstrated that
God is more than transcendentally ideal.
55 Joseph Marechal, A Marechal Reader, trans and ed. Joseph Donceel (New
York: Herder & Herder, 1970), 218.

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Let us assume we have been convinced that each of us has no
direct grasp of universals and that each of us must instead, for
the reasons Rahner gives, have an a priori presentation of infinite being. My suggestion is that this would still leave undecided whether such a presentation was a genuine pre-apprehension (an a priori intellectual intuition) of infinite being or merely
an a priori concept of infinite being. If one's awareness of particulars as such could be accounted for by an a priori concept of
infinite being, to claim that the V orgriff must be an actual a
priori awareness of " noumenal " being would beg the question in
assuming that the V orgriff is actually such an intellectual intuition; that is, it would beg the question of whether the V orgriff
intuits what is noumenal with respect to it or only presents infinite being as it exists in the realm of appearance with respect
to it. The problem typified here is that one might exhibit the
presentation as a priori and even demonstrate the presentation to
be a necessary condition of the possibility of objective experience
and yet not have demonstrated that it is in fact an intuiting of
what is " noumenal " with respect to it. Thus the argument
needed by Rahner is not merely one that demonstrates the V orgriff (as such a presentation) to be a priori, or even merely one
that argues that because the Vorgriff is a necessary condition of
the possibility of objective experience it is legitimately "employed " in experience, but one that also demonstrates that the
V orgriff being no less than such an intellectual or nonsensuous
intuition of noumenal being is a necessary condition of the possibility of objective experience. To show merely that a presentation of infinite being is a necessary condition of the possibility of
experience is to demonstrate at most that within the realm of experience the concept of infinite being must be employed. This
makes God into a phenomenal being (with respect to that presentation) ; the demonstration has shown only that the presentation of infinite being and therefore the "object" God is transcendentally ideal and empirically real. This is not to say that on this
view God is a physical object, for the empirically real for Kant is
wider in scope than the physical. Psychologists might discuss

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mental phenomena that are empirically real (the realm of " inner
sense ") but not physical. Granted that the argument would at
most demonstrate that God is empirically real and transcendentally ideal, it would not preclude the possibility that God's existence
is tied to the employment of our a priori presentation (on this interpretation, a concept) of the V orgriff.
The problem here may be due to an inherent limitation in the
transcendental approach. Kant intends his transcendental deductions to show both the legitimacy of the employment of a priori
presentations and the limits of such legitimate employment. Kant
thinks that their necessity for the possibility of experience is
shown by the fact that they co-constitute the world of objective
experience. But while the categories (and the forms of intuition)
are thus constitutive of phenomenal objects, they are not constitutive (as far as we can know) of things in themselves, the noumenal, or the transcendentally real. On the one hand, were Rahner
to claim that the V orgriff is a necessary condition of the possibility of objective experience because it co-constitutes such experience, then it could be objected that the employment of that a
priori presentation has not been shown to extend beyond the
realm of such co-constitution (which means it could be a concept or form of intuition rather than a genuine intuition) so, importantly, Rahner's argument does not avail itself of this "coconstitution " feature. But, on the other hand, Rahner cannot
preclude the Vorgriff being interpreted as such an a priori concept because it seems such a presentation would provide for the
awareness that the limitation of the universal comes from the particular. I cannot see any reason why an a priori concept of unlimited and infinite being could not provide for this awareness,
and, if I am correct, then an a priori concept of infinite being
could serve the function of the Vorgriff. Now an a priori concept of infinite being is the concept of an absolute and unlimited
being that is not just merely possible but actual, but the fact that
we possess the concept of infinite being would seem insufficient to
prove the transcendental reality of such being with respect to that
concept. If Rahner's argument shows that we have an a priori

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concept of God, it is a valuable piece of work but insufficient to
prove the kind of reality we wish to attribute to God, because the
reality of the God for which Rahner argues is not a reality to be
dependent on our mental processes.
I would like to consider some possible responses to the objection I am putting forward. (a) First, it could be replied that for
there to be any such a priori concept of infinite being there would
have to be a transcendentally real infinite being as the cause. For
otherwise how could a finite person have the concept of an infinite being? Ignoring the questionable use of the category of
causality for such a purpose in the context of a supposedly transcendental or Kantian framework, such a reply seems to include
the kind of questionable assumption present in Descartes's Third
Meditation argument for God's existence. Descartes claims that
he has a positive conception of infinity (not arrived at by negating
the finite indefinitely). His idea of God, which like other ideas
has a finite amount of formal reality, has an infinite amount of
objective reality in virtue of the fact that it represents an infinite
reality. Descartes then asserts that God must exist as the ultimate
cause of this idea because there must be at least as much formal
reality in the cause of an idea as there is objective reality in the
idea. 56 Now even if we grant the Cartesian claim to have a positive conception of the infinite, some convincing reason to believe
such a general principle about the relation of formal and objective reality would have to be provided. That it is true is certainly controversial. Rahner's own view is that a finite human person
has an a priori grasp of something unlimited and infinite, and I
do not see how it is less intelligible or more mysterious to say
that a finite human person just has the a priori concept of such a
being.
Actually, I am not sure that one even has to claim that such an
a priori concept is a positive conception of infinite being rather
than a merely negative conception (indefinitely negating the
finite). I have trouble understanding this distinction when it is
56 Rene Descartes, Meditations on First Philosophy, trans. Donald A. Cress
(Indianapolis : Hackett, 1979), 26-34.

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alleged to characterize an a priori, unthematic concept rather than
an empirical one, but either a positive or a negative conception
would be a conception of going beyond the particular so as to provide for the awareness that the limitation of the universal comes
from the particular. Rahner might claim that if the conception
is negative then in fact it becomes what needs to be explained, for
such "going beyond" the particular is just what the Vorgriff
was supposed to explain, not repeat. But what could be envisaged
is the possession of an a priori concept that does not so much
unify intuitions as merely go beyond them-it functions as just
such an a priori rule to go beyond. Incidentally, as Rahner is
presumably well aware, Kant himself admits that we have a
Transcendental Idea of God yet does not find this Idea can be
accounted for only by a logically prior awareness of God or by a
transcendentally real infinite being as " cause " of the Idea. 57
(b) Another reply would be to claim that the Vorgriff cannot be an a priori concept because the Vorgriff is unthematic.
But in recognizing that in Rahner's terms it would be called a
" pre-concept " I am acknowledging not only the fact that it is
supposed to be a priori but also that it could be below the level
of concepts of which one is conscious. I grant that Rahner takes
it as special and not merely the same kind of a priori presentation or element as are Kant's pure concepts of the understanding,
though if I am correct Rahner has not precluded the possibility
that the Vorgriff is in fact an a priori concept. So this reply does
not by itself demonstrate that it is an intuition of infinite being
as transcendentally real.
( c) A third response to my objection would be to claim that
with the Vorgriff, and human knowledge generally, the knowing
subject intends to grasp or affirm reality as in-itself and not just
as it appears. Rahner may anticipate this response implicitly in
his claim that in judgment one refers the supposit of the predicate
to an in-itself, which is to say that judgment refers the supposit
of the predicate to the subject existing in itself as transcendentally
real and not merely as it appears. I wonder whether such a claim
51

Kant, B 391/ A 334-B 392/ A 335.

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is true in the first place; it may be that the " in-itself" described
here is really just the in-itself of an empirically real and transcendentally ideal object, which is in-itself in its existence apart
from human empirical sensation but not apart from all sensibility
and categorical employment. But even ignoring this, that we implicitly intentionally " refer" a quality to the transcendentally real
and that we intuit the transcendentally real are two very different
claims; a proof of the former is not a proof of the latter. That is,
there could be a discrepancy here between those transcendentally
real features of the reality one intends in knowing and those transcendentally ideal features of the objects that one knows. An
ontological (here noumenal) affirmation is not necessarily an
ontological ( noumenal) apprehension, whether in the context of
ordinary knowing or of the Vorgriff.
( d) Rahner might reply that the Vorgriff must grasp transcendentally real being and not merely transcendentally ideal being because of the identity of being and knowing, which is asserted elsewhere in Rahner's Heideggerian description of human
existence as that of the being who necessarily asks the question
of being. 58 But relying on this would not seem to be a convincing
5 8 Rabner,

Hearers of the Word, 7.

tactic of argument. Even if one were to accept Rahner's analysis,
one could point out that even Rahner does not assert a full
luminosity to human being, and Rahner distances his claim from
the kind of thoroughgoing identity he sees held by German idealism. So all Rahner's claim amounts to is the assertion that, in
knowing, human existence possesses some identity with being, and
this might be transcendentally ideal being only.
( e) Finally, in what might seem to be a reply to my objection,
Rahner claims that the Vorgriff cannot grasp infinite being as
merely possible. Perhaps we can more fully explain why Rahner
thinks that the Vorgriff cannot aim at infinite being, God, as
merely possible by drawing upon Marechal's explanation of this
point. Marechal distinguishes between the subjective end and
the objective end of the intellectual dynamism of the affirmation,
which is the :Marechalian equivalent of the Vorgriff. (But in the

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following description of
I will continue to use Rahner's
term "Vorgrijf.")
If I understand
correctly, he considers the subjective end to be that at which the Vorgriff aims,
while the objective end is what it attains. Now, the Vorgriff aims
at the possession of God, which
thinks shows that the
subjective end is in itself possible, for otherwise it is an appetite
for nothingness, which he claims to be a logical absurdity:
to posit any intellectual act whatsoever in virtue of the natural tendency towards the subjective ultimate end of the intellect is tantamount
to implicitly or explicitly willing this end, hence to adopting it as at
least possible. Strictly speaking one may intend an end without being
certain of reaching it, even with the certitude of never reaching it.
But it would be contradictory to strive towards an end which one
considers absolutely and in every respect unattainable. This would
mean to will nothingness. This logical incompatibility, in the subject
himself, between willing some end and affirming its total emptiness,
applies as well to the implicit as to the explicit domain of reason. 59
So the nature of the Vorgriff, in affirming infinite being as its
subjective end as at least possible, is to affirm implicitly the reality of the objective end as its logical possibility. 6 ° Furthermore,
there is a radical distinction among objective ends between those
which are finite and those which are infinite. There is no incoherence in a subjective end of a finite object which does not objectively exist as long as it is possible. " Nothing prevents us
from desiring to acquire a thing which is not, but which will be
(which exists in its causes). I may even, without contradiction,
although rather whimsically, desire to possess an object which is
merely possible, provided, of course, that I suppose it to be really
existing when my subjective end is hypothetically achieved." 61
But the possibility of the subjective end which is absolute being
presupposes the reality of the objective end, for the condition of
the possibility of the assimilation of absolute being is the existence of this being.
59

184.

so Ibid.

a1 Ibid., 184-185.

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But when this object is God, when the objective end is identified with
the Being which is necessary by itself (the pure Act), which has no
other mode of reality than absolute existence, the dialectical exigency
implied by the desire assumes a new scope, not merely on account
of the natural desire, but on account of the nature of the desire's object. To affirm of God that he is possible is the same as to affirm
that he exists, since his existence is the condition of every possibility.
Hence we may state, in strictest logic, that the possibility of our subjective last end presupposes logically the existence of our objective
last end, God. Thus, in every intellectual act, we affirm implicitly
the existence of an absolute Being.62
One ventures to assume this to be what Rahner thinks as well.
Now I have granted for the sake of argument that Rahner has
shown the presentation of infinite being to be a necessary condition of the possibility of experience, and that this shows the object of the Vorgriff cannot be empirically possible only but must
be empirically real (recall that this does not mean it is physical).
But what Marechal and Rahner need to prove with this reply is
that the object of the Vorgriff cannot be transcendentally possible
only but must be transcendentally real. As has been remarked by
others, the claim that if God is possible God must be real seems
to be a version of the ontological argument. 63 This is curious since
Rahner explicitly disavows putting forward any a priori argument. But in a footnote in Spirit in the World Rahner hints at
what might be the assumption behind his claim :
An ' intentional ' pre-possession of its end presupposes its ontological
one, an ontological ordination of the power to its end, and this is a
condition of the possibility of anticipating the end in knowledge.64
This seems likewise to lie behind Marechal's claim that because
the Vorgriff affirms implicitly the reality of its objective end as
at least possible, its reality follows. When the objective end is a
Ibid., 185.
J. M. Bradley, "Transcendental Critique and Realist Metaphysics,"
The Thomist 39 (1975) : 644-645.
64 Rahner, Spirit in the World, 259, footnote 62; pointed out by Denis J. M.
Bradley, "Rahner's Spirit in the World: Aquinas or Hegel?" The Thomist
41 (1977) : 198-199, footnote.
112

63 Denis

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being necessary by itself, to affirm of God that he is possible is
the same as to affirm that he exists.
It is not clear that " ontological pre-possession of its end "
means the intuiting of noumenal reality ( noumenal with respect
to an a priori concept of God), but that seems to be the meaning
and Rahner are forced to give it. Thus the claim in
effect means that to grant that God is " possibly " transcendentally real is to grant that God is " actually " transcendentally real.
But such a claim needs more support than Rahner gives it. The
claim in the above quote is not self-evident but is not argued for.
And without wanting to enter into a prolonged discussion of the
prospects for the ontological argument, on which Marechal's and
Rahner's rebuttal seems to depend, I do want to note at least that
it seems open to major objections. Furthermore, of course, even
were such an ontological argument to succeed, its use in the service of Rahner' s transcendental approach would make the whole
approach superfluous with respect to demonstrating the reality of
God, because if the ontological argument (as applied to the transcendental reality of God) were to succeed, one would have a direct proof of the reality (even the transcendental reality) of God
without having to invoke the V orgriff at all.
In this discussion I have considered three important features
of Kant's transcendental approach and have examined Rahner's
argument for the V orgriff with them in mind. Without calling
into question any of Rahner's other claims or arguments with respect to a transcendental consideration of human existence as a
recipient of divine revelation, I suggest that Rahner's approach
fails to demonstrate the reality of God.

CHRISTOLOGY IN POLITICAL AND
LIBERATION THEOLOGY

R. R. RENO
Creighton University
Omaha, Nebraska

S

Then I saw heaven opened, and behold, a white
horse ! He who sat upon it is called Faithful and
True, and in righteousness he judges and makes
war. His eyes are like a flame of fire, and on his
head are many diadems ; and he has a name
inscribed which no one knows but himself. He is
clad in a robe dipped in blood, and the name by
which he is called is The Word of God. And armies
of heaven, arrayed in fine linen, white and pure,
followed him on white horses. From his mouth
issues a sharp sword with which to smite the
nations, and he will rule them with a rod of iron;
he will tread the wine press of the fury of the wrath
of God the Almighty. On his robe and on his thigh
he has a name inscribed, King of kings and Lord of
lords.
Revelation 19:11-16

HARP IS THE SWORD of The Word of God: so proclaims a growing body of literature in political and liberation theology. Although this literature evidences a deep
pluralism when describing wherein the sword is sharp and toward what it is aimed, the unifying claim is that Christianity has
decisive political significance. And this significance takes an explicitly theoretical form. Unlike other politically directed theological programs (e.g., Reinhold Niebuhr, Walter Rauschenbush,
Paul Lehmann), political and liberation theologies do not restrict
the practical to a pre- or post-theoretical moment. The practical
questions of liberation and justice are internal to explicitly theological reflection.
The manner in which questions of liberation and justice are

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woven into the fabric of theology is manifold. Juan Luis Segundo, in Liberation of Theology, presents an account of theological method which is necessarily political. 1 He attempts to
show that, to the degree that it is faithful, theological reflection
must be constituted by ideological critique and transformative social commitment. In a similar although more ambiguous way,
Matthew Lamb's Solidarity with Victims seeks to build social
and political issues into the ground floor of method. 2 On a different front, Jiirgen Moltmann's Theology of Hope emphasizes
the necessarily political dimension of eschatology. 3 Quite far removed from the radicalism of most political and liberation theologies, but equally important and increasingly self-conscious of
its theological context, the Roman Catholic human rights tradition can be seen as a political theology which chooses to operate
within the context of a strong doctrine of creation. 4
1 Juan Luis Segundo, Liberation of Theology.
(Maryknoll, New York: Orbis
Books, 1976).
2 Lamb's program is more than a methodological proposal for theology in
itself. He promotes an interesting mixture of critical theory and interdisciplinary study as a path for all inquiry. The result is a pastiche of Adorno and
Lonergan. Lamb explains his interdiscipinary vision as follows : " Such a
noetic praxis of theologizing would develop academically institutionalized ways
of promoting an intellectual conversion (metanoia) whereby the suffering witness of the victims of history would challenge the systems and theories constitutive of our world experience " (Victims, p. 17). However, the critical element of this interdisciplinary "noetic praxis" which Lamb draws from
Adorno's Negative Dialectics militates against this " institutionalized" use. At
the deepest level Adorno questions the very possibility of a noetic practice
which mediates the reality of experience, and he certainly rejects any institutional reification of the small insights which we might garner. For Adorno,
critical thought cannot mediate the actual suffering of concrete individuals ;
rather, its ultimate impotence in the face of such a reality mirrors the suffering
of finite beings. Thought bears witness formally not materially. This basic
feature of Adorno's thought runs counter to Lonergan's cognitive optimism,
making Lamb's program interesting but implausible. Matthew Lamb, Solidarity with Victims (New York: Crossroad, 1982).
SJiirgen Moltmann, Theology of Hope. (New York: Harper & Row, 1967).
4 David Hollenbach's Claims in C onfiict (New York: Paulist Press, 1979)
provides an example of a recent attempt to uncover the theological foundations for a theory of rights. Showing that the language of rights flows from
a basic respect for human dignity, Hollenbach then grounds that dignity in the

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I cannot hope to do justice to the multifaceted attempts of these
various theologies to render Christian doctrine socially and politically decisive. Instead, I will focus on two representative attempts to establish an integral relationship between Christology
and politics. My concern will be to evaluate their attempts to
make Christologically central themes the sources for political reflection. Such a narrow focus can by no means pass judgment on
the overall movement in theology which seeks to link faith with
"praxis." I cannot pretend to establish any general conclusions
about the possibilities for a genuinely liberative and political theology. But I do think that some close attention to the theological
approaches of J. B. Metz and Gustavo Gutierrez in their fundamental texts, Faith, History and Society and A Theology of
Liberation respectively, will illuminate some important limitations
of their political interpretations of Christology. With an appeal
to the logic of Chalcedonian orthodoxy and its susceptibility to
bifurcation or conflation, I hope to show how certain characteristic bifurcations and conflations recur in the work of Metz and
of Gutierrez which constrain the political interpretation and application of basic Christian claims.
I

In order to introduce the complexity of the role of Christology
in political theology, it is useful to take a look at the documents
from the Medellin Conference (1968). In "Poverty of the
Church," 5 where the Latin American bishops consider the relation of the Church to poverty, one gets a sense of how difficult it
is to produce an unambiguous interpretation of the political significance of the basic aspects of the story of Jesus. Jesus the agent
of change and Jesus the patient recipient exercise conflicting influences on the thought of the bishops. Thus, in the spirit of imidoctrine of the imago Dei. This provides the language of rights with an objective ontological basis in creation.
5 Found in The Gospel of Peace and Justice: Catholic Social Teachings
since Pope John, presented by Joseph Gremillion, (Maryknoll, New York:
Orbis Books, 1976), pp. 471-476-hereafter GPJ.

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tation, the bishops exhort the Latin American Church to take up
a stance of poverty in two different ways and with two different
aims.
In the first instance, the Church must take up a stance of poverty out of the" duty of solidarity with the poor" (GP J, p. 474 ).
This expression of solidarity is of decisive importance for the
execution of the Church's traditional role as an advocate of
justice. Impressed by the critiques of ideology, particularly
Brazilean Paulo Freire's proposal of a pedagogy of conscientization, 6 the bishops recognize that shared social conditions are required if the Church is to be able both to recognize and to respond
to the problems of poverty. Here, solidarity with the poor
" means that we make ours their problems and struggles, that we
know how to speak with them " (GP J, p. 474). This close identification is the precondition for effective social action; it liberates
the " apostolic personnel " from ideological barriers created by
oppressive social conditions, allowing them to see injustice and
to respond appropriately, joining the poor in their struggle to
liberate themselves. In short, solidarity with poverty is the required means toward the end of both ideological and material
liberation.
After treating the practical political importance of identification
with the poor in the struggle for social justice, the bishops take
up the theme of "spiritual poverty." In contrast to the call to
solidarity with the poor motivated by the goal of liberation, the
solidarity of spiritual poverty involves detachment from the pres6 Paulo Freire, Pedagogy of the Oppressed, (New York: Continuum, 1984).
Understood in the broadest of strokes, Freire's basic thesis is that the oppressive structures of Latin American society are so powerful that there exists
no " epistemic space " which allows for non-committed, neutral analysis of the
situation. As a result, no non-ideological point of view determines the dictates
of justice. Instead, parallelling Gramsci's notion of the organic intellectual,
Freire suggests that the project of discerning justice must emerge out of the
experience of solidarity with the oppressed. The generosity of " being for another " in a true commitment of solidarity allows the oppressed to "be their
own example in the struggle for their redemption " (p. 39). The authentic
dictates of justice emerge directly out of the pedagogy of social commitment
to the poor.

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ent order. Spiritual poverty is not the cultivation of a politically
astute consciousness but a concrete commitment to a life marked
by the simplicity of the poor, "living with them and even working with [one's] hands ... " (GP!, p. 475). Instead of disclosing reality and involving one in its struggles, this form of solidarity leads to a "detachment from material goods " (GP!, p.
475). Rather than trying to overcome the conditions of poverty,
one cultivates them. The bishops affirm the enduring role of this
kind of poverty, not as a means to the end of social transformation but as part of the faithful life. Such poverty will not be overcome; in the Church there " will be a continual call to evangelical
poverty for all the People of God" (GP!, p. 475).
Even this brief summary should show the tension in the bishops' vision of the social implications of faith in Christ. The
dynamic of spiritual liberation moves in the opposite direction
from that proposed by Freire's pedagogy of the oppressed. Spiritual poverty embraces the condition of powerlessness, while the
pedagogy of poverty seeks to overcome it. Spiritual poverty liberates us from the world; the pedagogy of poverty liberates us in
the world. This tension does not necessarily defeat the bishops'
pastoral concerns. But how are we to understand the role and
purpose of poverty in a systematic way?
I suggest that we understand the tensions in the Medellin account of poverty as properly representative of the conceptual requirements of Chalcedonian Christianity. The acceptance of two
interpretations of the practical significance of Christ for a life of
poverty, interpretations which cannot be directly linked or unified, is justified by its clear parallel to the central doctrine of two
natures and one person in Christ. The affirmation of two natures
in Christ implies that his teachings and example have manifold
aspects which can be made particular and concrete in diverse
ways. Like the fathers of the Church at Chalcedon, the bishops
at Medellin are right to speak forthrightly about what they see in
the Gospel. Answers to the questions of who Christ is and what
it means to follow Him are plainly evident in these documents
and are expressed in categories which enjoy a degree of general

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intelligibility. The Gospel is about the actions of God and man.
Witnessing to the Gospel is, at least in part, about cultivating
and overcoming poverty. There is no need to twist either our
perceptions of who Jesus is or our interpretation of the requirements of witness to Him into strange new categories. Yet, our
perceptions and interpretations, like those of the bishops, tend to
find their expression in conceptually conflicting realms : God and
man, detachment and involvement, child-like acceptance and critical transformation. The unity of the Person, however, insists on
a willingness to live with these conceptual difficulties. We must
say that the words, actions, and events around which we center
our belief flow, indeed, from one single and unified Person, and
that our attempts to witness to that Person properly constitute
one single and unified faith. Speaking pastorally, the bishops are
able to point to two divergent directions of witness in poverty,
while at the same time, affirming that these two particular directions are both properly Christian forms of witness. In cultivating
their systematic programs, Metz and Gutierrez find it far more
difficult to live with tensions of this type. But the Chalcedonian
formula suggests that any attempt to interpret the identity and
significance of Christ will involve some apparent contradictions.
II

Faith in History and Society 7 is by no means a clear and precise treatment of the themes articulated at Medellin. More a
sketch of possibilities for further development than a completed
treatise, the book has all the ambiguity of work in progress. For
example, throughout the book Metz uses the concept of solidarity
with the poor in myriad ways. Solidarity functions hermeneutically when Metz describes theology as a maieutic enterprise, " listening to what little and poor people are saying ... " (FHS, p.
148) in order to help them shape orthodoxy. Theologians function like the "co-ordinators" in Freire's pedagogy of the op1 Johannes Baptist Metz, Faith in History and Society. (New York: Seabury Press, 1980)-hereafter FHS.

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pressed, true organic intellectuals. Solidarity also plays an eschatological role as the image of a universal community free from
hatred and violence (FHS, p. 236). It even has a soteriological
dimension : " S9lidarity can be seen as a category by means of
which the subject is saved when he is threatened, for example, by
fear, oppression or death " ( F HS, p. 232). 8 In spite of this diversity, as well as an ambiguity as to whether solidarity with the
poor is a mental state of sympathy, a social commitment, or an
actual physical state of affairs, the multiplicity of its uses can be
traced back to Metz's theological anthropology. What poor and
little people say, their images of the coming kingdom, is explicated theologically in terms of the basic theme of memory, which,
for Metz, takes the distinctively Christian form of memoria passionis, mortis, et resurrectionis Jesu Christi. These memories,
especially the memoria passionis, are, for Metz, " the fundamental form[s] of expression of Christian faith" (FHS, p. 90).
First and foremost, this fundamental expression of Christian faith functions as a dangerous memory which calls into question the plausibility and desirability of present social structures
and relations. It is the " eschatological memory of freedom that
breaks open our cognitive and operative systems" (FHS, p. 91),
a concrete epistemic possibility which " breaks through the magic
circle of prevailing consciousness " ( F HS, p. 90). Linking each
individual to the suffering of others, this fundamentally subversive memory functions politically as an initial movement of negation with respect to the status quo. In contrast to the assumptions which inform the bishops' proposal at Medellin, Metz's
memory does not seem to require a determinant social or political location in order to be operative. While realization of its content certainly leads to specific forms of social analysis ( ideological critique) and commitment to concrete struggles for social
change, the initial movement of negation is built into the structure of human consciousness.
s In this respect, Paulo Freire's theological intuitions are more subtle (and
sounder) than Metz's explicit formulation. Friere notes, "While no man
liberates himself by his efforts alone, neither is he liberated by others "
(Pedagogy of the Oppressed, p. 53).

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The universal character of the memoria passionis is a function
of its fundamental realism. It is true to the ways of human history. The " political consciousness ez memoria passionis "
breaks through the ideological costume of culture, and it does so
because, as a memory of suffering, it forces one to look beyond
the successful and established to see the oppressive reality of contemporary life. Like Metz but with even greater force, Jurgen
Moltmann emphasizes the " paschal " nature of all reality. When
he takes up the question of the political significance of Christology
in The Crucified God, the realism of the cross is all-important: the
cross of God is the cross of reality. As a result, like Metz, Moltmann can claim that faith in the cross " is capable of setting men
free from their cultural illusions, releasing them from the involvements which blind them, and confronting them with the truth of
their existence." 9
Recognizing the realism of the Cross means that we must take
up its contradiction into the Christian life. Moltmann states the
issue with characteristic bluntness: " True Christian existence ...
can only be demonstrated by a witnessing non-identification with
the demands and interests of society" (CG, p. 17). Witness to
the truth is always a movement of critical negation, corresponding to the logic of the Cross. In contrast to Moltmann's emphasis
on the scriptural source of our knowledge of the Cross, Metz's
use of memoria passionis makes the logic of negation part of our
anthropological makeup. As a result, the Cross is always already
there as the" inner aspect of ... history" (FHS, p. 112). However, in spite of this difference, and in spite of a certain ambiguity
on Metz's part as to how this inner aspect of history ever comes
to consciousness, the practical result is the same as that articulated by Moltmann. By revealing the inner logic of history, the
memoria passionis " shocks us out of ever becoming permanently
reconciled to the facts and trends of our technological society "
(FHS, p. 113).
Such is the basic thrust of Metz' s political theology. A crucial
9Jiirgen Moltmann, The Crucified God. (New York:
1974), p. 39-hereafter CG.

Harper

& Row,

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question emerges as we recall the Medellin statement. How is the
solidarity of spiritual poverty, the child-like identification with
the simplicity of Christ, to function under the weight of negation.
Suffering, alienati!:m, and marginalization and the responses of
critique and transformation seem to exhaust the content of Christian witness to the truth. Is there room for the open simplicity of
spiritual poverty? Because Easter follows Good Friday, Metz
cannot remain exclusively in the moment of non-identification.
The dialectic of liberation which is initiated by the cross must
lead toward a moment of positive and uncritical solidarity with
others in true fellowship. The integrity of the story of Jesus, i.e.,
the unity of the Person, requires that somehow the alienation of
the Cross must be linked to the reality of the Risen Lord. Our
task is to assess Metz's attempt to do justice to the affirmation of
the Empty Tomb. But to do so we will first take a brief look at
Jiirgen Moltmann's chilling paschal monism in The Crucified
God. He more than any other political theologian absolutizes the
moment of critique, giving us a clearer picture of some of the
tendencies in Metz's work. 10
Moltmann tries to do justice to the fact that crucifixion is followed by resurrection by tracing out the logic of negativity to its
conclusion :
By alienating the believer from the compulsions and automatic assumptions of an alienated world, Christian identification with the
crucified necessarilybrings him into solidarity with the alienated of
this world, with the dehumanized and inhuman. (CG, p. 25)
1 -0 The reader should be aware that my use of Moltrnann's The Crucified God
does not do justice to his work as a whole. Moltmann at his best offers his
readers the challenge of a theology written with exceptional conceptual rigor.
This makes his work useful for clarifying latent tendencies in others. Here I
claim that the conceptual rigor of The Crucified God (a theology based upon
the logic of negation and non-identification) is not true to its subject matter.
However, my point is mainly heuristic, interested in developing an understanding of Metz rather than a conclusive assessment of Moltrnann. Such an
assessment must consider the distinctive position of The Crucified God in the
larger context of A Theology of Hope and The Church and the Power of the
Spirit. Cf. the latter, pp. xvi-xvii.

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Just as the negation of a negation yields an affirmation, so alienation from alienation leads to solidarity. But the negative dialectic
of Theodor Adorno, which informs Moltmann's interpretation of
the Cross, cannot rest with such resolution. 11 The resultant solidarity must itself be immediately deconstructed. And Moltmann
remains faithful to Adamo's eternal negation by showing that
the contradiction of the Cross cuts all the way down. Agape, the
core of the spiritual poverty advocated. at Medellin, always suffers
under the weight of alienation, ugliness, and difference. As a
consequence, for Moltmann, the monism of the Cross means that
the naive, child-like sense of reciprocal identification with others
is not a temporal possibility. It remains on the eschatological
horizon, available as an image found in the story of Jesus' resurrection but inaccessible as a real moment of human existence.
Again, with characteristic bluntness Moltmann expresses his rejection of the chimera of "solidarity" in this age:
Even in the " classless society " Christians will be aliens and homeless. Where solidarity is achieved, this distinction must still be observed. It is a criticism of the traditional solidarity of the established churches with authority, law and order in society. But it is
also a criticism of the more recent attempts to establish solidarity
with democratic and socialist forces. (CG, p. 17).
With such " realism" Moltmann systematically excludes the
spiritual poverty advocated at Medellin.
In contrast, Metz wants to make genuine solidarity, not just
corporate witness to alienation, a possibility for the present. He
would like to affirm the theological dimension of a Christian
praxis similar to the spiritual poverty advocated at Medellin.
Unlike Moltmann, he warns against the ontologization of suffering (FHS, p. 108). Suffering constitutes the essential dynamic
of history, but it is not necessarily the only moment in human
11 Cf. Adorno's magnum opus, Negative Dialectics. In this deeply pessimistic text the only escape from the inferno of ideologically deceived and deceptive social reality is the purgatory of perpetual critique. The negativity of
critique is the only way in ·which we can maintain our epistemic integrity
against the perversity of affirming the status quo.

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experience. Concretely this means that the dangerous memory of
suffering does not negate all aspects of contemporary society but
only those elements and structures which give rise to concrete instances of oppression and suffering. As a result, progressive political action might seek to preserve positive elements of Enlightenment culture as well as transform the oppressive aspects of late
industrial capitalism and state socialism. In short, the Christian
response in faith involves a moment of affirmation as well as
negation. Metz provides a crucial description of these two moments of negation and affirmation and their interrelation : " The
memory of suffering . . . brings a new moral imagination into
political life, a new vision of others' suffering which should mature into a generous, uncalculating partnership on behalf of the
weak and unrepresented" (FHS, p. 117). Linked by the notion
of " moral imagination," the critique engendered by the memory
of suffering can be harmonized with the affirmative dynamic of
spiritual poverty.
Seen in this way, Metz's strategy for unifying the two moments
(which rested together so uneasily at Medellin) is strikingly
similar to Reinhold Niebuhr's Christian realism. The movement
of non-identification engendered by the dangerous memory of suffering parallels Niebuhr's moment of self-transcendence made
possible by the image of Jesus' self-sacrificial love. In both cases
the initial movement clears space for a deeper " moral imagination" which can respond authentically to the suffering of others. 12
Parallel to Niebuhr's Christian realism, Metz's political theology
finds its critical method in the memoria passions but its purpose
and hope in a separate but equally fundamental human capacity
for "generous, uncalculating partnership."
12 For a lucid description of precisely this dynamic, see Niebuhr's early An
Interpretation of Christian Ethics (New York: Seabury Press, 1979). There,
Niebuhr identifies the ethic of Jesus as the law of love, an impossible possibility
which can never be domesticated, always remaining "a principle of criticism
under which every scheme of justice stands ... " (p. 66). This critical principle found in the self-sacrificial love of the cross thus breaks down the rationalizations of the age, freeing the individual for an (always still partial and imperfect) imaginative response.

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However, we may well wonder whether this use of the human
capacity for moral imagination only thinly covers over the deeper
duality in Metz's theology. He may be able to account for the
possibility of human solidarity with an appeal to moral imagination, but it is by no means clear that he can account for the dimensions of Christian witness which the bishops describe as spiritual poverty.
Metz recognizes that the concept of moral imagination needs a
theological context to provide the link between the negation of
suffering and the solidarity of redemption. But he is cautious:
" a conceptual and argumentative mediation and reconciliation
between real and effective redemption, on the one hand, and the
history of suffering on the other, would seem to me to be excluded" (FHS, p. 132). This unity, Metz believes, would necessarily involve collapsing the history of human suffering into the
Trinitarian self-relation. And such a collapse of suffering into the
Trinity leads, in turn, to either a " gnostic eternalization of suffering in God, or a condescending reduction of suffering to its
concept" (FHS, p. 132). In both instances the material reality
of suffering is submerged into theological artifice. As a consequence, for Metz there can be no theoretical correlation between
the human history of suffering and the divine initiative of redemption.
This does not mean that Metz is silent about the relation of
history to soteriology. Indeed, if he were, then he would hardly
have a political theology or even have a theology at all. But he
hopes to move beyond "-a purely argumentative soteriology " and
to take up the relation of history and redemption in a " fundamentally memorative and narrative soteriology" (FHS, p. 133).
It is my contention, however, that Metz already has a purely
argumentative soteriology, i.e., the dynamic of a generous and uncalculating moral imagination. Moreover, this anthropological
move creates a decisive conceptual " gap " between the historical
significance of the Christian story and its imaginative significance.
This gap more than anything else prevents him from achieving a
"memorative and narrative soteriology."

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Allow me to summarize my initial assessment of Metz. When
we turn to Metz's narration of "the truth of [the Christian]
message with a practical and critical intention for the modern
world" (FHS, p. 89), we must conclude that he focuses almost
exclusively on negation and critique. In The Crucified God,
Moltmann is perfectly willing to follow the logic of negation to
its conclusion and embrace a paschal monism which denies any
living connection between the Cross and Resurrection (to say
nothing of Pentecost!). Metz will not go that far and does fall
back on a theological anthropology which seeks to link the logic
of negation to the possibility of authentic and uncritical solidarity.
But this is a strictly formal gambit. The narrative which guides
political and theological reflection never progresses beyond the
first moment; memoria passionis dominates history, for the plot
of history is an endless process of demystification, a perpetual
clearing of the stage for the major dramatic action which never
begins, or at least never takes place in this theater. The memory
of redemption is never explicated or narrated; rather, it is "kept
alive " as the possibility of moral imagination. The pedagogy of
the memoria passionis overcomes the distortions of the present
and, not surprisingly, takes on significant " conceptual " and
" argumentative " shape through its correlation to the Marxist
tradition of ideology critique. Yet, the memoria mortis et resurrectionis is inextricably bound up with the story which proceeds
from it; for the fathers at Chalcedon it establishes the identity of
the Person they were so concerned to declare without separation
or division. But for Metz it enjoys little or no such theoretical
development; it remains an argumentatively impossible and narratively silent moment which occurs only in praxis. As a consequence, in spite of his claims to the contrary, Metz is in danger
of joining Moltmann in absolutizing the negativity of human history, thus making it impossible, at least at the level of reflection
and theoretical formulation, to give substantive content to redemption. In terms of Medellin, he has only impoverished theological resources with which to speak about the Christologically
central imperative of spiritual poverty.

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III
" The grace-sin conflict, the coming of the Kingdom, and the
expectation of the parousia are necessarily and inevitably historical, temporal, earthly, social and material realities." 13 Unlike
Metz, who does not want to establish an " argumentative " correlation between redemption and human history, Gustavo Gutierrez provides us with a theological system which brings history
and the divine economy of redemption together. As a consequence,
Gutierrez is able to bring the notions of liberative critique and
redemptive solidarity into close relation, thus unifying the bishops' two senses of poverty. But in showing us how to overcome
the difficulties which characterize Metz's fragmented program,
Gutierrez's theological project leads us toward a monolithic consistency in which the correlations between salvation and liberation, Incarnation and Creation, grace and nature, border on simple identification. And with few resources for establishing any
distinction, this identification threatens the very heart of his theological agenda-the desire to link faith in Christ to political and
social commitment.
In A Theology of Liberation, Gutierrez assigns himself the
task of showing that there is a " relationship between salvation
and the process of the liberation of man throughout history"
(TL, p. 149). Establishing this link between salvation and liberation is crucial if Gutierrez is to legitimate the claim that he is
doing political theology and not just social theory in light of religious symbols and sensibilities. He must show that the divine
economy of redemption is bound up with the historical process of
liberation, allowing the theologian to make normative judgments,
based on theological warrants, regarding the nature and direction
of political struggles. In the terms used at Medellin, Gutierrez
wishes to clarify the deeper theological foundations for affirming
both the spiritual and pedagogical forms of solidarity with the
poor.
13 Gustavo Gutierrez, A Theology
of Liberation
Orbis Books, 1973), p. 167-hereafter TL.

(Mary knoll, New York:

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At the first level this unity is developed through an attack on
false dualisms. Gutierrez repudiates any attempt to restrict salvation to the "spiritual." Grace cannot be restricted to the otherworldly life of the spirit. Soteriology can employ neither a mystical approach which looks inward and away from worldly affairs
nor a reified eschatological approach which directs its attention
outward and beyond the present context of concrete human activity. Neither approach is able to discern the true nature of salvation. Gutierrez treats these two errors and indicates their solution by exegeting Gaudium et spes. In that document the orders
of redemption are distinguished from the orders of creation, and
only tentative efforts are made to establish some relation between
the two. This tentativeness is unacceptable to Gutierrez, and he
looks beyond the document toward reasons which argue for a
more emphatic correlation between the two orders. The crux of
the argument for deeper unity between the two orders is that any
separation makes it difficult to show the lived significance of
grace. Separation of creation and redemption, nature and grace,
renders the work of God in Christ extrinsic to the fullness of the
human condition. Against this sharp distinction and resultant
extrinsicism, Gutierrez asserts that "man's history and the history of salvation are closely implicated with each other; in the
present, definitive economy of salvation the order of redemption
includes the order of creation" (TL, p. 169). In light of this
"close implication," which Gutierrez pushes toward actual identification, we cannot maintain hard and fast distinctions between
spiritual and political responsibilities, between religious and social
witness, between salvation and liberation.
Gutierrez develops the " close implication " of the orders of
creation and redemption with each other by using history as the
mediating concept. Creation is recast as historical process. A
dynamic God-" I will be Who I will be "-gives rise to a dynamic natural world. To this Teilhardian evolutionary vision of
creation Gutierrez adds a distinctively Marxist touch: the dynamism of humanity is located at the center of world history as
the driving force of the creation process. In light of this view of

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nature as dynamic process, the inner significance of which flows
from human initiative, the theological concept of creation is best
understood as the totality of the process, that is to say, the history in which man is the central character. Thus, creation is not
a single act but an ongoing activity, as humanity continues to
perpetuate the dynamic of creation through its own history.
Set against the process of creation is sin. It is the interruption of the positive potentialities of nature's dynamism, the perversion of human self-development in history. In Thomistic
terms, creation is treated by Gutierrez as both the moment of potentiation toward communion with God and the process of the
actualization of that potentiality (the key to Genesis is the dynamism of " be fruitful and multiply "). These two moments, potentiation and actualization, are inseparable when viewed from
the eternal, but de facto there exists a temporal interruption. Sin
stands as the impediment which blocks creation from reaching
full actualization.
In this scheme, salvation from sin involves liberation from the
obstacles to full realization of created potential. What this means
for Gutierrez is that the salvific work of Christ is that which sets
humanity free from the concrete material structures and relations
which alienate humanity from the natural process of history.
Moreover, this salvific work has reference to specific historical
instances of alienation: political, economic, and social. Understood in this way, redemption is the return to the original dynamic of creation made possible through the concrete, historical
and liberative action of Jesus Christ. The God become man, the
historical event of Jesus, makes human history (in its fullest,
progressive sense) possible. Thus redemption, itself a historical
moment, addresses creation, itself a historical process. In this
way we can understand Gutierrez's claim that "only the concept
of the mediation of history can lead us to an accurate and fruitful
understanding of the relationship between creation and redemption" (TL, p. 173).
The significance of all this conceptual " activity " is concretized
in Gutierrez's reading of the Exodus narrative. For him, the

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evident message of the text is that " creation and liberation from
Egypt are but one salvific act" (TL, p. 155). The Exodus is an
instance in which divine gratuity creates the conditions for, initiates, and aids the process of human liberation. Moreover, this
liberation is not " spiritual " but political, and it involves a series
of trials and hurdles which establish a " gradual pedagogy " of
the nation of Israel, culminating in the covenant at Sinai. Thus,
the economy of salvation is unified with the dynamic of political
liberation from the bondage of Egypt.
At a deeper level, functioning as the type for God's action in
history, the Exodus reveals the essential role of history in the
unity of creation and redemption. The Exodus leads Israel to a
new moment in its existence, but it is a moment which grows
out of its past. The historical liberation from Pharoah is the fulfillment of God's prior promise to Abraham. Seeing the Exodus
as a historically situated event which itself flows from a prior
history of divine intervention into human affairs, Gutierrez
counters those who would distinguish between human history and
salvation history by asserting that "history is one." The history
of salvation is the inner logic of a fully temporal and human history which, in turn, unfolds and actualizes the reality of creation.
However central the Exodus might be for Gutierrez's explication of the political significance of salvation, the Old Testament
narrative does not fully integrate human and salvation history.
To be sure, the liberation of Israel is a divine response to an
earlier historical moment, God's promise to Abraham in Issac,
but that initial promise is self-originating. Divine action and
human history are de facto interrelated in the Old Testament, but
deeper cosmological unity is needed to undergird the stronger
Hegelian dictum "History is one." This deeper unity, which is
central to Gutierrez's project, emerges Christologically. The exemplary story which illustrates the unity of salvation and liberation is found in the story of the Exodus, but the more fundamental unity between redemption and creation emerges in the
prologue to the Fourth Gospel. In God, the prior self-relation of
Creator and Redeemer unifies creation and redemption. Reveal-

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ing this unity, the Incarnation reaffirms and intensifies the Old
Testament emphasis on history as the location of the unity of
creation and redemption. As a consequence, one can see that
God's redemptive significance is mediated historically, both in the
specific history of Jes us Christ and in the total history of creation.
In light of the decisive role assigned to history, it is small
wonder that various elements of Marxism should play such a
prominent role in A Theology of Liberation. If Marxism is, in
fact, objectively correct in its analysis of human history, then it
has revelatory significance within Gutierrez's theological system.
It is not a second-order tool of social analysis which gives the
theologian social-political sophistication in the application of traditional norms of love and justice. Rather, Marxist history is a
first-order moment of theological discernment. An accurate understanding of the inner dynamic of human history reveals the
identity of the preexistent logos. Gutierrez does not collapse his
theological project into a Marxist understanding of history, even
though he never deals with the relation between the God revealed
in first century Palestine and the abstract concept of God in
"History." His theological analysis develops a biblical account of
the promise of God's self-communicating love, which he sees as
the true engine of history (TL, pp. 160-8). The divine promise
creates the conditions in this world for the dynamic of human
self-transformation, e.g., the promise to Abraham sets in motion
the history of Israel. Hence, history is not a neutral concept. It
is itself a theologically defined dynamic. At its core, history is
Christocentric, for in Jesus Christ, the eternal, preexistent logos
of creation, the promise of divine love becomes explicit and effective, drawing humanity out of the partial and broken present and
sending it into a fuller future.
At this point we must resist the temptation to pursue conceptual formulation endlessly and step back to consider some of the
Christological implications of Gutierrez's use of history to unify
creation and redemption. In order to do so, we can usefully consider Dennis McCann's criticisms of Gutierrez in Christian Real-

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ism and Liberation; Theology. 14 McCann's claim is that Gutierrez
relies on two conflicting strategies for understanding the role of
God in political and social life. First there is an epiphanic vision
which sees God as intruding into the realm of human history.
The initiative is on the side of the divine, " the Word became
flesh and dwelt among us." But over and against this Incarnational emphasis, there is also a dialectical vision in Gutierrez's
work, and, as McCann points out, this dialectical dynamic of
critique is built upon a foundation of human initiative.
From this contrast between the epiphanic and dialectical, a
question emerges which is quite similar to the one which we already raised with respect to Metz's political theology: How can
the two dimensions be linked? How can the fundamental continuity between creation and redemption expressed in the prologue to John be joined with the discontinuity generated by
prophetic critique? Historically, J ohannine incarnationalism has
tended toward contemplative and doxological exaltation of God's
already accomplished good work in creation and redemption,
while the prophetic dimensions of the Christian tradition have
emphasized critique in the interest of active transformation. In
short, for McCann the problem exemplified in Gutierrez's reliance
on the epiphanic and dialectical is this : How can the Beloved
Disciple coexist theologically with a ranting Jeremiah?
In the end, McCann is rather sure that John and Jeremiah
cannot be brought into theological partnership. "No dialectical
tour de force can integrate the epiphany of the Absolute in time
with the vision of history as the ongoing struggle of the oppressed
to realize the untested feasibility of liberation" ( CRLT, p. 184).
Either John is right and God's triumph is an already accomplished
fact to be welcomed and glorified (in which case a ranting Jeremiah is mistaken when he thinks that there is still something
decisive left to accomplish), or Jeremiah is right and our fates
hang in the balance depending upon our commitment to transformation (in which case a triumphalist John is hopelessly com14 Dennis McCann, Christian Realism and Liberation Theology
(Maryknoll, New York: Orbis Books, 1981)-hereafter CRLT.

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placent). Focusing on the tension between Johannine passivity
and prophetic activity, McCann restates the dilemma: "In what
way can salvation-history promote the emergence of ' man ' as a
'Subject' [the dialectical project] when God and his Son, Christ
the Liberator, are principal or ultimate Subjects in the process of
liberation [the logic of the epiphanic vision]" ( CRLT, p. 194).
There seems to be a basic contradiction in Gutierrez's thought
between what God has done for us and what we must do for
ourselves. Instead of unifying creation and redemption, liberation and salvation, nature and grace, in McCann's eyes Gutierrez
has set up a conflict in which each side of the duality is competing
for the same piece of territory-human history.
But if we recognize the significance of history in Gutierrez's
theology of liberation, we will see how he resolves this apparent
contradiction. The historicization of creation and redemption allows him to show that the exaltation of creation, a creation which
is defined as the human process of historical self-transformation,
takes the form of the development of a critical consciousness based
on prophetic eschatology and Marxist critical theory. Unlike
Metz, for whom negation (freedom) and identity (solidarity),
the pedagogy of the memoria passionis and " moral imagination,"
are two separate and discontinuous moments in human existence,
Gutierrez is able to claim that they are, ultimately, two names for
the same process. Using Mc Cann' s terms, Gutierrez could reformulate the matter as follows : the epiphany of God is dialectical
and a dialectical understanding of history is truly epiphanic. Understood Christologically, the tension between divine and human
initiative is mediated in the God-man.
On the basis of this response we can see that Gutierrez's theology does not suffer from the contradiction alleged by McCann. 15
15 There is more to McCann's failure to do justice to Gutierrez. For example, he imposes an inadequate account of critique on Gutierrez. Conscientization, for Gutierrez, does not involve the strictly formal logic of negation
which McCann supposes. It is not a "method" divorced from material objects and commitments. Instead, conscientization is the process of discernment which allows the believer to identify and participate in the divine economy of salvation. In this way Gutierrez appropriates Paulo Friere's pedagogy

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For McCann, the logic of liberation theology is itself contradictory. To return once again to the pastoral concerns expressed at
Medellin, McCann simply rejects a vision of Christian existence
which includes both senses of poverty. But Gutierrez can, in fact,
give dramatic expression to the unity of the poverty directed toward transformation and critique and the spiritual poverty of
solidarity with Christ:
Our encounter with the Lord occurs in our encounter with men,
especially in the encounter with those whose human features have
been disfigured by oppression, despoliation, and alienation and those
who have "no beauty, no majesty" but are the things "from which
men turn away their eyes" (Isa. 53 :2-3). The salvation of humanity passes through them ; they are the bearers of the meaning of
history and " inherit the Kingdom " (James 2 :5). Our attitude toward them, or rather our commitment to them, will indicate whether
or not we are directing our existence in conformity with the will of
the Father. (LT, p. 202-3)
of the oppressed without compromising the role of the divine in the historical
realization of salvation. An accurate critique of oppression allows one to break
out of the alienation of false consciousness and permits a clear perception of
reality. And with eyes now opened, such a clear perception always involves an
encounter with God in history since reality itself is shot through with the
divine presence as both Creater and Redeemer. The assumption which Gutierrez
shares with Friere is that an unclouded encounter with reality will transform
the conscientized person into a creative and liberating subject who does not
continue indefinitely in the critical mode, but who is ready to identify with the
causes of justice. To be freed by critique so as to see reality is to be integrated
into its dynamism: to see God is to be taken up into His redemptive plan.
Moreover, there is a basic clash of theological self-understanding. McCann
cannot accept Gutierrez's unity of exaltation and conscientization because he
views theology as a hermeneutical project which seeks to recover the content
of revelation from the symbols and practices of the Christian tradition. There
is no reality to be seen after the scales have been lifted from our eyes. There
is no God Who is really present in the world setting us into action at the
terminus of the dialectic of critique. Gutierrez, in contrast, places God squarely in the world. He does not need to be recovered, but recognized. "We meet
God in our encounter with man; we encounter him in the commitment to the
historical process of mankind " (TL, p. 194) . The danger, for Gutierrez, is
not that religious artifacts will lose their authority in the acids of conscientization but that, without the courage to critique and struggle against the oppressive structures of the present, humanity will fail to find the God who is always already waiting to be met in the world.

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One might object that a historicization of the divine will or a
divinizing of human history-two directions implied by Gutierrez's synthesis-does violence to the very distinction between
the divine and human. But such an objection is concerned not
with inconsistency but with the blurring of differences. The ease
with which Gutierrez is able to unify the bishops' two senses of
poverty may reflect a synthesis beyond that possible in a theology
attentive to the limitations of orthodox Christo logy. John and
Jeremiah, epiphany and dialectic, exaltation and critique, are not
as disparate as McCann would lead us to believe. But in the grip
of Gutierrez's synthesis we might well begin to wonder whether
John is still John and Jeremiah still Jeremiah. In his passion to
explicate the unity which Christ represents, Gutierrez is in danger
of submerging the recalcitrant particularities of His identity under the murky waters of ein Begriff.

IV
A full scale defense of Gutierrez against the charges leveled by
McCann is beyond the scope of this inquiry. Moreover, although
McCann does identify legitimate tensions and ambiguities in liberation theology, when it comes to his central charge-that liberation theology as found in Gutierrez's work is plagued by an
irresolvable contradiction between the epiphanic and dialectical! believe he is incorrect. I question McCann's presumption that
any consistent theological strategy for correlating liberation and
salvation, human history and salvation history, human action and
divine grace must be anthropological. The account that Gutierrez
provides for the convergence of these theological distinctions is
theological yet enjoys a high degree of conceptual consistency.
In fact, the anthropological strategy advocated by McCann, like
the one advocated by Metz, is more vulnerable to the charge of
inconsistency. Our analysis of Metz demonstrated that such an
approach is able to defend the possibility of genuine solidarity
(salvation) from the corrosive logic of negation found in the
Cross only by dividing the two moments into two different categories, calling into question the possibility of treating them to-

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gether in a way which does justice to the inextricable narrative
unity of crucifixion and resurrection.
So, we must depart from McCann's criterion of internal consistency and adopt a substantive point of observation and evaluation-Chalcedonian orthodoxy. Both Gutierrez and Metz provide conceptually clear theological accounts of how the reality of
Christ is decisively linked to political praxis : Metz through anthropology and Gutierrez with the concept of history. At this
point I would like to make more explicit the question which has
been animating our interest in these two quite different theological proposals. How does the logic of the rule of faith regarding
the two natures and one Person of Jesus Christ operate in their
work? In their emphasis on the soteriological significance of
politics and the political significance of salvation, the difficulties
Metz and Gutierrez exhibit seem to bear striking parallels to the
issues which motivated Chalcedon and resulted in the claim
that the center of Christian faith and practice is a Person who
is " at once completely in Godhead and completely in manhood,
truly God and truly man."
Metz. By focusing our attention on the suffering of Jesus
Christ which is anthropologically present as the memoria passionis of the Cross, the logic of the foresakenness of Jesus is
taken up into theology as the moment of radical critique. The
non-identity of the man Jesus and the judging Father drives the
engine of negation. This moment of radical alienation in Jesus'
solidarity with the human condition then becomes the location
of the liberative work of Christ. By taking on the reality of suffering, Jesus opens our eyes to the truth of our existence, the
bondage of sin and alienation from God which is found in political structures and relations of oppression. In keeping with the
modern preoccupation with epistemology and its specifically Marxist version as found in the Frankfurt School's critique of ideology, atonement is noetic. The witness of Jesus on the Cross
liberates humanity from false consciousness. Faith is linked in
praxis to solidarity with the poor, understood as a pedagogy of
the oppressed. Under the shadow of the Cross our political con-

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sciousness is made " right." We see the reality of our social
world, and this true perception turns us toward the future with
a fundamental commitment toward liberative change.
This emphasis on the pedagogy of the Cross is certainly a
fruitful way of giving concrete substance to the passion of Christ.
Contemporary notions of negation, non-identification, and marginalization yield excellent insights into the practical logic of this
dimension of the Gospel. Yet, as the extreme emphasis on this
similar line of thought in Moltmann's Crucified God highlights,
problems develop when Metz tries to give substance to the affirmative moment. He has great difficulty giving expression to the
other major element of the Gospel, the Resurrection. This difficulty is manifest in his strictly formal account of the possibility
of genuine, non-critical solidarity. The noetic justification of
political consciousness is richly described, but the sanctification
of human relations is left hanging, anchored only by the underdeveloped and unattached notion of moral imagination.
Because of his consistency, we can see in Moltmann with great
clarity what conceptual elegance but also what theological poverty
an exclusive emphasis on only one dimension of Christology can
bring. Moltmann restricts the practical, lived impact of the logic
of exaltation to the Parousia. This tendency to allow a single
concept to take over as normative, rather than attending to the traditional creedal formulations or to the full scope of the scriptural
narrative, is quite explicit: " In Christianity the cross is the test
of everything which deserves to be called Christian. One may
add that the cross alone, and nothing else, is its test, since the
cross refutes everything ... " (CG, p. 7). This cruciform
monism has no interest in the present social and political possibilities of a full Christology, such as the child-like openness of
spiritual poverty advocated at Medellin. (And, I would argue, by
its very monism it misunderstands the true nature of the Cross.)
Metz, however, recognizes that such a theology of negativity
can never generate positive, generous, and creative commitments
to social change. He is unwilling to rest exclusively in a theology
of negation and critique. Something must be said of the positive,

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affirmative reality made possible in Christ. To do so he locates,
obliquely, the dynamic of exaltation and affirmation in our moral
imagination or memoria resurrectionis. Yet he finds it extremely difficult to bring this positive moment into relation with negation and critique, except in the inexpressible possibilities of
human action. As a consequence and in spite of his claims to the
contrary, he is unable to narrate the story of Jesus Christ so as
to include both His humiliation and exaltation. In short, he finds
it difficult to do justice to the unity of the Person.
Metz's inability to do what he knows is required of a Christologically accurate theology-render a full " memorative and
narrative " soteriology-is exemplified in his exegesis of Mk
8 :31-38. Commenting on Jesus' hard words to his disciples, he
writes, "Have we not too much interiorized [Christ's] sufferings and our own? Have we, through personalizing the suffering
in the earthly Son of Man and those who have followed him, not
created vast spaces, spaces of a nameless suffering? " 16 Having
expressed this characteristic fear that Christian insight tends to be
privatized in modern culture, Metz then directs our attention toward Auschwitz, drawing the following theological conclusion:
" The history of his Passion has not yet reached its conclusion "
(p. 38). The movement from Gethsemane to Golgotha is being
recapitulated constantly. It is the true kairos of history. Adding
emphasis, Metz concludes, "Anyone who rejects this, in the
name of theological precision or sober orthodoxy, as inferior
Passion-mysticism, has hardly understood" (p. 39).
At the risk of failing to understand, I would like to suggest
that the deepest trouble with Metz's theological project stems
from his failure to seek the sobriety of orthodoxy. In his desire
to drink deeply at the well of negation and critique, he absolutizes
the logic of only one aspect of Christology, the suffering God on
the cross. In so doing he has no room left in history for such
other aspects as the Empty Tomb and the gift of the Holy Spirit.
1 6 J. B. Metz and Jiirgen Moltmann, Meditations on the PassiD'n, (New
York: Paulist Press, 1979), p. 37.

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To be sure, Metz makes a gesture towards the fullness of orthodoxy by locating the affirmative, the joyous, the childlike in the
possibilities of our moral imagination. But the discontinuity is
obvious. Suffering is the kairos of history. It is the objective
logic of all reality. On the other hand, joyous affirmation in uncalculating and uncritical solidarity is, ironically, a strictly private
moment. It enjoys no already present objective reality in the
post-resurrection world. In short, in his efforts to combat the
privatization of suffering Metz has succeeded in privatizing joy.
And this division of the narrative into two conceptually unconnected categories reminds us of an unfortunate N estorian tendency. To be sure, Metz is not worried about preserving the divine nature in Christ against improper infection by the human,
but there is an interesting parallel. In the interest of preserving
history for suffering and the cross, he cordons off specific aspects
of our understanding of Christ as conceptually unique and prior.
The other aspects of Christ's identity are accepted in a tentative
and only partial manner. Against this tendency to split the Christologically significant aspects of praxis into distinct conceptual
realms the unity of the Person of Christ would seem to dictate
interpenetration. Against Nestorius it was urged that Christ was
always fully God and fully man. In a parallel fashion we might
urge Metz to see that all the Gospel events are historically significant. They all reveal the true kairos of history.
Gutierrez. A Theology of Liberation moves in exactly the opposite direction. Where Metz divides the Person and work of
Christ into two separate spheres-the logic of humilation and
noetic justification enjoys objective, historical reality while the
logic of exaltation and the sanctification of human relations remains restricted to the private realm-Gutierrez posits a radical
identification. In Gutierrez's hands the hypostatic union, like all
other tentative correlations, tends toward conflation. Throughout A Theology of Liberation, Gutierrez attacks various traditional distinctions: nature/grace, immanent/transcendent, material/ spiritual, creation/ redemption, liberation/ salvation. Although
these distinctions are not all on equal footing and his strategies

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for breaking down the differences vary, the final result is always
a radicalized identification of the paired concepts.
We can see this result in the way Gutierrez uses the two Christological moments which Metz so troublingly separates. On the
one hand, for Gutierrez, the descent of God localizes the drama
of salvation. In this respect, the reality of God's suffering on the
Cross heightens the logic of concretization and historicization of
grace implicit in the Incarnation. Here, Metz would agree. On
the other hand, when Gutierrez turns to the resurrection, unlike
Metz, he interprets it as equally constitutive of the kairos of history. The ascent of the man Jesus as the Risen Lord transforms
every political struggle, every instance of social transformation,
into an event of decisive importance in the historical movement
toward the Kingdom of God. Stated in its most compact form:
" Christ is the point of convergence of both processes. In him, in
his personal uniqueness, the particular is transcended and the universal becomes concrete" (TL, p. 193). In this way, political
struggle is affirmed both coming and going. Human history involves both the Cross and the Open Tomb. Gutierrez will have no
part of a history which only suffers. Affirmation is the final
word: " Since God has become man, humanity, every man, history is the living temple of God. The ' profane ' that is located
outside the temple no longer exists" (TL, p. 194).
This claim that God is in history, has become history, is ambiguous. Certainly, the Incarnation affirms the world as the location of the drama of salvation, but if we recall Gutierrez's identification of salvation with liberation, an identification which turns
on a deeper identification of the divine with human history, then
we can see that, in practice, the temple and its occupant are one
and the same. The eternal Subject of history and the content of
history are one and the same. The Giver of grace and the fruit
of grace are one and the same. In the end, Gutierrez does not so
much affirm the two natures of Jesus Christ as choose instead to
bypass the distinction and pursue a higher synthesis in a Marxist/
prophetic theory of the history of human liberation. Thus,
whereas Metz tends to absolutize one dimension of Christology as

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the true kairos of history at the expense of other dimensions,
Gutierrez is wont to collapse Christological distinctions into the
totality of history. This strategy for achieving the unity of Christological categories is strikingly Apollinarian. Instead of a Platonic anthropology of nous and sarz, history is the locus of the
fusion of divine and human.
The danger of this collapse is that God never becomes truly
man and the man Jesus never becomes truly God. Concepts do
their dialectical work and the two natures seem to meet midway
in a history which is neither mundane nor otherworldly but somewhere in between. In no sense does the suffering God pass
through history to the very depths of finitude. Concretely, this
means that Gutierrez is unable to make sense out of the possibility
that we can see reality clearly and still not be able to break free
from the destructiveness of social and political oppression. Sometimes the pedagogy of poverty can in fact overcome false consciousness but not succeed in bringing about social change. Social
and political existence is far more opaque and recalcitrant than
the sanitized concept of history which unifies salvation and liberation. In this respect the apotheosis of history brings to mind the
classic charge leveled against Apollinarianism. The fusion of God
and flesh was seen as divinizing Christ's physical reality, implying that the Saviour was not a real man but had only appeared as
a man. We can reformulate this charge with respect to Gutierrez
and wonder whether history has been so transformed by the fusion of divine and human that it no longer conforms to the history we experience, the mundane events which constitute our
daily lives. And if this is so, then does Christianity really have
any significance for the politics of daily life?

v
Our brief analysis of these two representative attempts to give
central Christological significance to political life has uncovered
two very different conceptual strategies. Metz relies on an anthropological turn and Gutierrez adopts a species of left-wing
Hegelianism. Yet both tend toward difficulties which were the

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occasion for the adoption of the Christological framework articulated at Chalcedon. Metz leads in a N estorian direction, where a
privileged concept is protected from the unity implied by the
Subject of faith; Gutierrez implies a historicized form of Apollinarianism, where tensions are overcome at the expense of the
evident texture of the identity of Christ. What sort of conclusions
are we to draw from these failures? Should we abandon all efforts to link the center of Christian belief and practice to politics
in a systematically coherent way? Must we be satistified with a
Christian political ethic which is only indirectly related to Christology? In order to do more than simply point out failures, we
must touch briefly on the possibilities for a political Christology,
possibilities which are implicit even in the limitations of the approaches suggested by Metz and Gutierrez. We could hardly expect less: any theological project which struggles to do justice
to its proper object will always succeed in spite of its failures.
The curse of theology is the chimera of success, its blessing is the
impossibility of complete failure.
Metz's exclusive emphasis on suffering as the kairos of history
and the inner logic of reality, as well as his restriction of exaltation and affirmation to the private sphere of moral imagination,
highlights the need to respect the unity of the Person of Jesus
Christ. However we might seek to interpret the Chalcedonian
notion of Person, it clearly functions as a rule for the use of
Christological categories. At a minimum it requires that each insight into the significance of Jesus Christ, whether humiliation or
exaltation, critique or solidarity, transformation or contemplation, liberative poverty or spiritual poverty, must be predicated
of his entire Person. Stated negatively, Christology cannot be
conceptually subdivided. Stated affirmatively, each aspect of
Christology interpenetrates every other aspect-hence the importance of the doctrine of communicatio idiomatum. In its narrow
sense the communicatio idiomatum means that the attributes of
both natures must be predicated of the one Person of Christ. But
in Metz's theology where the conceptual focus is not on the
exegetical or soteriological problem of the natures of Christ per

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se, we should reformulate the communicatio idiomatum more
generally: the proper significance of any one aspect of our witness to Christ is fully intelligible only within the context of the
full scope of His identity.
What this unity of the Person means in praxis is a difficult
matter. Unlike Moltmann, Metz does have a pastoral commitment to defending the interpenetration of different Christological
moments in Christian faith and practice. As we noted, he affirms
the possibility of genuine solidarity in human relations, and he
hopes to explicate this possibility in a " memorative and narrative" soteriology. But the only way to do this is to make all
concepts of theological analysis porous to the fullness of Christology. We cannot set aside, as Metz does, " history" as the
realm of the Cross and then reserve the moral imagination for
the Empty Tomb. Surely history has moments of triumph.
(Even Metz implies this when he argues for a positive appraisal
of some aspects of Enlightenment culture.) And just as certainly our " moral " imaginations are capable of a perversity which
stands in need of the critique and judgment of the Cross. Metz's
reference to Auschwitz should remind us of the darker possibilities of " moral " imagination. In short, wherever we may look
in history or in ourselves, where we do, in fact, see light, it is the
light of the united Person of Christ. Therefore, whatever we
may choose as conceptual tools of theological analysis and explication, be they history or moral imagination, suffering or liberation, we should not expect them to apply to only one aspect of
Christology. If the history of suffering is suitable as a concept
for explicating the atoning work of Christ, then every other aspect
of soteriology can be interpreted " historically " as well. We
must look to the whole of the story of Jesus and say He is the
kairos of history, without parcelling out certain aspects as conveniently corresponding to political or historical (or metaphysical) categories.
However, in seeking to do justice to the unity of the Person of
Jesus Christ in a political theology we must beware of the temptations found in Gutierrez's work. There, the unity of the Per-

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son is replaced by a conceptual unity which renders unintelligible
the equally important Chalcedonian doctrine of the two natures
of Christ. Again, like " Person " the Chalcedonian term " nature " might entail a number of substantive meanings. But at
the very least, its use in the Creed proscribes a certain limitation
on the use of concepts in Christology. Stated minimally, in the
development of concepts for an analysis of the significance of
Christ the theologian must avoid conflation. Unfortunately, the
heralded concept of history in Gutierrez's work, no matter how
well buttressed by other theological warrants, generates just such
a conflation of concepts such as creation and redemption, nature
and grace, liberation and salvation.
Failure to respect the limitations imposed by the doctrine of
two natures leads in practice to a conceptual monism which blurs
the diverse texture of Christology and subverts the particular
integrity of the many forms of witness in Christian faith and action. Salvation and liberation become equivalent terms. To be
sure, Gutierrez's basic desire is to give theological expression to
the insight that the often brutally physical struggle for liberation
in Latin America is bound up with the divine economy of redemption. This is a decisive and important Christological claim,
one which must be taken seriously by any orthodoxy seeking to
understand the humanity of God in Christ. However, Gutierrez
explicates the " bound up " with the concept of history, generating a necessity which makes " identity " in all forms the central
Christological claim.
Like Metz, however, Gutierrez does not remain limited by the
central conceptual commitments of his theology, and he points the
way toward a proper understanding of the unity of liberation and
salvation which respects the duality of Christ's two natures. In
the more recent We Drink from Our Own Wells, he begins to
develop a political and liberative theology which generates distinctions which, while not rigidly dichotomized, are also not identified with each other. There, he reformulates the unity of the
political and soteriological in a non-Hegelian fashion. In one
passage he establishes a Christological unity between liberation

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and salvation by describing the effect of the eucharist on the life
of the believer. "The breaking of the bread," he writes, "is at
once the point of departure and the point of arrival of the Christian community." 17 The eucharist initiates us into a solidarity
with the suffering of our time, a solidarity which sets us off in
search of God Who is hidden among the poor and outcast. And
this search will involve us in the project of social transformation
and liberation. Yet, at the same time, and without contradiction,
the eucharist is a moment of consummation, a fellowship with the
already forgiving and triumphant God, in which the appropriate
response is worship rather than transformation. This duality of
the breaking of the bread-setting us off on new and often conflict-laden paths and drawing us near in everlasting love-remains "without confusion." Indeed, the concrete project of
transformative liberation and receptive openness to fellowship
with God are not dialectically manipulated toward a mediated
center; they remain true to their own concrete reality, " without
change." But this does not lead to a dichotomy. As two moments emerging out of the same sacramental act, Jeremiah's
" dialectical vision " and the " epiphanic vision " of John are
"without division." Flowing from the same divine gift of transforming and sustaining grace, these two moments of liberation
and salvation can only be understood and experienced " without
separation." 18

1 7 Gustavo Gutierrez, We Drink from Our Own Wells. (Maryknoll, New
York: Orbis Books, 1984), p. 134.
1s I would like to thank the " Yale Theological Irregulars " for allowing
me to present an early draft of this essay during one of their critical sessions.
I would especially like to thank Kendall Soulen and Peter Casarella for their
close attention and helpful suggestions on later drafts.

THE LOVE WHICH LOVE'S KNOWLEDGE
KNOWS NOT: NUSSBAUM'S EVASION
OF CHRISTIANITY

L. GREGORY JONES

W

Loyola College
Baltimore, Maryland

ITH THE PUBLICATION in 1986 of The Fragilty of Goodness, Martha Nussbaum established herelf as a central figure on the intellectual stage. 1 The
book is elegantly written and eloquently argued, one of those rare
books whose depth of insight is coupled with an ease of expression. Equally at home in the scholarship of both classical antiquity and contemporary philosophy, The Fragility of Goodness
stimulated conversations and arguments among a wide range of
scholars.
At the same time, however, there were hints that Nussbaum's
philosophical insights and classical acumen did not extend to
a knowledge of Christian texts, much less a willingness to engage with them. For example, in a note to the Introduction of the
book, Nussbaum observes :

When we do not try to see [the Greeks] through the lens of Christian beliefs we can not only see them more truly; we can also see
how true they are to us-that is, to a continuous historical tradition
of human ethical experience that has not been either displaced or
altered by the supremacy of Christian (and Kantian) teaching. (FG,
p. 15)
As such a quotation indicates, Nussbaum vastly oversimplifies
1 Martha C. Nussbaum, The Fragility of Goodness: Luck and Ethics in
Greek Tragedy and Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1986). 554 pp., $19.95pb. Further citations to this work will be made parenthetically in the text with the abbreviation FG.

323

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Christian theology and/or Christian teaching, not only in relation to " the Greeks " but also about such questions as vulnerability, tragedy, and friendship.
That this is the case becomes more explicit in her recent book
Love's Knowledge, a collection of essays about the relationship
between philosophy and literature. 2 Here it becomes clear that
Nussbaum's project attempts to retrieve an Aristotelian ethics
that would displace not only Kantian or Utilitarian ethics but
also Christian ethics. But whereas Nussbaum explicitly criticizes
Kantian and Utilitarian positions on both methodological and
substantive grounds, she evades engagement with Christian
thought.
In order to understand how and why this is the case, it is necessary first to explicate in greater detail her Aristotelian position
as it develops in The Fragility of Goodness and then Love's
Knowledge. In The Fragility of Goodness Nussbaum addresses
three central issues : ( 1) the role in " the human good life " of
activities and relationships that are, in their nature, especially
vulnerable to reversal; (2) the relationship among such components as friendship, love, and political activity in a good life; and
( 3) the relationship between self-sufficiency and the more ungovernable parts of the human being's internal makeup (see FG,
pp. 6-7). Nussbaum proceeds to explore these issues through
analyses of diverse Greek tragedies as well as some of the central
texts of both Plato and Aristotle.
Her approach, she indicates in that book, is Aristotelian; she
thinks that Aristotle's central question, "How should a human
being live ? ", should be the central question that frames any
ethical inquiry-as opposed, say, to the questions put by Kant or
Mill that focus on what one should do. Moreover, she contends
that an Aristotelian approach engages the intuitions and beliefs
of an interlocutor or reader in a " reflective dialogue " with a
C. Nussbaum, Love's Knowledge: Essays on Philosophy and
2 Martha
Literature (New York: Oxford University Press, 1990), 432 pp., $42.50.
Further citations to this work will be made parenthetically in the text with
the abbreviation LK.

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series of complex ethical conceptions presented for exploration
(FG, p. 10).
But it is not only her approach that is Aristotelian; so also is
the substance of her ethical position. Nussbaum prefers a commitment to the complexities of particularity (which she considers
characteristic of the tragedians and Aristotle) to the quest for
self-sufficiency (a nuanced version of which she finds in Plato).
Likewise, she describes Aristotle and the tragedians as appreciative of the ethical, and indeed rational, significance of the emotions and prefers this to Plato's ostensible rationalism.
Thus Nussbaum's perspective in The Fragility of Goodness
articulates a methodologically Aristotelian case for the material
superiority of an Aristotelian account of the moral life. It is not
surprising, therefore, to discover that Love's Knowledge continues to develop that perspective--complete with the distinction
between an Aristotelian " framing method " and an Aristotelian
" ethical conception ".
The essays in Love's Knowledge seek to articulate the importance of literature for moral philosophy, both at the level of method
and as a substantive moral position. Not surprisingly, Nussbaum
sees in Aristotle's mOral philosophy the primary resource for
both the method and the substance of her position.
Nussbaum's use of an Aristotelian "framing method" is designed to be inclusive of all ethical positions. She thinks that the
variety of ethical positions-e.g., Aristotelian, Kantian, Utilitarian-can be most adequately assessed by an Aristotelian method which, while neutral about the best substantive position, provides a context for a fair evaluation of the positions. In her
terms, such a framing method (a) takes as its starting point the
question of how human beings should live, and then (b) engages
in a reflective dialogue about what set of views fits best with
people's "active sense of life". If such a "framing method" is
accepted, then there will have to be an openness to a variety of
texts that purport to pertain to " ethics ". On such a conception,
ethics is no longer simply one discipline or field of investigation
that can be separated from others, much less confined to a realm

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of professionalized "ethicists". Rather ethics encompasses the
wide range of questions about how we ought to live. And in that
case, Nussbaum argues, novels-as well as plays, films, and other
types of media-certainly have a legitimate claim to be included
in ethical reflection.
Nussbaum rightly recognizes the importance of expanding the
horizons of ethics to include broader questions about how people
should live. Further, her suggestion that literature and other
types of media are significant for moral reflection is both intellectually significant and pedagogically useful.
Even so, the heart of Nussbaum's argument goes much deeper.
She contends that the material commitments of an Aristotelian
ethic (e.g., attentiveness to complex particularity, an appreciation of the moral and rational significance of emotion) require
the forms and structures that are found in novels. Because in her
view " literary form " is inseparable from " philosophical content", indeed is a part of that content (LK, p. 3), Nussbaum
argues that an Aristotelian will be drawn to novels that illumine
the vulnerabilities and cultivate the capacities for discerning perception at the heart of an Aristotelian perspective on the moral
life. Nussbaum is further drawn to the ways in which novels
generate interest in the everyday, mundane experiences of life
instead of always focusing on the extraordinary (e.g., tragedies)
or the exception to the rule (e.g., the types of examples used in
much academic moral philosophy).
In order to attempt to make her case, Nussbaum has gathered
together a series of fourteen essays that deal with these claims,
accompanied by an extensive and substantive introduction which
provides an overview of her argument. Twelve of the essays
have been previously published; three of these have been significantly revised. Each of the essays has an appended note showing
how that essay relates to the others. The essays range from discussions of Aristotle on public and private rationality, Plato on
commensurability and desire, and the notion of " transcending
humanity ", to discussions of such novelists as Henry James (the
subject of four essays and parts of others), Marcel Proust,

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Samuel Beckett, and Charles Dickens, to critical responses to the
work of literary critics such as Stanley Fish and Wayne Booth.
When several of these essays first appeared in journals, they
each seemed to have a remarkable freshness in both their style
and their content. Each one reflected Nussbaum's considerable
gifts as a stylist and theorist of the first order. Indeed Nussbaum's analysis was often so rich that the reader was not only
persuaded by the ethical significance of novels but also drawn
to go and re-read the novel ( s) under examination.
Even so, Love's Knowledge is considerably less than the sum
of its parts. This is due, at least to some extent, to the inevitable
repetition that occurs with essays that were originally written for
diverse audiences and are later collected with a different purpose
in mind. But even allowing for that, these essays are almost
tiresomely repetitious. She makes many of her central arguments
in the Introduction, and they do not need the continual rehashing
that is found in many of the essays. Unless the reader is already
disposed to like the novels of Henry James, she will learn little
more about the philosophical significance of literature than she
has already discovered in N ussbaum's Introduction. Indeed by
the end of the book we have the feeling of having had the claims
about the particularities and vulnerabilities of life and the significance of the emotions beaten into us-a rather odd feeling
after reading a book celebrating the significance of the art of the
novel.
Love's Knowledge is less than the sum of its parts for other
reasons as well, reasons internal to Nussbaum's own perspective.
Nussbaum develops an argument for the moral significance of
novels over against more conventionally " academic " conceptions
of ethics. But she never really asks, or addresses, the seemingly
obvious question raised by her earlier work: Why novels rather
than, say, dramas? After all, as Nussbaum well knows, there was
no genre quite comparable to the modern " novel " during Aristotle's day. Indeed her own argument in The Fragility of Goodness might have led readers to think we ought to try to recover

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the public performance of tragedies, or dramas more generally,
as a more central medium for moral and political reflection.
Of course there are at least two ways in which the question
" why dramas rather than novels ? " seems to miss the heart of
the matter. First, an Aristotelian could simply respond to the
question "why novels ? " by saying that now that we have novels
we have discovered how important and enjoyable they are.
But secondly, and more importantly, the question begs important issues insofar as it presumes conventional genre distinctions
are somehow inscribed or fixed in the nature of things. Such a
position fails to recognize the complex factors about how particular texts get characterized as, for example, " dramas " rather
than "romances,'' "novels" rather than "cheap thrillers." 3
Further, it oversimplifies the complexities of modes of reading.
For example, reading a "drama" by oneself is similar to reading a novel, and performing a communal reading of a novel is
similar to a dramatic performance.
Even so, the move (both historically and within Nussbaum's
own Aristotelian perspective) from the prominence of " dramas "
in the ancient Greek world to " novels " in modernity raises
larger social and political questions which Nussbaum should perhaps have reflected on in her Introduction. To be sure, any attempt to deal with such issues in a comprehensive fashion would
exceed the scope of Nussbaum' s concerns in Love's Knowledge.
For dealing with such a question certainly involves complex historical issues about the emergence and decline of particular styles
of writing, reading, and performing texts in specific cultural contexts.
But there are important questions to be asked about the rise
of what Nussbaum identifies as the " novel " in the early modern
era. For example, what is now conventionally identified as " the
novel " emerged as a distinctive genre during the early modern
era. This was at least partly because of specific social, historical,
and political factors-as commentators such as Ian Watt have
a See, for a discussion of these issues, Raymond Williams, Marxism and
Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977), especially 180-185.

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argued. 4 As Watt develops the point, the development of capitalist economic structures and industrial social orders on the one
hand and the emergence of " single readers " of texts on the other
made the novel important. Hence there is a peculiar affinity between the social order of liberal capitalism and the novel's displacement of drama and other forms of literature.
Such a claim does not in and of itself undermine any arguments about the significance of novels for the moral life-even the
moral life conceived in Aristotelian terms. After all, a person
could accept such an explanation for the rise of the novel but
then go on to suggest that novels, at least those authored by
people like Henry James, are still suited to an Aristotelian account of the moral life because of their congruence with central
Aristotelian claims-both in ethics and in politics.
There are many ways in which novels do articulate important
themes of an Aristotelian ethics. But do they adequately articulate an Aristotelian politics as well, or do we need to develop
our politics in non-Aristotelian ways? Nussbaum seems to think
that novels are crucial also to an Aristotelian politics, but here is
where her failure to explicate the significance of the novel, or at
least to defend her emphasis and choice of novels, becomes particularly problematic. Nussbaum argues that novels are constitutive of a certain kind of community, in the first place a community between author and reader ( LK, p. 48). I would agree
that such community should not, at least in principle, be criticized;
in reading a text a person can be enabled to have her imagination
stimulated and trained to see things in clearer and perhaps different ways.
Nussbaum also suggests that community is formed as people
read novels together. And again, because she is right to join
Aristotle in saying that "we have never lived enough", such
community can be significant in helping us learn to test our judgments about life and about particular characters with other people.
4 See Ian Watt, The Rise of the Novel (Berkeley, Calif.: University of
California Press, 1957).

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But Nussbaum fails to recognize how thin both her conception and her practice of community really is, even on Aristotelian
grounds. Indeed, because Nussbaum never becomes concrete in
describing this community, one is tempted to suggest that her
community is primarily, if not exclusively, the scholarly " community " of people like her who have time to read and discuss
serious novels. As I will show below, her community is so thin
that it eventually seems to disappear.
Her conception of community is certainly much thinner than
that which is cultivated by Greek drama. As Nussbaum herself
has shown so well in other writings, the Greek dramas were
centrally communal gatherings where moral and political judgments were advanced and tested as part of the performance itself.
By contrast, Nussbaum's own account of the moral life is
primarily focused around a conception of relatively isolated individuals. Such a conception reflects a certain strand of intellectual
and political liberalism. 5 Her essays are typically about the " I "
who is an individual chooser, albeit one who finds herself in specific kinds of relationships. But they are not primarily about people who are the bearers of particular traditions or whose lives
reflect not only personal but also political commitments inadequately articulated in notions of "choice."
Even in the essay where she suggests that Henry James's The
in a reply to
G Nussbaum describes the senses in which she is a "liberal"
Stanley Hauerwas. She is not a liberal, she argues, if one accepts the pejorative association of " liberalism " as necessarily endorsing the " untrammeled
pursuit of the maximization of wealth by self-interested individuals". Nor is
she a liberal if what is meant is the exclusion of questions of the " good "
from moral and political discourse. As I use the term in this paper, she is a
liberal in two ways: first, by presuming that the primary subject of moral
and political thought is relatively isolated individuals in situations of " choice";
and second, in the ways in which she continues the Enlightenment's endorsement of a pluralism that seeks to marginalize and exclude people who write
and think from particular commitments such as Judaism, Christianity, Marxism, or Feminism. It is because of the latter presumption that I think Nussbaum is best characterized as an Aristotelian-liberal rather than a liberalAristotelian. For her own argument, see "A Reply", Soundings 7914 (Winter
1989) : 765-768; in the same issue see also Stanley Hauerwas, "Can Aristotle
Be a Liberal: Nussbaum on Luck", 675-691.

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Princess Casamassima is an important resource for "the political
imagination", her conception of the political presumes too much
the conventional bifurcation of the " public " and the " private"
sphere. 0 Hence while she locates novels primarily in the private
sphere, helping individuals to make better sense of their lives,
she thinks that novels like The Princess Casamassima can also
equip those same individuals for the public world of politics.
Even so, her explication of the "political ", at least as developed
thus far, is limited; it does not nurture a conception of politics
in which ethically active communities of people (who are the
bearers of one or more traditions and who engage in central activities together) are the central actors. Such a conception would
require a " revisioning " of the dynamic interrelations of the public and private spheres.
Indeed the limits of Nussbaum's conception of community are
seen even more clearly when one examines her own practice of
community in the writing of this book. Nussbaum's range of
scholarship and interests is impressive. So it is surprising and
disappointing to discover how narrowly conventional is the range
of people with whom she enters into conversation and argument.
More particularly, she never really enters into conversation
with scholars who have theological commitments, and who might
thereby challenge not only her reading of Aristotle but also the
boundaries of her conception of community. Indeed Nussbaum's
celebration of " inclusivity " is ironic given the ways in which
her discourse seems to exclude those who write and think from
the standpoint of commitments antithetical to her particular
strand of intellectual and political liberalism. 7 Nussbaum's community is not as " inclusive " as she suggests her theory is, pare See also her argument in the essay " The Discernment of Perception " in
Love's Knowledge.
1 See Etten Rooney, Seductive Reasoning (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornett University
Press, 1989) for a clear argument about how notions of pluralism and inclusivity tend to exclude people with particular commitments (e.g., Marxists,
feminists, Christian theologians). Rooney's book includes a critique of Wayne
Booth, whose work Nussbaum praises in a chapter of Love's Knowledge.

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ticularly m its evasion of Christian theology and Christian
thinkers.
First, it is significant to note how clearly the horizons of her
book are set by the conventions of academic moral philosophy.
Nussbaum seems very concerned to defeat Kantian and Utilitarian perspectives of the moral life. It is against them that she
positions her own Aristotelian alternative, both as a framing
method and as a substantive proposal. But, as wiII be suggested
further below, she largely ignores a remarkable range of moral
options, including specifically Jewish and Christian ones-in
keeping with the conventions of academic moral philosophy. Evidently she does so either because she thinks them relatively unimportant or because she is largely ignorant of them or perhaps
for both reasons.
This is certainly true with respect to Christianity. Nussbaum
apparently thinks that contemporary Christian options are determined primarily by either a " Kantian " or a " hyper-Augustinian" perspective.8 As such, she dismisses Christianity as relatively unimportant; she is evidently unaware of other options.
Further, for a book devoted to the philosophical significance
of literature, it is surprising how marginal the work of literary
critics is to her argument-with the exception of fellow traveler
Wayne Booth, to whose book The Company We Keep she devotes a review essay. She would perhaps justify this by arguing,
as she occasionally does in passing in this book, that "our leading literary theorists " are uninterested in questions about what
might be "the best way to live" (see LK, pp. 170-171). And
she no doubt thinks that is the case with the people she does consider, namely Jacques Derrida and Stanley Fish.
Nussbaum acknowledges that feminist and Marxist critics are
a For an example of Nussbaum's close equation of Christian views with
Kantian ones, see the quotation from The Fragility of Goodness cited above,
p. 323. For examples of reading people in terms of a "hyper-Augustinian"
Christianity, see her reviews of recent work by Charles Taylor and Alasdair
Macintyre: "Our Pasts, Ourselves", The New Republic (April 9, 1990) 2734; "The Longing for Order", The New York Review of Books (December
7, 1989) 36-41.

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different in their concern for larger ethical and political questions
but then inexplicably suggests that they are " exceptions that
prove the rule" (p. 171 n. 6) and thus ignores their work. In
and of itself such a claim is problematic for a book which seeks
to be so "inclusive." For example, why does she not provide a
critical engagement with the work of a scholar such as Raymond
Williams, whose ethical seriousness about " the best way to live "
is unimpeachable?
Even more, what about other literary critics such as Mikhail
Bakhtin, whose work is not only evocative of Christian themes
but has been sufficiently influential to make him posthumously
one of our "leading literary theorists" ? Bakhtin's account of
Dostoyevsky's poetics is rich in its conceptions of the novel, of
dialogue, of ethics and politics, and even of the relations between
art and Christian theology. But Bakhtin, who does not share
Nussbaum's presuppositions about intellectual and political liberalism, does not fit into her framework. 9
Nor, significantly, does Dostoyevsky. Nussbaum's argument is
also narrowly constricted by the kinds of novels she thinks are
worthy of attention. Primarily, she is attracted to the novels of
Henry James, though she also discusses Beckett and Dickens.
But if we want to cultivate community and to gain the best and
most inclusive sense of how we then should live, why does she
not consider important and powerful works by Latin-Americans,
African-Americans, or feminists? Or more specifically, why does
she not engage writers with specifically Christian theological
themes such as Dostoyevsky--even if only, or primarily, to criticize them?
At least part of the answer is that Nussbaum is continuing
liberalism's attempt to isolate and thereby ignore theological per9 It is worth noting that there is nothing intrinsic to intellectual or political
liberalism that would necessarily lead Nussbaum to exclude people like
Bakhtin. After all, Wayne Booth, with whom Nussbaum has much in common, has been influential in making Bakhtin's work better known in the English-speaking world. But Nussbaum's failure to deal with his work reflects
the narrow conventions of her own perspective.

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spectives on the question about what the best way is (for us) to
live. To be sure, she occasionally does comment on Christianity,
if only to use it as a straw figure that, "we" are agreed, no
longer represents an option worthy of consideration or at least
serious discussion and debate. Her occasional references to St.
Thomas are pejorative. In general, she shows at best a passing
acquaintance with Christian theology and at worst a caricature
of Christian convictions.
To be sure, this is at least partly the fault of Christians who
have caricatured the views of people with whom they were putatively in sympathy-particularly on an issue to which Nussbaum
continually turns, original sin. And indeed there are arguments
within Christian theology that justify some of Nussbaum's descriptions and criticisms. Even so, Nussbaum uses a superficial
and oversimplified reading of the range of options within Christian theology to evade a serious engagement with Christians.
Nowhere does she consider in detail either the thought of St.
Thomas or the rather remarkable resurgence of interest in
Thomas's thought by both philosophers and theologians. After
all, Thomas shares with Nussbaum a conviction about the importance of Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics. And Thomas could
even be enlisted on the side of those who want to emphasize the
importance of such Aristotelian themes as friendship, particularity
and vulnerability, and the emotions. Clearly, they do not read
the " same " Aristotle; Thomas reads him from the standpoint of
a Christian theologian, Nussbaum from the standpoint of a
modern liberal academic. And so Nussbaum seems content to
ignore Thomas rather than engage in conversation and argument
with his work.
This willingness to ignore and/ or caricature Christian theologians (both past and present) is by now an all-too-familiar
pattern among academics in North America. Such academics
seem to be Nussbaum's primary "community"; hence they set
the horizons for her reflection. So in at least one sense this willingness to ignore Christian theologians is, while still disturbing,
at least unsurprising.

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But there is an additional sense in which it is both disturbing
and surprising to discover Nussbaum' s complicity in the pattern.
She explicitly wants an Aristotelian " framing method " which
engages in a " reflective dialogue " with the range of options
about how we ought best to live. And she advocates that method
as being the most inclusive way to proceed. She even states elsewhere that her
overall position, methodologically, is that (in ethics as in other
areas) the philosopher should work carefully through all the major
positions presented by the tradition, comparing them with her experience and with her sense of the experiences and beliefs of others.10
But if that is the case, then on what grounds does she exclude a
studied and thoughtful engagement with-even if ultimately a
rejection of-the views of one or more of the Jewish or Christian
traditions, specifically those which can and ought also to be located in Nussbaum' s own Aristotelian tradition?
The answer is not entirely clear. Perhaps it is because she sees
her task to be not so much rehabilitating an Aristotelian tradition as reconstituting an appreciation of Aristotle that bypasses
Christianity, Judaism, and modern Kantian and Utilitarian alternatives. In this sense Nussbaum conceives her task to be
analogous to Nietzsche's. Toward the beginning of The Fragility
of Goodness, she asserts her belief that " Nietzsche was correct
in thinking that a culture grappling with the widespread loss of
J udaeo-Christian religious faith could gain insight into its own
persisting intuitions about value by turning to the Greeks" (FG,
p. 15 n.).
About such a claim two points need to be made. First, on
what basis does she think that our culture (presumably North
American society) is witnessing " the widespread loss of J udaeoChristian faith " ? The evidence about the number of people who
claim to be Jewish and Christian in America, much more in other
parts of the world, hardly compels such a conclusion-unless one
10

Martha C. Nussbaum, "A Reply", Soundings 7214 (Winter 1989): 737.

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starts the investigation with assumptions of Enlightenment liberalism.
But second, Nietzsche at least saw that he needed to show how
and why a Greek perspective is superior to one provided by
Christians. That is, he took Christianity seriously even though he
ultimately parodied it and rejected it. It may be that Nussbaum's
strategy of presuming that she doesn't need to address Christianity is rhetorically more powerful and clever; after all, to take
Christian views seriously is to give them a " voice " and a legitimacy that she may not want to give. But unless she is right that
the loss of Jewish and Christian faith is so widespread that it is
by now already accomplished, then at the very least her explicit
arguments are not nearly as inclusive as she claims them to be.
And more significantly, her evasion of Christian thought means
that people like Nietzsche will continue to be more interesting
opponents for Jews and Christians.
Hence in the final analysis, N ussbaum's Aristotelian-Liberalism is rather unsatisfying. There is much to be learned from her,
both in style and in content. Christians ought to read her, even
if she evidently will not read us. Even so, her lack of familiarity
with Christian theology and her seeming unwillingness to depart
from the presuppositions of her academic liberalism to engage in
serious discussion and debate-or even, in her terms, reflective
dialogue-make it difficult to know where to begin engaging her.
Novels can be instructive and important for helping us to understand our lives. But which novels, and which literacy critics
we turn to in order to help us read those novels, are crucial questions which Nussbaum does not adequately address. Indeed the
"polyphonic" character of Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov, for example, would seem to provide a much richer vehicle
for both ethics and politics than the novels which Nussbaum tends
to consider. 11
Further, we Christians ought to consider the arguments of
11 The notion of "polyphony"
is taken from Bakhtin's study of Dostoyevsky.
See Mikhail Bakhtin, Problems of Dostoyez•sky's Poetics, ed. and tr. Caryl
Emerson (Minneapolis, Minn.: University of Minnesota Press, 1984).

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people like Hans Urs von Balthasar who argue that our livesand most importantly how our lives are situated in relation to
God-are most adequately depicted in dramatic terms. 12 Theimportance of dramas, which The Fragility of Goodness pointed
out, seemed to be an insight from which an argument between an
Aristotelian like Nussbaum and Christians like von Balthasar
could have proceeded. Unfortunately, Love's Knowledge does not
provide much help or even hope for such arguments or " reflective dialogue ".
That is regrettable, since Christians agree that there is a knowledge born of love. But against Love's Knowledge, Christians as
otherwise diverse as von Balthasar, Bakhtin, Dostoyevsky, and
St. Thomas (and, a fortiori, Teresa of Avila and Martin Luther
King, Jr.) agree in claiming that such knowledge derives from
an overlapping yet very different sort of love from the one advocated by Nussbaum and Henry James-namely, the God who
is Love.13

12 See, for example, Hans Urs von Balthasar, Theodrama: Theological
Dramatic Theory. Vol. I: Prolegomena, tr. Graham Harrison (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1983). It is worth noting that a Dostoyevskian "polyphonic" novel like The Brothers Karamazov is much closer to von Balthasar's
sense of "drama" than it is to Nussbaum's sense of the "novel".
is I am indebted to David Cunningham for his help in developing the shape
of this essay and for specific comments and suggestions. I am also indebted
to Charles Bobertz, James Buckley, Stephen Fowl, and Stanley Hauerwas for
their comments on earlier drafts of this essay.

BOOK REVIEWS
The Moral Virtues and Theological Ethics. By RoMANUS CESSARIO, O.P.
Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1991. Pp. x
204.
$24.95.

+

What we learn from Holy Scripture about the kind of life which God
commands us to lead depends in key part upon our prior natural and
rational understanding of many of the key expressions used in Scripture. So it is with those expressions which name and characterize the
virtues. We are commanded not only to do certain types of action and
to refrain from others, but also to become a certain type of person, one
whose qualities of character are such that our actions spring from and
give expression to those qualities. We are required not only to do what
is just and courageous and temperate, but to do it because we ourselves
have become just, courageous, and temperate, injunctions that we could
not adequately understand, let alone obey, were it not for a prior knowledge of what these virtues are and what it is that makes them virtues.
Moreover we also learn from Scripture about how we fail and about
how we are called to account for our failures in the virtues. So we
need also to know what it is to develop the virtues and what it is to
fail or to be frustrated in that development. Few Christians are or can
be theorists of the virtues; but every Christian by her or his actions
presupposes the truth of some kind of theory of the virtues and of their
development, a theory which, even when not explicitly articulated, enables her or him to find application for the Scriptures in the actions
and transactions of everyday life. And every pastor and preacher has to
draw upon the resources of some such theory. No theory of this kind
can be adequate unless it satisfies two standards: that of fidelity to
Scripture and that of conformity to the best understanding which philosophy and the human sciences afford of how human beings are constituted by appetites, passions, will, and reason.
What would the content and structure of such a theory, satisfying
these two standards, have to be? This is the question posed and answered by Romanus Cessario in his unusually important, stimulating,
and incisive book. The content and structure of the theory which he
presents are essentially Thomistic, but his theory is only incidentally
and in part a historical exposition of St. Thomas's account. It is Thomistic rather in that it uses resources drawn from that account in order
to address issues in contemporary moral theology, resources which enable him to identify and to formulate crucial but sometimes neglected

339

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questions, as well as to propose answers to them. And in so doing, as
we shall see, he presses inquiry to a point such that he needs to go he·
yond what St. Thomas provides. Cessario's claim throughout is that the
teaching of Scripture can become adequately intelligible to us only in
the light afforded by a systematic understanding of the virtues, moral,
intellectual, and theological. The only plausible alternatives to the type
of theory which he proposes do not include some type of atheoretical
reliance on scripture. Plausible alternative standpoints always involve
open or covert appeal to some other rival type of moral theory. And
Cessario from time to time provides acute and telling criticisms of some
of the alternatives more influential at present. But he is careful to avoid
:more than a bare minimum of such polemic, sometimes even too careful. In his first chapter, for example, Cessario recognizes that what he
has to say about the radical nature of the transformation of character
required by the Christian life and of the distinctive qualities of that
life puts him at odds with certain theses of Karl Rahner. He notes almost in passing that it is his allegiance to metaphysical realism (with
its claims about the teleological ordering of human nature) which gen·
erates this conflict with Rahner's positions-positions which of course
depend heavily on Heideggerian borrowings. But he never pursues
the philosophical issues which divide Thomistic metaphysics from
Rahner's blending of Heidegger with a theology aptly criticized by von
Balthasar. In this case, as in a number of others, we are left to con·
j ecture how Cessario would justify philosophically those elements in
his theory which need philosophical justification. Yet there are benefits as well as costs in this refusal to become polemical, for it allows
Cessario to develop his account by focusing on the central features of
the position which he is elaborating rather than by concentrating upon
points at which others disagree.
It is a merit and not a fault in this book that each provokes further
questions. For the questions which it thus provokes are precisely the
right questions, and answers to them would enable us to carry inquiry
a stage further. The book can thus be read at two levels, either as an
introductory text which can prepare a student of moral theology for a
later transition into the areas in which difficult and disputed issues
arise, rather than, as so often happens with bad teaching, submerging
the student in those issues immediately, or as a text addressed to
Cessario's colleagues, designed to elicit responses from .those already at
work on the frontiers either of moral theology or of moral philosophy.
It is an unusual achievement to have succeeded in addressing simultaneously these two very different audiences. In this review I shall con·
fine myself to questions within my own competence, that of a moral
philosopher.

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In his second chapter on the nature of a virtue, Cessario's central
thesis concerns the extent to which the habitus which is a particular
virtue involves the actualizing of an individual's potentialities in ways
that are specific to that individual's natural endowments, opportunities,
and circumstances. Such are those potentialities that even " vicious
habitus formation in a given individual " is compatible with " the possibility of renewed moral reform " (p. 41) . Since the question of how
we are to understand moral renewal through the virtues is central to
Cessario's overall argument, the question of how it is possible is an
important one. Yet the conception of habitus upon which Cessario is
relying is an Aristotelian one, and Aristotle said of the unjust and of
the profligate, that although originally it was possible for them to have
become otherwise, when they have become so, it is not possible for
them to be otherwise (Nicomachean Ethics III 1114a 19-21). Is
Cessario only asserting here that grace can achieve what for nature is
impossible? If so, this would be unproblematic. But if he means, as
I take him to do, that even without grace " the radical correction of
moral disorders always remains feasible," then we need further discussion. St. Thomas in his commentary on this passage in Aristotle rewrites Aristotle, interpreting him as asserting not that it is unqualifiedly impossible for the unjust and the incontinent (rather than the profligate: here St. Thomas was misled by the translator) to reform, but
that it is impossible for them to do so immediately. For reform "great
study and exercise are required" (Commentary on the Nicomachean
Ethics III, lect. XII, 513). And elsewhere he asserts that, since the
will is by its nature inclined to good but has become through some
vicious habit inclined to evil, it may nonetheless on occasion revert to
the performance of some good action (S.T. la-Ilae 78, 4 and see also
77, 7). So Cessario is certainly faithful to St. Thomas, if he is envisaging the possibility that such a good action may be the first in a series
which eventually removes the vicious habitus. But this is not a possibility which Aristotle's account, unlike that of St. Thomas, seems to allow
for. The question that needs to be answered is how far and in what
respects Aristotle's account has to be modified if it is to accommodate
not only what St. Thomas says but the further use which Cessario wants
to make of what St. Thomas says. We badly need a more detailed account of what is involved in moral renewals and of how the Aristotelian
habitus must be reconceived to allow for this possibility.
This is all the more necessary since Cessario sharply contrasts his
own perhaps Aristotelian and certainly Thomistic view of the Christian
moral life with that which " demands highly motivated will power for
the fulfillment of its requirements . . . the exercise of despotic control
by the will over unruly passions can only fail to accomplish its pur-

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pose " (p. 65) . And he also asserts that " although the human will in
principle remains naturally inclined to its proper object ... the individual willing, for a variety of reasons, may not be ' naturally ' thus
inclined" (p. 61). So that perhaps on his view the will is not always
able to intervene to correct some vicious habitus. But does this not
seem to rule out the possibility of moral renewal for some persons? On
these issues we need a more extended account of the relationship of
will and habitus to the possibility of moral renewal.
Cessario's third chapter provides an answer to the question What Is
a Moral Virtue? by discussing how the passions and appetites can be
transformed and ordered, so that each finds its due place in a personality integrated by its directedness towards what are genuinely goods.
Perhaps because he is at this stage discussing virtues in general, rather
than particular virtues, not very much is said about the goods towards
which the virtues direct us and almost nothing about how they are related to the supreme good. This omission becomes important when
reference is made to the inability of appetites and passions to order
themselves apart from the direction of reason. What reason affords is
judgment about hierarchically ordered goods and the supreme good, by
reference to which they are ordered. It is because prudence informs
the exercise of all the moral virtues that they are rightly directed in
respect of goods. In his fourth chapter Cessario provides an excellent
account of how prudence directs but one that, again, stops short of
any systematic account of the goods towards which we are directed.
Why does this matter?
What enables prudence to function as it does are certain characteristics of a habitus and of a passion which makes it possible for them to
be informed by prudence. A habitus can be what it is only because of
two kinds of indeterminacy in the human being. One, which Cessario
explains admirably, is the indeterminacy of whatever not yet actualized or fully actualized potentiality is actualized by this particular
habitus. The other is that indeterminacy in the exercise of the habitus
which is remedied by prudence; lacking prudence, no habitus is sufficiently specified and directed by reason in its exercise to be a virtue.
It follows that we cannot explain what a moral virtue is without already having referred to prudence. So Aristotle's account runs:
" Virtue is then a hexis (habitus) issuing in prohairesis ( electio),
being in a mean relative to us, a mean determined by reasoning, indeed by the reasoning by which a phronimos (prudens) would define
it" (N.E. II 1106b36-1107a2).
What Aristotle says here and elsewhere suggests strongly that the
moral virtues, prudence, and rightly ordered passions have to be
acquired together or not at all. But Cessario's view is interestingly

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different. His initial discussion of what a moral virtue is in his third
chapter makes only occasional and passing references to Aristotle (one
of which, to N.E. III 1113al0-17, I found puzzling) and none to
1106b36-1107a2. The difference between his account and Aristotle's
emerges only in his fourth chapter, where his treatment of prudence
makes it clear that he holds both that it is prudence which enables us
to " conform to the inclinations of rectified appetites " (p. 80) and
also that we need rectified appetites if we are to have prudence, since
" imprudence, the vice opposed to prudence, results from the influence
of disordered passions or vicious habitus as well as from some deficiency in learning" (p. 80).
In his sixth chapter Cessario confronts the problem that results, the
problem named by some" the vicious circle of prudence": "No prudence means no rectified appetites; unrectified appetites destroy prudence" (p. 136). The problem is that of how to break into this otherwise vicious circle. The solution that Cessario proposes draws upon
remarks that Aquinas makes (S.T. Ia-Ilae 64, 3, ad 2) about the intellectual virtues in concluding that prudence is able to determine right
action by the standard which reason discerns in the nature of things.
So Cessario argues that " the correct mean develops from conscientious
conformity to moral wisdom. But practical wisdom itself discovers its
rule and measure in conformity with reality. Of course, by this we
understand reality in all of its dimensions" (pp. 136-7).
The sequence of moral development may therefore, I take it, run in
either of two ways. The individual who has an adequate moral education will through habituation of a kind, which also involves the inculcation of the intellectual virtue of prudence, develop together rectified
appetites, prudence, and the moral virtues in very much the way that
Aristotle suggests. But an individual who is lacking in or impervious
to such training nonetheless has within her or himself, as a rational
being able to discover the measure of practical reasoning in the relevant
realities, the resources to develop at least a significant degree of prudence prior to and independently of developing rectified appetites and
moral virtues, so breaking into the otherwise vicious circle of prudence
and providing the basis for the later development of rectified appetites
and moral virtues. And Cessario's earlier short discussion of synderesis
and its place in the practical workings of prudence (pp. 85-7) usefully
supplements his account of how this otherwise vicious circle is to be
broken.
It is important however to be able to expand this discussion still
further, for it is only if we are able to provide a somewhat more adequate account of how prudence can be developed in this latter way that
we have any hope of defending the view-at least at the level of moral

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philosophy-that even seriously disordered individuals always have the
possibility of renewing themselves morally. What we need is, first, a
detailed specification of the range of goods towards which reason directs us, then, an explanation of how reference to these goods is explicit or implicit in those precepts directive of action upon which prudence has to he able to draw (if it is to function in such a way as to
break with the otherwise vicious circle) , and, finally, an explanation
of how in the concrete circumstances of social life the precepts of reason can become effective. The absence of a systematic treatment of
goods, which I noticed earlier, therefore turns out to he an important
omission from Cessario's account, since without it a crucial part of his
argument remains incomplete.
What makes this omission all the more disappointing is the excellence
of Cessario's subsequent discussion of the relationship of the theological
virtues to the intellectual and moral virtues and of how the habitus of
nature are enriched and strengthened by the habitus of grace. Teachers
of moral theology could reflect on this discussion with great benefit to
their students. It is a mark of how very good a hook Cessario has written that it arouses enormous impatience for a sequel which will not
only carry the argument further hut also fill out what is missing in the
argument so far.
ALASDAIR MAclNTYRE

University of Notre Dame
Notre Dame, Indiana

De vitiis et pecatis: In I-II Summae theologiae Divi Thomae expositio.
By JACOBUS (SANTIAGO) M. RAMiREz, O.P. In Jacobus M.
Ramirez Opera Omnia, tomus 8, ed. Victorino Rodriguez, O.P.
Bihlioteca de Teologos Espafioles, 37 and 38. Salamanca: Editorial
San Esteban, 1990. 2 volumes (Pp. xiv
902). Paper: 5,000
pesetas (=approx. $47.00 U.S.).

+

After a dormancy of some sixteen years, and fittingly on the eve of
the centenary of its author's birth, the publication of Santiago Maria
Ramirez's ( t 1967) Opera Omnia continued in 1990 with the appearance of volume 8, De vitiis et peccatis: In I-II Summae theologiae Divi
Thomae expositio. When completed, the Opera Omnia will contain not
only vast writings on analogy and the nature of philosophy hut also
the single most thorough, and arguably most profound, exposition of
the Secunda pars of St. Thomas Aquinas's Summa theologiae ever written. The present installment covers qq. 71-85 of the Prima secundae.

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Although the Spanish province of the Dominican Order has taken
over the publication and distribution of Ramirez's Opera Omnia from
the Consej o Superior de lnvestigaciones Cientificas, who began the
series and oversaw the publication and distribution of all previous volumes, the new volumes' physical constitution is identical to that of the
earlier volumes, since the actual printing is done at the same house.
The volumes read easily, not only because they are in octavo form,
hut also because the publishers have done the printing on an off.white
paper, with leisurely spacing of the 11 point type. The second volume
contains four indices: an index of names, biblical references, references
to Thomas's writings, and a schematized index of the contents of both
volumes. In a project of this magnitude one is prepared to find printing mistakes, and there are occasional typographical errors and formatting errors such as mis-italicization. In one place there is an omission of an entire line. (In vol. 2, p. 537, no. 373, the citation from
Innocent III, after the words ' visionis Dei,' should be completed with
the following: " ( = damni tantum) , actualis vero poena peccati est
gehennae perpetuae cruciatus.") But these are minor imperfections, and
the editor Fr. Rodriguez once again deserves our thanks for making
such learning tools available to us in so useful a format. Rodriguez
has informed me that the next volume to appear will be De gratia in
1991, despite the fact that a treatment De lege would of course be in
keeping with the order of the Prima secundae. The quantity of
Ramirez's writing on the treatise on law did not justify a separate volume, so it will be included along with De iure gentium and De iustitia
sociali in volume 14, to be published after the volumes that correspond
to Thomas's discussion of the theological virtues and prudence in the
Secunda secundae.
Like the earlier volumes on the Prima secundae, this one has its
origin in Ramirez's lecture notes from his tenure as professor of speculative moral theology at the University of Fribourg from 1923 to 1945.
The text that we now have prae manibus is a compilation of notes dating anywhere from 1928 to 1944, with some parts of the text more
elaborate than others. In fact, Ramirez was unable to write an exposition of questions 86-89, for reasons of time. As a result we cannot expect to find a single argument throughout the two volumes. They are
expositions of Thomas's text and need to be read as such.
A few general things should be said about Ramirez's method in expounding the text of the Secunda pars. Ramirez has a mastery of the
commentary tradition on the writings of Thomas, a mastery that
stretches quite beyond the usual quintet of Capreolus, Caj etan, Banez,
Ferrariensis, and John of St. Themas, to others rarely consulted today:
Kollin, Medina, Alvarez, Araujo, Salmanticenscs, de Soto, et al. Though

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elements of the commentary tradition are found in his exposition-he
consistently uses the conclusio-probatur form introduced by CapreolusRamirez does differ from these other commentators, not so much because of his fairly regular disagreement with their judgments, hut because of his constant attention to the particular historical context in
which Thomas wrote. He accordingly cites both the contemporaries of
Thomas, who often established the problematic Thomas inherits on a
particular topic, and the remote sources of such a problematic, such as
Augustine or Gregory. To do this Ramirez avails himself of whatever
historical sources are at his disposal, often the articles of Lottin and
Deman. He rarely draws attention to this need for attention to
Thomas's contextuality, hut that is because for him it constitutes expositorial common sense.
But for all his historical concern, Ramirez takes very seriously
Thomas's claim at the outset of the Summa theologiae that the work's
order and intelligibility arise from the very subject matter of sacred
theology and not from the occasion of a disputed question or the need
to comment on the writings of others. For him, Thomas was totally in
charge when it came to the disposition of treatments in the Summa
theologiae. As a result Ramirez is convinced that every element in the
work, whatever its origin or other historical importance, is there and
in its proper place because it fits into Thomas's understanding of theology and the appropriate method to he employed in the teaching of
theology.
Notable moments in the work are Ramirez excursus on the 'sin of
sensuality' (vol. I, pp. 265-280), the existence of original sin (vol. II,
pp. 519-608), and a splendid appendix on the effects, de vulneribus, of
original sin (vol. II, pp. 771-861). Space does not allow, of course, for
a lengthy consideration of these, so I shall confine myself to a presentation of one item in the volume that is indicative of Ramirez's general
approach to Thomas's writings: his interest in the place and order of
the text at hand. This interest is manifested at the very outset of the
first volume, where Ramirez does as regards Thomas what Thomas so
often had done as regards Aristotle, Pseudo-Dionysius, Boethius, St.
Paul, and the Evangelists, which is to provide a treatment of the nature and order of the text to he considered. He begins by reminding
his reader of the role of the treatise de vitiis et peccatis in the context
of Thomas's theological presentation of the moral life. Since it pertains
to the same science to treat the contraries of its formal object-as
natural philosophy does with movement and rest, logic with truth and
falsity in propositions, metaphysics with being and non-being-it pertains to the one moral science to consider the contraries of its own
formal object, which is morality. Since the contraries in morality are

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good and evil, the same science must consider them both. But consideration of goodness and evil in moral science is not equal, since goodness has by priority the character of morality, and evil only by refer·
ence to the good, of which it is the privation. Hence the prior treatment on Thomas's part of moral goodness in the discussion of the principles of human acts. The treatment of vice and sin is an integral part
of moral science, hut it is not the principal part, a fact overlooked by
casuists who place undue emphasis upon sin (pp. 1-3).
Ramirez turns next, as is his custom in all his commentaries on the
Secunda pars, to an examination of the internal order of the treatise
itself. After demurring from the account given in John of St. Thomas's
lsagoge, which he thinks is a simple transcription of Thomas's prologue
to I-II, q. 71, and one with certain errors anyway, Ramirez deals with
·the position taken by Conrad Kollin and the Salmanticenses, who
emphasize the scientific character of the treatise. According to this
view, the treatise is built upon three of the four modes of per se predication-the third mode is omitted because sin cannot in any way he
reduced to the genus of substance, upon which per se tertio is based.
Broadly sympathetic to this position, Ramirez appropriates its deeper
dependence upon proper causes and foregoes its expression in the various modes of per se predication. For him, the treatise on vice and sin
in general is divided into two parts: the first on the proper causes of
vice and sin, and the second on the proper effects of vice and sin. The
discussion of the proper causes of vice and sin is further divided according to the four causes: the two intrinsic causes, q. 71 on the formal
cause (definition) and qq. 72-74 on the material cause (materi.a circa
quam); then the two extrinsic causes, qq. 75-83 on the efficient causes
(those internal and external to the agent, whether dispositive or per·
fective) and q. 84, the quasi-final cause (the commutable goods sought
through the capital vices) . The presentation of the proper effects of sin
and vice is based upon the two effects possible: qq. 85-86, the formal
effects of corruption of the opposed good and the blemish of the soul
(macula animae); and qq. 87-89, the quasi-efficient effect of blameworthiness, itself divided into mortal and venial sinfulness.
It might seem that what Ramirez is really doing is falling victim to
the scholastic penchant for schematicization, finding scientific concerns in Thomas when they are not really there, thereby disassociating
Thomas from both his immediate historical context and personal goals
in writing the work. According to this view, Ramirez may he the last
of the great Thomistic commentators, hut this would mean that his
company is well left. Yet, it bears noting that Thomas himself claims
in the treatise that sin can be explained in terms of the four causes
1-11, q. 75, a. 4, c. and ad 1). And Thomas's concern for scientific

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clarity and logical procedure, while rarely announced by him, is always just beneath the surface of his writing. One can see this when
Thomas notes in passing just what species of fallacy obtains from the
improper use of the spiritual sense of scripture ( Quod. VII, q. 6, a. 1,
ad 4) , or when he presents the essence of law according to the four
causes (I-II, q. 90 and q. 90, a. 3, in fine corp.), or even the preliminary presentation of the fact of creation in accordance with the
four causes (I, q. 44). If Ramirez is guilty of anything, he is guilty of
taking Thomas's interest in scientific order and clarity too seriously.
But when one reads Thomas's text with Ramirez's ordering as a
guide, along with his interpretations of the character of the arguments
Thomas employs, the many joints (articuli) of the vast treatise begin
to produce a harmony that even a sequential reading would not provide. One begins to take seriously every deinde, restat, primo, and
secundo in Thomas's prologues. And one becomes habitually leery of
making claims about Thomas's text without first establishing the role
of the text in its immediate surroundings and in the work as a whole.
Such an attitude would he refreshing in our day, when discussions of
Thomas's presentation of the moral life often center upon a single text,
tucked away in the treatise on law, which is nonetheless given such attention that one might think that Thomas's teaching on morals really
begins there. Ramirez would have been aghast at such an approach to
reading the text of Thomas. His exposition remains a salutary counterexample, despite the fact that it was produced with little or no access
to the significant advances afforded us by more recent historical study
of Thomas's sources and context. For him, the study of Thomas's
Secunda pars must take the work for what it is, namely, an organic
unity whose many parts must he read in slow sequence, with constant
care for the sometimes minute order that obtains among the various
treatises, questions, articles, and even objected difficulties within
articles, with similar care to Thomas's present teaching purpose, and
above all in the constant light of the opening treatise on happiness,
which is the principle of both order and intelligibility for the whole
work. A reading and use of Ramirez's exposition De vitiis et peccatis,
as well as his exposition on the Secunda pars of his Opera Omnia, will
bring permanent benefit to all Thomistic moralists willing to accept its
challenge.
MARK JOHNSON

Saint Joseph College
Rensselaer, Indiana

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349

Pagan Virtue: An Essay in Ethics. By JOHN CASEY. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990. Pp. ix
226.

+

By this philosophical study of the four cardinal virtues, John Casey
joins the ever.expanding ranks of those moral theorists who have con·
trihuted to the contemporary theory of the virtues. But Casey's hook is
set apart from the others both by the exceptionally high quality of his
analysis and even more by his thesis that traditional thinking on the
virtues is in tension, at least, with fundamental Christian assumptions
about the nature of the moral life. For both these reasons, his hook
deserves serious attention, especially by those scholars who argue for
a special congruity between virtue theory and Christian ethics.
Although the title might suggest otherwise, this hook is not primarily
a historical study. Rather, Casey uses the traditional schema of the four
cardinal virtues (courage, temperance, practical wisdom or prudence,
and justice) as the basis for philosophical analysis, which is intended
as "a modest rediscovery and (hence) criticism of a tradition which
we inherit" (p. viii). Along the way, he draws on a diverse selection
of writers, among whom Aquinas as well as Aristotle are prominent.
His thesis is that the tradition of the virtues is "worldly," that is, in
significant tension with our dominant Christian and Kantian assumptions about morality, in two ways: "[the virtues] include an element
of self-regard, and ... they rely upon material conditions for their
fulfillment" (p. viii).
And yet the tradition of the virtues is not simply at odds with our
received assumptions about morality. As Casey argues in his brilliant
first chapter, "Persons," the Kantian commitment to respect for persons implies that the adventitious qualities that distinguish individuals
are far more significant morally than Kant could allow. In the first
place, the human qualities that do in fact command our respect include such capacities as intelligence, wit, and even strength. While we
may want to distinguish in theory between respect for these sorts of
qualities and a purely moral respect for a good will, Casey argues that
this sort of distinction is artificial and untrue to our actual judgments.
Hence, he concludes, " If there is no adamantine distinction between
what characterizes someone purely as a person, and all other advantages and attractive qualities a human being may have, then the way is
clearly open for a 'worldly' scheme of values" (p. 9). Secondly, he
argues that respect for persons necessarily presupposes some capacities
for empathy and emotional response that on Kant's theory must he
wholly irrelevant to the moral life (pp. 9-28).
Correlatively, he claims that the individual's sense of oneself and

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others is mediated through an awareness of one's body and its relation
to others' bodies in a way that a Kantian theory cannot readily allow:
"We can, then, move naturally from the idea of persons as self-conscious, rational beings, to them as beings with certain emotions and
attitudes, and with a certain apprehension of themselves and others
mediated through their sense of their own and others' bodies " {p.
43). Finally, he argues that these interlocking human qualities and
capacities necessarily entail not only a willingness to acknowledge the
claims of others but also a readiness to make certain claims upon others,
to set a value on oneself, that is at least in tension with the Christian
ideal of self-abnegation (pp. 44-50).
I have dwelt at some length on the first chapter of Casey's book because it sets out the main lines of analysis for the subsequent chapters.
In the course of developing his main thesis, he offers a number of
fascinating analyses of particular questions, including a defense of the
unity of the virtues (pp. 67-78), a discussion of the ways in which a
virtue can he a bodily quality (pp. 105-113), and an argument that
practical wisdom, and therefore moral goodness, may depend in part on
the possession of a more than average level of intelligence (pp. 144147). At times, the very richness of his analyses can make it difficult
to perceive the threads of a coherent argument. But he consistently returns to his twofold thesis, that the tradition of the virtues is both at
odds with our dominant Christian/Kantian assumptions about the
moral life and yet continues to exercise considerable power in our
everyday moral judgments. Hence, he concludes that " It has been a
theme implicit in this book that we inherit a confused system of values;
that when we think most rigorously and realistically we are ' pagans '
in ethics, but that our Christian inheritance only allows a fitful sincerity
about this. It would therefore be wrong to assume that any thorough
return to ' pagan ' ways of thinking about ethics is being suggested ...
the impossible attempt to reconcile discordant elements is what we are
committed to whether we will or no " (pp. 225-226).
Casey's arguments are undeniably powerful, and his overall thesis
deserves a careful and thoughtful response. Nonetheless, in one respect
at least, his claim that the tradition of the virtues is at odds with Christianity would seem to be too simplistic, even polemical, to be entirely
convincing. We are given some indication that he oversimplifies the
contrast between ' pagan ' virtues and Christianity by the fact that his
sources for reflection on the virtues include Aquinas, and his sources
for the Kantian/Christian tradition include the Stoics. Admittedly,
Casey does not claim to offer a historical study. However, the fact that
representatives for both of the approaches to moral thought that he
identifies can he found among both ' pagan ' and Christian authors does

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raise questions for his thesis. Casey seems to want to suggest that our
moral responses that do not fit well with the tradition of the virtues
are simply the last remnants of a particular religion. But his own men·
tion of the Stoics as one important source for the ' Christian ' tradition
suggests that the commitments that Casey traces to Christianity-for
example, to some version of equality-may be more deeply rooted in
the wider Western culture than he allows. And on the other hand, it is
not obvious that everything that he associates with ' pagan ' virtues is
necessarily incompatible with Christianity; after all, Aquinas, in addition to his extensive appropriation of the framework of the cardinal
virtues, also argues that self-love is the first injunction of charity, after
love of God (Summa theologiae 11-11, 26, 4).
Even so, Casey's work raises important questions for contemporary
moral theory. He succeeds in challenging too easy an appropriation of
the tradition of the virtues by Christian ethics, and his challenge must
he answered by anyone who would attempt to defend a contemporary
Christian theory of the virtues. Moreover, by calling attention to the
complexity and inner tensions that characterize our moral reflection,
Casey reminds us that the category of ' the moral ' is not as straightforward as we sometimes take it to be. His book deserves to be widely
read and carefully debated.
JEAN PORTER
University of Notre Dame
Notre Dame, Indiana

Nature and Scientific Method. Edited By DANIEL 0. DAHLSTROM.
Studies in Philosophy and the History of Philosophy, vol. 22.
Washington: Catholic University of America Press, 1991. Pp. 328.
$48.95.
William A. Wallace is a careful scholar and clear teacher of the history and philosophy of science. This volume is dedicated to him; the
sixteen contributors were chosen because they have all been influenced
by him, directly or indirectly. A comprehensive chronological list of
Father Wallace's works, provided at the end of the book, reveals his
two primary interests: contemporary issues in the philosophy of science and studies in the history of science. To reflect this, the first part
of this book consists of seven essays on various contemporary issues in
the philosophy of science; the second part is nine historical studies.
This review will address each part in turn.
Part I, "Contemporary Issues," suffers from a notable lack of unity.

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Some authors directly and appropriately acknowledge the influence or
inspiration of Wallace upon their contributions, the sole factor that
might provide cohesion to the book as a whole. Other contributions
are surprisingly devoid of any explicit connection to Wallace, save a
tangential one.
Wallace has provided the scholarly community with consistent and
well-grounded work in the philosophy of science from a realist perspective. This realist position is shared by Rom Harre, the author of the
opening essay, "Causality and Reality." Harre argues that the classical concept of causality, at least in part, survives as an ineliminable
element of contemporary physics. To accomplish this, Harre distin·
guishes weak from strong causality, the former as the expression of a
causal mechanism, the latter as that connection stimulated by an event.
This distinction is central to his Varieties of Realism. Realism is of
two kinds: that which can be defined in terms of truth and falsity, and
that which he terms " policy realism," which remains open to unlimited
revisability of concepts, while preserving ontological categories. Having argued for these distinctions, Harre uses quantum field theory in
his pursuit of a post-Humean conception of causality that transcends
strict event ontology. Laudable as this pursuit may be, I wonder
whether it can be achieved without reference to any conception of nature (s), a concept lamentably absent in Harre's more recent work.
The realist theme is admirably pursued in Robert Sokolowski's " Explaining." Sokolowski argues for the irreducibility of names and explanations and their obvious correlates, things and causes. Form is in
things; natural kinds exist; "ones" come in a splended variety
reflecting the diversity of forms. Such unpopular claims are expertly
defended in this essay, one of the best contributions in the book. Sokolowski also paints a fine picture of the mind's movement from thing,
to features, to causes, then back to things, an Aristotelian theme that
is found in other essays in this volume.
The Aristotelian and realist themes are treated directly and explicitly in Jude P. Dougherty's "Abstraction and Imagination in Human
Understanding." Dougherty illustrates Aristotle's claim for the importance of imagination with two fine examples: (I) Bohr's conception of the atomic nucleus, and (2) Meitner and Frisch's development
of the theory of fission. Although he does not refer to Wallace's work
on analogy in From a Realist Point of View, Dougherty sustains his
integrated argument that, in knowing, one first knows things, and that
such knowledge in all but the most obvious instances is rendered possible by the employment of iconic models.
Patrick A. Heelan's "Hermeneutical Philosophy and the History of
Science " offers an interesting study which owes its inspiration to Wal-

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353

lace's exacting and careful scholarship regarding the influence on
Galileo of the Jesuits at ,the Collegio Romano. Heelan argues that the
hermeneutical viewpoint complements the classical approach with
awareness that neither theories nor a constructed reference corpus are
the objects of historical knowledge.
Nicholas Rescher, well known for his defense of realism, explores
some of the problems of what he terms" Baffling Phenomena." Rescher
argues that phenomena remain invariant despite diverse descriptions, a
claim clearly counter to the prevailing conviction that the theory-laden
character of observation is inescapable. What remains puzzling about
this fine piece of work is the absence of any reference to Wallace's contributions on the subjects of theoretical entities and the growth of scientific knowledge.
Mario Bunge's offering in "Basic Science Is Incorrect; Applied Science and Technology Can Be Guilty," takes an entirely different tack:
" We must place technology and politics under the control of a rational
morality commanding us to preserve the environment and to destroy all
nuclear arms." This is a sentence one would hardly expect to encounter
in such a volume. It nonetheless fits with some aspects of Wallace's
work (see The Role of Demonstration in Moral Theology). Bunge
builds upon the clearly Aristotelian distinction of speculative versus
practical knowledge.
The Aristotelian theme also underlies Francis J. Collingwood's contribution, "Duhem's Interpretation of Aristotle on Mathematics in Science." Collingwood argues that Duhem's stripping away of all qualitative notions in forming a mathematical physics is, at root, Aristotelian. This piece is carefully developed hut might better have been
placed in Part II, to which we now turn.
"As in mathematics, so in natural philosophy" is the Newtonian
phrase analyzed by Andrea Croce Birch in " The Problem of Method
in Newton's Natural Philosophy." Birch provides an interesting and
illuminating discussion of analysis and synthesis in Pappus's geometry,
together with the development of these two mental operations in Newtonian scientific method. As she realizes, the beginning of synthesis
does not coincide with the end of analysis. Reasoning ex suppositione,
as employed by Newton in continuity with the classical view from Aristotle through Pappus and Galileo, does not mean the invention of fictions disconnected from observation, of which Newton accused Descartes. Rather, suppositions derive from the observation of what hap·
pens "for the most part" (echoes of Aristotle's description of how one
recognizes the nature of a thing) and can he verified by experimenta·
tion. Of this outstanding essay one might say, "as with the teacher,
so with the student."

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Another former student of Wallace also manifests dual skill in physics and philosophy. R. F. Hassing provides " Thomas Aquinas on Phys.
VIl.l and the Aristotelian Science of the Physical Continuum," in
which he concludes that the motor causality principle is not refuted by
classical (Newtonian) mechanics. Hassing carefully examines texts in
books VII and VIII of Aristotle's Physics, as well as various commentaries upon these texts, as he develops his thesis. Despite the title of
this essay, the importance of Thomas in resolving the textual difficulties
is less than clear.
Jean De Groot's work obviously ties in with Wallace's historical
scholarship, as evidenced by her offering, " Philoponus on Separating
the Three-Dimensional in Optics." De Groot argues that Philoponus
identifies measure as the hallmark characteristic by which matter is
separable as unqualified body. This goes beyond the Aristotelian distinction of snub versus concave and allows Philoponus to claim reality
for spatial extension as incorporeal and distinct from body. As De
Groot demonstrates, Philoponus follows the Aristotelian layering of
substance, quantity, quality, relation. Measure falls in the genus relation, however. This raises the question of whether Philoponus's effort
truly succeeds in natural philosophy or rather constitutes a mathematical physics, a question not addressed in the essay.
"Foscarini's Defense of Copernicanism," by Richard J. Blackwell,
holds for the compatibility of a heliocentric universe with Biblical texts,
properly interpreted. Blackwell argues for the influence of Foscarini's
efforts on Galileo, especially Galileo's later Letter to Christina.
Wallace's textual studies of the Jesuits at the Collegio Romano is the
clear inspiration for " Ludovico Carbone's Commentary on Aristotle's
De caelo," provided by Jean Dietz Moss. Moss's earlier work on rhetoric in Galileo serves her well as she shows Carbone's plagiarism of
nonextant lecture notes of Jesuits at the Collegio Romano and what
this debt reveals about Galileo's similar commentatorial work, so skillfully scrutinized by Wallace.
Moss's analysis of rhetoric in Galileo's Letter to Christina is acknowledged by Edith Sylla, who explores a similar theme in " Galileo and
Probable Arguments." Sylla may be correct in her observation that, although she has great respect for Wallace's work, her conclusions might
not please him. She argues that Galileo's disavowal of the Copernican
hypothesis at the trial reflects his lack of conviction that he had provided a genuine demonstration of the Copernican theory. So far, Wallace would agree. Sylla goes on to claim that the rhetorical mode of
writing, the use of the vernacular, and the dialogical format of Galileo's
Dialogue indicate his lack of interest in searching for demonstrative
knowledge in natural philosophy. She claims, rather, that dialectic is

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355

the best that natural philosophy can attain. Here Wallace would surely
disagree.
Richard H. Kennington provides an uncommon textual interpretation in his essay, "Bacon's Critique of Ancient Philosophy in New
Organon I." He argues that, although Bacon clearly rejects the ancient
conception of science as speculative, he nonetheless retains a contemplative stance. For Bacon, contemplative mastery of nature is the method of science.
The editor, Daniel 0. Dahlstrom, contributes " Kant's Metaphysics
of Nature" to this collection. In opposition to many interpreters, Dahlstrom argues that Kant's conception of the object in motion as an indubitably empirical concept which provides the basis of physics allows
him to maintain a consistent distinction between transcendental philosophy and physics.
The concluding essay in this volume is " The Reidian Tradition:
Growth of the Causal Concept," written by Edward H. Madden. Madden and Harre's earlier collaboration on Causal Powers has remained
a stronger influence on Madden than on Harre, it would appear. Madden traces the development of efficient causality apart from agent causality in the Scottish tradition of common sense initiated by Thomas
Reid. Like Harre, Madden argues against a Humean event causality,
showing the richer conception found in the Reidian line. Reid believed
nature, as an intrinsic principle, to be devoid of any causality, identifying all causality as agent causality. Reid's subsequent Scottish heirs
supplement this view with a concept of nature as cause.
This hook suffers from the nearly inescapable fault of all collections
of essays, lack of unity. Some contributions are stronger than others,
some are more clearly reflective of Wallace's influence, a few are
spectacular. Despite these flaws, the volume as a whole addresses major
issues and offers fine insights, while honoring the work of an excellent
scholar and teacher.
LAURAL. LANDEN, 0.P.

Providence College
Providence, Rhode Island

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The Logical Basis of Metaphysics. By MICHAEL DUMMETT; The William James Lectures, 1976. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University
355. $34.95 (cloth).
Press, 1991. Pp. xi

+

Michael Dummett, who is Wykeham Professor of Logic at Oxford,
represents an influential force in contemporary analytical philosophy. In the tradition of Gottlob Frege and Ludwig Wittgenstein, Dum·
mett has contributed significant works in philosophy of language
(theory of meaning) and intuitionistic logic as well as in current metaphysics, liberated from the neopositivistic imprisonment. Dummett's
newest book has a self-explanatory title and is based on the William
James Lectures which he delivered at Harvard University in 1976. As
he explains in his Preface (1989), the publication of these lectures,
however delayed and edited, should show the importance of the theory
of meaning " for its more glamorous relative, metaphysics." Dummett
is known as the leading proponent of "anti-realism "-a position endorsed, for instance, by Hilary Putnam-and the book under review
amply demonstrates his views on this current controversial issue. Various" anti-realists," Dummett contends, share their rejection of the prin·
ciple of bivalence (according to which every proposition is determinately either true or false) and of the related law of the excluded middle.
Such rejections require the acceptance of " stricter canons of valid deductive reasoning" (p. 11), which, in turn, demand tightened and
clarified concepts of meaning and truth or, in Wittgenstein's phrase, "a
clear view of the working of our language." (p. 13). What one needs,
in short, is a good theory of meaning which will " determine the correct logic " of a language and also settle various metaphysical controversies with regard to the nature of physical reality, time, mind, mathematics, etc. Dummett understands such theory of meaning as the key
part of the philosophy of thought that has been so much stimulated by
Frege's theory of sense and reference. Dummett's methodology de·
mands therefore the following order: a good theory of meaning leading to " correct " logic, which in turn helps to settle metaphysical controversies. He aspires to show " how the choice between different logics
arises at the level of the theory of meaning" (p. 18) and makes no
apologies for using in this process a highly technical conceptual apparatus of mathematical logic. By his own admission, Dummett does
not want to raise classical metaphysical questions of God, free will, and
immortality, but "others almost equally profound" yet requiring a
"painfully slow pace of advance" (p. 19).
In spite of such declarations Dummett touches upon the problem of

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357

God's omniscience: if, determinately, one of two possibilities holds, then
God must know which of the two possibilities it is. Yet this example
is utilized by Dummett not because of its theological impact (which
he seems to take for granted) hut for the service it can provide in
clarifying the problem of hivalence. At the very end of the last chapter,
entitled ".Realism and the Theory of Meaning," Dummett concludes
that the premise which expresses God's omniscience does not entail
that God knows whether any given proposition is true or false nor does
such a premise entail that the proposition is either true or false. Allegedly, an additional premise is needed asserting the truth or the falsehood of the proposition in question (whichever the case) " in order to
deduce from his omniscience that he knows, in the sense stated, whether
it is true or false" (p. 351). This anti-realistic position is thus based
on the rejection of classical, two-valued logic and on the endorsement
of intuitionistic logic, developed by the Dutch mathematician Brouwer
and his followers, including Dummett himself (see his Elements of
I ntuitwnism, published in 1977 by Oxford Clarendon Press) . According to this logic, if a statement is true only if we are able to prove it
(to provide or construct evidence for it, etc.) , then " there is no ground
to assume every statement to he either true or false" (p. 9). Dummett
claims that intuitionistic logic is supported by a verificationist meaningtheory which gets a large share of his attention. In the verificationist
theory of meaning, " the meaning of a statement is determined by what
we acknowledge as grounds for asserting it" (p. 287). By favoring this
verificationist view Dummett is indeed departing from the tradition of
Frege and Wittgenstein's Tractatus, in which statements are true (false)
independently of whether we have any means to determine their status.
On the other hand, Dummett also joins the chorus of those voices
which, like Quine in his famous " Two Dogmas of Empiricism," criticize the standard positivistic view of verification and emphasize a holistic approach to language. Dummett accepts a pragmatist meaningtheory (which regards an assertion as true if the assertion has tangible
practical consequences) as the verificationist's natural, complementary
partner (p. 321) .
This lengthy hook is not easy reading. Some chapters are very technical and presuppose the reader's acquaintance with the method of
natural deduction, introduction and elimination rules, tree diagrams,
Tarski's semantic definition of truth, and the rich, controversial literature on these subjects. Yet some portions of Dummett's reflections on
meaning, knowledge, and understanding (ch. 4) or on truth-conditional
theories of meaning {ch. 14) are more accessible and represent quite
standard readings in the contemporary philosophy of language and
epistemology. Dummett's defense of anti-realism is far from convinc-

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ing and his arguments seem more tentative and relativistic than those
offered in his previously published works (Truth and Other Enigmas,
1978; The Interpretation of Frege's Phuosophy, 1981, etc.). Yet he
uses his mastery of powerful logical techniques in order to support the
chosen positions. This fact might give great satisfaction to a logician,
hut the metaphysician may he somewhat disappointed by the meager
results attained, though Dummett himself modestly restricts his goals
to those of forming only " a base camp for an assault on the metaphysical peaks ... ". One may also wonder whether Dummett remained
faithful to his methodological requirement of the priority of meaningtheory with regard to logic and metaphysics. Doesn't Dummett's acceptance of intuitionistic logic (with its rejection of the principle of
bivalence) dictate his preference for a certain meaning-theory, and not
the other way around? To distill and extract metaphysical beliefs and
insights which are contained (perhaps tacitly) in the working of our
language is undoubtedly a legitimate goal of any philosophical enterprise. But our ambitions go beyond this goal: we are reaching after
reality itself, not just after our opinions about reality and their semantical elucidation. In this respect Dummett's programmatic conception of
metaphysics may face serious difficulties in attempts to climb the ahovementioned metaphysical peaks. On the other hand, is any metaphysical
program exempt from such difficulties?
The hook is beautifully printed; Harvard University Press has done
an excellent job! The Index, which combines names and subjects, is a
hit too economical, omitting certain references (for example, important remarks on God's omniscience on pp. 75-76).
AUGUSTIN RISKA

Saint John's University
New York, New York

Ethical Practice in Clinical Medicine. By WILLIAM J. ELLOS.
York: Routledge, 1990. Pp. 190.

New

Medical ethics is an integral part of the science and art of medicine.
Rather than being a set of norms or regulations added from external
sources, such as the legal norms regulating the medicare program, the
norms and maxims of medical ethics are integral elements of medicine
arising from the relationship between physician and patient. In one way
or another, most philosophers of ethics and medicine would agree with
the foregoing statements. But once the role of ethics in medicine has

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359

been established, a serious difficulty arises: What method should he
used to define and delineate ethical norms for particular cases? More
to the point, how should one go about solving problems in medical
ethics? Father William Ellos, S.J ., is concerned with resolving the difficulty of method in medical ethics. He seeks to develop and explain
a method in medical ethics that will be both clinical and pragmatic.
Joining with other specialists in the field, he opts for a virtue-centered approach to solving issues in medical ethics, as opposed to a rulecentered duty-based approach. While not rejecting the ethical method
featuring the principles of autonomy, beneficence, and justice derived
from W. D. Ross (an approach favored by so many contemporary
scholars in the field of medical ethics) , he does maintain that these
principles are greatly overworked as well as simplistic. He proposes
virtue-centered reasoning as a better method of ethical endeavor, especially attuned to the complexity and problematics of clinical ethics. In
developing the notion of virtue·centered ethics, Ellos considers the contributions of the past and present thinkers to this method of ethical
decision making. Hence, Plato, Aristotle, Thomas, the Scottish Enlightenment Philosophers, and American Pragmatists are the main
sources of his reflections upon virtue ethics.
Ellos finds a culmination of virtue ethics in the present-day tendency
of many consultants in medical ethics to classify themselves as casuists,
indicating that they are eclectic and pragmatic in their efforts to solve
clinical cases. In the course of the historical and analytical sections of
this work, Ellos demonstrates not only a wide acquaintance with classical and contemporary authors but also an ability to discern continuity
of thought among these well.known philosophers and theologians.
Especially significant is his recognition of the too often neglected contemporary authors Collen Clements and Roger Sider, whose accurate
indictment of the principle of autonomy as interpreted by present-day
medical ethicists restores the art of medicine to medical ethics.
The unique and creative feature of Ellos's study is the incorporation
of clinical cases into each consideration of the various authors who
have contributed to virtue theory in ethics. For the most part, the cases
are presented to illustrate the theory being considered, rather than as
problems to be solved. Moreover, the cases are presented in a realistic
and at times poignant manner; they are the type of cases in which
clinical ethicists are frequently involved and which may cause an
empty feeling in the hearts of the medical team, even though a satisfactory ethical decision has been reached.
While this hook is informative and recommended for all interested in
the field of medical ethics, a few thoughts about the method of casuistry

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as a means of attacking ethical problems in the practice of medicine
are in order. The benefit of casuistry based upon virtue ethics is that
it enables one to consider all the principles which might apply to the
case and to consider all the circumstances as well. In a very real
sense, all ethical decisions are particular decisions, and this is very clear
when considering ethical dilemmas in medicine. When determining the
ethical treatment for a person with pneumonia, it makes a difference
whether the person is 30 years old and competent or 90 years old and
in the advanced stages of Alzheimer's disease. Casuistry enables one to
consider the important circumstances more than other ethical methods
do. A second benefit of casuistry based on virtue ethics is that it enables one to consider both the objective and subjective elements of
ethical decision-making-something
almost forgotten in " rule-centered
duty-based ethics". By means of this combination of objective and
subjective factors the emotional impact of certain medical decisions
may be factored into an ethical solution.
The weakness of casuistry based on virtue ethics, however, (and this
weakness seems to be evident in the methods proposed by many contemporary medical ethicists) is that it tends to forget about the goal
or mission of human life and the goal or mission of medicine. Fulfilling one's mission in life is an especially important factor for a person
with religious faith. As they engage in casuistry, Christians, for example, should have a different perspective on the mission of life from
that of humanists. Yet both Christians and humanists will meet in discussion in ethics committees sponsored by various health care facilities,
whether those facilities are Catholic or Protestant. Moreover, when
most of the great thinkers spoke about virtue ensuring good ethical decisions, they were presupposing elements of decision-making which
were necessary for the development of virtue. St. Thomas, for example,
before considering virtues considered the goal of life (to know and love
God, self, and neighbor), how to differentiate a moral act from a physical act, how to distinguish good moral acts from evil moral acts, and
how to develop a love for the good which is at the heart of developing
virtue. When applying casuistry to ethical issues arising in the practice of medicine, one must have a very clear concept of the practice of
medicine. Is the goal of medicine " to keep people alive " or " to foster
human function." Ellos holds that the various elements of ethical decision-making emphasized by philosophers of the past (for example,
emotion or moral conviction) can be integrated into a successful form
of casuistry. But if the goal of life or the goal of medicine is not made
clear, then casuistry becomes merely an expression of diverse opinions,
seldom resulting in a well-reasoned conclusion. When medical ethics
is cast adrift from the goals toward which sound ethical decision-mak-

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361

ing should gravitate, it is no wonder that many say: " There are no
clear answers." Finally, I wonder if casuistry can even deal with the
most significant ethical issue facing medicine in the immediate future:
The construction of a system in the United States which will provide
adequate health care for all citizens.
KEVIN O'ROURKE, O.P.
Director, Center for Health Care Ethics
Saint Louis University Medical Center

Christian Uniqueness Reconsidered: The Myth of a Pluralistic Theology of Religions. Edited By GAVIN D'CosTA. Maryknoll, New
218. $16.95 (paper).
York: Orbis Books, 1990. Pp. xii

+

There are two ways of reading ·this remarkably stimulating collection of essays. At one level it is a vigorous rebuttal of an earlier book
in the "Faith Meets Faith Series" entitled The Myth of Christian
Uniqueness: Toward a Pluralistic Theology of Religions, edited by
John Hick and Paul Knitter; D'Costa's sub-title, "The Myth of a
Pluralistic Theology of Religions," is a conscious polemical riposte. On
the second level it purports to propose an alternative theology of religions which would on the one hand retain the claim of Christian
uniqueness but on the other be not exclusivistic but genuinely pluralistic and, therefore, fruitful for interreligious dialogue. In my judgment, the book achieves its first objective well, furnishing an impressive
array of counter-arguments to the pluralistic thesis. Indeed, like a
swarm of tacklers ganging up on the hapless quarterback, so many contributors attack the same points of the pluralistic proposal that readers
must have the impression of witnessing an overkill. On the other hand,
the book's positive construction of a theology of religions suffers from
vagueness and even internal contradictions. It is a classical case of
people banding together because they know what they are against (in
this case, the proposal to regard all religions as equally valid ways of
salvation, with none allowed to claim superiority and exclusiveness) but
not yet able to determine what they are for (except to retain the claim
of Christian uniqueness) .
The volume contains 14 essays divided into three groups. The first
three discuss the implications of the Christian doctrine of the Trinity
for interreligious dialogue (Rowan Williams, Gavin D'Costa, and
Christoph Schwobel); the next five explore the relevance of christology
in the context of religious pluralism (M. M. Thomas, Francis X.
Clooney, John B. Cobb, Jr., Wolfhart Pannenberg, and Monika Hell-

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wig) ; the last six examine the epistemological and hermeneutical
issues of religious pluralism (J. A. DiNoia, Lesslie Newbigin, Jurgen
Moltmann, Paul J. Griffith, John Milbank, and Kenneth Surin). The
editor has done an excellent job of summarizing the main points of
each essay; it is therefore unnecessary to replicate his effort. My intention in this review is not to examine each essay individually; space
would not permit such an undertaking. Rather I shall list the major
criticisms made by the contributors against the pluralistic thesis and
then examine their rather diverse positive proposals.
Before doing so, however, it would be useful to describe briefly the
essential thesis of The Myth of Christian Uniqueness, which is under
attack. Its contributors argue that due to the rise of historical consciousness, the nature of God as Absolute Mystery, and the obligation to
promote peace and justice, the Christian claim to uniqueness and superiority as a way to salvation should be abandoned. Instead of the
exclusivist and inclusivist theologies of religions, they propose the
pluralist position that Christianity is one among the many religions,
equally valid and mutually complementary.
What do the contributors to Christian Uniqueness Reconsidered find
wrong with this pluralist thesis? A complete list of their objections
cannot be furnished here, but these are some of the more important ones.
First, the pluralists are as imperialistic as the exclusivists and inclusivists they denounce because they impose their (Western) notions of
religion, dialogue, social justice, and so on, on other religionists
(D'Costa, Newbigin, Griffiths). Hence the pluralist thesis is logically
incoherent. Secondly, the pluralists wrongly presume that there is such
a thing as a common core of religious experience which functions as a
genus of the different species of religions (Newbigin, Milbank, Cobb).
Thirdly, pluralists neglect the social and historical particularities of all
religions and therefore fail to take their doctrines, texts, and practices
seriously (Milbank, DiNoia, Clooney, Surin). Fourthly, pluralists fail
to understand the aims and forms of life of religious communities
(DiNoia) and the different functions of doctrines (Griffiths). Fifthly,
the pluralists' appeal to praxis inevitably leads to relativism and the rejections of the truth-claim inherent in doctrines (Newbigin, Pannenberg, Milbank). Sixthly, pluralists misunderstand the nature and purpose of interreligious dialogue (Moltmann, Milbank, Surin). Finally,
pluralists do injustice to the meaning and practical import of some vital
Christian doctrines such as the Trinity (D'Costa, Schwobel, Williams)
and christology (Hellwig, Newbigin, Cobb, Pannenberg, Thomas).
Not all of these objections are, to my mind, fatal to the pluralistic
thesis, and no doubt pluralists have their own answers ready for them.
Beyond defending themselves, pluralists may as well scrutinize the

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coherence and merits of their opponents' positive theology of religions.
As I have already mentioned, some contributors of Christian Uniqueness Reconsidered seem to have worked at cross purposes. Three examples will suffice. First, does socio-political activism have a role to
play in interreligious dialogue? An affirmative answer seems to be
given by D'Costa, Schwobel, Thomas, and Moltmann, whereas Milbank
gives a resounding no (p. 185). Secondly, what is the purpose of interreligious dialogue? Di Noia and Griffiths focus on doctrines and
their role in fostering a particular religious aim and form of life,
whereas Surin emphasizes the particular histories, the specific social
locations, and the varying practices of different religions, and Milbank
bluntly says that dialogue is a work of conversion (p. 190). Thirdly,
how to evaluate Raymundo Panikkar's trinitarian theology in interreligious context? Williams considers it extremely useful (with necessary corrections) whereas Milbank rejects it out of hand.
In general the book reiterates the inclusivist theology of religions
without advancing it substantially, except perhaps the two essays by
DiNoia and Griffiths; these propose ways of looking at the functions
of doctrines and betray the influence of the so-called New Yale School,
represented by George Lindbeck and William Christian. My own sympathy lies with the fundamental thrust of this book, and elsewhere I
have already made similar criticisms of the pluralist thesis. My dissatisfaction with the book is that as a whole it fails to define clearly
what it means by " Christian uniqueness " and hence fails to see the
fundamental difference between the claim of uniqueness for Jesus and
that for Christianity. The two claims are basically distinct, epistemologically, historically, ontologically, and theologically. The former is a
claim of faith, the latter is a claim of fact; hence the criteria for verification are different and one can be committed to one without having
to uphold the other. Without this distinction, much of the discussion
on " Christian uniqueness " remains at best muddled. May I suggest
that contributors to The Myth of Christian Uniqueness and Christian
Uniqueness Reconsidered (or at least those willing to do so) meet together and respond to each other's objections and concerns? The fact
that Orbis Books published the two books in the same series augurs well
for interreligious dialogue!
PETER

Catholic University of America
Washington, D.C.

c. PHAN